esteemed by the Church of England.' To do
him justice, De Quincey admits, in another passage, that this ridicule
of a poor man for sacrificing his interests to his principles was not
quite fair; but then Whiston was only an Arian. When Priestley, who was
a far worse heretic, had his house sacked by a mob and his life
endangered, De Quincey can scarcely restrain his exultation. He admits
in terms that Priestley ought to be pitied, but adds that the fanaticism
of the mob was 'much more reasonable' than the fanaticism of Priestley;
and that those who play at bowls must look out for rubbers. Porson is to
be detested for his letters to Travis, though De Quincey does not dare
to defend the disputed text. He has, however, a pleasant insinuation at
command. Porson, he says, stung like a hornet; 'it may chance that on
this subject Master Porson will get stung through his coffin, before he
is many years deader.' What scholarlike badinage! Political heretics
fare little better. Fox's eloquence was 'ditch-water,' with a shrill
effervescence of 'imaginary gas.' Burnet was a 'gossiper, slanderer, and
notorious falsifier of facts.' That one of his sermons was burnt is 'the
most consolatory fact in his whole worldly career;' and he asks, 'would
there have been much harm in tying his lordship to the sermon?' Junius
was not only a knave who ought to have been transported, but his
literary success rested upon an utter delusion. He had neither
'sentiment, imagination, nor generalisation.' Johnson, though the best
of Tories, lived in the wrong century, and unluckily criticised Milton
with foolish harshness. Therefore 'Johnson, viewed in relation to
Milton, was a malicious, mendacious, and dishonest man.'

Let us turn to greater names. Goethe's best work was 'Werther,' and De
Quincey is convinced that his reputation 'must decline for the next
generation or two, until it reaches its just level.' His merits have
been exaggerated for three reasons--first, his great age; secondly, 'the
splendour of his official rank at the court of Weimar;' thirdly, 'his
enigmatical and unintelligible writing.' But 'in Germany his works are
little read, and in this country not at all.' 'Wilhelm Meister' is
morally detestable, and, artistically speaking, rubbish. Of the author
of the Philosophical Dictionary, of the 'Essai sur les Moeurs,' of
'Candide,' and certain other trifles, his judgment is that Horace
Walpole's reputation is the same in kind, as the _genuine