what they are under any possible changes in the dramatic arrangement of their lives. Happy or not happy-gay or sadthese authors would equally have fulfilled a mission too solemn and too stern in its obligations to suffer any warping from chance, or to bend before the accidents of life, whether dressed in sunshine or in wintry gloom. 6. But generally this is otherwise. Children of Paradise, like the Miltons of our planet, have the privilege of stars-to “dwell apart.” But the children of flesh, whose pulses beat too sympathetically with the agitations of mother-earth, can not sequester themselves in that way. They walk in no such altitudes, but at elevations easily reached by ground-winds of humble calamity. And from that cup of sorrow, which upon all lips is pressed in some proportion, they must submit, by the very tenure on which they hold their gifts, to drink, if not more profoundly than others, yet always with more bitternèss. 7. "PUT not your trust in princès, nor in the sons of princes," —this has been the warning,—this has been the farewell moral, winding up and pointing the experience of dying statesmen. Not less truly it might be said, "Put not your trust in the intellectual princes of your age:" form no connections too close with any who live only in the atmosphere of admiration and praise. The love or the friendship of such people rarely contracts itself into the narrow circle of individuals. You, if you are brilliant like themselves, they will hate; you, if you are dull, they will despise. Gaze, therefore, on the splendor of such idols as a passing stranger. Look for a moment as one sharing in the idolatry; but pass on before the splendor has been sullied by human frailty, or before your own generous homage has been confounded with offerings of weeds. 8. GRIEF! thou art classed amongst the depressing passions. And true it is that thou humblèst to the dust, but also thou exaltest to the clouds. Thou shakest as with ague, but also thou steadiëst like frost. Thou sickenest the heart, but also thou healest its infirmities. 9. SOLITUDE, though it may be silènt as light, is, like light, the mightiest of agencies; for solitude is essential to man. All men come into this world alōne; all leave it alone. Even a little child has a dread, whispering consciousness, that, if he should be summoned to travel into God's presence, no gentle nurse will be allowed to lead him by the hand, nor mother to carry him in her arms, nor little sister to share his trepidations. King and priest, warrior and maiden, philosopher and child, all must walk those mighty galleries alone. The solitude, therefore, which in this world appalls or fascinates a child's heart, is but the echo of a far deeper solitude, through which already he has passed, and of another solitude deeper still, through which he has to pass: reflex of one solitude-prefiguration of another. 10. Deep is the solitude of millions who, with hearts welling forth love, have none (nŭn) to love them. Deep is the solitude of those who, under secret griefs, have none to pity them. Deep is the solitude of those who, fighting with doubts or darknèss, have none to counsel them. But deeper than the deepèst of these solitudes is that which broods over childhood under the passion of sorrow-bringing before it, at intervals, the final solitude which watches for it, and is waiting for it within the gates of death. O mighty and essential solitude, that wast, and art, and art to be, thy kingdom is made perfect in the grave; but even over those that keep watch outside the grave, thou stretchèst out a scepter of fascination. 11. THE dream commenced with a music which now I öften heard in dreams-a music of preparation and of awakening suspense; a music like the opening of the Coronation Anthem, and which, like that, gave the feeling of a vast march, of infinite cavalcades filing off, and the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty day-a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature, then suffering some mysterious eclipse, and laboring in some dread extremity. Somewhere, I knew not where-somehow, I knew not how-by some beings, I knew not whom-a battle, a strife, an agony, was conducting, -was evolving like a great drama, or piece of music; with which my sympathy was the more insupportable from my confusion as to its place, its cause, its nature, and its possible issue. I, as is usual in dreams (where, of necessity, we make ourselves central to every movement), had the power, and yet had not the power, to decide it. I had the power, if I could raise myself, to will it; and yet again had not the power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the oppression of inexpiable guilt. "Deeper than ever plummet sounded," I lay inactive. 12. Then, like a chorus, the passion deepened. Some greater interest was at stake; some mightier cause than ever yet the sword had pleaded, or trumpet had proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms; hurryings to and fro; trepidations of innumerable fugitives. I knew not whether from the good cause or the bad; darknèss and lights; tempèst and human faces; and at last, with the sense that all was lost, female forms, and the features that were worth all the world to me, and but a moment allowed,—and clasped hands, and heart-breaking partings, and then-everlasting farewells! and, with a sigh, such as the caves of hell sighed when the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of Death, the sound was reverberated-everlasting farewells! and again, and yet again reverberated-everlasting farewells! And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud—“I WILL SLEEP NO MORE!" DE QUINCEY, SECTION XI. I. A 58. GIL BLAS AND THE OLD ARCHBISHOP. RCHBISHOP. Well, young man, what is your business with me? Gil Blas. I am the young man whom your nephew, Don Fernando, was pleased to mention to you. Arch. Oh! you are the person, then, of whom he spoke so handsomely. I engage you in my service, and consider you a valuable acquisition. From the specimens he showed me of your powers, you must be pretty well acquainted with the Greek and Latin authors. It is very evident your education has not been neglected. I am satisfied with your handwriting, and still more with your understanding. I thank my nephew, Don Fernando, for having given me such an able young man, whom I consider a rich acquisition. You transcribe so well, you must certainly understand grammar. Tell me, ingenuously, my friend, did you find nothing that shocked you in writing over the homily I sent you on trial,-some neglect, perhaps, in style, or some improper term? Gil B. Oh! sir, I am not learned enough to make critical observations; and if I was, I am persuaded the works of your grace would escape my censure. Arch. Young man, you are disposed to flatter; but tell me, which parts of it did you think most strikingly beautiful. Gil B. If, where all was excellent, any parts were particularly so, I should say they were the personification of hope, and the description of a good man's death. Arch. I see you have a delicate knowledge of the truly beautiful. This is what I call having taste and sentiment. Gil Blas,' henceforth give thyself no uneasiness about thy fortune, I will take care of that. I love thee, and as a proof of my affection, I will make thee my confidant: yes, my child, thou shalt be the repository of my most secret thoughts. Listen with attention to what I am going to say. My chief pleasure consists in preaching, and the Lord gives a blessing to my homilies, but I confess my weakness. The honor of being thought a perfect ōrator has charmed my imagination; my performances are thought equally nervous and delicate; but I would of all things avoid the fault of good authors, who write too long. Wherefore, my dear Gil Blas, one thing that I exact of thy zeal, is, whenever thou shalt perceive my pen smack of old age, and my genius flag, don't fail to advertise' me of it, for I don't trust to my own judgment, which may be seduced by self-love. That observation must proceed from a disinterested understanding, and I make choice of thine, which I know is good, and am resolved to stand by thy decision. Gil B. Thank heaven, sir, that time is far off. Besides, a genius like that of your grace, will preserve its vigor much better than any other; or, to speak more justly, will be always the same. I look upon you as another Cardinal Ximenes,' whose superior genius, instead of being weakened, seemed to acquire new strength by age. Arch. No flattery, friend: I know I am liable to sink all at once. People at my age begin to feel infirmities, and the in 1 Gil Blas, (zèl blå). 'Francis Ximenes, (zỉ mè nèz), archbishop of Toledo, confessor to Queen Isabella of Spain, was born in 1437. He received the cardinal's hat in 1507. His chief influence arose from his efforts to advance the interests of the Church. He was a great patron of letters, and by his exertions and expenditure produced the earliest edition of a polyglot Bible. He died November 8th, 1517. firmities of the body often affect the understanding. I repeat it to thee again, Gil Blas, as soon as thou shalt judge mine in the least impaired, be sure to give me notice. And be not afraid of speaking freely and sincerely, for I shall receive thy advice as a mark of thy affection. Gil B. Your grace may always depend upon my fidělity. Arch. I know thy sincerity, Gil Blas; and now tell me plainly, hast thou not heard the people make some remarks upon my late homilies? Gil B. Your homilies have always been admired, but it seems to me that the last did not appear to have had so powerful an effect upon the audience as former ones. Arch. How, sir, has it met with any Aristarchus ? Gil B. No, sir, by no means, such works as yours are not to be criticised; everybody is charmed with them. Nevertheless, since you have laid your injunctions upon me to be free and sincere, I will take the liberty to tell you that your last discourse, in my judgment, has not altogether the energy of your other performances. Did you not think so, sir, yourself? Arch. So, then, Mr. Gil Blas, this piece is not to your taste? Gil B. I don't say so, sir: I think it excellent, although a little inferior to your other works. Arch. I understand you; you think I flag, don't you? Come, be plain; you believe it is time for me to think of retiring. Gil B. I should not have been so bold as to speak so freely, if your grace had not commanded me; I do no more, therefore, than obey you; and I most humbly beg that you will not be offended at my freedom. Arch. God forbid! God forbid that I should find fault with it. I don't at all take it ill that you should speak your sentiments, it is your sentiment itself, only, that I find bad. I have been most egregiously deceived in your narrow understanding. Gil B. Your grace will pardon me for obeying― Arch. Say no more, my child, you are yet too raw to make proper distinctions. Be it known to you, I never composed a better homily than that which you disapprove; for, my genius, thank Heaven, hath, as yet, lost nothing of its vigor: henceforth 1 Aris tar chus was a celebrated grammarian of Samos. He was famous for his critical powers; and he revised the poems of Homer with such severity, that, ever after, all severe critics were called Aristarchi |