Footnotes

[^1] “Not yet recorded,” I say; for there is one celebrated man of the present day, who, if all be true which is reported of him, has greatly exceeded me in quantity.

[^1] “Not yet recorded,” I say. For there is one famous man today who has taken far more than I have, if everything reported about him is true.

[^2] A third exception might perhaps have been added; and my reason for not adding that exception is chiefly because it was only in his juvenile efforts that the writer whom I allude to expressly addressed hints to philosophical themes; his riper powers having been all dedicated (on very excusable and very intelligible grounds, under the present direction of the popular mind in England) to criticism and the Fine Arts. This reason apart, however, I doubt whether he is not rather to be considered an acute thinker than a subtle one. It is, besides, a great drawback on his mastery over philosophical subjects that he has obviously not had the advantage of a regular scholastic education: he has not read Plato in his youth (which most likely was only his misfortune), but neither has he read Kant in his manhood (which is his fault).

[^2] A third exception might perhaps have been added. I did not add it chiefly because the writer I have in mind offered suggestions on philosophical subjects only in his early work. He devoted all his mature abilities to criticism and the Fine Arts. Given the current direction of popular opinion in England, his reasons were very understandable and excusable. Apart from that, though, I doubt whether he should be considered a subtle thinker rather than an acute one. His command of philosophical subjects also suffers greatly because he clearly lacked the benefit of a formal academic education. He did not read Plato in his youth, which was most likely only his misfortune. But he has not read Kant in adulthood either, and that is his fault.

[^3] I disclaim any allusion to existing professors, of whom indeed I know only one.

[^3] I am not referring to current professors. In fact, I know only one.

[^4] To this same Jew, by the way, some eighteen months afterwards, I applied again on the same business; and, dating at that time from a respectable college, I was fortunate enough to gain his serious attention to my proposals. My necessities had not arisen from any extravagance or youthful levities (these my habits and the nature of my pleasures raised me far above), but simply from the vindictive malice of my guardian, who, when he found himself no longer able to prevent me from going to the university, had, as a parting token of his good nature, refused to sign an order for granting me a shilling beyond the allowance made to me at school—viz., £100 per annum. Upon this sum it was in my time barely possible to have lived in college, and not possible to a man who, though above the paltry affectation of ostentatious disregard for money, and without any expensive tastes, confided nevertheless rather too much in servants, and did not delight in the petty details of minute economy. I soon, therefore, became embarrassed, and at length, after a most voluminous negotiation with the Jew (some parts of which, if I had leisure to rehearse them, would greatly amuse my readers), I was put in possession of the sum I asked for, on the “regular” terms of paying the Jew seventeen and a half per cent. by way of annuity on all the money furnished; Israel, on his part, graciously resuming no more than about ninety guineas of the said money, on account of an attorney’s bill (for what services, to whom rendered, and when, whether at the siege of Jerusalem, at the building of the second Temple, or on some earlier occasion, I have not yet been able to discover). How many perches this bill measured I really forget; but I still keep it in a cabinet of natural curiosities, and some time or other I believe I shall present it to the British Museum.

[^4] About eighteen months later, I went to the same Jew again on the same business. This time I was writing from a respectable college, and I was lucky enough to get him to consider my proposals seriously. My financial difficulties had not arisen from extravagance or youthful foolishness. My habits and the nature of my pleasures placed me far above such things. They arose simply from my guardian’s vindictive malice. When he found he could no longer stop me from going to university, he gave me a parting token of his good nature. He refused to sign an order granting me a shilling more than my school allowance of £100 a year. In my day, it was barely possible to live at college on that sum. It was impossible for a man like me. I was above the petty pose of showing off my disregard for money, and I had no expensive tastes. But I trusted servants rather too much and took no pleasure in the petty details of careful budgeting. So I soon found myself in financial difficulty. At last, after very lengthy negotiations with the Jew, I received the sum I had asked for. Some parts of those negotiations would greatly amuse my readers, if I had time to recount them. The “regular” terms required me to pay the Jew an annual sum equal to seventeen and a half per cent of all the money he provided. Israel, for his part, graciously took back only about ninety guineas of that money for a lawyer’s bill. I have not yet been able to discover what services the lawyer had provided, to whom, or when. Perhaps they were provided at the siege of Jerusalem, at the building of the second Temple, or on some earlier occasion. I really forget how many perches long this bill was. But I still keep it in a cabinet of natural curiosities, and I believe I shall present it to the British Museum someday.

[^5] The Bristol mail is the best appointed in the Kingdom, owing to the double advantages of an unusually good road and of an extra sum for the expenses subscribed by the Bristol merchants.

[^5] The Bristol mail coach is the best equipped in the Kingdom. This is because the road is unusually good, and Bristol merchants contribute extra money toward its expenses.

[^6] It will be objected that many men, of the highest rank and wealth, have in our own day, as well as throughout our history, been amongst the foremost in courting danger in battle. True; but this is not the case supposed; long familiarity with power has to them deadened its effect and its attractions.

[^6] Some will object that many men of the highest rank and wealth have been among the first to court danger in battle. This has been true in our own day and throughout our history. True, but that is not the case imagined here. Long familiarity with power has dulled its effect and its attractions for them.

[^7] Φιλον υπνη θελyητρον επικουρον νοσον.

[^7] A beloved charm for sleep, a remedy for illness.

[^8] ηδυ δουλευμα. EURIP. Orest.

[^8] Sweet servitude. Euripides, Orestes.

[^9] αναξανδρων ’Αyαμεμνων.

[^9] Agamemnon, king of men.

[^10] ομμα θεισ’ ειτω πεπλων. The scholar will know that throughout this passage I refer to the early scenes of the Orestes; one of the most beautiful exhibitions of the domestic affections which even the dramas of Euripides can furnish. To the English reader it may be necessary to say that the situation at the opening of the drama is that of a brother attended only by his sister during the demoniacal possession of a suffering conscience (or, in the mythology of the play, haunted by the Furies), and in circumstances of immediate danger from enemies, and of desertion or cold regard from nominal friends.

[^10] ομμα θεισ’ ειτω πεπλων. Scholars will know that throughout this passage I refer to the early scenes of Orestes. These scenes are among the most beautiful portrayals of family affection found even in the plays of Euripides. English readers may need to know the situation at the opening of the play. A brother is cared for only by his sister. He is possessed by the demons of a troubled conscience (or, in the mythology of the play, haunted by the Furies). He is in immediate danger from enemies, while his supposed friends have abandoned him or treat him coldly.

[^11] Evanesced: this way of going off the stage of life appears to have been well known in the 17th century, but at that time to have been considered a peculiar privilege of blood-royal, and by no means to be allowed to druggists. For about the year 1686 a poet of rather ominous name (and who, by-the-bye, did ample justice to his name), viz., Mr. Flat-man, in speaking of the death of Charles II. expresses his surprise that any prince should commit so absurd an act as dying, because, says he,

[^11] Evanesced: this way of leaving the stage of life seems to have been well known in the 17th century. But it was then considered a special privilege of royalty, and certainly not one allowed to druggists. Around 1686, a poet with a rather ominous name wrote about the death of Charles II. The poet was Mr. Flat-man, who, by the way, did full justice to his name. He expressed surprise that any prince should do anything as absurd as dying, because, he says,

They should abscond, that is, into the other world.

They should run away, that is, to the other world.

[^12] Of this, however, the learned appear latterly to have doubted; for in a pirated edition of Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, which I once saw in the hands of a farmer’s wife, who was studying it for the benefit of her health, the Doctor was made to say—“Be particularly careful never to take above five-and-twenty ounces of laudanum at once;” the true reading being probably five-and-twenty drops, which are held equal to about one grain of crude opium.

[^12] Recently, however, scholars seem to have doubted this. I once saw a pirated edition of Buchan’s Domestic Medicine in the hands of a farmer’s wife. She was studying it to improve her health. In that edition, the Doctor was made to say: “Be particularly careful never to take above five-and-twenty ounces of laudanum at once.” The correct reading was probably twenty-five drops, which are considered equal to about one grain of crude opium.

[^13] Amongst the great herd of travellers, &c., who show sufficiently by their stupidity that they never held any intercourse with opium, I must caution my readers specially against the brilliant author of Anastasius. This gentleman, whose wit would lead one to presume him an opium-eater, has made it impossible to consider him in that character, from the grievous misrepresentation which he gives of its effects at pp. 215-17 of vol. i. Upon consideration it must appear such to the author himself, for, waiving the errors I have insisted on in the text, which (and others) are adopted in the fullest manner, he will himself admit that an old gentleman “with a snow-white beard,” who eats “ample doses of opium,” and is yet able to deliver what is meant and received as very weighty counsel on the bad effects of that practice, is but an indifferent evidence that opium either kills people prematurely or sends them into a madhouse. But for my part, I see into this old gentleman and his motives: the fact is, he was enamoured of “the little golden receptacle of the pernicious drug” which Anastasius carried about him; and no way of obtaining it so safe and so feasible occurred as that of frightening its owner out of his wits (which, by the bye, are none of the strongest). This commentary throws a new light upon the case, and greatly improves it as a story; for the old gentleman’s speech, considered as a lecture on pharmacy, is highly absurd; but considered as a hoax on Anastasius, it reads excellently.

[^13] Among the great herd of travellers and others, their stupidity shows clearly that they have never had any dealings with opium. I must especially warn my readers against the brilliant author of Anastasius. His wit would lead one to suppose he was an opium-eater. But his serious misrepresentation of opium’s effects on pages 215-17 of volume i makes that impossible to believe. On reflection, the author himself must see it as a misrepresentation. He fully accepts the errors I have already discussed in the text, as well as others. But even leaving those errors aside, he must admit one thing. An old gentleman “with a snow-white beard” eats “ample doses of opium.” Yet he can still give advice about the harmful effects of opium that is meant and received as very weighty. He is hardly good evidence that opium either kills people prematurely or sends them to a madhouse. For my part, though, I can see through this old gentleman and his motives. The fact is, he was enamoured of “the little golden receptacle of the pernicious drug” that Anastasius carried with him. The safest and most practical way he could think of to get it was to frighten its owner out of his wits. And, by the way, those wits are not particularly strong. This interpretation casts new light on the episode and greatly improves it as a story. The old gentleman’s speech is highly absurd as a lecture on pharmacy. But as a hoax played on Anastasius, it reads excellently.

[^14] I have not the book at this moment to consult; but I think the passage begins—“And even that tavern music, which makes one man merry, another mad, in me strikes a deep fit of devotion,” &c.

[^14] I do not have the book with me to check, but I think the passage begins: “Even tavern music, which makes one person cheerful and another mad, fills me with deep devotion,” and so on.

[^15] A handsome newsroom, of which I was very politely made free in passing through Manchester by several gentlemen of that place, is called, I think, The Porch; whence I, who am a stranger in Manchester, inferred that the subscribers meant to profess themselves followers of Zeno. But I have been since assured that this is a mistake.

[^15] Several gentlemen in Manchester politely gave me access to a handsome reading room as I passed through. I think it is called The Porch. As a stranger to Manchester, I took the name to mean that the subscribers considered themselves followers of Zeno. But I have since been assured that I was mistaken.

[^16] I here reckon twenty-five drops of laudanum as equivalent to one grain of opium, which, I believe, is the common estimate. However, as both may be considered variable quantities (the crude opium varying much in strength, and the tincture still more), I suppose that no infinitesimal accuracy can be had in such a calculation. Teaspoons vary as much in size as opium in strength. Small ones hold about 100 drops; so that 8,000 drops are about eighty times a teaspoonful. The reader sees how much I kept within Dr. Buchan’s indulgent allowance.

[^16] Here I count twenty-five drops of laudanum as equal to one grain of opium. I believe this is the usual estimate. However, both amounts can vary. Raw opium varies greatly in strength, and the tincture varies even more. So I suppose no such calculation can be perfectly precise. Teaspoons vary in size as much as opium varies in strength. Small teaspoons hold about 100 drops, so 8,000 drops are about eighty teaspoonfuls. The reader can see how comfortably I stayed within Dr. Buchan’s generous allowance.

[^17] This, however, is not a necessary conclusion; the varieties of effect produced by opium on different constitutions are infinite. A London magistrate (Harriott’s Struggles through Life, vol. iii. p. 391, third edition) has recorded that, on the first occasion of his trying laudanum for the gout he took forty drops, the next night sixty, and on the fifth night eighty, without any effect whatever; and this at an advanced age. I have an anecdote from a country surgeon, however, which sinks Mr. Harriott’s case into a trifle; and in my projected medical treatise on opium, which I will publish provided the College of Surgeons will pay me for enlightening their benighted understandings upon this subject, I will relate it; but it is far too good a story to be published gratis.

[^17] This conclusion, however, is not inevitable. The effects of opium vary infinitely from one person’s constitution to another. A London magistrate recorded his first experience of taking laudanum for gout (Harriott’s Struggles through Life, vol. iii. p. 391, third edition). He took forty drops on the first night, sixty the next, and eighty on the fifth, without any effect whatever. He was also at an advanced age. However, I have an anecdote from a country surgeon that makes Mr. Harriott’s case seem trivial. I plan to tell it in my medical treatise on opium. I will publish the treatise if the College of Surgeons pays me to enlighten its benighted members on the subject. But the story is far too good to publish for free.

[^18] See the common accounts in any Eastern traveller or voyager of the frantic excesses committed by Malays who have taken opium, or are reduced to desperation by ill-luck at gambling.

[^18] See the accounts commonly found in books by travelers to the East. They describe the frantic excesses of Malays who have taken opium or been driven to desperation by bad luck at gambling.

[^19] The reader must remember what I here mean by thinking, because else this would be a very presumptuous expression. England, of late, has been rich to excess in fine thinkers, in the departments of creative and combining thought; but there is a sad dearth of masculine thinkers in any analytic path. A Scotchman of eminent name has lately told us that he is obliged to quit even mathematics for want of encouragement.

[^19] The reader must remember what I mean here by thinking. Otherwise, this would be a very presumptuous claim. England has recently had an abundance of fine thinkers in creative thought and in combining ideas. But there is a sad shortage of strong thinkers in any field of analysis. A well-known Scotsman has recently told us that he must give up even mathematics for lack of encouragement.

[^20] William Lithgow. His book (Travels, &c.) is ill and pedantically written; but the account of his own sufferings on the rack at Malaga is overpoweringly affecting.

[^20] William Lithgow. His book (Travels, etc.) is badly and pedantically written. But his account of his own suffering on the rack at Malaga is overwhelmingly moving.

[^21] In saying this I mean no disrespect to the individual house, as the reader will understand when I tell him that, with the exception of one or two princely mansions, and some few inferior ones that have been coated with Roman cement, I am not acquainted with any house in this mountainous district which is wholly waterproof. The architecture of books, I flatter myself, is conducted on just principles in this country; but for any other architecture, it is in a barbarous state, and what is worse, in a retrograde state.

[^21] In saying this, I mean no disrespect to that particular house. The reader will understand why when I explain. I know of no house in this mountainous district that is completely waterproof, apart from one or two grand mansions. There are also a few lesser houses that have been coated with Roman cement and are waterproof. I like to think that in this country, the architecture of books follows sound principles. But every other kind of architecture is in a barbaric state. Worse still, it is going backward.

[^22] On which last notice I would remark that mine was too rapid, and the suffering therefore needlessly aggravated; or rather, perhaps, it was not sufficiently continuous and equably graduated. But that the reader may judge for himself, and above all that the Opium-eater, who is preparing to retire from business, may have every sort of information before him, I subjoin my diary:—

[^22] On that last point, I should say that mine was too rapid, making the suffering needlessly worse. Or perhaps it was not steady or gradual enough. But I include my diary so that readers can judge for themselves. Above all, I include it so that the Opium-eater preparing to retire from business may have every kind of information:

What mean these abrupt relapses, the reader will ask perhaps, to such numbers as 300, 350, &c.? The impulse to these relapses was mere infirmity of purpose; the motive, where any motive blended with this impulse, was either the principle, of “reculer pour mieux sauter;” (for under the torpor of a large dose, which lasted for a day or two, a less quantity satisfied the stomach, which on awakening found itself partly accustomed to this new ration); or else it was this principle—that of sufferings otherwise equal, those will be borne best which meet with a mood of anger. Now, whenever I ascended to my large dose I was furiously incensed on the following day, and could then have borne anything.

What, the reader may ask, explains these sudden relapses to doses of 300, 350, and so on? The impulse behind these relapses was simply weakness of will. When any motive mixed with that impulse, it was one of two things. One was the principle of “reculer pour mieux sauter,” or stepping back to jump farther. A large dose left me in a stupor for a day or two. During that time, a smaller quantity satisfied my stomach. When I woke, my stomach found itself partly accustomed to this new ration. The other motive was the principle that, when sufferings are otherwise equal, those met with anger are best endured. Whenever I returned to my large dose, I was furious the next day. In that mood, I could have endured anything.