on, it was not in that of spite,
but of love; and as an instance of almost unnatural intensity of
affection, witness his insane grief over little Kate Wordsworth's
grave,--a grief which satisfied itself only by reasonless prostrations,
for whole nights, over the dark mould which covered her from his sight.

It only remains for us to look in upon De Quincey's last hours. We are
enabled to take almost the position of those who were permitted really
to watch at his bedside, through a slight unpublished sketch, from the
hand of his daughter, in a letter to an American friend. I tremble
almost to use materials that personally are so sacred; but sympathy, and
the tender interest which is awakened in our hearts by such a life, are
also sacred, and in privilege stand nearest to grief.

During the few last, days of his life De Quincey wandered much, mixing
up "real and imaginary, or apparently imaginary things." He complained,
one night, that his feet were hot and tired. His daughter arranged the
blankets around them, saying, "Is that better, papa?" when he answered,
"Yes, my love, I think it is; you know, my dear girl, these are the feet
that Christ washed."

Everything seemed to connect itself in his mind with little children. He
aroused one day, and said suddenly,--"You must know, my dear, the
Edinburgh cabmen are the most brutal set of fellows under the sun. I
must tell you that I and the little children were all invited to supper
with Jesus Christ. So, as you see, it was a great honor. I thought I
must buy new dresses for the little ones; and--would you believe it
possible?--when I went out with the children, these wretches laughed at
their new dresses."

"Of my brothers he often spoke, both those that are dead and those that
are alive, as if they were his own brothers. One night he said, when I
entered the room,--

"'Is that you, Horace?'

"'No, papa.'

"'Oh, I see! I thought you were Horace; for he was talking to me just
now, and I suppose has just left the room.'"

Speaking of his father, one day, suddenly and without introduction, he
exclaimed,--"There is one thing I deeply regret, that I did not know my
dear father better; for I am sure a better, kinder, or juster man could
never have existed."

When death seemed approaching, the physician recommended that a telegram
should be sent to the eldest daughter,[A] who resided in Ireland, but he
forbade any mention of this fact to the patient. De Quincey seemed to