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4 pages in-12 remplies d’une petite écriture (papier froissé) ; en anglais. Rare lettre à la fille de son ami le Major Miller, décédé. [Après sa mort, ses filles avaient quitté Holyrood, où De Quincey aimait retrouver ses amis] Après quelques lignes d’introduction sentimentale, et se disant malade d’écrire sans cesse, il dit repenser continuellement avec des souvenirs douloureux aux heureux moments passés sous le toit de sa chère Miss Jessie ; et il regrette ces soirées trop rares, depuis qu’il a été obligé de quitter le havre tranquille de la maison Miller Ces tristes souvenirs contrastent avec sa sombre solitude actuelle ; et l’espoir de passer une nouvelle soirée sous ces mêmes lampes est comme l’habit vernal d’un bonheur à venir, au lieu du triste habit automnal d’un bonheur disparu. Cela peut paraître sentimental, mais est profondément vrai. Mais il craint que le dimanche soir Jessie soit prise par ses observances religieuses, une conférence, un sermon de charité ou une réunion missionnaire, au lieu de passer la soirée à Duncan Street, de façon plus profitable. Car à la réunion missionnaire, elle ne contribuera guère qu’à la 7e, voire la 70e part, de la conversion d’un Néo-Zélandais ou d’un prince emplumé d’Owhyee. Tandis qu’en accordant sa présence à Duncan Street, elle donnerait à un fils de la Croix un immense bonheur. Il a été bien occupé à écrire quelques lignes commémoratives pour le cénotaphe au Major Miller, de la Horse Guards Blue, pour lesquelles il aurait besoin de renseignements. Ces lignes sont au nombre d’environ 36 ; trop certes pour une épitaphe, destinée au lieu réel de sépulture ; mais il s’agit d’un cénotaphe, auquel est généralement accordé un privilège plus étendu... « […] The moral, my dear Miss Jessie, is this – that I, soul-sick of endless writing, look back continually with sorrowful remembrances to the happy interval which I spent under your roof; and next after that, I regret those insulated evenings (scattered here and there) which, with a troubled pleasure – pleasure anxious and boding – I have passed beneath the soft splendours of your lamps since I was obliged to quit the quiet haven of your house. Sorrowful, I say, these remembrances are, and must be by contrast with my present gloomy solitude; and if they ever cease to be sorrowful, it is when some new evening to be spent underneath the same lamps comes within view. That which is remembered only suddenly puts on the blossoming of hope, and wears the vernal dress of a happiness to come, instead of the sad autumnal dress of happiness that has vanished. […] And what I fear is — that you, so strict in your religious observances, will be dedicating to some evening lecture, or charity sermon, or missionary meeting, that time which might be spent in Duncan Street, and perhaps — pardon me for saying so — more profitably. ‘How so?’ Why, because, by attending the missionary meeting, for example, you will, after all, scarcely contribute the 7th, or even the 70th, share to the conversion of some New Zealander or feather-cinctured prince of Owhyee. Whereas now, on the other hand, by vouchsafing your presence to Duncan Street, you will give — and not to an unbaptized infidel, who can never thank you, but to a son of the Cross, who will thank you from the very centre of his heart — a happiness like that I spoke of as belonging to recurring festivals, furnishing a subject for memory through one half of the succeeding interval, and for hope through the other. […] I have been for some time occupied at intervals in writing some memorial ‘Lines for a Cenotaph to Major Miller, of the Horse Guards Blue,’ and towards which I want some information from you. The lines are about thirty-six in number; too many, you will say, for an epitaph. Yes, if they were meant for the real place of burial; but these, for the very purpose of evading that restriction, are designed for a cenotaph, to which situation a more unlimited privilege in that respect is usually conceded. » Alexander H. Japp, Thomas De Quincey His Life and Writings (1890), p. 227-229.
