frost, some sarsar wind of death, seemed to repel me; some mighty
relation between God and death dimly struggled to evolve itself from
the dreadful antagonism between them; shadowy meanings even yet
continued to exercise and torment, in dreams, the deciphering oracle
within me. I slept--for how long I cannot say: slowly I recovered my
self-possession; and, when I woke, found myself standing as before,
close to my sister's bed."[2] Somewhat similar in effect were the
fancies that came to this dreamy boy on Sunday mornings during service
in the fine old English church. Through the wide central field of
uncolored glass, set in a rich framework of gorgeous color,--for the
side panes of the great windows were pictured with the stories of
saints and martyrs,--the lad saw "white fleecy clouds sailing over the
azure depths of the sky." Straightway the picture changed in his
imagination, and visions of young children, lying on white beds of
sickness and of death, rose before his eyes, ascending slowly and
softly into heaven, God's arms descending from the heavens that He
might the sooner take them to Himself and grant release. Such are not
infrequently the dreams of children. De Quincey's experience is not
unique; but with him imagination, the imagination of childhood,
remained unimpaired through life. It was not wholly opium that made
him the great dreamer of our literature, any more than it was the
effect of a drug that brought from his dying lips the cry of "Sister,
sister, sister!"--an echo from this sacred chamber of death, where he
had stood awed and entranced nearly seventy years before.

Not all of De Quincey's boyhood, however, was passed under influences
so serious and mystical as these. He was early compelled to undergo
what he is pleased to call his "introduction to the world of strife."
His brother William, five years the senior of Thomas, appears to have
been endowed with an imagination as remarkable as his own. "His genius