The family life was sadly broken in 1837 by the death of De Quincey's
wife. He who was now left as guardian of the little household of six
children, was himself so helpless in all practical matters that it
seemed as though he were in their childish care rather than protector
of them. Scores of anecdotes are related of his odd and unpractical
behavior. One of his curious habits had been the multiplication of
lodgings; as books and manuscripts accumulated about him so that there
remained room for no more, he would turn the key upon his possessions
and migrate elsewhere to repeat the performance later on. It is known
that as many as four separate rents were at one and the same time
being paid by this odd, shy little man, rather than allow the
disturbance or contraction of his domain. Sometimes an anxious journey
in search of a manuscript had to be made by author and publisher in
conjunction before the missing paper could be located. The home life
of this eccentric yet lovable man of genius seems to have been always
affectionate and tender in spite even of his bondage to opium; it was
especially beautiful and childlike in his latest years. His eldest
daughter, Margaret, assumed quietly the place of headship, and with a
discretion equal to her devotion she watched over her father's
welfare. With reference to De Quincey's circumstances at this time,
his biographer, Mr. Masson, says: "Very soon, if left to himself, he
would have taken possession of every room in the house, one after
another, and 'snowed up' each with his papers; but, that having been
gently prevented, he had one room to work in all day and all night to
his heart's content. The evenings, or the intervals between his daily
working time and his nightly working time, or stroll, he generally
spent in the drawing-room with his daughters, either alone or in
company with any friends that chanced to be with him. At such times,
we are told, he was unusually charming. 'The newspaper was brought