ng _like_ which, is incompatible
with the very being of the Greek. In that tragedy what uniformity
of gloom; in the English what light alternating with depths of
darkness! The Greek, how mournful; the English, how tumultuous!
Even the catastrophes how different! In the Greek we see a
breathless waiting for a doom that cannot be evaded; a waiting, as
it were, for the last shock of an earthquake, or the inexorable
rising of a deluge: in the English it is like a midnight of
shipwreck, from which, up to the last and until the final ruin
comes, there still survives the sort of hope that clings to human
energies.'

It is not to be expected that we can fully traverse and explore this
vast section of De Quincey's writings; that would be a task beyond our
present resources; and, consequently, we are compelled to pass unnoticed
keen dissections of history; ingenious, although sometimes untenable,
theories regarding the Essenes, the supposed expressions for eternity in
the Scriptures, the character of Judas Iscariot, the doctrine of demons,
the principles of casuistry, style, and rhetoric; the discussions of
various points in philosophy and logic; the prodigality of erudition
displayed in the articles on Plato, Homer, Dinner Real and Reputed,
Bentley; the transcendent critical skill revealed in the little paper
entitled 'The Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth,' in the essays on
Shakspeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Lamb, and others; the minute dissections
of feeling and passion scattered broadcast throughout his writings. We
shall content ourselves with merely adducing another illustration of our
author's extremely speculative and metaphysical cast of mind, and then
close this section of the review. This is taken from that touchingly
beautiful chapter in the 'Autobiographic Sketches,' entitled 'The
Afflictions of Childhood.' De Quincey, even in his childhood, was
profoundly sensitive, and capable of forming the most ardent
attachments. Tender and absorbing was the love which had sprung up
between himself and his sister Elizabeth; she was the joy of his
life--she was supreme in his affections. At the age of nine years she
suddenly sickened and died; De Quincey, although younger by three years,
was overwhelmed with unspeakable agony. When his sister had been dressed
for the grave, he stole silently and alone into her chamber to look once
more upon her beautiful face, to kiss once more her swe