Quincey the
writer, that there is something not exactly human in him. There is
certainly much in him of the daemonic, to use a word which was a very
good word and really required in the language, and which ought not to be
exiled because it has been foolishly abused. Sometimes, as has also been
complained, the demon is a mere familiar with the tricksiness of Puck
rather than the lightness of Ariel. But far oftener he is a more potent
spirit than any Robin Goodfellow, and as powerful as Ariel and Ariel's
master. Trust him wholly you may not; a characteristic often noted in
intelligences that are neither exactly human, nor exactly diabolic, nor
exactly divine. But he will do great things for you, and a little wit
and courage on your part will prevent his doing anything serious against
you. To him, with much greater justice than to Hogg, might Wilson have
applied the nickname of Brownie, which he was so fond of bestowing upon
the author of "Kilmeny." He will do solid work, conjure up a concert of
aerial music, play a shrewd trick now and then, and all this with a
curious air of irresponsibility and of remoteness of nature. In ancient
days when kings played experiments to ascertain the universal or
original language, some monarch might have been tempted to take a very
clever child, interest him so far as possible in nothing but books and
opium, and see whether he would turn out anything like De Quincey. But
it is in the highest degree improbable that he would. Therefore let us
rejoice, though according to the precepts of wisdom and not too
indiscriminately, in our De Quincey as we once, and probably once for
all, received him.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] See Appendix A--De Quincey.

[17] _The Collected Writings of Thomas de Quincey_; edited by David
Masson. In fourteen volumes; Edinburgh, 1889-90.

XI

LOCKHART

In every age there are certain writers who seem to miss their due meed
of fame, and this is most naturally and unavoidably the case in ages
which see a great deal of what may be called occasional literature.
There is, as it seems to me, a special example of this general
proposition in the present century, and that example is the writer whose
name stands at the head of this chapter. No one, perhaps, who speaks
with any competence either of knowledge or judgment, would say that
Lockhart made an inconsiderable figure in English literature. He wrote
what some men consider the best biography on a large scale, and wh