up for
years, and in which he seems really to have known whatever there was to
know, I fear that the opium fiend cheated the world of something like
masterpieces. Only three men during De Quincey's lifetime had anything
like his powers in this department. Of these three men, Sir William
Hamilton either could not or would not write English. Ferrier could and
did write English; but he could not, as De Quincey could, throw upon
philosophy the play of literary and miscellaneous illustration which of
all the sciences it most requires, and which all its really supreme
exponents have been able to give it. Mansel could do both these things;
but he was somewhat indolent, and had many avocations. De Quincey could
write perfect English, he had every resource of illustration and relief
at command, he was in his way as "brazen-bowelled" at work as he was
"golden-mouthed" at expression, and he had ample leisure. But the
inability to undertake sustained labour, which he himself recognises as
the one unquestionable curse of opium, deprived us of an English
philosopher who would have stood as far above Kant in exoteric graces,
as he would have stood above Bacon in esoteric value. It was not
entirely De Quincey's fault. It seems to be generally recognised now
that whatever occasional excesses he may have committed, opium was
really required in his case, and gave us what we have as much as it took
away what we have not. But if any one chose to write in the antique
style a debate between Philosophy, Tar-water, and Laudanum, it would be
almost enough to put in the mouth of Philosophy, "This gave me Berkeley
and that deprived me of De Quincey."

De Quincey is, however, first of all a writer of ornate English, which
was never, with him, a mere cover to bare thought. Overpraise and
mispraise him as anybody may, he cannot be overpraised for this. Mistake
as he chose to do, and as others have chosen to do, the relative value
of his gift, the absolute value of it is unmistakable. What other
Englishman, from Sir Thomas Browne downwards, has written a sentence
surpassing in melody that on Our Lady of Sighs: "And her eyes, if they
were ever seen, would be neither sweet nor subtle; no man could read
their story; they would be found filled with perishing dreams and with
wrecks of forgotten delirium"? Compare that with the masterpieces of
some later practitioners. There are no out-of-the-way words; there is no
needless expense of adjectives; the sense