I believe, however, that this skill in
narration is De Quincey's most persistent quality,--the golden thread
that unites all his most distinguished and most enduring work. And it
is with him a part of his genius for style. Creative power of the kind
that goes to the making of plots De Quincey had not; he has proved that
forever by the mediocrity of _Klosterheim_. Give him Bergmann's
account of the Tartar Migration, or the story of the Fighting Nun,--
give him the matter,--and a brilliant narrative will result. Indeed, De
Quincey loved a story for its own sake; he rejoiced to see it extend
its winding course before him; he delighted to follow it, touch it,
color it, see it grow into body and being under his hand. That this
enthusiasm should now and then tend to endanger the integrity of the
facts need not surprise us; as I have said elsewhere, accuracy in these
matters is hardly to be expected of De Quincey. And we can take our
pleasure in the skillful unfolding of the dramatic narrative of the
Tartar Flight--we can feel the author's joy in the scenic possibilities
of his theme--even if we know that here and there an incident appears
that is quite in its proper place--but is unknown to history.
In his _Confessions_ the same constructive power bears its part in
the author's triumph. A peculiar end was to be reached in that
narrative,--an end in which the writer had a deep personal interest.
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