At Edinburgh we were in the wrong season, and many persons we most
wished to see were absent. We had, however, the good fortune to find
Dr. Andrew Combe, who received us with great kindness. I was impressed
with great and affectionate respect, by the benign and even temper of
his mind, his extensive and accurate knowledge, accompanied by a large
and intelligent liberality. Of our country he spoke very wisely and
hopefully.
* * * * *
I had the satisfaction, not easily attainable now, of seeing De
Quincey for some hours, and in the mood of conversation. As one
belonging to the Wordsworth and Coleridge constellation (he, too,
is now seventy years of age), the thoughts and knowledge of Mr. De
Quincey lie in the past, and oftentimes he spoke of matters now become
trite to one of a later culture. But to all that fell from his lips,
his eloquence, subtle and forcible as the wind, full and gently
falling as the evening dew, lent a peculiar charm. He is an admirable
narrator; not rapid, but gliding along like a rivulet through a green
meadow, giving and taking a thousand little beauties not absolutely
required to give his story due relief, but each, in itself, a separate
boon.
I admired, too, his urbanity; so opposite to the rapid, slang,
Vivian-Greyish style, current in the literary conversation of the
day. "Sixty years since," men had time to do things better and more
gracefully.