reälly I see nobody, at an hour and on a road so solitary, likely to overhear you-is it therefore requisite that you should carry your lips forward to hers? The little carriage is creeping on at one mile an hour; and the parties within it being thus tenderly engaged are naturally bending down their heads. Between them and eternity, to all human calculation, there is but a minute and a-half. 8. Oh heavens! what is it that I shall do? Speaking or acting, what help can I offer? Strange it is, and to a mere auditor of the tale might seem laughable, that I should need a suggestion from the "Iliad" to prompt the sole resource that remained. Yet so it was. Suddenly I remembered the shout of Achilles,' and its effect. But could I pretend to shout like the son of Pēleüs, aided by Pallas? No; but then I needed not the shout that should alarm all Asiä militant; such shout would suffice as might carry terror into the hearts of two thoughtless young people, and one gig horse. I shouted-and the young man heard me not. A second time I shouted-and now he heard me, for now he raised his head. . 2 9. Here, then, all had been done that, by me, could be done: mōre on my part was not possible. Mine had been the first step; the second was for the young man; the third was for God. If, said I, this stranger is a brave man, and if, indeed, he loves the young girl at his side—or, loving her not, if he feels the obligation, pressing upon every man worthy to be called a man, of doing his utmost for a woman confided to his protection—he will, at least, make some effort to save her. If that fails, he will not perish the more, or by a death more cruel, for having made it; and he will die as a brave man should, with his face to the danger, and with his arm about the woman that he sought in vain to save. 10. But, if he makes no effort, shrinking, without a struggle, from his duty, he himself will not the less certainly perish for this baseness of poltroonery. He will die no less: and why not? 1 Achilles, properly Achilleus, was the son of Peleus, and third in descent from Zeus, or Jove. His mother was the sea goddess, Thetis. He was the hero of Homer's Iliad. 2 Pallas, the same as Minerva, was the goddess of wisdom and skill. She was the patroness and teacher of just and scientific war, and, therefore, on the side of the Greeks. Wherefore should we grieve that there is one craven less in the world? No; let him perish, without a pitying thought of ours wasted upon him; and, in that case, all our grief will be reserved for the fate of the helpless girl who now, upon the least shadow of failure in him, must, by the fiercest of translations-must, without time for a prayer-must, within seventy seconds, stand before the judgment-seat of God. 11. But craven he was not: sudden had been the call upon him, and sudden was his answer to the call. He saw, he heard, he comprehended, the ruin that was coming down: already its gloomy shadow darkened above him; and already he was measuring his strength to deal with it. Ah! what a vulgar thing does courage seem, when we see nations buying it and selling it for a shilling a day: ah! what a sublime thing does courage seem, when some fearful summons on the great deeps of life carries a man, as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of some tumultuous crisis, from which lie two courses, and a voice says to him audibly, “One way lies hope; take the other, and mourn for ever!" How grand a triumph, if, even then, amidst the raving of all around him, and the frenzy of the danger, the man is able to confront his situation-is able to retire for a moment into solitude with God, and to seek his counsel from him! 12. For seven seconds, it might be, of his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance steadfastly upon us, as if to search and value every element in the conflict before him. For five seconds more of his seventy he sat immovably, like one that mused on some great purpose. For five more, perhaps, he sat with eyes upraised, like one that prayed in sorrow, under some extremity of doubt, for light that should guide him to the better choice. Then suddenly he rose; stood upright; and by a powerful strain upon the reins, raising his horse's forefeet from the ground, he slewed him round on the pivot of his hind legs, so as to plant the little équipage in a position nearly at right angles to ours. Thus far his condition was not improved, except as a first step had been taken towards the possibility of a second. If no more were done, nothing was done; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path, though in an altered direction. 13. Yet even now it may not be too late: fifteen of the seventy seconds may still be unexhausted; and one almighty bound may avail to clear the ground. Hurry, then, hurry! for the flying moments-they hurry! Oh, hurry, hurry, my brave young man! for the cruel hoofs of our horses-they also hurry! Fast are the flying moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. But fear not for him, if human energy can suffice; faithful was he that drove to his terrific duty; faithful was the horse to his command. One blow, one impulse given with voice and hand, by the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as if in the act of rising to a fence, landed the docile creature's fore-feet upon the crown or arching center of the road. The larger half of the little équipage had then cleared our overtowering shadow; that was evident even to my own agitated sight. 14. But it mattered little that one wreck should float off in safety, if upon the wreck that perished were embarked the human freightage. The rear part of the carriage—was that certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin? What power could answer the question? Glance of eye, thought of man, wing of angel, which of these had speed enough to sweep between the question and the answer, and divide the one from the other? Light does not tread upon the steps of light more indivisibly, than did our all-conquering arrival upon the escaping efforts of the gig. That must the young man have felt too plainly. His back was now turned upon us; not by sight could he any longer communicate with the peril; but by the dreadful rattle of our harness, too truly had his ear been instructed that all was finished as regarded any further effort of his. Already in resignation he had rested from his struggle; and perhaps in his heart, he was whispering, "Father, which art in heaven, do thou finish above what I on earth have attempted." 15. Faster than ever mill-race we ran past them in our iněx'orable flight. Oh, raving of hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the moment of our transit! Even in that moment the thunder of collision spoke aloud. Either with the swingle-bar, or with the haunch of our near leader, we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig, which stood rather obliquely, and not quite so far advanced, as to be accurately parallel with the near-wheel. The blow, from the fury of our passage, resounded terrifically. I rose in horror, to gaze upon the ruins we might have caused. From my elevated station I looked down and back upon the scene, which in a moment told its own tale, and wrote all its records on my heart for ever. 16. Here was the map of the passion that now had finished. The horse was planted immovably, with his fore-feet upon the paved crest of the central road. He of the whole party might be supposed untouched by the passion of death. The little cany carriage-partly, perhaps, from the violent torsion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thundering blow we had given to it—as if it sympathized with human horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man trembled not, nor shivered. He sat like a rock. But his was the steadiness of agitation frozen into rest by horror. As yet he dared not to look round; for he knew that, if anything remained to do, by him it could no longer be done. And as yet he knew not for certain if their safety were accomplished. 17. But the lady! Oh, heavens! will that spectacle ever depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the air, fainting, praying, raving, despairing? Figure to yourself, reader, the elements of the case; suffer me to recall before your mind the circumstances of that unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night-from the pathetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight-from the manly tenderness of this flattering, whispering, murmuring love—suddenly as from the woods and fields-suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in revelation-suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death the crowned phantom, with all the equipage (ěk'wĭ pěj) of his terrors, and the tiger roar of his voice. 18. The moments were numbered; the strife was finished; the vision was closed. In the twinkling of an eye, our flying horses had carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle; at right angles we wheeled into our former direction; the turn of the road carried the scene out of my eyes in an instant, and swept it into my dreams for ever. DE QUINCEY. THOMAS DE QUINCEY was born at Manchester, England, on the 15th of August, 1785. He passed his childhood in rural retirement. He was matriculated at Oxford, at Christ mas, 1803, being then in his nineteenth year, where he remained till 1808. He resided for twenty years, between 1808 and 1829, among the lakes and mountains of Westmoreland, and occupied Wordsworth's cottage seven years of the time. De Quincey's first work, "Confessions of an English Opium-Eater," which appeared in the London Magazine, in 1821, and was printed in book form in 1822, was immediately and immensely popular. It passed through several editions in Europe and this country, and at once placed its author in the front rank of vivid and powerful writers. After this period, his numerous contributions to the periodical press were paid for at a large price. He wrote upon a wider and more diversified range of subjects than any other author of his time. He was noted for his original genius, stores of learning, depth of insight, and subtlety of thought. His matter was always abundant and good, and his style of the rarest brilliancy and richness. He was the author of the admirable memoirs of Shakspeare and Pope in the Encyclopædia Britannica. He died Dec. 8, 1859. B III. 103. DEATH. ENEATH the endless surges of the deep, Too hushed to heed the wild commotion's rōar: 2. The air is full of men who once enjoyed The healthy element nor looked beyond : Profoundèst sleep enwraps them all around- |