quite equal to that more famous one of
Carlyle's; with historical chapters, such as those in "Blackwood" on the
Caesars, worthy of Gibbon; with searching criticisms, such as one on the
knocking in Macbeth, and two series on Landor and Schlosser; with the
elephantine humor of his lectures on "Murder, considered as one of the
fine arts;" and with the deep theological insight of his papers on
Christianity, considered as a means of social progress, and on the
Essenes. In fact, De Quincey's knowledge of theology is equal to that of
two bishops--in metaphysics, he could puzzle any German professor--in
astronomy, he has outshone Professor Nichol--in chemistry, he can
outdive Samuel Brown--and in Greek, excite to jealousy the shades of
Porson and Parr. There is another department in which he stands first,
second, and third--we mean, the serious hoax. Do our readers remember
the German romance of Walladmor, passed off at the Leipsic fair as one
of Sir Walter Scott's, and afterward translated into English? The
translation, which was, in fact, a new work, was executed by De Quincey,
who, finding the original dull, thought proper to re-write it; and thus,
to charge trick upon trick. Or have they ever read his chapter in
"Blackwood" for July, 1837, on the "Retreat of a Tartar tribe?" a
chapter certainly containing the most powerful historical painting we
ever read, and recording a section of adventurous and romantic story not
equaled, he says, "since the retreat of the fallen angels." This
chapter, we have good reason for knowing, originated principally in his
own inventive brain. Add to all this, the fiery eloquence of his
"Confessions"--the labored speculation of his "Political Economy"--the
curiously-perverted ingenuity of his "Klosterheim"--and the solemn,
sustained, linked, and lyrical raptures of his "Suspiria," and we have
answered the question, What has he done? But another question is less
easy to answer, What can he, or should he, or shall he yet do? And here
we venture to express a long-cherished opinion. Pure history, or that
species of biography which merges into history, is his forte, and ought
to have been his selected province. He never could have written a
first-rate fiction or poem, or elaborated a complete or original system
of philosophy, although both his imagination and his intellect are of a
very high order. But he has every quality of the great historian, except
compression; he has learning, insight, the power