of answer for any
problems of his, nor indeed of any other time, for he has no basis of
serious thought. All he can say is, ultimately, that he feels himself in
a very uncongenial atmosphere, from which it is delightful to retire, in
imagination, to the society of Epicurus, or the study of a few literary
masterpieces. That may be very true, but it can be interesting only to a
few men of similar taste; and men of profound insight, whether of the
poetic or the philosophic temperament, are apt to be vexed by his hasty
dogmatism and irritable rejection of much which deserved his sympathy.
His wanton quarrel with the world has been avenged by the world's
indifference. We may regret the result when we see what rare qualities
have been cruelly wasted, but we cannot fairly shut our eyes to the fact
that the world has a very strong case.

FOOTNOTES:

[29] De Quincey gets into a curious puzzle about Landor's remarks in his
essay on Milton _versus_ Southey and Landor. He cannot understand to
which of Wordsworth's poems Landor is referring, and makes some oddly
erroneous guesses.

_MACAULAY_

Lord Macaulay was pre-eminently a fortunate man; and his good fortune
has survived him. Few, indeed, in the long line of English authors whom
he loved so well, have been equally happy in a biographer. Most official
biographies are a mixture of bungling and indiscretion. It is only in
virtue of some happy coincidence that the one or two people who alone
have the requisite knowledge can produce also the requisite skill and
discretion. Mr. Trevelyan is one of the exceptions to the rule. His book
is such a piece of thorough literary workmanship as would have delighted
its subject. By a rare felicity, the almost filial affection of the
narrator conciliates the reader instead of exciting a distrust of the
narrative. We feel that Macaulay's must have been a lovable character to
excite such warmth of feeling, and a noble character to enable one who
loved him to speak so frankly. The ordinary biographer's idolatry is not
absent, but it becomes a testimony to the hero's excellence instead of
introducing a disturbing element into our estimate of his merits.

No reader of Macaulay's works will be surprised at the manliness which
is stamped not less plainly upon them than upon his whole career. But
few who were not in some degree behind the scenes would be prepared for
the tenderness of nature which is equally conspicuous. We all recognised