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Wu Ting-Fang on Small Feet Maimed and Veiled Women The Shulamite's Feet An Opium-joint A Wretched Chinaman Fascination of Opium History and Cultivation of the Poppy The East India Company and the Opium War An Opium Farmer How the Old Man Smoked De Quincey and His Experiences "I Will Sleep No More."

Cobbe seems to have experienced the same adventures in his dreams, showing, after all, that De Quincey knew the effects of opium even if he seemed to idealize it. According to Mr. Cobbe, there are in the United States upward of two millions of victims of enslaving drugs entirely exclusive of alcohol.

He would have done that as a matter of course; for his worst enemies and he had several could not say that Cautley ever neglected his poorer patients. Only he concentrated or dissipated himself according to the nature of the case, giving five minutes to one and twenty to another. When he could he gave half-hours to Miss Quincey.

Yet De Quincey insisted that he knew "just where everything was," and he merely exacted that the servants attempt no such vandalism as "cleaning up" in his workshop.

Together they had read Keats for the first wonderful time; together learned Shakespeare's Sonnets by heart; together rolled out over tavern-tables the sumptuous cadences of De Quincey.

And he was gone before she realized that he had been there. Again? So he was coming again, was he? Miss Quincey did not know whether to be glad or sorry. His presence had given her a rare and curiously agreeable sense of protection, but she had to think of the expense. She had to think too of what Mrs. Moon would say to it of what she would say to him. Mrs. Moon had a good deal to say to it.

"You'll never write verses," said Miss Quincey, deftly improving a bad occasion, "if you don't understand arithmetic. Why, it's the science of numbers. Come now, if ninety hogsheads " "Oh-h! I'm so tired of hogsheads; mayn't it be firkins this time?" And, for fancy's sake, firkins Miss Quincey permitted it to be.

Scott tucked up her dress, putting on one of Dorothy's aprons, and helped do the dishes. Then Coleridge came over and they all climbed to the summit of Helm Crag. Shy little De Quincey had read some of Wordsworth's poems, and knew from their flavor that the man who penned them was a noble soul.

I am not sure, but I think it was through some volume which I found in his charge that I first came to know of De Quincey; he was fond of Dr. Holmes's poetry; he loved Whittier and Longfellow, each represented in his slender stock by some distinctive work. But most of the books were in the famous old brown cloth of Ticknor & Fields, which was a warrant of excellence in the literature it covered.

Yet, in the same breath, the Devil whispered a plausible reminder that men as good as he had taken the risk time after time; that De Quincey himself had followed passion's dictates seemingly without a twinge of self-reproach. But Lenox was too single-minded to take shelter behind the failures of others. For him the principle was all.