further.

Here, too, and elsewhere, the humour gives us a certain impression of
thinness. It is pressed too far, and spun out too long. Compare De
Quincey's mode of beating out his one joke through pages of laboured
facetiousness, with Swift's concentrated and pungent irony, as in the
proposal for eating babies, or the argument to prove that the abolition
of Christianity may be attended with some inconveniences. It is the
difference between the stiffest of nautical grogs and the negus provided
by thoughtful parents for a child's evening party. In some parts of the
essay De Quincey sinks far lower. I do not believe that in any English
author of reputation there is a more feeble piece of forced fun, than in
the description of the fight of the amateur in murder with the baker at
Munich. One knows by a process of reasoning that the man is joking; but
one feels inclined to blush, through sympathy with a very clear man so
exposing himself. A blemish of the same kind makes itself unpleasantly
obvious at many points of his writings. He seems to fear that we shall
find his stately and elaborate style rather too much for our nerves. He
is conscious that, as a great master of language, he can play what
tricks he pleases, without danger of remonstrance. And therefore, he
every now and then plunges into slang, not irreverently, as a vulgar
writer might do, but of malice prepense. The shock is almost as great as
if an organist performing a solemn tune should suddenly introduce an
imitation of the mewing of a cat. Now, he seems to say, you can't accuse
me of being dull and pompous. Let me quote an instance or two from his
graver writings. He wishes to argue, in defence of Christianity, that
the ancients were insensible to ordinary duties of humanity. 'Our wicked
friend Kikero, for instance, who _was_ so bad, but _wrote_ so well, who
_did_ such naughty things, but _said_ such pretty things, has himself
noticed in one of his letters, with petrifying coolness, that he knew of
destitute old women in Rome who went without tasting food for one, two,
or even three days. After making such a statement, did Kikero not tumble
downstairs and break at least three of his legs in his hurry to call a
public meeting,' &c., &c. What delicate humour! The grave apologist of
Christianity actually calls Cicero, Kikero, and talks about 'three of
his legs!' Do we not all explode with laughter? A parallel case occurs
in his argument about the Essenes; where