; but the nun finds no rest; terrific
memories rankle in her bosom, and blast her repose; again she embarks
for America; but then, how closed that career, so tragically
tempestuous? The nun reached Vera Cruz; she took her seat in the boat to
go ashore; no more is known; her fate is concealed in impenetrable
mystery; 'the sea was searched for her--the forests were ransacked. The
sea made no answer--the forests gave up no sign.' These incidents, which
are historical verities, are wrought up into a narrative of absorbing
power.

In De Quincey's brief sketch of the 'First Rebellion' are found some
graphic historical paintings. The following is his description of the
panic at Enniscorthy, at the moment when the rebels had carried the
place by assault:

'Now came a scene, which swallowed up all distinct or separate features
in its frantic confluence of horrors. All the loyalists of Enniscorthy,
all the gentry for miles around, who had congregated in that town, as a
centre of security, were summoned at that moment, not to an orderly
retreat, but to instant flight. At one end of the street were seen the
rebel pikes and bayonets, and fierce faces already gleaming through the
smoke; at the other end, volumes of fire, surging and billowing from the
thatched roofs and blazing rafters, beginning to block up the avenues of
escape. Then began the agony and uttermost conflict of what is worst and
what is best in human nature. Then was to be seen the very delirium of
fear, and the very delirium of vindictive malice; private and ignoble
hatred of ancient origin, shrouding itself in the mask of patriotic
wrath; the tiger glare of just vengeance, fresh from intolerable wrongs,
and the never-to-be-forgotten ignominy of stripes and personal
degradation; panic, self-palsied by its own excess; flight, eager or
stealthy, according to the temper and means; volleying pursuit; the very
frenzy of agitation under every mode of excitement; and here and there,
towering aloft, the desperation of maternal love, victorious and supreme
over all lower passions.'

* * * * *

There is a species of narrative in the 'Autobiographic Sketches,' of a
somewhat different cast from that which we have been contemplating, less
grand and passionate, perhaps, but more tender and exquisite--overspread
with a quieter and mellower humor. We refer to the account of his
brother William. He was a youth of the stormiest nature, a genuine
clo