Then a bright mist descended over him,
  And in its central glory stood a shape,
  Wounded, yet smiling.  With His bleeding hands
  Stretched toward that bleeding side, His eyes divine
  Like a new dawn, thus softly spake the Lord:—­
  “The blood poured out for brothers is my blood;
  The flesh for brothers broken is my flesh;
  No more in golden chalices I dwell,
  No longer in a vision, angel-borne: 
  Here is the Sangreal, here the Holy Quest. 
  Thy prayer is heard, thy soul is satisfied: 
  Come, my beloved!  I am come for thee. 
  As first I broke the bread and poured the wine,
  So have I broken thee and poured 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