before he could be reached. None but military men then knew the dangers and difficulty of crossing a river in face of a hostile army commanded by competent military men. Now the whole thing is patent to everybody; for during the interim we have had the grand and bloody failures of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville; and it is difficult to conceive how any one can now be in favor of pursuing that route whilst any other exists, especially when it is recollected that the Rappahannock is only the first of many difficulties in the road.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY,

THE descendant of an ancient Norwegian family, and the son of a London merchant, was born in Manchester, August 15, 1785, and educated at Oxford (1803-1808), where, among more useful accomplishments, he acquired the habit of opium-eating,—which vice it cannot be said that he took any extraordinary pains to keep secret. On leaving college, in 1808, he joined the famous Lakeists, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey, and on the margin of the peaceful waters prosecuted his studies, and wrote for periodicals, with him a favorite medium of communication with a public always glad to be admitted to that personal confidence with which he made it a point to favor his readers. The columns of the London Magazine, Blackwood's Magazine, Tait's Edinburgh Magazine, the North British Review, the Encyclopædia Britannica, &c., bore witness to the extent of his knowledge, and his marvellous power over almost all the capacities of the English tongue. These fugitive papers (with the exception of "The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater," published in a volume in 1822, and "The Logic of Political Economy," published in 1844, &c.) he had never taken the trouble to collect, or even to record; and the London Eclectic Review, in 1851, gave the world to understand that it was not at all likely that they would ever be gathered. Fortunately for his readers and the permanence of his fame, Mr. James T. Fields, of the house of Ticknor & Fields, of Boston, was not disposed to accede to this view of the matter. He set about "gathering the fragments, that nothing should be lost," enlisted the aid of the author, and took care that he should profit by another's doing what it is not probable, unaided, he would ever have done for himself. Here is his own confession.*

"It is astonishing how much more Boston knows of my literary acts and purposes than I do myself. Were it not, indeed, through Boston, hardly the sixth part of my literary undertakings-hurried or deliberate, sound, rotting, or rotten-would ever have reached posterity: which, be it known to thee,

Perhaps the very best description of De Quincey that has appeared is contained in a charming book, recently published, entitled "The Book-Hunter," &c., by John Hill Burton. We give some extracts:

"The next slide of the lantern is to represent a quite peculiar and abnormal case. It introduces a strangely fragile, unsubstantial, and puerile figure, wherein, however, resided one of the most potent and original spirits that ever frequented a tenement of clay. He shall be called, on account of associations that may or may not be found out, Thomas Papaverius. But how to make palpable to the ordinary human being one so signally divested of all the material and common characteristics of his race, yet so nobly endowed with its rarer and loftier attributes, almost paralyzes the pen at the very beginning.

"In what mood and shape shall he be brought forward? Shall it be as first we met at the table of Lucullus, whereto he was seduced by the false pretence that he would there meet with one who entertained novel and anarchical opinions regarding the Golden Ass of Apuleius? No one speaks of waiting dinner for him. He will come and depart at his own sweet will, neither burdened with punctualities nor burdening others by exacting them. The festivities of the afternoon are far on, when a commotion is heard in the hall, as if some dog or other stray animal had forced its way in. The instinct of a friendly guest tells him of the arrival: he opens the door, and fetches in the little stranger. What can it be? A street-boy of some sort? His costume, in fact, is a boy's duffle great-coat, very threadbare, with a hole in it, and buttoned tight to the chin, where it meets the fragments of a parti-colored belcher handkerchief; on his feet are list shoes, covered with snow, for it is a stormy winter night; and the trousers,--some one suggests that they are inner linen garments blackened with writing-ink, but that Papaverius never would have been at the trouble so to disguise them. What can be the theory of such a costume? The simplest thing in the world: it consisted of the fragments of apparel nearest at hand.

most sarcastic of future censors, already most of them have reached." Preface to his own edition of his Works.

This edition, which is comprised in fifteen volumes crown 8vo, with Illustrations, Notes, and Index, price, £3 38., or 4s. 6d. each volume (published by A. & C. Black, Edinburgh), thus owes its existence to Ticknor & Fields's edition (22 vols. 16mo, $17.25, or 75 cents each volume). Contents:-I. Confessions of an English Opium-Eater; II. Biographical Essays; III. Miscellaneous Essays; IV. The Cæsars; V., VI. Literary Reminiscences; VII., VIII. Narrative and Miscellaneous Pieces; IX. Essays on the Poets and other English Writers; X., XI. Historical and Critical Essays; XII. Autobiographic Sketches; XIII., XIV. Essays on Philosophical Writers, and Other Men of Letters; XV. Letters to a Young Man, and Other Papers; XVI., XVII. Theological Essays, and Other Papers; XVIII. The Note-Book of an English Opium-Eater; XIX., XX. Memorials, and other Papers; XXI. The Avenger, and Other Papers; XXII. The Logic of Political Economy, and Other Papers.

Had chance thrown to him a court single-breasted coat, with a bishop's apron, a kilt, and top-boots, in these he would have made his entry.

"The first impression, that a boy has appeared, vanishes instantly. Though in one of the sweetest and most genial of his essays he shows how every man retains so much in him of the child he originally was, and he himself retained a great. deal of that primitive simplicity, it was buried within the depths of his heart, not visible externally. On the contrary, on one occasion, when he corrected an erroneous reference to an event as being a century old, by saying that he recollected its occurrence, one felt almost a surprise at the necessary limitation in his age, so old did he appear, with his arched brow loaded with thought, and the countless little wrinkles which ingrained his skin gathering thickly round the curiously expressive and subtle lips. These lips are speedily opened by some casual remark, and presently the flood of talk passes forth from them, free, clear, and continuous,-never rising into declamation, never losing a certain mellow earnestness, and all consisting of sentences as exquisitely joined together as if they were destined to challenge the criticism of the remotest posterity. Still the hours stride over each other, and still flows on the stream of gentle rhetoric as if it were labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis cevum. It is now far into the night, and slight hints and suggestions are propagated about separation and home-going. The topic starts new ideas on the progress of civilization, the effect of habit on men in all ages, and the power of the domestic affections. Descending from generals to the special, he could testify to the inconvenience of late hours; for was it not the other night that, coming to what was, or what he believed to be, his own door, he knocked and knocked, but the old woman within either couldn't or wouldn't hear him? So he scrambled over a wall, and, having taken his repose in a furrow, was able to testify to the extreme unpleasantness of such a couch. The predial groove might indeed nourish kindly the infant seeds and shoots of the peculiar vegetable to which it was appropriated, but was not a comfortable place of repose for adult man.' Edit. New York (Sheldon & Co.), 1863, 29–32.

To this graphic sketch we add some extracts from Dr. J. Warburton Begbie's account (on a privately printed sheet) of De Quincey's last illness:

"During these days of dull November [1859], which, with all its gloominess and more than ordinary fog, did not in the least affect the serenity and tranquil composure of his spirit, devoutly reverential and adoring,-as the amplest testimony, were that required, could be made by the writer of these lines, and animated by the most enlarged benevolence towards mankind, especially children, Mr. De Quincey was evidently becoming feebler.

. . During several nights, and latterly by day, when he had fallen into a gentle sleep, his mind wandered. Once or twice, suddenly awakening, he seemed much startled and surprised, and for a short time there was some difficulty in reassuring him as to the identity both of persons and objects in the room. At other times, when the mind wandered, the words which were uttered sufficiently loud to be heard distinctly revealed the perfect composure within, and nothing he said afforded evidence of that senilis ultitias quæ deliratio appellari solet. Often he recognized the footsteps of angels,' and addressed words to 'the departed.' He enjoyed at such times a holy, calm delight,' was often speaking to children, and seemed anxious they should be especially cared for; thus at its close verifying the character he had enjoyed through life of extreme fondness for the young.

"While for many weeks anxiety as to the result of his illness had been entertained, it was only on Sunday, the 4th of December, that alarm was awakened. Suddenly Mr. De Quincey became weaker, and, though on Monday he had rallied not a little, the duty of summoning an absent daughter was apparent. On Tuesday he was in his chair for a short time, and conversed with readiness, though not with the same ease as formerly. Decidedly weaker in the evening of that day, from the circumstance that he had refused all food, it was only too evident on Wednesday morning that his hours on earth were numbered. He recognized in the forenoon his eldest daughter, who arrived in time to receive the blessing of her dying father; and with the single expression of 'thank you' to those around him, which was uttered with touching sweetness and radiant expression, he passed into a drowsy state, by degrees became insensible, and thus, on the forenoon of Thursday, died, his death being ascribable rather to exhaustion of the system than disease."

The following notices of his habits, literary tastes, &c. (now first printed) were communicated to the author of this article, by the writer of the above, a few months after Mr. De Quincey's death.

He "was generally a late goer to bed, and a late riser; but he often went to bed late and got up early, making up for lost sleep in his chair; but he existed on a very small amount of sleep. If he had an article on hand, he would sit up writing it all night, and drink strong coffee or tea to keep him wide awake; for he was always liable to dropping over in his chair into short naps. He preferred writing during the night. He always read at night, holding a candle in his hand, and would con stantly fall asleep while in this position. When aroused by the information, Papa, papa, your hair is on fire!' he would say, 'Is it, my love?' brush his hand over it, and go to sleep again with the candle in his hand. He got so absorbed in what he was reading that it was a common occurrence setting his hair

on fire. He was utterly callous to danger, and it is a miracle that he never set himself on fire. He has often set his bed on fire; but he was as expert in putting it out as in putting it in.

"He was always more genial and talkative among ourselves, and particularly at tea-time and after it. It would be difficult to say what author he was fondest of reading; for from a penny spelling-book up to a Shakspeare, Milton, or Jeremy Taylor, he would read it, criticize it, turn it upside-down. In fact, as regards the spelling-book, you would be amazed at the amount of latent knowledge that lay hid in its recesses. I should think any one would guess from his works what a great admiration he had for Shakspeare and Milton, but I do not think that people would gather the same opinion as regards Jeremy Taylor; and yet I think he would have placed him beside those two great towers of strength. He had an immense admiration and knowledge of Scripture, although he was far too unsystematic in his ways to make any point of conscience in reading them regularly. He often made points in the Bible subjects for discussion yet I never heard him breathe a word of disbelief as regards any of them. He was a decided son of the Christian religion, and he had always a great respect and love for the Anglican Church.

"Children were always very fond of him,-not that he ever romped with them, but he had a great power of interesting them by his talking to them, and his gentle manner won their confidence. He was interested to the most curious extent by all his grandchildren, the thought of them even haunting him into the delirium of his death-bed. His constant talk was of children. . . . When within an hour or two of death, he said, They are all leaving me, but my dear, dear little children;' and one night he woke up from a long sleep, and said, with great animation, Those Edinburgh cabmen are the most brutal set of fellows I ever knew of.' Why, what have they done?' 'You must know, my dear, that I and the little children were all invited to a supper by Jesus Christ. So, you see, as it was a great honor, I determined to get new dresses for the little children; and-would you believe it ?-when I and they went out in our new dresses, I saw these fellows all laughing at them.'"

6

If a dozen of the best critics were asked, separately, to designate the writers of the first half of the nineteenth century for whose works literary immortality could safely be promised, doubtless their lists would exhibit wide differences of opinion; but we would hazard little in predicting that every roll of honor would bear the name of THOMAS DE QUINCEY.