talked with Coleridge, that was the friend of Wilson,—­and—­what furnishes a more sublime suggestion—­this is he that knows by heart the mountain-fells and the mysterious recesses of hidden valleys for miles around; and we think, if he could convey us from the haunts of this Lasswade of his old age to those which glorified the Grasmere of his youth, what new chords he might touch,—­of human love, for there it was that the sweetness of his wedded life had been buried and embalmed in a thousand outward memorials of happy hours long gone by,—­and of human sadness, for there it was that he had experienced the reversal of every outward fortune, and the alienations of friendships which he most highly valued.  But the remembrances of Grasmere and of youth seem now to have been removed as into some other life:  the man of a past generation walks alone, and amid other scenes.  And yonder is the study in which he spends hours that are most holy,—­hours consecrated to what specific employments is known to none, since across its threshold no feet save his have passed for years.  Now and then some grand intellectual effort proceeds forth from its sacred precincts; but that only happens when pecuniary necessities compel the exertion.  How is it that the time not thus occupied is spent?—­in what remembrances, in what hidden thoughts, what passing dreams?

As it grows dark, De Quincey’s guest, having spent most precious moments which he feels ought never to cease, signifies the necessity of his taking his departure.  To take leave of this strange man, however, is not so easy a matter as one might rashly suppose.  There is a genius of procrastination about him.  Was he ever known to make his appearance at any dinner in season, or indeed at any entertainment?  Yes, he did once, at the recital of a Greek tragedy on the Edinburgh stage; but that happened through a trick played on him by an acquaintance, who, to secure some remote chance of his seeing the performance, told him that the doors opened at half-past six, whereas, in fact, they opened at seven.  How preposterous, then, to suppose that he would let an opportunity pass for procrastinating other people, and putting all manner of snares about their feet!  It is dangerous with such a man to hint of late hours; for just that lateness is to him the very jewel of the thing.  In mentioning the circumstance, you only suggest to him the infinite pleasure connected with the circumstance.  Perhaps he will deliberately set to work to prove that candle-light is the one absolutely indispensable condition to genial intercourse,—­which would doubtless suggest a great contrast, in that respect, between the ancient and modern economy,—­and where, then, is there to be an end?  All attempts to extricate yourself by unravelling the net which is being woven about you are hopelessly vain; you cannot keep pace with him.  The thought of delay enchants him, and he dallies with it, as a child with a pet delicacy.  Thus, he is at the house of a friend; it storms, and a reasonable excuse is furnished for his favorite experiment.  The consequence is, that, once started in this direction, the delay is continued for a year.  Late hours were particularly potent to “draw out” De Quincey; and, understanding this, Professor Wilson used to protract his dinners almost into the morning, a tribute which De Quincey doubtless appreciated.