No more signal service, during the last half century, has been rendered to the lovers of genuine books, than the collection and republication of the fragmentary writings of Thomas de Quincey. Cast, for the most part, upon the swollen current of periodical literature, at the summons of chance or necessity, during a career protracted beyond the allotted threescore years and ten, the shattered hand of the Opium Eater was powerless to arrest their flight to silence and forgetfulness; increasing remoteness was daily throwing a deeper shadow upon ancient landmarks, and consequently upon the possibility of their recovery. When Mr. de Quincey was urged to attempt the collection himself, his emphatic reply was: 'Sir, the thing is absolutely, insuperably, and forever impossible. Not the archangel Gabriel, nor his multipotent adversary, durst attempt any such thing!' From that quarter, then, nothing could be expected; but the intervention of other parties averted a catastrophe melancholy to contemplate—restoring to us a vast body of literature, unique in character and supreme in kind. We do not pretend that De Quincey has yet been awarded by any very general suffrage the foremost position among modern littérateurs; we expect that his popularity will be of slow growth, and never universal. Universal popularity a writer of the highest talent and genius can never secure, for his very loftiness of thought and impassioned eccentricity cut him off from the sympathy, and hence from the applause, of a vast section of humanity. But when contemporary prejudice and indifference shall clear up, and the question be summoned for final arbitration before the dispassionate tribunal of the future, we suspect that the name of Thomas de Quincey will head the list of English writers during the last seventy-five years. If we should apply to our author the rule which he remorselessly enforces against Dr. Parr, that the production of a complete, first-class work is the only absolute test of first-class literary ability, our position would be untenable, for it is notorious that De Quincey's writings are entirely fragmentary. But it will never do to lay down a canon of that sort as the basis of calculation in estimating the intellectual altitude of literary men. The wider the field the greater the scope for grandeur of design and the pomp of achievement; but it is seldom that a writer who can produce an essay of the highest order cannot also meet successfully the demands of a more protracted effort. Narrowness of bounds, want of compass for complete elaboration, is often no slight obstacle. The more minute the mechanism, the more arduous the approach to perfection. The limits of the essay are at best cramped, and the compression, the adjusting of the subject to those limits, so that its character and bearings may be naturally and perspicuously exhibited, imply no ordinary skill. Besides, the advisability, or rather the possibility of undertaking a literary work of the first magnitude is dependent not less upon circumstances beyond the range of individual control than upon intellectual capacity.
In asserting for De Quincey the leading position among the writers of this century, we are clothing him with no ordinary honors—honors which no man can rightfully enjoy without mental endowments at once multiform and transcendent. Our age thus far has been prolific in genius, inferior, indeed, to no other, except, perhaps, the Elizabethan; and, even here, inferior only at two points, tragedy and that section of poetry in which alone is found the incarnation of the sublime—the divine strains of John Milton. But in range of achievement our epoch has scarcely a rival. Mighty champions have arisen in almost every department of letters, and it is plain that, amid merits so divergent and wide removed, we can justly ascribe absolute precedence to no man without establishing, at the outset, a standard of ideal excellence, and by that adjusting the claims of all competitors.
We may remark, then, in general, that few first-class writers have appeared who did not require as a condition of success varied and profound learning. Kant, indeed, won immortality by the efforts of blank power. It is said that he never read a book; so wonderful was his synthetical and logical power, that if he could once discover the starting point, the initial principles of a writer, there was no occasion for his toiling through the intermediate argumentation to reach the conclusions—he grasped them almost intuitively, provided, of course, the deductions were logical. But even Kant, had his acquaintance with the literature of metaphysics been more extensive, would have avoided many errors, as well as the trouble of discovering many truths in which he had been long anticipated. Herder thought that too much reading had hurt the spring and elasticity of his mind. Doubtless we may carry our efforts to excess in this direction as well as any other, by calling into unduly vigorous and persistent action the merely receptive energies of the mind. Perhaps this was the case with Herder, as the range of his reading was truly immense; but if so, it argues with fatal effect against his claims to the highest order of intellect; if the weight of his body was too great for his wings, there lurked somewhere a sad defect. In the vast plurality of cases success lies in, and is graduated by, the intensity of mental reaction upon that which has been acquired from others. The achievements of the past are stepping stones to the conquests of the present. New truths, new discoveries, are old truths, old discoveries remodelled and shifted so as to meet the view under a different angle; new structures are in no proper sense creations, but mainly the product of a judicious eclecticism. Sir William Hamilton was a vast polyhistor long before he could be called a philosopher, or even thought himself one. Researches the most persistent in nearly every department of letters were with him the indispensable prelude to his subsequent triumphs.
But all this is simply conditional. What, then, are the powers which nature alone can bestow? What must she have done before the highest results can arise from literary effort, however immense the compass of our information? There must be powerful analytic and discursive ability, combined with a commensurate reach of constructive and imaginative capacity. An intellect thus endowed, approaches the perfection of our ideal. If one of these elements is deficient, we shall lack either depth or brilliance, acuteness or fancy; our structures may be massive, titanic, but hostile to the laws of a refined taste; colossal and dazzling, but too airy and unsubstantial except for the few who are
'With reason mad, and on phantoms fed.'
Before some such ideal tribunal as this let us summon the aspirants to the dictatorial honors which seem to have slumbered since the day of Dr. Johnson, and arbitrate their claims.
Who shall combat the succession of Thomas de Quincey to this vacant throne? Shall it be Coleridge, 'the noticeable man with large, gray eyes,' or the stately Macaulay, or Carlyle, with his Moorish dialect and sardonic glance, or hale old Walter Scott, or Lamb, or Hazlitt, or Christopher North? The time was when Coleridge's literary fame was second to that of no other man. But he has suffered a disastrous eclipse; it has been articulately demonstrated that the vast body of his most valuable speculations, both in the department of philosophy, and also in that of poetry and of the fine arts generally, were so unblushingly pirated from Schelling and other German writers, that all defence, even that which was merely palliative, has signally failed. That fact silences absolutely and forever his claim. Nor can the pretensions of Macaulay or Carlyle be tolerated; in neither of them is found in any marked degree what has been aptly called 'double-headed' power—in neither are combined the antagonistic resources of profound thought and brilliant imagination. Macaulay, unapproachable in the delineation of character and in the mastery of stately narrative, seems to be shorn of his wonted power in the presence of the higher philosophical and moral questions—the flight that is elsewhere so bold and triumphant, droops and falters here. As for Carlyle, to say nothing of other faults, we vainly search his writings for anything positive; he is a blank destroyer, breathing out everlasting denunciation and regret. No man can possess the highest order of talent or genius whose powers are essentially negative. Mere demolition—demolition which is not the first step in the advance of reform and reconstruction, the preliminary removal of ancient rubbish for the erection of newer and nobler structures—is worse than futile. But we will not pursue farther this phase of our subject. We take our stand upon the position, and think it can be maintained against all comers, that these writers, and others which might be named, although supreme in certain departments, fail in range of power; in other words, that they have specialities outside of which they attain no remarkable excellence. Scott, for instance, is unsurpassed in the drama of fiction; but in the more transcendent sphere of poetry his success is open to a very serious demur. But how is the case with De Quincey? Did he ever write a poem? No; but he was nevertheless a poet of the first rank. Did he ever publish a treatise on metaphysics? No. His great work 'De Emendatione Humani Intellectus,' was never completed, but he was, notwithstanding, an acute philosopher. The author of no complete history, he was not the less a divine master of historic narration, grave or gay, sententious or impassioned. No one is more profoundly convinced than ourselves that mere rhetorical declamation, and the sepulchral voice of fulsome eulogy can never establish claims of such vast magnitude. What has Mr. de Quincey achieved, what range of capacity has he exhibited in the memorials he has left behind, in the grand conceptions that have arisen upon his mind, whether completely projected into the sphere of tangible reality or not?—these are the crucial questions upon which hang for him the trophies of renown or the dark drapery of oblivion.
Every person who is competent to form an opinion on the subject, very readily allows that political economy, so infinite and subtile are the forces that enter into its shifting phenomena, is a science of no slight complexity, and that the successful unveiling of its disordered tissue demands, in the first instance, the highest intellectual acuteness and profundity. We here encounter the same obstacles as in metaphysics, except that in the one case the phenomena investigated are subjective, in the other objective. Both conditions have peculiar advantages; both are open to peculiar difficulties, which it is unnecessary to discuss at present. But the power which can grapple successfully with the vexed complications of the one will be no less potent in piercing those of the other; acuteness of analysis, sleepless insight, subtile thought, ample constructive or synthetic ability, these are the only endowments out of which any original success can arise in either case. What has Mr. de Quincey achieved for the science of political economy? We might answer by asking, What has Mr. Ricardo achieved in that department? Ricardo and De Quincey had independently arrived at the same conclusions on the subject at about the same time. The fact that Ricardo first proclaimed to the world his revolutionary doctrines of rent and value has won for him the lion's share of the applause they compelled; but that rendered De Quincey's independent conclusions none the less real discoveries, subtracted nothing from the aggregate of his real merit. The vast obstacles which lay in the path of these discoveries can never be fully appreciated, until we apprehend, to some extent, the apparently hopeless and inextricable confusion with which the whole subject was at that time invested: out of the blackness of darkness, out of the very heart of chaos and anarchy rose two mighty luminaries, that have been polar beacons to all subsequent explorers. De Quincey's writings on political economy are partially fragmentary; that is, they do not exhaust the subject as a whole, although thoroughly probing several capital points upon which the entire subject turns. Sometimes he ostensibly limits himself to elucidating and defending Ricardo's views; but the discussion is conducted with so much ease and force and fertility of resources, disclosing at times a depth of insight far outstripping that of his pretended master, that we cannot resist the conclusion that the doctrines which he defends are in fact discoveries of his own—discoveries which, finding himself anticipated in their publication, he generously turns to the advantage of his fortunate rival. Although De Quincey gravely assures us that in his opinion Ricardo is a 'model of perspicuity,' we suspect that few will agree with him, as his thought is always subtile and sometimes perplexed; but De Quincey—while not at all inferior in acuteness and power of thought, in perception of shy differences and resemblances between contrasted objects, winning at this point even the praise of John Stuart Mill—in elasticity, force, and elegance of style, infinitely surpasses the whole race of political economists. We know of nothing throughout the vast range of economic investigation more admirable, being at once clear and conclusive, simple and profound, culminating in the utter razing and dismantling of the Malthusian theory, than the discussion of value in the 'Templars' Dialogues.' There is no faltering, no hesitation, no discursiveness; the arrow flies swiftly and fatally to the mark. It is not possible, or desirable, at the present time, to discuss minutely De Quincey's achievements as exhibited in his 'Logic of Political Economy' and 'Templars' Dialogues:' in these works he laid the foundation of a colossal structure, which the distraction of nervous misery never allowed him to complete. He had laboriously gathered the materials out of every nation and tongue; he had painfully perfected the vast design; but, when standing on the very verge of triumph, he was doomed to see life-long hopes extinguished forever, success slipped from his nerveless grasp in the moment of victory. Surely he might join in the passionate lament:
'I feel it, I have heaped upon my brain
The gathered treasures of man's thought in vain.'
The subjects which De Quincey has critically investigated are very numerous, and it cannot be expected that our limits will permit any exhaustive enumeration of them. We propose to select a few of the more prominent, which will serve as exponents of the whole.