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We are enabled to take almost the position of those who were permitted really to watch at his bedside, through a slight unpublished sketch, from the hand of his daughter, in a letter to an American friend.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,—