rward_, and by accepting, make the omen change its
nature and meaning.

Genius and logical perception are De Quincey's principal powers. There
are some writers whose power, like the locusts in the Revelation, 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?

Indeed, De Quincey's style is one of the most wondrous of his gifts. As
Professor Wilson once said to us about him, "the _best_ word always
comes up." It comes up easily, as a bubble 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 faculties never disturb or distract each other's
movements--they are inseparable, as substance and shadow. Each thought
is twin-born with poetry. His sentences are generally very long, and as
full of life and of joints as a serpent. It is told of Coleridge, that
no shorthand-writer 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 in many other respects. De Quincey resembles
the "noticeable man with large gray eyes." 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, fro