as
continued to reside, wandering from place to place, contributing to
periodicals of all sorts and sizes--to "Blackwood," "Tait," "North
British Review," "Hogg's Weekly Instructor," as well as writing for the
"Encyclopaedia Britannica," and publishing one or two independent works,
such as "Klosterheim," a tale, and the "Logic of Political Economy." His
wife has been long dead. Three of his daughters, amiable and excellent
persons, live in the sweet village of Lasswade, in the neighborhood of
Edinburgh; and there he is, we believe, at present himself.

From his very imperfect sketch of De Quincey's history, there rush into
our minds some rather painful reflections. It is painful to see a

"Giant mind broken by sorrows unspoken,
And woes."

It is painful to see a glorious being transfigured into a rolling thing
before the whirlwind. It is painful to be compelled to inscribe upon
such a shield the word "Desdichado." It is painful to remember how much
misery must have passed through that heart, and how many sweat drops of
agony must have stood, in desolate state, upon that brow. And it is most
painful of all to feel that guilt, as well as misery, has been here, and
that the sowing of the wind preceded the reaping of the whirlwind.

Such reflections were mere sentimentalism, unless attended by such
corollaries as these: 1st. Self-control ought to be more than at present
a part of education, sedulously and sternly taught, for is it not the
geometry of life? 2dly. Society should feel more that she is responsible
for the wayward children of genius, and ought to seek more than she does
to soothe their sorrows, to relieve their wants, to reclaim their
wanderings, and to search, as with lighted candles, into the causes of
their incommunicable misery. Had the public, twenty years ago, feeling
Mr. De Quincey to be one of the master spirits of the age, and,
therefore, potentially, one of its greatest benefactors, inquired
deliberately into his case, sought him out, put him beyond the reach of
want, encouraged thus his heart, and strengthened his hand, rescued him
from the mean miseries into which he was plunged, smiled approvingly
upon the struggles he was making to conquer an evil habit--in one word,
_recognized_ him, what a different man had he been now, and over what
magnificent wholes had we been rejoicing, in the shape of his works,
instead of deploring powers and acquirements thrown away, in rearing
towers of Babel