Autobiographical Sketches by De Quincey, Thomas, 1785-1859

[4] It is a significant fact, that Dr. Strauss, whose sceptical spirit, left to its own disinterested motions, would have looked through and through this monstrous fable of Essenism, coolly adopted it, no questions asked, as soon as he perceived the value of it as an argument against Christianity.

[5] "_Solitary road_."--The reader must remember that, until the seventh century of our era, when Mahometanism arose, there was no _collateral_ history. Why there was none, why no Gothic, why no Parthian history, it is for Rome to explain. We tax ourselves, and are taxed by others, with many an imaginary neglect as regards India; but assuredly we cannot be taxed with _that_ neglect. No part of our Indian empire, or of its adjacencies, but has occupied the researches of our Oriental scholars.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE AFFLICTION OF CHILDHOOD DREAM ECHOES OF THESE INFANT EXPERIENCES DREAM ECHOES FIFTY YEARS LATER

CHAPTER II. INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD OF STRIFE

CHAPTER III. INFANT LITERATURE

CHAPTER IV. THE FEMALE INFIDEL

CHAPTER V. I AM INTRODUCED TO THE WARFARE OF A PUBLIC SCHOOL

CHAPTER VI. I ENTER THE WORLD

CHAPTER VII. THE NATION OF LONDON

CHAPTER VIII. DUBLIN

CHAPTER IX. FIRST REBELLION IN IRELAND

CHAPTER X. FRENCH INVASION OF IRELAND, AND SECOND REBELLION

CHAPTER XI. TRAVELLING

CHAPTER XII. MY BROTHER

CHAPTER XIII. PREMATURE MANHOOD

AUTOBIOGRAPHIC SKETCHES.

CHAPTER I.

THE AFFLICTION OF CHILDHOOD.

About the close of my sixth year, suddenly the first chapter of my life came to a violent termination; that chapter which, even within the gates of recovered paradise, might merit a remembrance. "_Life is finished!_" was the secret misgiving of my heart; for the heart of infancy is as apprehensive as that of maturest wisdom in relation to any capital wound inflicted on the happiness. "_Life is finished! Finished it is!_" was the hidden meaning that, half unconsciously to myself, lurked within my sighs; and, as bells heard from a distance on a summer evening seem charged at times with an articulate form of words, some monitory message, that rolls round unceasingly, even so for me some noiseless and subterraneous voice seemed to chant continually a secret word, made audible only to my own heart--that "now is the blossoming of life withered forever." Not that such words formed themselves vocally within my ear, or issued audibly from my lips; but such a whisper stole silently to my heart. Yet in what sense could _that_ be true? For an infant not more than six years old, was it possible that the promises of life had been really blighted, or its golden pleasures exhausted? Had I seen Rome? Had I read Milton? Had I heard Mozart? No. St. Peter's, the "Paradise Lost," the divine melodies of "Don Giovanni," all alike were as yet unrevealed to me, and not more through the accidents of my position than through the necessity of my yet imperfect sensibilities. Raptures there might be in arrear; but raptures are modes of _troubled_ pleasure. The peace, the rest, the central security which belong to love that is past all understanding,--these could return no more. Such a love, so unfathomable,--such a peace, so unvexed by storms, or the fear of storms,--had brooded over those four latter years of my infancy, which brought me into special relations to my elder sister; she being at this period three years older than myself. The circumstances which attended the sudden dissolution of this most tender connection I will here rehearse. And, that I may do so more intelligibly, I will first describe that serene and sequestered position which we occupied in life. [1]