d thy life,
So do I bless thee and give thanks for thee,
So do I bear thee in my wounded hands."
Smiling, He stooped, and kissed the tortured brow,
And over all its anguish stole a smile;
The blood-sealed lips unclosed; the dying breath
Sighed, like the rain-sound in a summer wind,
Sobbing, but sweet,--"I see the Sangreal, Lord!"

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

In the notice of so memorable a man, even the briefest prelusive
flourish seems uncalled for; and so indeed it would be, if by such means
it were meant simply to justify the undertaking. In regard to any of the
great powers in literature there exists already a prevailing interest,
which cannot be presumed to slumber for one moment in any thinking
mind.[A] By way of notification, there is no need of prelude. Yet there
are occasions, as, for example, the entrances of kings, which absolutely
demand the inaugural flourish of arms,--which, like the rosy flood of
dawn, require to be ushered in by a train of twilight glories. And there
are lives which proceed as by the movements of music,--which, must
therefore be heralded by overtures: majestic steppings, heard in the
background, compel us, through mere sympathy with their pomp of
procession, to sound the note of preparation.

[Footnote A: "_In any thinking mind_." Yet it must be confessed that
there _does_ exist a woful ignorance or negligence concerning De Quincey
in quarters from which better things might be expected. Misappreciation
it cannot be called, where no trouble has been taken to estimate claims
that needed only to be weighed to be truly valued. Up to this time,
there has never been published in England a single essay on the life or
the genius of De Quincey that indicated even a good acquaintance, on the
part of the writer, with that author's works; and in such a case, of
course, not much could be looked for in the way of just interpretation.
Gilfillan did him gross injustice: indeed, from what he condescended to
say of the man, it would be difficult to conjecture that a greater than
Gilfillan was there. And, will the reader believe it? in Professor
Craik's "English Literature"--a work of great excellence--the name of De
Quincey is not mentioned! "Sam Johnson," says Craik, "was the last king
that sat upon the throne of English prose literature." Let it be that
Sam was a proper king; yet it is just as true that De Quincey was
legitimately his successor. First, in the matter of time: Sam died in
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