subject more space than we intended, and
certainly much more than the former, by itself, is worth; but the subject
is one that, whether magnified into an undue importance by having been
repeatedly treated by men of note and learning or not, does, in the
present state of European literature, stand high among the loftiest marks
aimed at by human intellect; and any one singling himself from the crowd
of lookers-on, and addressing himself to hit it, makes himself, for the
moment, the observed of the whole learned world, and by his success or his
failure acquires honour, or brings down reproach upon his country. We
cannot permit British literature to be scandalized by the failure of one
from our ranks who is manifestly inadequate to the task even of handling
his piece, much less of bringing down the popinjay, without condemning the
rashness of the attempt, and exonerating ourselves from any charge of
participating in it.

SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS: BEING A SEQUEL TO THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH
OPIUM-EATER.

PART I.--(_Continued from last Number._)

"_But you forgot her,_" says the Cynic; "_you happened one day to forget
this sister of yours?_"--Why not? To cite the beautiful words of
Wallenstein,

"What pang
Is permanent with man? From the highest
As from the vilest thing of every day
He learns to wean himself. For the strong hours
Conquer him."[11]

Yes, _there_ lies the fountain of human oblivions. It is TIME, the great
conqueror, it is the "strong hours" whose batteries storm every passion of
men. For, in the fine expression of Schiller, "_Was verschmerzte nicht der
mensch?_" What sorrow is it in man that will not finally fret itself to
sleep? Conquering, at last, gates of brass, or pyramids of granite, why
should it be a marvel to us, or a triumph to Time, that he is able to
conquer a frail human heart?

However, for this once my Cynic must submit to be told--that he is wrong.
Doubtless, it is presumption in me to suggest that his sneers can ever go
awry, any more than the shafts of Apollo. But still, however impossible
such a thing is, in this one case it happens that they _have_. And when it
happens that they do not, I will tell you, reader, why in my opinion it
is; and you will see that it warrants no exultation in the Cynic.
Repeatedly I have heard a mother reproaching herself, when the birthday
revolved of the little daughter whom so suddenly she had lost, with her
own inse