An anecdote of De Quincey, given by Wilson’s biographer, is worth repeating.  He and Wilson were warm friends during many long years, and innumerable were the sessions in which they met together to hold high converse.  One stormy night the philosophic dreamer made his appearance at the residence of his friend the Professor, in Gloucester Place.  The war of the elements increased to such a pitch, that the guest was induced to pass the night in his new quarters.  Though the storm soon subsided, not so with the “Opium-Eater.”  The visit, begun from necessity, was continued from choice, until the revolving days had nearly made up the full year.  He bothered himself but little with the family-arrangements, but dined in his own room, often turning night into day.  His repast always consisted of coffee, boiled rice and milk, and mutton from the loin.  Every day be sent for the cook, and solemnly gave her his instructions.  The poor creature was utterly overwhelmed by his grave courtesy and his “awfu’ sicht of words.”  Well she might be, for he addressed her in such terms as these:—­“Owing to dyspepsia affecting my system, and the possibility of an additional disarrangement of the stomach taking place, consequences incalculably distressing would arise, so much so, indeed, as to increase nervous irritation, and prevent me from attending to matters of overwhelming importance, if you do not remember to cut the mutton in a diagonal, rather than a longitudinal form.”

The picture of the aged Christopher, sitting by his own fireside, and surrounded by his grandchildren, is a charming one.  He always loved to be with and to play with children,—­a trait which he had in common with Agesilaus, Nelson, Burke, Napoleon, Wellington, and many others to whom was given the spirit of authority.  As he grew old, he became passionately fond of the little men and women, and his affection was reciprocated.  It was rare sport, when grandpapa kept open doors, and summoned the youthful company into his room.  There were games, and stories, and sweetmeats, and presents.  Sometimes notable feasts were set out, to which the little mouths did large justice, while the stalwart host took the part of waiter, and decorously responded to every wish.  Of course, he played at fishing; for what would Christopher be without a hook?  When an infant, he fished with thread and pin:  when age had crippled him, the ruling passion still led him to limp into deep waters on a crutch, and cast out as of yore.  So he and the youngsters angled for imaginary trouts, with imaginary rods, lines, and flies, out of imaginary boats floating in imaginary lochs.  And whether there were silly nibbles or sturdy bites, all agreed that they had glorious sport.

  “With sports like these were all their cares beguiled;
  The sports of children satisfy the child.”

And—­the poet might have added—­they often do much to satisfy the child of larger growth.  It was thus that the old man kept alive the embers of his youth.