W

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. II-JULY, 1850.-VOL. I.

From the London Eclectic Review.]

THOMAS DE QUINCEY. THEN “Gilfillan's Gallery" first appeared, a copy of it was sent to an eminent laydivine, the first sentence of whose reply was, "You have sent me a list of shipwrecks." It was but too true, for that "Gallery" contains the name of a Godwin, shipwrecked on a false system, and a Shelley, shipwrecked on an extravagant version of that false system-and a Hazlitt, shipwrecked on no system at all-and a Hall, driven upon the rugged reef of madness -and a Foster, cast high and dry upon the dark shore of Misanthropy-and an Edward Irving, inflated into sublime idiocy by the breath of popular favor, and in the subsidence of that breath, left to roll at the mercy of the waves, a mere log-and lastly, a Coleridge and a De Quincy, stranded on the same poppy-covered coast, the land of the "Lotos-eaters," where it is never morning, nor midnight, nor full day, but always afternoon.

he contrived to quarrel, and from whose wing (while studying at Oxford) he fled to London. There he underwent a series of surprising adventures and severe sufferings, which he has recounted in the first part of his "Opium Confessions." On one occasion, while on the point of death by starvation, his life was saved by the intervention of a poor street-stroller, of whom he afterward lost sight, but whom, in the strong gratitude of his heart, he would pursue into the central darkness of a London brothel, or into the deeper darkness of the grave. Part of the same dark period of his life was spent in Wales, where he subsisted now on the hospitality of the country people, and now, poor fellow, on hips and haws. He was at last found out by some of his friends, and remanded to Oxford. There he formed a friendship with Christopher North, which has continued unimpaired to this hour. Both-besides the band of kindred genius-had that of profound admiration, then a rare feeling, for the poetry of Wordsworth. In the course of this part of his life he visited Ireland, and was introduced soon afterward to OPIUM— fatal friend, treacherous ally-root of that tree called Wormwood, which has overshadowed all his after life. A blank here occurs in his history. We find him next in a small white cottage in Cumberland-married-studying Kant, drinking laudanum, and dreaming the most wik and wondrous dreams which ever crossed the brain of mortal. These dreams he recorded in the "London Magazine," then a powerful periodical, conducted by John Scott, and supported by such men as Hazlitt, Reynolds, and Allan Cunningham. The "Confessions," when published separately, ran like wildfire, although from their anonymous form they added nothing at the time to the author's fame. Not long after their publication, Mr. De Quincey came down to Scotland, where he has continued to reside, wandering from place to place, contributing to periodicals of all sorts and sizes-to "Blackwood," "Tait," "North British Review," "Hogg's Weekly Instructor," as well as writing for the "Encyclopædia Britannica," and publishing one or two independent works, such as Thomas De Quincey is the son of a Liverpool "Klosterheim," a tale, and the "Logic of Pomerchant. He is one of several children, the premature loss of one of whom he has, in his Suspiria de Profundis" (published in "Blackwood") most plaintively and eloquently deplored. His father seems to have died early. Guardians were appointed over him, with whom VOL. I.-No. 2.-K

Wrecks all these are, but all splendid and instructive withal. And we propose now-repairing to the shore, where the last great argosy, Thomas De Quincey, lies half bedded in mud -to pick up whatever of noble and rare, of pure and permanent, we can find floating around. We would speak of De Quincey's history, of his faults, of his genius, of his works, and of his future place in the history of literature. And when we reflect on what a mare magnum we are about to show to many of our readers, we feel for the moment as if it were new to us also, as if we stood

"Like stout Cortes, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific,

and all his men

Gathered round him with a wild surmise,
Silent, upon a peak of Darien."

We can not construct a regular biography of this remarkable man; neither the time for this has come, nor have the materials been, as yet, placed within reach of us, or of any one else. But we may sketch the outlines of what we know, which is indeed but little.

litical Economy." His wife has been long dead Three of his daughters, amiable and excellent persons, live in the sweet village of Lasswade, in the neighborhood of Edinburgh; and there he is, we believe, at present himself.

From this very imperfect sketch of De Quin

cey's history, there rush into our minds some
rather painful reflections. It is painful to see a
"Giant mind broken by sorrows unspoken,
And woes."

It is painful to see a glorious being transfigured
into a rolling thing before the whirlwind. It is
painful to be compelled to inscribe upon such a
shield the word "Desdichado." It is painful to
remember how much misery must have passed
through that heart, and how many sweat drops
of agony must have stood, in desolate state,
upon that brow.
And it is most painful of all
to feel that guilt, as well as misery, has been
here, and that the sowing of the wind preceded
the reaping of the whirlwind.

or a De Quincey takes to living on laudanum, and the public, instead of seeking to reform and re-edify each brilliant begun ruin, shouts out, Raze, raze it to its foundation." Because the sun is eclipsed, they would howl him away! Because one blot has lighted on an imperishable page, they would burn it up! Let us hope, that as our age is fast becoming ashamed of those infernal sacrifices called executions, so it shall also soon forbear to make its most gifted sons pass through the fire to Moloch, till it has tested their thorough and ineradicable vileness.

Mr. De Quincey's faults we have spoken of in the plural-we ought, perhaps, rather to have used the singular number. In the one word excitement, assuming the special form of opium-the "insane root"-lies the gravamen of his guilt, as, also, of Coleridge's. Now, we are far from wishing to underrate the evil of

Such reflections were mere sentimentalism, unless attended by such corollaries as these: 1st. Self-control ought to be more than at present a part of education, sedulously and sternly this craving. But we ought to estimate Mr. taught, for is it not the geometry of life? 2dly. Society should feel more that she is responsible for the wayward children of genius, and ought to seek more than she does to soothe their sorrows, to relieve their wants, to reclaim their wanderings, and to search, as with lighted candles, into the causes of their incommunicable misery. Had the public, twenty years ago, feeling Mr. De Quincey to be one of the master spirits of the age, and, therefore, potentially, one of its greatest benefactors, inquired deliberately into his case, sought him out, put him beyond the reach of want, encouraged thus his heart, and strengthened his hand, rescued him from the mean miseries into which he was plunged, smiled approvingly upon the struggles he was making to conquer an evil habit-in one word, recognized him; what a different man had he been now, and over what magnificent wholes had we been rejoicing, in the shape of his works, instead of deploring powers and acquirements thrown away, in rearing towers of Babel, tantalizing in proportion to the magnitude of their design, and the beauty of their execution. Neglected and left alone as a corpse in the shroud of his own genius, a fugitive, though not a vagabond, compelled day after day to fight absolute starvation at the point of his pen, the marvel is, that he has written so much which the world may not willingly let die. But, it is the world's fault that the writings it now recognizes, and may henceforth preserve on a high shelf, are rather the subline ravings of De Quincey drunk, than the calm, profound cogitations of De Quincey sober. The theory of capital punishments is much more subtle and widely ramified than we might at first suppose. On what else are many of our summary critical and moral judgments founded? Men find a man guilty of a crime-they vote him for that one act a purely pernicious member of society, and they turn him off. So a Byron quarrels with his wife-a Coleridge loses his balance, and begins to reel and totter like Etna in an earthquake a Burns, made an exciseman, gradually descends toward the low level of his trade

De Quincey's criminality with precision and
justice; and, while granting that he used opium
to excess-an excess seldom paralleled-we
must take his own explanation of the circum-
stances which led him to begin its use, and of
the effects it produced on him. He did not be
gin it to multiply or intensify his pleasures, still
less to lash himself with its fiery thongs into a
counterfeit inspiration. but to alleviate bodily
pain. It became, gradually and reluctantly, a
necessity of his life. Like the serpents around
Laocoon, it confirmed its grasp, notwithstand-
ing the wild tossings of his arms, the spasmodic
resistance of every muscle, the loud shouts of
protesting agony; and, when conquered, he lay
like the overpowered Hatteraick in the cave,
sullen, still in despair, breathing hard, but per-
fectly powerless. Its effects on him, too, were
of a peculiar kind. They were not brutifying
or blackguardizing. He was never intoxicated
with the drug in his life; nay, he denies its
power to intoxicate. Nor did it at all weaken
his intellectual faculties any more than it
strengthened them.
We have heard poor
creatures consoling themselves for their inferior-
ity by saying, "Coleridge would not have writ
ten so well but for opium." "No thanks to De
Quincey for his subtlety-he owes it to opium.'
Let such persons swallow the drug, and try te
write the " Suspiria," or the "Aids to Reflec
tion."

Coleridge and De Quincey were great in spite of their habits. Nay, we believe that on truly great intellects stimulus produces little inspira tion at all. Can opium think? can beer im agine? It is De Quincey in opium-not opium in De Quincey-that ponders and that writes The stimulus is only the occasional cause which brings the internal power into play; it may sometimes dwarf the giant, but it can never really elevate the dwarf.

The evil infinences of opium on De Quincey were of a different, but a very pernicious sort they weakened his will; they made him a coles sal slave to a tiny tyrant; they shut him up (like the Genii in be Arabian Tales") in &

phial filled with dusky fire; they spread a tor- first attitudes as he stepped down upon his new por over the energies of his body; they closed world. And thus, let a great intellectual ex up or poisoned the natural sources of enjoy-plorer be permitted to occupy his own reģion, ment; the air, the light, the sunshine, the in whatever way, and with whatever cerebreeze, the influences of spring, lost all charm monies, may seem best to himself. Should he and power over him. Instead of these, snow even, like Cæsar, stumble upon the shore, no was welcomed with an unnatural joy; storm matter if he stumble forward, and by acceptembraced as a brother; and the stern scenery ing, make the omen change its nature and of night arose like a desolate temple round his meaning. ruined spirit. If his heart was not utterly hardened, it was owing to its peculiar breadth and warmth. At last his studies were interrupted, nis peace broken, his health impaired, and then came the noon of his night; a form of gigantic gloom, swaying an ebon sceptre," stood over him in triumph, and it seemed as if nothing less than a miraculous intervention could rescue the victim from his power.

But the victim was not an ordinary one. Feeling that hell had come, and that death was at hand, he determined, by a mighty effort, to arise from his degradation. For a season his struggles were great and impotent, as those of the giants cast down by Jove under Etna. The mountain shook, the burden tottered, but the light did not at first appear. Nor has he ever, we suspect, completely emancipated himself from his bondage; but he has struggled man fully against it, and has cast off such a large portion of the burden that it were injustice not o say of him that he is now FREE.

Genius and logical perception are De Quin cey's principal powers. There are some writers whose power, like the locusts in the Rev-· elation, is "in their tails"-they have stings, and there lies their scorpion power. De Quincey's vigor is evenly and equally diffused through his whole being. It is not a partial palpitation, but a deep, steady glow. His insight hangs over us and the world like a nebulous star, seeing us, but, in part, remaining unseen. In fact, his deepest thoughts have never been disclosed. Like Burke, he has not "hung his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at." He has profound reticence as well as power, and he has modesty as well as reticence. On subjects with which he is acquainted, such as logic, literature, or political economy, no man can speak with more positive and perfect assurance. But on all topics where the conscience-the inner most moral nature-must be the umpire, "the English Opium Eater" is silent. His "silence" indeed, answers very loud," his dumbness has a tongue, but it requires a fine ear" to hear its accents; and to interpret them what but his own exquisitely subtle and musical style, like written sculpture, could suffice?

It were ungracious to have dwelt, even so ng, upon the errors of De Quincey, were it ot that, first, his own frankness of disclosures Grees us from all delicacy; and that, secondly, the errors of such a man, like the cloud of the Indeed, De Quincey's style is one of the most pillar, have two sides his darkness may be wondrous of his gifts. As Professor Wilson Come our light-his sin our salvation. It may once said to us about him, "the best word alsomewhat counteract that craving cry for ex-ways comes up." It comes up easily, as a bubcitement, that everlasting Give, give, so much the mistake of the age, to point strongly to this conspicuous and transcendent victim, and say to his admirers, "Go ye and do otherwise."

could do justice to his lectures; because, although he spoke deliberately, yet it was impossible, from the first part of his sentences, to have the slightest notion how they were to end each clause was a new surprise, and the close often unexpected as a thunderbolt. In this, as

ble on the wave; and is yet fixed, solid, and permanent as marble. It is at once warm as genius, and cool as logic. Frost and fire fulfill the paradox of “embracing each other." His We pass gladly to the subject of his genius. faculties never disturb or distract each other's That is certainly one of the most singular in its movements-they are inseparable, as substance power, variety, culture, and eccentricity, our and shadow. Each thought is twin-born with age has witnessed. His intellect is at once poetry. His sentences are generally very long, solid and subtle, reminding you of veined and and as full of life and of joints as a serpent. It figured marble, so beautiful and evasive in as-is told of Coleridge, that no shorthand-writer pect, that you must touch ere you are certain of its firmness. The motion of his mind is like that of dancing, but it is the dance of an elephant, or of a Polyphemus, with his heavy steps, thundering down the music to which he moves. Hence his humor often seems forced in motion, while always fine in spirit. The in many other respects. De Quincey resembles contrast between the slow march of his sen- the "noticeable man with large gray eyes." tences, the frequent gravity of his spirit, the recondite masses of his lore, the logical severity of his diction, and his determination, at times, to be desperately witty, produces a ludicrous effect, but somewhat different from what he had intended. It is Laughter" lame, and only able to hold one of his sides, so that you laugh at, as well as with him. But few, we think, would have been hypercritical in edging of Columbus'

Each of his periods, begin where it may, accomplishes a cometary sweep ere it closes. To use an expression of his own, applied to Bishop Berkeley, he passes, with the utmost ease and speed, from tar-water to the Trinity, from a mole-heap to the thrones of the Godhead." His sentences are microcosms-real, though imperfect wholes. It is as if he dreaded that earth, would end, and chaos come again, ere each pro

It

digions period were done. This practice, so far in the "Pilgrim," he welcomes every temptation from being ashamed of, he often and elaborately to go astray-and, not content with shaking defends contrasting it with the "short-winded hands with old Worldly Wiseman, he must, beand asthmatic" style of writing which abounds fore climbing Mount Difficulty, explore both the In modern times, and particularly among French way of Danger and that of Destruction. authors. We humbly think that the truth on may be inquired, if this arise from the fertility this question lies in the middle. If an author or from the frailty of his genius-from his is anxious for fullness, let him use long sen- knowledge of, and dominion over every prov tences; if he aims at clearness, let them be ince of thought, or from his natural or acquired short. If he is beating about for truth, his inability to resist "right-hand or left-hand desentences will be long; if he deems he has fections," provided they promise to interest himfound, and wishes to communicate it to others, self and to amuse his readers. Judging from they will be short. In long sentences you see Coleridge's similar practice, we are forced to processes; in short, results. Eloquence de- conclude that it is in De Quincey too—a weaklights in long sentences, wit in short. Long ness fostered, if not produced, by long habits of sentences impress more at the time; short sen- self-indulgence. tences, if nervous, cling more to the memory. From long sentences you must, in general, deduct a considerable quantum of verbiage; short have often a meagre and skeleton air. The reiding of long sentences is more painful at fit, less so afterward; a volume composed entirely of short sentences becomes soon as wearisome as a jest-book. The mind which employs long sentences has often a broad, but dim vision -that which delights in short, sees a great number of small points clearly, but seldom a rounded whole. De Quincey is a good specimen of the first class. The late Dr. Hamilton, of Leeds, was the most egregious instance of the second. With all his learning, and talent, and fancy, the writings of that distinguished divine are rendered exceedingly tedious by the broken and gasping character of their stylereading which has been compared to walking on stepping-stones instead of a firm road. Every thing is so clear, sharp, and short, that you get irritated and provoked, and ory out for an intricate or lengthy sentence, both as a trial to your wind, and as a relief to your weariness.

And yet, notwithstanding such defects (and we might have added to them his use of logical formula at times when they appear simply ridiculous, his unnecessary scholasticism, and display of learning, the undue self-complacence with which he parades his peculiar views, and explodes his adversary's, however reputed and venerable, and a certain air of exaggeration which swathes all his written speech), what splendid powers this strange being, at all times and on all subjects, exerts! With what razorlike sharpness does he cut the most difficult distinctions! What learning is his-here com、 pelling wonder, from its variety and minute accuracy; and there, from the philosophical grasp with which he holds it, in compressed masses! And, above all, what grand, sombre, Miltonic gleams his imagination casts around him on his way; and in what deep swells of organ-like music do his thoughts often, harmoniously and irrepressibly, move! The three prose-writers of this century, who, as it appears to us, approach most nearly to the giants of the era of Charles I., in spirit of genius and munificence of language, are, Edward Irving, in his preface to "Ben Ezra," Thomas Aird, in parts of his "Religious Characteristics," and Thomas De Quincey, in his "Confessions," and his "Sus

The best style of writing, in point of effect, is that which combines both forms of sentence in proper proportions. Just as a well-armed warrior of old, while he held the broadsword in his right hand, had the dagger of mercy suspiria de Profundis." pended by his side, the effective writer, who can In coming down from an author to his works, at one time wave the flaming brand of eloquence, can at another use the pointed poignard of direct statement, of close logic, or of keen and caustic wit. Thus did Burke, Hall, Horsley, and Chal

mers.

we have often a feeling of humiliation and disappointment. It is like comparing the great Ben Nevis with the streamlets which flow from his base, and asking, "Is this all the mighty mountain can give the world ?" So, "What has De Quincey done?" is a question we are now sure to hear, and feel rather afraid to answer.

Akin to De Quincey's length of sentence, is his ungovernable habit of digression. You can as soon calculate on the motions of a stream of the aurora, as on those of his mind. From the In a late number of that very excellent petitle of any one of his papers, you can never infer riodical, "Hogg's Instructor," Mr. De Quincey, whether he is to treat the subject announced, or as if anticipating some such objection, argues a hundred others-whether the subjects he is to (referring to Professor Wilson), that it is ridicutreat are to be cognate, or contradictory, to the lous to expect a writer now to write a large projected theme-whether, should he begin the separate work, as some had demanded from the subject, he shall ever finish it—or into how professor. He is here, however, guilty of a nany foot-notes he is to draw away, as if into fallacy, which we wonder he allowed to escape subterranean pipes, its pith and substance. At every possible angle of his road he contrives to break off, and hence he has never yet reached the end of a day's journey. Unlike Christian

from his pen: there is a difference between a large and a great work. No one wishes either De Quincey or John Wilson to write a folio; what we wish from each of them is, an artistic