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,* who resided in Ireland, but he forbade any mention of this fact to the patient. De Quincey seemed to have a prophetic feeling that she was on her way to him, saying, 'Has M. got to that town yet, that we stopped at when we went to Ireland? How many hours will it be before she can be here? Let me see, there are eight hours before I can see her, and three added to that!' His daughter came sooner than the family expected; but the time tallied very nearly with the computation he had made. the morning his daughter arrived occurred the first intimation his family had seen that the hand of death was laid upon him. He had passed a quiet, but rather sleepless night, appearing much the same, yet more

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On

* De Quincey, at his death, had two sons and three daughters. The eldest of the daughters became the wife of Robert Craig of Ireland. It was this one, and the youngest, who were present during his last hours. The second daughter, Florence, was with her husband (a colonel of the British army) in India. The two sons were both absent; one in India, a captain in the army; the other, a physician, in Brazil.

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than ordinarily loving.' After greeting his child, he said, And how does mamma's lit tle girl like her leaving her?' 'Oh, they were very glad for me to come to grandpapa, and they sent you this kiss, which they did of their own accord.' He seemed much pleased. It was evident that M. presented herself to him as the mother of children, the constant theme of his wanderings. Once when his daughter quitted the room, he said, 'They are all leaving me but my dear little children.' "I heard him call, one day, distinctly, "Florence! Florence! Florence!" - again, "My dear, dear mother!"—and to the last he called us my love," and it sounded like no other sound ever uttered. I never heard such pathos as there was in it, and in every tone of his voice. It gave me an idea of a love that passeth all understanding.'

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"During the next night he was thought dying, but he lingered on and on till half past nine the next morning. He told me something about " to-morrow morning," and something about sunshine; but the thought that he was talking about what he would never see drove the exact idea out of my

head, though I am sure it was morning in another world he was talking of.'

"There was an extraordinary appearance of youth about him, both for some time before and after death. He looked more like a boy of fourteen, and very beautiful. We did not like to let in the morning light, and the candle was burning at nine o'clock, when the post brought the following letter, which my sister and myself glanced over by the candle-light, just as we were listening to his decreasing breath. At the moment it did not strike me with the astonishment, at such an extraordinary coincidence, that when we came to read it afterwards did.

"""Brighton, Dec. 7, 1859.

"""MY DEAR DE QUINCEY, - Before I quit this world, I most ardently desire to see your handwriting. In early life, that is, more than sixty years ago, we were schoolfellows together and mutually attached; nay, I remember a boyish paper ("The Observer") in which we were engaged. Yours has been a brilliant literary career, mine far from brilliant, but I hope not unuseful as a

theological student. It seems a pity we should not once more recognize one another before quitting the stage. I have often read your works, and never without remembering the promise of your talents at Winkfield. My life has been almost a domestic tragedy. I have four children in lunatic asylums. Thank God, it is now drawing to a close; but it would cheer the evening of my days to receive a line from you, for I am, with much sincerity,

"Your old and attached friend,
""" E. H. G.""

"I do not remember the name of G., but the name of Edward constantly recurred in his wanderings.

"Half an hour after the reading of that letter we heard those last pathetic sighs, so terrible from their very softness, and saw the poor, worn-out garment laid aside.' Just before he died, he looked around the room, and said very tenderly to the nurse, the physician, and his daughters, who were present, Thank you, -thank you all!' Sensible thus to the very last of kindness, he breathed out his life in simple thanks,

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swayed even in death by the spirit of profound courtesy that had ruled his life."

De Quincey died at his home in Edinburgh, December 8, 1859.]