In the dead of night
they pass a young couple in a light gig, and the heavy mail-coach just
escapes shattering the light gig and perhaps killing the young
occupants. De Quincey develops his sensations in witnessing this
"vision of sudden death," and rises step by step to the majestic beauty
and poetic passion of the dream-fugue.
"Whence the sound
Of instruments, that made melodious chime,
Was heard, of harp and organ; and who moved
Their stops and chords, was seen; his volant touch
Instinct through all proportions, low and high,
Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue."
Paradise Lost, Book XI.
_Tumultuosissimamente_.
Passion of sudden death! that once in youth I read and interpreted by
the shadows of thy averted signs!---rapture of panic taking the shape
(which amongst tombs in churches I have seen) of woman bursting her
selpuchral bonds---of woman's ionic form bending forward from the ruins
of her grave with arching foot, with eyes upraised, with clasped,
adoring hands---waiting, watching, trembling, praying for the trumpet's
call to rise from dust forever! Ah, vision too fearful of shuddering
humanity on the brink of mighty abysses!---vision that didst start back,
that didst reel away, like a shivering scroll before the wrath of fire
racing on the wings of the wind! Epilepsy so brief of horror, wherefore
is it that thou canst not die? Passing so suddenly into darkness,
wherefore is it that still thou sheddest thy sad funeral blights upon
the gorgeous mosaic of dreams? Fragments of music too passionate,
heard once and heard no more, what aileth thee, that thy deep rolling
chords come up at intervals through all the worlds of sleep,
and after forty years, have lost no element of horror?
I.
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