from myself, as
the person concerned in it. If the particular experience selected is
really interesting, in virtue of its own circumstances, then it matters
not to _whom_ it happened. Suppose that a man should record a perilous
journey, it will be no fair inference that he records it as a journey
performed by himself. Most sincerely he may be able to say, that he
records it not _for_ that relation to himself, but _in spite of_ that
relation. The incidents, being absolutely independent, in their power to
amuse, of all personal reference, must be equally interesting [he will
say] whether they occurred to A or to B. That is _my_ case. Let the
reader abstract from _me_ as a person that by accident, or in some
partial sense, may have been previously known to himself. Let him read
the sketch as belonging to one who wishes to be profoundly anonymous. I
offer it not as owing any thing to its connection with a particular
individual, but as likely to be amusing separately for itself; and if I
make any mistake in _that_, it is not a mistake of vanity exaggerating
the consequence of what relates to my own childhood, but a simple
mistake of the judgment as to the power of amusement that may attach to
a particular succession of reminiscences.

Excuse the imperfect development which in some places of the sketch may
have been given to my meaning. I suffer from a most afflicting
derangement of the nervous system, which at times makes it difficult for
me to write at all, and always makes me impatient, in a degree not
easily understood, of recasting what may seem insufficiently, or even
incoherently, expressed.--Believe me, ever yours,

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

A SKETCH FROM CHILDHOOD.

About the close of my sixth year, suddenly the first chapter of my life
came to a violent termination; that chapter which, and which only, in
the hour of death, or even within the gates of recovered Paradise, could
merit a remembrance. "It is finished," was the secret misgiving of my
heart, for the heart even of infancy is as apprehensive as that of
maturest wisdom, in relation to any capital wound inflicted on the
happiness; "it is finished, and life is exhausted." How? Could it be
exhausted so soon? Had I read Milton, had I seen Rome, had I heard
Mozart? No. The "Paradise Lost" was yet unread, the Coliseum and St.
Peter's were unseen, the melodies of Don Giovanni were yet silent for
me. Raptures there might be in arrear. But raptures are modes of
_trou