it
appears to us, approach most nearly to the giants of the era of Charles
I., in spirit of genius and munificence of language, are, Edward Irving,
in his preface to "Ben Ezra," Thomas Aird, in parts of his "Religious
Characteristics," and Thomas De Quincey, in his "Confessions," and his
"Suspiria de Profundis."

In coming down from an author to his works we have often a feeling of
humiliation and disappointment. It is like comparing the great Ben Nevis
with the streamlets which flow from his base, and asking, "Is this all
the mighty mountain can give the world?" So, "What has De Quincey done?"
is a question we are now sure to hear, and feel rather afraid to answer.

In a late number of that very excellent periodical, "Hogg's Instructor,"
Mr. De Quincey, as if anticipating some such objection, argues
(referring to Professor Wilson), that it is ridiculous to expect a
writer now to write a large separate work, as some had demanded from the
professor. He is here, however, guilty of a fallacy, which we wonder he
allowed to escape from his pen: there is a difference between a large
and a great work. No one wishes either De Quincey or John Wilson to
write a folio; what we wish from each of them is, an _artistic_ whole,
large or comparatively small, fully reflecting the image of his mind,
and bearing the relation to his other works which the "Paradise Lost"
does to Milton's "Lycidas," "Arcades," and "Hymn on the Nativity." And
this, precisely, is what neither of those illustrious men has as yet
effected.

De Quincey's works, if collected, would certainly possess sufficient
bulk; they lie scattered, in prodigal profusion, through the thousand
and one volumes of our periodical literature; and we are certain, that a
selection of their better portions would fill ten admirable octavos. Mr.
De Quincey himself was lately urged to collect them. His reply was,
"Sir, the thing is absolutely, insuperably, and forever impossible. Not
the archangel Gabriel, nor his multipotent adversary, durst attempt any
such thing!" We suspect, at least, that death must seal the lips of the
"old man eloquent," ere such a selection shall be made. And yet, in
those unsounded abysses, what treasures might be found--of criticism, of
logic, of wit, of metaphysical acumen, of research, of burning
eloquence, and essential poetry! We should meet there with admirable
specimens of translation from Jean Paul Richter and Lessing; with a
criticism on the former,