Introduction to the Pains of Opium

Courteous, and I hope indulgent, reader (for all my readers must be indulgent ones, or else I fear I shall shock them too much to count on their courtesy), having accompanied me thus far, now let me request you to move onwards for about eight years; that is to say, from 1804 (when I have said that my acquaintance with opium first began) to 1812. The years of academic life are now over and gone—almost forgotten; the student’s cap no longer presses my temples; if my cap exist at all, it presses those of some youthful scholar, I trust, as happy as myself, and as passionate a lover of knowledge. My gown is by this time, I dare say, in the same condition with many thousand excellent books in the Bodleian, viz., diligently perused by certain studious moths and worms; or departed, however (which is all that I know of his fate), to that great reservoir of somewhere to which all the tea-cups, tea-caddies, tea-pots, tea-kettles, &c., have departed (not to speak of still frailer vessels, such as glasses, decanters, bed-makers, &c.), which occasional resemblances in the present generation of tea-cups, &c., remind me of having once possessed, but of whose departure and final fate I, in common with most gownsmen of either university, could give, I suspect, but an obscure and conjectural history. The persecutions of the chapel-bell, sounding its unwelcome summons to six o’clock matins, interrupts my slumbers no longer, the porter who rang it, upon whose beautiful nose (bronze, inlaid with copper) I wrote, in retaliation so many Greek epigrams whilst I was dressing, is dead, and has ceased to disturb anybody; and I, and many others who suffered much from his tintinnabulous propensities, have now agreed to overlook his errors, and have forgiven him. Even with the bell I am now in charity; it rings, I suppose, as formerly, thrice a-day, and cruelly annoys, I doubt not, many worthy gentlemen, and disturbs their peace of mind; but as to me, in this year 1812, I regard its treacherous voice no longer (treacherous I call it, for, by some refinement of malice, it spoke in as sweet and silvery tones as if it had been inviting one to a party); its tones have no longer, indeed, power to reach me, let the wind sit as favourable as the malice of the bell itself could wish, for I am 250 miles away from it, and buried in the depth of mountains. And what am I doing among the mountains? Taking opium. Yes; but what else? Why reader, in 1812, the year we are now arrived at, as well as for some years previous, I have been chiefly studying German metaphysics in the writings of Kant, Fichte, Schelling, &c. And how and in what manner do I live?—in short, what class or description of men do I belong to? I am at this period—viz. in 1812—living in a cottage and with a single female servant (honi soit qui mal y pense), who amongst my neighbours passes by the name of my “housekeeper.” And as a scholar and a man of learned education, and in that sense a gentleman, I may presume to class myself as an unworthy member of that indefinite body called gentlemen. Partly on the ground I have assigned perhaps, partly because from my having no visible calling or business, it is rightly judged that I must be living on my private fortune; I am so classed by my neighbours; and by the courtesy of modern England I am usually addressed on letters, &c., “Esquire,” though having, I fear, in the rigorous construction of heralds, but slender pretensions to that distinguished honour; yet in popular estimation I am X. Y. Z., Esquire, but not justice of the Peace nor Custos Rotulorum. Am I married? Not yet. And I still take opium? On Saturday nights. And perhaps have taken it unblushingly ever since “the rainy Sunday,” and “the stately Pantheon,” and “the beatific druggist” of 1804? Even so. And how do I find my health after all this opium-eating? In short, how do I do? Why, pretty well, I thank you, reader; in the phrase of ladies in the straw, “as well as can be expected.” In fact, if I dared to say the real and simple truth, though, to satisfy the theories of medical men, I ought to be ill, I never was better in my life than in the spring of 1812; and I hope sincerely that the quantity of claret, port, or “particular Madeira,” which in all probability you, good reader, have taken, and design to take for every term of eight years during your natural life, may as little disorder your health as mine was disordered by the opium I had taken for eight years, between 1804 and 1812. Hence you may see again the danger of taking any medical advice from Anastasius; in divinity, for aught I know, or law, he may be a safe counsellor; but not in medicine. No; it is far better to consult Dr. Buchan, as I did; for I never forgot that worthy man’s excellent suggestion, and I was “particularly careful not to take above five-and-twenty ounces of laudanum.” To this moderation and temperate use of the article I may ascribe it, I suppose, that as yet, at least (i.e. in 1812), I am ignorant and unsuspicious of the avenging terrors which opium has in store for those who abuse its lenity. At the same time, it must not be forgotten that hitherto I have been only a dilettante eater of opium; eight years’ practice even, with a single precaution of allowing sufficient intervals between every indulgence, has not been sufficient to make opium necessary to me as an article of daily diet. But now comes a different era. Move on, if you please, reader, to 1813. In the summer of the year we have just quitted I have suffered much in bodily health from distress of mind connected with a very melancholy event. This event being no ways related to the subject now before me, further than through the bodily illness which it produced, I need not more particularly notice. Whether this illness of 1812 had any share in that of 1813 I know not; but so it was, that in the latter year I was attacked by a most appalling irritation of the stomach, in all respects the same as that which had caused me so much suffering in youth, and accompanied by a revival of all the old dreams. This is the point of my narrative on which, as respects my own self-justification, the whole of what follows may be said to hinge. And here I find myself in a perplexing dilemma. Either, on the one hand, I must exhaust the reader’s patience by such a detail of my malady, or of my struggles with it, as might suffice to establish the fact of my inability to wrestle any longer with irritation and constant suffering; or, on the other hand, by passing lightly over this critical part of my story, I must forego the benefit of a stronger impression left on the mind of the reader, and must lay myself open to the misconstruction of having slipped, by the easy and gradual steps of self-indulging persons, from the first to the final stage of opium-eating (a misconstruction to which there will be a lurking predisposition in most readers, from my previous acknowledgements). This is the dilemma, the first horn of which would be sufficient to toss and gore any column of patient readers, though drawn up sixteen deep and constantly relieved by fresh men; consequently that is not to be thought of. It remains, then, that I postulate so much as is necessary for my purpose. And let me take as full credit for what I postulate as if I had demonstrated it, good reader, at the expense of your patience and my own. Be not so ungenerous as to let me suffer in your good opinion through my own forbearance and regard for your comfort. No; believe all that I ask of you—viz., that I could resist no longer; believe it liberally and as an act of grace, or else in mere prudence; for if not, then in the next edition of my Opium Confessions, revised and enlarged, I will make you believe and tremble; and à force d’ennuyer, by mere dint of pandiculation I will terrify all readers of mine from ever again questioning any postulate that I shall think fit to make.

Courteous reader, I hope you are also indulgent. All my readers must be indulgent, or I fear I will shock them too much to count on their courtesy. You have followed me this far. Now let me ask you to move forward about eight years, from 1804 to 1812. As I have said, I first became acquainted with opium in 1804. My university years are over and gone, almost forgotten. The student’s cap no longer presses on my temples. If my cap still exists, it presses on the temples of some young scholar. I hope he is as happy as I was and as passionate a lover of knowledge. My gown, I dare say, is now in the same condition as many thousands of excellent books in the Bodleian. It is being carefully studied by certain studious moths and worms. Or perhaps it has gone to that great storehouse called somewhere. In any case, all I know is that it has gone. That is where all the tea cups, tea caddies, teapots, tea kettles, and so on have gone. I will not even mention still more fragile things, such as glasses, decanters, bed-makers, and so on. Occasionally, a resemblance among the present generation of tea cups and the rest reminds me that I once owned such things. But I suspect that, like most university men at either university, I could give only a vague and speculative account of their departure and final fate. The chapel bell no longer persecutes me, interrupting my sleep with its unwelcome call to six o’clock morning prayers. The porter who rang it is dead and has stopped disturbing anyone. While dressing, I wrote many Greek epigrams in revenge upon his beautiful nose, which was bronze inlaid with copper. Many others and I suffered greatly from his fondness for ringing bells. But we have now agreed to overlook his faults and have forgiven him. I even bear the bell no ill will now. I suppose it still rings three times a day, as it used to. No doubt it cruelly annoys many worthy gentlemen and disturbs their peace of mind. But in this year 1812, I no longer pay attention to its treacherous voice. I call it treacherous because, through some refined malice, it spoke in sweet, silvery tones. You would have thought it was inviting one to a party. In fact, its tones can no longer reach me, however favorably the wind might blow for the bell’s own malice. I am 250 miles away from it, buried deep in the mountains. And what am I doing among the mountains? Taking opium. Yes, but what else? Well, reader, in 1812, the year we have now reached, I have chiefly been studying German metaphysics. I have studied it in the writings of Kant, Fichte, Schelling, and others. I have done the same for some years before this. And how do I live? In short, what class or kind of man am I? At this time, in 1812, I live in a cottage with one female servant (honi soit qui mal y pense). My neighbors call her my “housekeeper.” I am a scholar and a man with a learned education, and in that sense a gentleman. So I may presume to count myself an unworthy member of that loosely defined group called gentlemen. Perhaps my neighbors put me in that class partly for the reason I have given. Partly, too, they see that I have no visible trade or business and rightly judge that I must live on my private fortune. And by the courtesy of modern England, letters and so on are usually addressed to me as “Esquire.” Yet I fear that, by the strict rules of heralds, I have little claim to that distinguished honor. Still, in popular opinion, I am X. Y. Z., Esquire, though not a Justice of the Peace or Custos Rotulorum. Am I married? Not yet. And do I still take opium? On Saturday nights. And perhaps I have taken it without shame ever since “the rainy Sunday,” and “the stately Pantheon,” and “the beatific druggist” of 1804? Exactly so. And how is my health after all this opium-eating? In short, how am I? Quite well, thank you, reader. To use the phrase of women recovering from childbirth, I am “as well as can be expected.” In fact, if I dared tell the plain truth, I was never better in my life than in the spring of 1812. Yet, to satisfy the theories of medical men, I ought to be ill. Good reader, you have probably drunk claret, port, or “particular Madeira.” You probably also intend to drink them in every eight-year period of your natural life. I sincerely hope they disturb your health no more than the opium I took between 1804 and 1812 disturbed mine. You can see again, then, the danger of taking medical advice from Anastasius. For all I know, he may be a safe adviser on theology or law, but not on medicine. No, it is far better to consult Dr. Buchan, as I did. I never forgot that worthy man’s excellent suggestion, and I was “particularly careful not to take above five-and-twenty ounces of laudanum.” I suppose I can credit this moderate and temperate use of the drug for my ignorance. At least so far, that is, in 1812, I do not know or suspect the avenging terrors opium has in store for those who abuse its leniency. At the same time, you must remember that until now I have been only an amateur opium-eater. Even eight years of practice have not made opium necessary to my daily diet. I took just one precaution, allowing enough time between each indulgence. But now a different era begins. Please move on, reader, to 1813. During the summer of the year we have just left, I suffered serious physical illness. It was caused by mental distress connected with a very sad event. The event has no connection with my present subject except through the illness it caused, so I need not describe it further. I do not know whether my illness in 1812 contributed to my illness in 1813. But in 1813 I was attacked by a most alarming irritation of the stomach. It was exactly like the irritation that had caused me so much suffering in my youth, and all the old dreams returned with it. This is the point in my story on which, so far as my own justification is concerned, everything that follows may be said to depend. And here I face a troubling dilemma. On the one hand, I could exhaust your patience by describing my illness and my struggles against it. Such a description might be enough to establish that I could no longer fight the irritation and constant suffering. On the other hand, I could pass quickly over this critical part of my story. But then I would give up the benefit of making a stronger impression on your mind. I would also leave myself open to being misunderstood. You might think I had moved from the first to the final stage of opium-eating by the easy, gradual steps of a self-indulgent person. Most readers will have a hidden tendency toward that misunderstanding because of what I have already admitted. That is the dilemma. Its first horn would be enough to toss and gore any column of patient readers, even one drawn up sixteen deep and constantly supplied with fresh men. So that option is out of the question. I must therefore postulate as much as I need for my purpose. Good reader, give me as much credit for what I postulate as if I had proved it, at the expense of both your patience and mine. Do not be so ungenerous as to think less of me because I have shown restraint and considered your comfort. No, believe everything I ask of you. Believe that I could resist no longer. Believe it generously, as an act of grace, or else simply out of prudence. For if you do not, then in the next edition of my Opium Confessions, revised and enlarged, I will make you believe and tremble. And à force d’ennuyer, by sheer force of yawning and stretching, I will terrify all my readers into never again questioning any postulate I choose to make.

This, then, let me repeat, I postulate—that at the time I began to take opium daily I could not have done otherwise. Whether, indeed, afterwards I might not have succeeded in breaking off the habit, even when it seemed to me that all efforts would be unavailing, and whether many of the innumerable efforts which I did make might not have been carried much further, and my gradual reconquests of ground lost might not have been followed up much more energetically—these are questions which I must decline. Perhaps I might make out a case of palliation; but shall I speak ingenuously? I confess it, as a besetting infirmity of mine, that I am too much of an Eudæmonist; I hanker too much after a state of happiness, both for myself and others; I cannot face misery, whether my own or not, with an eye of sufficient firmness, and am little capable of encountering present pain for the sake of any reversionary benefit. On some other matters I can agree with the gentlemen in the cotton trade [^15] at Manchester in affecting the Stoic philosophy, but not in this. Here I take the liberty of an Eclectic philosopher, and I look out for some courteous and considerate sect that will condescend more to the infirm condition of an opium-eater; that are “sweet men,” as Chaucer says, “to give absolution,” and will show some conscience in the penances they inflict, and the efforts of abstinence they exact from poor sinners like myself. An inhuman moralist I can no more endure in my nervous state than opium that has not been boiled. At any rate, he who summons me to send out a large freight of self-denial and mortification upon any cruising voyage of moral improvement, must make it clear to my understanding that the concern is a hopeful one. At my time of life (six-and-thirty years of age) it cannot be supposed that I have much energy to spare; in fact, I find it all little enough for the intellectual labours I have on my hands, and therefore let no man expect to frighten me by a few hard words into embarking any part of it upon desperate adventures of morality.

Let me repeat my claim: when I began taking opium daily, I could not have done otherwise. Later, perhaps I could have broken the habit, even when every effort seemed hopeless to me. Perhaps I could have carried many of my countless attempts much further. Perhaps I could have fought much harder to recover more of the ground I had gradually regained. I must decline to answer these questions. Perhaps I could make a case in my own defense. But shall I speak honestly? I confess that I have a persistent weakness: I am too much of a Eudæmonist. I long too much for happiness, both for myself and for others. I cannot face misery, my own or anyone else’s, with enough firmness. And I am not very capable of enduring present pain for the sake of some future benefit. On some other matters, I can join the gentlemen in the cotton trade [^15] at Manchester in adopting Stoic philosophy, but not on this one. Here I claim the freedom of an Eclectic philosopher. I look for some courteous and considerate sect, one more willing to accommodate the weak condition of an opium-eater. Its members should be “sweet men,” as Chaucer says, “to give absolution.” They should be conscientious about the penances they impose and the efforts of abstinence they demand from poor sinners like me. In my nervous state, I can no more endure an inhuman moralist than opium that has not been boiled. At any rate, anyone who asks me to send a large cargo of self-denial and suffering on a voyage of moral improvement must convince me that the venture offers hope. At my age, thirty-six, I cannot be expected to have much energy to spare. In fact, I find that all my energy is barely enough for the intellectual work I have undertaken. So no one should expect a few harsh words to frighten me into spending any of it on desperate moral adventures.

Whether desperate or not, however, the issue of the struggle in 1813 was what I have mentioned, and from this date the reader is to consider me as a regular and confirmed opium-eater, of whom to ask whether on any particular day he had or had not taken opium, would be to ask whether his lungs had performed respiration, or the heart fulfilled its functions. You understand now, reader, what I am, and you are by this time aware that no old gentleman “with a snow-white beard” will have any chance of persuading me to surrender “the little golden receptacle of the pernicious drug.” No; I give notice to all, whether moralists or surgeons, that whatever be their pretensions and skill in their respective lines of practice, they must not hope for any countenance from me, if they think to begin by any savage proposition for a Lent or a Ramadan of abstinence from opium. This, then, being all fully understood between us, we shall in future sail before the wind. Now then, reader, from 1813, where all this time we have been sitting down and loitering, rise up, if you please, and walk forward about three years more. Now draw up the curtain, and you shall see me in a new character.

Whether the struggle was desperate or not, its outcome in 1813 was as I have described. From that date, you should consider me a regular and confirmed opium-eater. To ask whether I had taken opium on any given day would be like asking whether my lungs had breathed or my heart had worked. You now understand what I am, reader. By this time, you also know that no old gentleman “with a snow-white beard” has any chance of persuading me to give up “the little golden receptacle of the pernicious drug.” No, I warn all moralists and surgeons, whatever their claims or skill in their respective fields. If they think of starting with some savage proposal for a Lent or a Ramadan without opium, they must not expect any support from me. Now that we fully understand each other, we shall sail before the wind. So, reader, let us leave 1813, where we have been sitting and lingering all this time. Please get up and walk forward about three more years. Now draw back the curtain, and you shall see me in a new role.

If any man, poor or rich, were to say that he would tell us what had been the happiest day in his life, and the why and the wherefore, I suppose that we should all cry out—Hear him! Hear him! As to the happiest day, that must be very difficult for any wise man to name, because any event that could occupy so distinguished a place in a man’s retrospect of his life, or be entitled to have shed a special felicity on any one day, ought to be of such an enduring character as that (accidents apart) it should have continued to shed the same felicity, or one not distinguishably less, on many years together. To the happiest lustrum, however, or even to the happiest year, it may be allowed to any man to point without discountenance from wisdom. This year, in my case, reader, was the one which we have now reached; though it stood, I confess, as a parenthesis between years of a gloomier character. It was a year of brilliant water (to speak after the manner of jewellers), set as it were, and insulated, in the gloom and cloudy melancholy of opium. Strange as it may sound, I had a little before this time descended suddenly, and without any considerable effort, from 320 grains of opium (i.e. eight [^16] thousand drops of laudanum) per day, to forty grains, or one-eighth part. Instantaneously, and as if by magic, the cloud of profoundest melancholy which rested upon my brain, like some black vapours that I have seen roll away from the summits of mountains, drew off in one day (νυχθημερον); passed off with its murky banners as simultaneously as a ship that has been stranded, and is floated off by a spring tide—

If any man, poor or rich, offered to tell us the happiest day of his life and why it was so happy, I suppose we would all cry, “Hear him! Hear him!” But it must be very difficult for any wise man to name his happiest day. An event worthy of such a distinguished place in his memories should have brought him lasting happiness. It should have continued, accidents aside, to bring him the same happiness, or nearly as much, for many years. A man may, however, point to his happiest lustrum (a five-year period), or even his happiest year, without offending wisdom. For me, reader, that year was the one we have now reached. I admit, though, that it stood like a parenthesis between gloomier years. To borrow a jeweler’s phrase, it was a year of brilliant water, set and isolated in the gloom and cloudy melancholy of opium. Strange as it may sound, shortly before this time I had suddenly reduced my daily opium dose without much effort. I went from 320 grains (i.e. eight [^16] thousand drops of laudanum) a day to forty grains, or one-eighth as much. Instantly, as if by magic, the cloud of deepest melancholy lifted from my brain within a single day (νυχθημερον). It was like the black vapors I have seen roll away from mountain peaks. With its dark banners, it swept away all at once, like a stranded ship refloated by a spring tide.

Now, then, I was again happy; I now took only 1000 drops of laudanum per day; and what was that? A latter spring had come to close up the season of youth; my brain performed its functions as healthily as ever before; I read Kant again, and again I understood him, or fancied that I did. Again my feelings of pleasure expanded themselves to all around me; and if any man from Oxford or Cambridge, or from neither, had been announced to me in my unpretending cottage, I should have welcomed him with as sumptuous a reception as so poor a man could offer. Whatever else was wanting to a wise man’s happiness, of laudanum I would have given him as much as he wished, and in a golden cup. And, by the way, now that I speak of giving laudanum away, I remember about this time a little incident, which I mention because, trifling as it was, the reader will soon meet it again in my dreams, which it influenced more fearfully than could be imagined. One day a Malay knocked at my door. What business a Malay could have to transact amongst English mountains I cannot conjecture; but possibly he was on his road to a seaport about forty miles distant.

Now I was happy again. I was taking only 1,000 drops of laudanum a day, and what was that? A second spring had come to bring my youth to a close. My brain worked as healthily as ever. I read Kant again, and again I understood him, or imagined I did. Once more, my pleasure spread to everything around me. If a man from Oxford or Cambridge, or from neither, had been announced at my modest cottage, I would have welcomed him as lavishly as a poor man could. Whatever else might be lacking for a wise man’s happiness, I would have given him all the laudanum he wanted, in a golden cup. Speaking of giving away laudanum, I remember a small incident from about this time. I mention it because, trivial as it was, the reader will soon encounter it again in my dreams. It influenced those dreams more fearfully than anyone could imagine. One day a Malay knocked at my door. I cannot imagine what business a Malay might have had in the English mountains. But perhaps he was on his way to a seaport about forty miles away.

The servant who opened the door to him was a young girl, born and bred amongst the mountains, who had never seen an Asiatic dress of any sort; his turban therefore confounded her not a little; and as it turned out that his attainments in English were exactly of the same extent as hers in the Malay, there seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed between all communication of ideas, if either party had happened to possess any. In this dilemma, the girl, recollecting the reputed learning of her master (and doubtless giving me credit for a knowledge of all the languages of the earth besides perhaps a few of the lunar ones), came and gave me to understand that there was a sort of demon below, whom she clearly imagined that my art could exorcise from the house. I did not immediately go down, but when I did, the group which presented itself, arranged as it was by accident, though not very elaborate, took hold of my fancy and my eye in a way that none of the statuesque attitudes exhibited in the ballets at the Opera-house, though so ostentatiously complex, had ever done. In a cottage kitchen, but panelled on the wall with dark wood that from age and rubbing resembled oak, and looking more like a rustic hall of entrance than a kitchen, stood the Malay—his turban and loose trousers of dingy white relieved upon the dark panelling. He had placed himself nearer to the girl than she seemed to relish, though her native spirit of mountain intrepidity contended with the feeling of simple awe which her countenance expressed as she gazed upon the tiger-cat before her. And a more striking picture there could not be imagined than the beautiful English face of the girl, and its exquisite fairness, together with her erect and independent attitude, contrasted with the sallow and bilious skin of the Malay, enamelled or veneered with mahogany by marine air, his small, fierce, restless eyes, thin lips, slavish gestures and adorations. Half-hidden by the ferocious-looking Malay was a little child from a neighbouring cottage who had crept in after him, and was now in the act of reverting its head and gazing upwards at the turban and the fiery eyes beneath it, whilst with one hand he caught at the dress of the young woman for protection. My knowledge of the Oriental tongues is not remarkably extensive, being indeed confined to two words—the Arabic word for barley and the Turkish for opium (madjoon), which I have learned from Anastasius; and as I had neither a Malay dictionary nor even Adelung’s Mithridates, which might have helped me to a few words, I addressed him in some lines from the Iliad, considering that, of such languages as I possessed, Greek, in point of longitude, came geographically nearest to an Oriental one. He worshipped me in a most devout manner, and replied in what I suppose was Malay. In this way I saved my reputation with my neighbours, for the Malay had no means of betraying the secret. He lay down upon the floor for about an hour, and then pursued his journey. On his departure I presented him with a piece of opium. To him, as an Orientalist, I concluded that opium must be familiar; and the expression of his face convinced me that it was. Nevertheless, I was struck with some little consternation when I saw him suddenly raise his hand to his mouth, and, to use the schoolboy phrase, bolt the whole, divided into three pieces, at one mouthful. The quantity was enough to kill three dragoons and their horses, and I felt some alarm for the poor creature; but what could be done? I had given him the opium in compassion for his solitary life, on recollecting that if he had travelled on foot from London it must be nearly three weeks since he could have exchanged a thought with any human being. I could not think of violating the laws of hospitality by having him seized and drenched with an emetic, and thus frightening him into a notion that we were going to sacrifice him to some English idol. No: there was clearly no help for it. He took his leave, and for some days I felt anxious, but as I never heard of any Malay being found dead, I became convinced that he was used [^17] to opium; and that I must have done him the service I designed by giving him one night of respite from the pains of wandering.

The servant who opened the door for him was a young girl, born and raised in the mountains. She had never seen any kind of Asian clothing, so his turban thoroughly bewildered her. It turned out that he knew exactly as much English as she knew Malay. So there seemed to be an unbridgeable gap between them, if either happened to have any ideas to communicate. In this dilemma, the girl remembered her master’s reputation for learning. No doubt she credited me with knowing every language on earth, and perhaps a few from the moon as well. She came and told me that there was a sort of demon downstairs. She clearly imagined that my arts could drive him out of the house. I did not go down at once. When I did, the group that met my eyes caught my imagination and pleased my eye. They had arranged themselves by accident, and the scene was not very elaborate. Yet none of the poses displayed in the Opera-house ballets had ever affected me so, despite their showy complexity. The Malay stood in a cottage kitchen, against dark wood panelling that age and rubbing had made look like oak. The room looked more like a rustic entrance hall than a kitchen. His turban and loose trousers, both a dingy white, stood out against the dark panelling. He had positioned himself closer to the girl than she seemed to like. Yet her native mountain courage struggled with the simple awe on her face as she gazed at the tiger-cat before her. A more striking picture could not be imagined. The girl’s beautiful English face and exquisite fairness, along with her upright, independent posture, contrasted with the Malay’s appearance. His skin was sallow and sickly, coated with a mahogany color by the sea air. He had small, fierce, restless eyes, thin lips, and gestures and expressions of worship like those of a slave. A little child from a neighboring cottage was half hidden by the ferocious-looking Malay. The child had crept in after him and was now turning his head to gaze up at the turban and the fiery eyes beneath it. With one hand, he clutched the young woman’s dress for protection. My knowledge of Eastern languages is not especially extensive. In fact, it is limited to two words: the Arabic word for barley and the Turkish word for opium (madjoon). I learned both from Anastasius. I had neither a Malay dictionary nor even Adelung’s Mithridates, which might have given me a few words. So I addressed him in some lines from the Iliad. Of the languages I knew, I reasoned, Greek was geographically closest in longitude to an Eastern language. He showed me the deepest reverence and replied in what I assume was Malay. In this way I preserved my reputation among my neighbors, since the Malay had no way to betray my secret. He lay down on the floor for about an hour and then continued his journey. As he left, I gave him a piece of opium. Since he was from the East, I assumed he would be familiar with opium. His expression convinced me that he was. Even so, I was somewhat alarmed when he suddenly raised his hand to his mouth. To use the schoolboy phrase, he bolted the whole piece in one mouthful, after dividing it into three. The amount was enough to kill three dragoons and their horses, and I felt some alarm for the poor creature. But what could I do? I had given him the opium out of pity for his lonely life. I had realized that, if he had walked from London, he must have spent nearly three weeks unable to exchange a thought with another human being. I could not violate the laws of hospitality by having him seized and forced to take an emetic. That would have frightened him into thinking we were going to sacrifice him to some English idol. No, there was clearly nothing to be done. He took his leave, and I was anxious for some days. But I never heard of a Malay being found dead. So I became convinced that he was used [^17] to opium, and that I had done him the service I intended. I had given him one night’s relief from the pains of wandering.

This incident I have digressed to mention, because this Malay (partly from the picturesque exhibition he assisted to frame, partly from the anxiety I connected with his image for some days) fastened afterwards upon my dreams, and brought other Malays with him, worse than himself, that ran “a-muck” [^18] at me, and led me into a world of troubles. But to quit this episode, and to return to my intercalary year of happiness. I have said already, that on a subject so important to us all as happiness, we should listen with pleasure to any man’s experience or experiments, even though he were but a plough-boy, who cannot be supposed to have ploughed very deep into such an intractable soil as that of human pains and pleasures, or to have conducted his researches upon any very enlightened principles. But I who have taken happiness both in a solid and liquid shape, both boiled and unboiled, both East India and Turkey—who have conducted my experiments upon this interesting subject with a sort of galvanic battery, and have, for the general benefit of the world, inoculated myself, as it were, with the poison of 8000 drops of laudanum per day (just for the same reason as a French surgeon inoculated himself lately with cancer, an English one twenty years ago with plague, and a third, I know not of what nation, with hydrophobia), I (it will be admitted) must surely know what happiness is, if anybody does. And therefore I will here lay down an analysis of happiness; and as the most interesting mode of communicating it, I will give it, not didactically, but wrapped up and involved in a picture of one evening, as I spent every evening during the intercalary year when laudanum, though taken daily, was to me no more than the elixir of pleasure. This done, I shall quit the subject of happiness altogether, and pass to a very different one—the pains of opium.

I have wandered from my subject to mention this incident because the Malay later haunted my dreams. This was partly because he helped create such a picturesque scene, and partly because the thought of him troubled me for days. He brought other Malays with him, worse than himself, who ran “a-muck” [^18] at me and led me into a world of troubles. But let me leave this episode and return to my intervening year of happiness. As I have already said, happiness is important to us all. We should gladly listen to anyone’s experiences or experiments on the subject, even a plough-boy’s. We cannot suppose that he has ploughed very deeply into such stubborn soil as human pains and pleasures, or conducted his research on very enlightened principles. But I have taken happiness in both solid and liquid form, both boiled and unboiled, from both East India and Turkey. I have conducted my experiments on this interesting subject with a kind of galvanic battery. For the general benefit of the world, I have, so to speak, inoculated myself with the poison of 8,000 drops of laudanum per day. I did this for the very same reason that a French surgeon recently inoculated himself with cancer. An English surgeon did the same with plague twenty years ago, and a third, whose nationality I do not know, with hydrophobia. Surely, it will be admitted, I must know what happiness is, if anybody does. So I will now offer an analysis of happiness. To make it as interesting as possible, I will not present it as a lesson. Instead, I will weave it into a picture of an evening like every evening I spent during that intervening year. Then, although I took laudanum daily, it was nothing more to me than the elixir of pleasure. After that, I will leave happiness altogether and turn to a very different subject: the pains of opium.

Let there be a cottage standing in a valley, eighteen miles from any town—no spacious valley, but about two miles long by three-quarters of a mile in average width; the benefit of which provision is that all the family resident within its circuit will compose, as it were, one larger household, personally familiar to your eye, and more or less interesting to your affections. Let the mountains be real mountains, between 3,000 and 4,000 feet high, and the cottage a real cottage, not (as a witty author has it) “a cottage with a double coach-house;” let it be, in fact (for I must abide by the actual scene), a white cottage, embowered with flowering shrubs, so chosen as to unfold a succession of flowers upon the walls and clustering round the windows through all the months of spring, summer, and autumn—beginning, in fact, with May roses, and ending with jasmine. Let it, however, not be spring, nor summer, nor autumn, but winter in his sternest shape. This is a most important point in the science of happiness. And I am surprised to see people overlook it, and think it matter of congratulation that winter is going, or, if coming, is not likely to be a severe one. On the contrary, I put up a petition annually for as much snow, hail, frost, or storm, of one kind or other, as the skies can possibly afford us. Surely everybody is aware of the divine pleasures which attend a winter fireside, candles at four o’clock, warm hearth-rugs, tea, a fair tea-maker, shutters closed, curtains flowing in ample draperies on the floor, whilst the wind and rain are raging audibly without,

Imagine a cottage in a valley, eighteen miles from any town. The valley is not large, only about two miles long and three-quarters of a mile wide on average. The advantage of this arrangement is that all the families living within it form, as it were, one larger household. You will recognize them all, and feel more or less affection for them. Let the mountains be real mountains, between 3,000 and 4,000 feet high. And let the cottage be a real cottage, not, as a witty author says, “a cottage with a double coach-house.” In fact, since I must stick to the actual scene, let it be a white cottage surrounded by flowering shrubs. The shrubs are chosen to provide a succession of flowers along the walls and around the windows throughout spring, summer, and autumn. They begin with May roses and end with jasmine. But let the season not be spring, summer, or autumn. Let it be winter at its harshest. This is a most important point in the science of happiness. I am surprised that people overlook it. They congratulate themselves when winter is ending or, if it is approaching, when it seems unlikely to be severe. On the contrary, every year I ask for as much snow, hail, frost, or stormy weather as the skies can possibly give us. Surely everyone knows the divine pleasures of a winter fireside: candles lit at four o’clock, warm rugs by the hearth, tea, a beautiful woman making it, shutters closed, and curtains falling in generous folds to the floor, while the wind and rain rage loudly outside,

Castle of Indolence.

Castle of Indolence.

All these are items in the description of a winter evening which must surely be familiar to everybody born in a high latitude. And it is evident that most of these delicacies, like ice-cream, require a very low temperature of the atmosphere to produce them; they are fruits which cannot be ripened without weather stormy or inclement in some way or other. I am not “particular,” as people say, whether it be snow, or black frost, or wind so strong that (as Mr. —— says) “you may lean your back against it like a post.” I can put up even with rain, provided it rains cats and dogs; but something of the sort I must have, and if I have it not, I think myself in a manner ill-used; for why am I called on to pay so heavily for winter, in coals and candles, and various privations that will occur even to gentlemen, if I am not to have the article good of its kind? No, a Canadian winter for my money, or a Russian one, where every man is but a co-proprietor with the north wind in the fee-simple of his own ears. Indeed, so great an epicure am I in this matter that I cannot relish a winter night fully if it be much past St. Thomas’s day, and have degenerated into disgusting tendencies to vernal appearances. No, it must be divided by a thick wall of dark nights from all return of light and sunshine. From the latter weeks of October to Christmas Eve, therefore, is the period during which happiness is in season, which, in my judgment, enters the room with the tea-tray; for tea, though ridiculed by those who are naturally of coarse nerves, or are become so from wine-drinking, and are not susceptible of influence from so refined a stimulant, will always be the favourite beverage of the intellectual; and, for my part, I would have joined Dr. Johnson in a bellum internecinum against Jonas Hanway, or any other impious person, who should presume to disparage it. But here, to save myself the trouble of too much verbal description, I will introduce a painter, and give him directions for the rest of the picture. Painters do not like white cottages, unless a good deal weather-stained; but as the reader now understands that it is a winter night, his services will not be required except for the inside of the house.

All these are details of a winter evening that must surely be familiar to everyone born in a high latitude. Most of these delights, like ice cream, clearly require very cold air to produce them. They are fruits that cannot ripen without stormy or otherwise harsh weather. I am not “particular,” as people say, whether it is snow, black frost, or a powerful wind. As Mr. —— says, “you may lean your back against it like a post.” I can even put up with rain, as long as it rains cats and dogs. But I must have something of the sort. Without it, I feel somewhat cheated. Why should I pay so heavily for winter in coal, candles, and the various hardships that even gentlemen experience? Surely I should get a good winter in return. No, give me a Canadian or Russian winter, where every man shares ownership of his own ears with the north wind. Indeed, I am such a connoisseur of winter that I cannot fully enjoy a winter night much past St. Thomas’s day. By then, winter has begun to show disgusting signs of spring. No, a thick wall of dark nights must separate a winter night from any return of light and sunshine. So, in my judgment, happiness is in season from the last weeks of October to Christmas Eve. And happiness enters the room with the tea tray. People with naturally coarse nerves, or nerves made coarse by wine drinking, ridicule tea. They are not susceptible to the effects of so refined a stimulant. But tea will always be the favorite drink of intellectuals. For my part, I would have joined Dr. Johnson in a war of extermination against Jonas Hanway. I would have done the same against any other impious person who dared to disparage tea. But to save myself too much verbal description, I will bring in a painter. I will give him directions for the rest of the picture. Painters do not like white cottages unless they are heavily weather-stained. But the reader now understands that it is a winter night, so the painter will only be needed inside the house.

Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet by twelve, and not more than seven and a half feet high. This, reader, is somewhat ambitiously styled in my family the drawing-room; but being contrived “a double debt to pay,” it is also, and more justly, termed the library, for it happens that books are the only article of property in which I am richer than my neighbours. Of these I have about five thousand, collected gradually since my eighteenth year. Therefore, painter, put as many as you can into this room. Make it populous with books, and, furthermore, paint me a good fire, and furniture plain and modest, befitting the unpretending cottage of a scholar. And near the fire paint me a tea-table, and (as it is clear that no creature can come to see one such a stormy night) place only two cups and saucers on the tea-tray; and, if you know how to paint such a thing symbolically or otherwise, paint me an eternal tea-pot—eternal à parte ante and à parte post—for I usually drink tea from eight o’clock at night to four o’clock in the morning. And as it is very unpleasant to make tea or to pour it out for oneself, paint me a lovely young woman sitting at the table. Paint her arms like Aurora’s and her smiles like Hebe’s. But no, dear M., not even in jest let me insinuate that thy power to illuminate my cottage rests upon a tenure so perishable as mere personal beauty, or that the witchcraft of angelic smiles lies within the empire of any earthly pencil. Pass then, my good painter, to something more within its power; and the next article brought forward should naturally be myself—a picture of the Opium-eater, with his “little golden receptacle of the pernicious drug” lying beside him on the table. As to the opium, I have no objection to see a picture of that, though I would rather see the original. You may paint it if you choose, but I apprise you that no “little” receptacle would, even in 1816, answer my purpose, who was at a distance from the “stately Pantheon,” and all druggists (mortal or otherwise). No, you may as well paint the real receptacle, which was not of gold, but of glass, and as much like a wine-decanter as possible. Into this you may put a quart of ruby-coloured laudanum; that, and a book of German Metaphysics placed by its side, will sufficiently attest my being in the neighbourhood. But as to myself—there I demur. I admit that, naturally, I ought to occupy the foreground of the picture; that being the hero of the piece, or (if you choose) the criminal at the bar, my body should be had into court. This seems reasonable; but why should I confess on this point to a painter? or why confess at all? If the public (into whose private ear I am confidentially whispering my confessions, and not into any painter’s) should chance to have framed some agreeable picture for itself of the Opium-eater’s exterior, should have ascribed to him, romantically an elegant person or a handsome face, why should I barbarously tear from it so pleasing a delusion—pleasing both to the public and to me? No; paint me, if at all, according to your own fancy, and as a painter’s fancy should teem with beautiful creations, I cannot fail in that way to be a gainer. And now, reader, we have run through all the ten categories of my condition as it stood about 1816-17, up to the middle of which latter year I judge myself to have been a happy man, and the elements of that happiness I have endeavoured to place before you in the above sketch of the interior of a scholar’s library, in a cottage among the mountains, on a stormy winter evening.

Paint me a room seventeen feet by twelve, and no more than seven and a half feet high. Reader, my family rather grandly calls this room the drawing room. But it is designed to serve “a double debt to pay,” so it is also called the library. That name is more fitting, because books are the only property I have more of than my neighbours. I have about five thousand books, collected gradually since I was eighteen. So, painter, put as many as you can into this room. Fill it with books, and paint me a good fire. Add plain, modest furniture, suitable for a scholar’s unpretentious cottage. Near the fire, paint me a tea table. Since clearly no creature can come to visit on such a stormy night, put only two cups and saucers on the tray. If you can paint such a thing, symbolically or otherwise, paint me an eternal teapot. Let it be eternal à parte ante and à parte post, without beginning or end. For I usually drink tea from eight at night until four in the morning. And since it is very unpleasant to make or pour one’s own tea, paint me a lovely young woman at the table. Give her arms like Aurora’s and smiles like Hebe’s. But no, dear M., I would not even jokingly suggest that your power to brighten my cottage depends on anything as fleeting as personal beauty. Nor would I suggest that any earthly painter could capture the magic of angelic smiles. So, my good painter, turn to something more within your powers. The next subject should naturally be myself. Paint the Opium-eater, with his “little golden receptacle of the pernicious drug” lying beside him on the table. As for the opium, I have no objection to seeing a picture of that, though I would rather see the real thing. You may paint it if you choose. But I should warn you that no “little” container would have served my purpose, even in 1816. I was far from the “stately Pantheon” and all druggists, mortal or otherwise. No, you might as well paint the real container. It was made of glass, not gold, and looked as much like a wine decanter as possible. Put a quart of ruby-coloured laudanum in it. The laudanum, with a book of German Metaphysics beside it, will be enough to show that I am nearby. But as for painting me, I hesitate. I admit that I naturally ought to occupy the foreground. As the hero of the piece, or, if you prefer, the criminal on trial, I should appear in court in person. That seems reasonable. But why should I confess on this point to a painter? Why confess at all? I am whispering my confessions in confidence to the public, not to any painter. The public may have formed a pleasing picture of the Opium-eater’s appearance. It may have romantically imagined that he has an elegant figure or a handsome face. If so, why should I cruelly strip the public of a delusion that pleases us both? No, paint me, if you paint me at all, as you imagine me. A painter’s imagination should be full of beautiful creations, so I cannot fail to benefit. And now, reader, we have covered all ten categories of my condition around 1816 and 1817. I believe I was a happy man until the middle of 1817. In this sketch, I have tried to show you the elements of that happiness. It is a picture of a scholar’s library in a cottage among the mountains, on a stormy winter evening.

But now, farewell—a long farewell—to happiness, winter or summer! Farewell to smiles and laughter! Farewell to peace of mind! Farewell to hope and to tranquil dreams, and to the blessed consolations of sleep. For more than three years and a half I am summoned away from these. I am now arrived at an Iliad of woes, for I have now to record

But now, farewell, a long farewell, to happiness in winter or summer! Farewell to smiles and laughter! Farewell to peace of mind! Farewell to hope, peaceful dreams, and the blessed comfort of sleep. For more than three and a half years, I am called away from all these. I have now come to an Iliad of suffering, for I must now record

SHELLEY’S Revolt of Islam.

Shelley’s Revolt of Islam.

Reader, who have thus far accompanied me, I must request your attention to a brief explanatory note on three points:

Reader, if you have followed me this far, please give your attention to a brief note explaining three points:

1. For several reasons I have not been able to compose the notes for this part of my narrative into any regular and connected shape. I give the notes disjointed as I find them, or have now drawn them up from memory. Some of them point to their own date, some I have dated, and some are undated. Whenever it could answer my purpose to transplant them from the natural or chronological order, I have not scrupled to do so. Sometimes I speak in the present, sometimes in the past tense. Few of the notes, perhaps, were written exactly at the period of time to which they relate; but this can little affect their accuracy, as the impressions were such that they can never fade from my mind. Much has been omitted. I could not, without effort, constrain myself to the task of either recalling, or constructing into a regular narrative, the whole burthen of horrors which lies upon my brain. This feeling partly I plead in excuse, and partly that I am now in London, and am a helpless sort of person, who cannot even arrange his own papers without assistance; and I am separated from the hands which are wont to perform for me the offices of an amanuensis.

1. For several reasons, I have not been able to organize the notes for this part of my story into a coherent account. I present the notes as I find them, or as I have now reconstructed them from memory. Some indicate their own dates, some I have dated, and some are undated. Whenever it suited my purpose, I have freely moved them out of their natural or chronological order. Sometimes I speak in the present tense, sometimes in the past. Few of the notes, perhaps, were written at exactly the time they describe. But this can hardly affect their accuracy, because the impressions can never fade from my mind. Much has been left out. I could not bring myself without effort to recall or shape into a continuous narrative the whole burden of horrors weighing on my mind. I offer this feeling as part of my excuse. I also offer the fact that I am now in London. I am a rather helpless person who cannot even arrange his own papers without assistance. And I am separated from the people who usually serve as my assistants.

2. You will think perhaps that I am too confidential and communicative of my own private history. It may be so. But my way of writing is rather to think aloud, and follow my own humours, than much to consider who is listening to me; and if I stop to consider what is proper to be said to this or that person, I shall soon come to doubt whether any part at all is proper. The fact is, I place myself at a distance of fifteen or twenty years ahead of this time, and suppose myself writing to those who will be interested about me hereafter; and wishing to have some record of time, the entire history of which no one can know but myself, I do it as fully as I am able with the efforts I am now capable of making, because I know not whether I can ever find time to do it again.

2. Perhaps you will think I am too open and forthcoming about my private life. That may be so. But when I write, I tend to think aloud and follow my own moods, rather than worry much about who is listening. If I stop to consider what is proper to say to one person or another, I soon begin to doubt whether any of it is proper. The fact is, I imagine myself fifteen or twenty years in the future. I suppose I am writing to people who will be interested in me then. I want to leave some record of a time whose full history no one but me can know. So I record it as fully as I can with the effort I am now able to make. I do this because I do not know whether I will ever find time to do it again.

3. It will occur to you often to ask, why did I not release myself from the horrors of opium by leaving it off or diminishing it? To this I must answer briefly: it might be supposed that I yielded to the fascinations of opium too easily; it cannot be supposed that any man can be charmed by its terrors. The reader may be sure, therefore, that I made attempts innumerable to reduce the quantity. I add, that those who witnessed the agonies of those attempts, and not myself, were the first to beg me to desist. But could not have I reduced it a drop a day, or, by adding water, have bisected or trisected a drop? A thousand drops bisected would thus have taken nearly six years to reduce, and that way would certainly not have answered. But this is a common mistake of those who know nothing of opium experimentally; I appeal to those who do, whether it is not always found that down to a certain point it can be reduced with ease and even pleasure, but that after that point further reduction causes intense suffering. Yes, say many thoughtless persons, who know not what they are talking of, you will suffer a little low spirits and dejection for a few days. I answer, no; there is nothing like low spirits; on the contrary, the mere animal spirits are uncommonly raised: the pulse is improved: the health is better. It is not there that the suffering lies. It has no resemblance to the sufferings caused by renouncing wine. It is a state of unutterable irritation of stomach (which surely is not much like dejection), accompanied by intense perspirations, and feelings such as I shall not attempt to describe without more space at my command.

3. You will often wonder why I did not escape the horrors of opium by quitting or taking less. I must answer briefly. You might suppose that I gave in too easily to the pleasures of opium. But you cannot suppose that anyone could be charmed by its terrors. So the reader may be sure that I made countless attempts to reduce the amount I took. I should add that the people who witnessed my agony during those attempts were the first to beg me to stop. I was not the first. But could I not have reduced my dose by one drop a day? Or, by adding water, could I not have divided a drop into halves or thirds? Reducing a dose of a thousand drops by half a drop a day would have taken nearly six years. That method would certainly not have worked. But this is a common mistake among people who have no personal experience of opium. I appeal to those who do have experience. Do they not always find that, up to a certain point, the dose can be reduced easily and even pleasantly? But after that point, reducing it further causes intense suffering. Yes, say many thoughtless people who do not know what they are talking about, you will feel a little depressed and downhearted for a few days. I answer, no. There is nothing like depression. On the contrary, your physical energy is unusually high, your pulse improves, and your health is better. That is not where the suffering lies. It is nothing like the suffering caused by giving up wine. It is a state of indescribable irritation in the stomach. Surely that is not much like depression. It comes with intense sweating and feelings I will not attempt to describe without more space at my disposal.

I shall now enter in medias res, and shall anticipate, from a time when my opium pains might be said to be at their acmé, an account of their palsying effects on the intellectual faculties.

I will now begin in the middle of things. I will jump ahead to when my opium pains might be said to have reached their peak and describe how they paralyzed my intellectual abilities.

My studies have now been long interrupted. I cannot read to myself with any pleasure, hardly with a moment’s endurance. Yet I read aloud sometimes for the pleasure of others, because reading is an accomplishment of mine, and, in the slang use of the word “accomplishment” as a superficial and ornamental attainment, almost the only one I possess; and formerly, if I had any vanity at all connected with any endowment or attainment of mine, it was with this, for I had observed that no accomplishment was so rare. Players are the worst readers of all: —— reads vilely; and Mrs. ——, who is so celebrated, can read nothing well but dramatic compositions: Milton she cannot read sufferably. People in general either read poetry without any passion at all, or else overstep the modesty of nature, and read not like scholars. Of late, if I have felt moved by anything it has been by the grand lamentations of Samson Agonistes, or the great harmonies of the Satanic speeches in Paradise Regained, when read aloud by myself. A young lady sometimes comes and drinks tea with us: at her request and M.’s, I now and then read W-’s poems to them. (W., by-the-bye is the only poet I ever met who could read his own verses: often indeed he reads admirably.)

My studies have been interrupted for a long time now. I cannot read to myself with any pleasure, and can hardly bear it for a moment. Yet I sometimes read aloud for others’ pleasure, because reading aloud is an accomplishment of mine. In the slang sense of “accomplishment,” meaning a superficial and ornamental skill, it is almost the only one I possess. In the past, if I was vain about any gift or skill of mine, it was this one. For I had noticed that no accomplishment was so rare. Actors are the worst readers of all. ___ reads horribly, and Mrs. ___, who is so celebrated, can read nothing well except dramatic works. She cannot even read Milton tolerably. People generally either read poetry without any passion at all, or go beyond natural expression and fail to read like scholars. Lately, if anything has moved me, it has been the grand laments in Samson Agonistes or the great harmonies of Satan’s speeches in Paradise Regained, when I read them aloud myself. A young lady sometimes comes to have tea with us. At her request and M.’s, I now and then read W-’s poems to them. (W., by the way, is the only poet I have ever met who could read his own verses. Indeed, he often reads them admirably.)

For nearly two years I believe that I read no book, but one; and I owe it to the author, in discharge of a great debt of gratitude, to mention what that was. The sublimer and more passionate poets I still read, as I have said, by snatches, and occasionally. But my proper vocation, as I well know, was the exercise of the analytic understanding. Now, for the most part analytic studies are continuous, and not to be pursued by fits and starts, or fragmentary efforts. Mathematics, for instance, intellectual philosophy, &c, were all become insupportable to me; I shrunk from them with a sense of powerless and infantine feebleness that gave me an anguish the greater from remembering the time when I grappled with them to my own hourly delight; and for this further reason, because I had devoted the labour of my whole life, and had dedicated my intellect, blossoms and fruits, to the slow and elaborate toil of constructing one single work, to which I had presumed to give the title of an unfinished work of Spinosa’s—viz., De Emendatione Humani Intellectus. This was now lying locked up, as by frost, like any Spanish bridge or aqueduct, begun upon too great a scale for the resources of the architect; and instead of reviving me as a monument of wishes at least, and aspirations, and a life of labour dedicated to the exaltation of human nature in that way in which God had best fitted me to promote so great an object, it was likely to stand a memorial to my children of hopes defeated, of baffled efforts, of materials uselessly accumulated, of foundations laid that were never to support a super-structure—of the grief and the ruin of the architect. In this state of imbecility I had, for amusement, turned my attention to political economy; my understanding, which formerly had been as active and restless as a hyæna, could not, I suppose (so long as I lived at all) sink into utter lethargy; and political economy offers this advantage to a person in my state, that though it is eminently an organic science (no part, that is to say, but what acts on the whole as the whole again reacts on each part), yet the several parts may be detached and contemplated singly. Great as was the prostration of my powers at this time, yet I could not forget my knowledge; and my understanding had been for too many years intimate with severe thinkers, with logic, and the great masters of knowledge, not to be aware of the utter feebleness of the main herd of modern economists. I had been led in 1811 to look into loads of books and pamphlets on many branches of economy; and, at my desire, M. sometimes read to me chapters from more recent works, or parts of parliamentary debates. I saw that these were generally the very dregs and rinsings of the human intellect; and that any man of sound head, and practised in wielding logic with a scholastic adroitness, might take up the whole academy of modern economists, and throttle them between heaven and earth with his finger and thumb, or bray their fungus-heads to powder with a lady’s fan. At length, in 1819, a friend in Edinburgh sent me down Mr. Ricardo’s book; and recurring to my own prophetic anticipation of the advent of some legislator for this science, I said, before I had finished the first chapter, “Thou art the man!” Wonder and curiosity were emotions that had long been dead in me. Yet I wondered once more: I wondered at myself that I could once again be stimulated to the effort of reading, and much more I wondered at the book. Had this profound work been really written in England during the nineteenth century? Was it possible? I supposed thinking [^19] had been extinct in England. Could it be that an Englishman, and he not in academic bowers, but oppressed by mercantile and senatorial cares, had accomplished what all the universities of Europe and a century of thought had failed even to advance by one hair’s breadth? All other writers had been crushed and overlaid by the enormous weight of facts and documents. Mr. Ricardo had deduced à priori from the understanding itself laws which first gave a ray of light into the unwieldy chaos of materials, and had constructed what had been but a collection of tentative discussions into a science of regular proportions, now first standing on an eternal basis.

For nearly two years, I believe I read only one book. I owe the author a great debt of gratitude, so I must name it. As I have said, I still read the more sublime and passionate poets occasionally, in snatches. But I knew well that my true calling was the exercise of analytical thought. Most analytical studies require continuous effort. They cannot be pursued in fits and starts or through scattered efforts. Mathematics, intellectual philosophy, and similar subjects had all become unbearable to me. I shrank from them, feeling as helpless and weak as a child. This caused me all the more anguish because I remembered when I had wrestled with them to my constant delight. There was another reason for my anguish. I had devoted my life’s labor and all my intellect, its blossoms and fruits, to one work. I had undertaken the slow, painstaking task of building it, and had presumed to give it the title of an unfinished work by Spinosa, De Emendatione Humani Intellectus. Now the work lay frozen, like a Spanish bridge or aqueduct begun on too grand a scale for its builder’s resources. Instead of encouraging me, it was likely to stand as a memorial for my children. It would not be a monument to my wishes and aspirations, at least, and to a life of labor dedicated to elevating human nature in the way God had best fitted me to advance so great a cause. It would instead be a memorial of defeated hopes, frustrated efforts, uselessly gathered materials, and foundations that would never support a structure. It would be a memorial of the architect’s grief and ruin. In this state of weakness, I turned to political economy for amusement. My mind had once been as active and restless as a hyena. I suppose it could not sink into complete lethargy as long as I lived at all. Political economy also offers an advantage to someone in my state. It is an eminently organic science. Every part acts on the whole, and the whole in turn acts on every part. Yet its parts can be separated and considered individually. Great as the collapse of my powers was at this time, I could not forget what I knew. For too many years my mind had been familiar with rigorous thinkers, logic, and the great masters of knowledge. So I could not fail to recognize the utter feebleness of the main herd of modern economists. In 1811, I had been led to examine loads of books and pamphlets on many branches of economics. At my request, M. sometimes read me chapters from more recent works or parts of parliamentary debates. I saw that these were generally the very dregs and washings of the human intellect. Any sound-minded man skilled in handling logic with a scholar’s dexterity could take on the whole academy of modern economists. He could throttle them between heaven and earth with his finger and thumb, or crush their fungus-heads to powder with a lady’s fan. At last, in 1819, a friend in Edinburgh sent me Mr. Ricardo’s book. I recalled my own prophetic expectation that a legislator would appear for this science. Before I had finished the first chapter, I said, “Thou art the man!” Wonder and curiosity had long been dead in me. Yet I wondered once more. I wondered that I could again be stirred to make the effort to read, and I wondered far more at the book. Had this profound work really been written in England during the nineteenth century? Was it possible? I had supposed that thinking [^19] was extinct in England. Could an Englishman have accomplished what all the universities of Europe and a century of thought had failed even to advance by a hair’s breadth? And could he have done it not in academic bowers, but burdened by business and parliamentary cares? All other writers had been crushed and buried under the enormous weight of facts and documents. Mr. Ricardo had reasoned à priori from the understanding itself to derive laws. These laws first brought a ray of light into the unwieldy chaos of materials. He had taken what had been only a collection of tentative discussions and built it into a science of orderly proportions. For the first time, that science stood on an eternal foundation.

Thus did one single work of a profound understanding avail to give me a pleasure and an activity which I had not known for years. It roused me even to write, or at least to dictate what M. wrote for me. It seemed to me that some important truths had escaped even “the inevitable eye” of Mr. Ricardo; and as these were for the most part of such a nature that I could express or illustrate them more briefly and elegantly by algebraic symbols than in the usual clumsy and loitering diction of economists, the whole would not have filled a pocket-book; and being so brief, with M. for my amanuensis, even at this time, incapable as I was of all general exertion, I drew up my Prolegomena to all future Systems of Political Economy. I hope it will not be found redolent of opium; though, indeed, to most people the subject is a sufficient opiate.

Thus, a single work by a profound thinker gave me pleasure and mental activity that I had not known for years. It even stirred me to write, or at least to dictate while M. wrote for me. It seemed to me that some important truths had escaped even “the inevitable eye” of Mr. Ricardo. Most of these truths could be expressed or illustrated more briefly and elegantly with algebraic symbols than in the usual clumsy, drawn-out language of economists. The whole work would not have filled a pocket-book. Because it was so brief, and because M. wrote it down for me, I was able to produce my Prolegomena to all future Systems of Political Economy. I did so even then, though I was incapable of any general exertion. I hope it will not be found to smell of opium, though, indeed, the subject itself is an adequate opiate for most people.

This exertion, however, was but a temporary flash, as the sequel showed; for I designed to publish my work. Arrangements were made at a provincial press, about eighteen miles distant, for printing it. An additional compositor was retained for some days on this account. The work was even twice advertised, and I was in a manner pledged to the fulfilment of my intention. But I had a preface to write, and a dedication, which I wished to make a splendid one, to Mr. Ricardo. I found myself quite unable to accomplish all this. The arrangements were countermanded, the compositor dismissed, and my “Prolegomena” rested peacefully by the side of its elder and more dignified brother.

This burst of effort, however, was only temporary, as events later showed. I planned to publish my work and arranged to have it printed at a provincial press about eighteen miles away. An extra typesetter was hired for several days for the job. The work was even advertised twice, and I was, in a way, committed to carrying out my plan. But I still had to write a preface and a dedication to Mr. Ricardo, which I wanted to make splendid. I found myself quite unable to do all this. The printing arrangements were canceled, the typesetter was dismissed, and my “Prolegomena” rested peacefully beside its older and more dignified brother.

I have thus described and illustrated my intellectual torpor in terms that apply more or less to every part of the four years during which I was under the Circean spells of opium. But for misery and suffering, I might indeed be said to have existed in a dormant state. I seldom could prevail on myself to write a letter; an answer of a few words to any that I received was the utmost that I could accomplish, and often that not until the letter had lain weeks or even months on my writing-table. Without the aid of M. all records of bills paid or to be paid must have perished, and my whole domestic economy, whatever became of Political Economy, must have gone into irretrievable confusion. I shall not afterwards allude to this part of the case. It is one, however, which the opium-eater will find, in the end, as oppressive and tormenting as any other, from the sense of incapacity and feebleness, from the direct embarrassments incident to the neglect or procrastination of each day’s appropriate duties, and from the remorse which must often exasperate the stings of these evils to a reflective and conscientious mind. The opium-eater loses none of his moral sensibilities or aspirations. He wishes and longs as earnestly as ever to realize what he believes possible, and feels to be exacted by duty; but his intellectual apprehension of what is possible infinitely outruns his power, not of execution only, but even of power to attempt. He lies under the weight of incubus and nightmare; he lies in sight of all that he would fain perform, just as a man forcibly confined to his bed by the mortal languor of a relaxing disease, who is compelled to witness injury or outrage offered to some object of his tenderest love: he curses the spells which chain him down from motion; he would lay down his life if he might but get up and walk; but he is powerless as an infant, and cannot even attempt to rise.

I have described and illustrated my mental sluggishness in terms that apply, more or less, to all four years I spent under the Circean spells of opium. If not for my misery and suffering, I could indeed have been said to live in a dormant state. I could seldom bring myself to write a letter. At most, I could write a few words in reply to a letter I received. Often, I could not do even that until the letter had lain on my writing table for weeks or even months. Without M., all records of bills paid or to be paid would have been lost. My entire household management, whatever became of Political Economy, would have fallen into hopeless confusion. I shall not mention this aspect of my condition again. Yet the opium-eater will find it as oppressive and tormenting as any other in the end. He suffers from a sense of incapacity and weakness. He also faces the immediate troubles caused by neglecting or postponing each day’s duties. In a reflective and conscientious mind, remorse must often make the pain of these evils still worse. The opium-eater loses none of his moral feelings or aspirations. He wishes and longs as earnestly as ever to achieve what he believes possible and feels duty demands. But his understanding of what is possible far exceeds his power to accomplish it, or even to attempt it. He lies under the weight of a crushing nightmare, with everything he longs to do in sight. He is like a man confined to bed by the deadly weakness of a wasting disease. The man is forced to watch someone he loves most dearly being injured or abused. He curses the spells that keep him from moving. He would give his life if only he could get up and walk. But he is as powerless as an infant and cannot even try to rise.

I now pass to what is the main subject of these latter confessions, to the history and journal of what took place in my dreams, for these were the immediate and proximate cause of my acutest suffering.

I now turn to the main subject of these later confessions: the history and journal of my dreams. My dreams were the immediate cause of my most intense suffering.

The first notice I had of any important change going on in this part of my physical economy was from the reawakening of a state of eye generally incident to childhood, or exalted states of irritability. I know not whether my reader is aware that many children, perhaps most, have a power of painting, as it were upon the darkness, all sorts of phantoms. In some that power is simply a mechanical affection of the eye; others have a voluntary or semi-voluntary power to dismiss or to summon them; or, as a child once said to me when I questioned him on this matter, “I can tell them to go, and they go ——, but sometimes they come when I don’t tell them to come.” Whereupon I told him that he had almost as unlimited a command over apparitions as a Roman centurion over his soldiers.—In the middle of 1817, I think it was, that this faculty became positively distressing to me: at night, when I lay awake in bed, vast processions passed along in mournful pomp; friezes of never-ending stories, that to my feelings were as sad and solemn as if they were stories drawn from times before Œdipus or Priam, before Tyre, before Memphis. And at the same time a corresponding change took place in my dreams; a theatre seemed suddenly opened and lighted up within my brain, which presented nightly spectacles of more than earthly splendour. And the four following facts may be mentioned as noticeable at this time:

The first sign of an important change in this part of my physical condition was the return of a certain state of vision. This state is common in childhood or during periods of heightened sensitivity. I do not know whether my reader is aware that many children, perhaps most, can paint all kinds of phantoms on the darkness, so to speak. In some children, this power is simply a mechanical effect of the eye. Others can make the phantoms appear or disappear at will, or partly at will. As one child said when I questioned him about this, “I can tell them to go, and they go, but sometimes they come when I don’t tell them to come.” I then told him that he had almost as much command over apparitions as a Roman centurion had over his soldiers. I think it was in the middle of 1817 that this ability became genuinely distressing to me. At night, as I lay awake in bed, vast processions passed before me in mournful splendor. They were like friezes depicting endless stories. To me, the stories seemed as sad and solemn as if they came from times before Œdipus or Priam, before Tyre, before Memphis. At the same time, my dreams changed in a similar way. A theater seemed suddenly to open and light up inside my brain. Every night, it presented spectacles of unearthly splendor. Four further facts may be mentioned as noteworthy at this time:

1. That as the creative state of the eye increased, a sympathy seemed to arise between the waking and the dreaming states of the brain in one point—that whatsoever I happened to call up and to trace by a voluntary act upon the darkness was very apt to transfer itself to my dreams, so that I feared to exercise this faculty; for, as Midas turned all things to gold that yet baffled his hopes and defrauded his human desires, so whatsoever things capable of being visually represented I did but think of in the darkness, immediately shaped themselves into phantoms of the eye; and by a process apparently no less inevitable, when thus once traced in faint and visionary colours, like writings in sympathetic ink, they were drawn out by the fierce chemistry of my dreams into insufferable splendour that fretted my heart.

1. As my eye’s power to create images grew, a connection seemed to develop between my waking and dreaming mind. Whatever I deliberately pictured against the darkness was very likely to appear in my dreams. So I became afraid to use this power. Midas turned all things to gold, yet the gold frustrated his hopes and deprived him of what he desired as a human being. Similarly, whenever I thought in the darkness of anything that could be pictured, it immediately took shape before my eyes as a phantom. Once these images appeared in faint, dreamlike colors, another process seemed just as inevitable. Like writing in invisible ink, the images were brought out by the fierce chemistry of my dreams. They became unbearably brilliant and tormented my heart.

2. For this and all other changes in my dreams were accompanied by deep-seated anxiety and gloomy melancholy, such as are wholly incommunicable by words. I seemed every night to descend, not metaphorically, but literally to descend, into chasms and sunless abysses, depths below depths, from which it seemed hopeless that I could ever reascend. Nor did I, by waking, feel that I had reascended. This I do not dwell upon; because the state of gloom which attended these gorgeous spectacles, amounting at last to utter darkness, as of some suicidal despondency, cannot be approached by words.

2. For this and all other changes in my dreams came with deep anxiety and gloomy melancholy, impossible to express in words. Every night, I seemed to descend into chasms and sunless abysses, depths below depths. I seemed to descend literally, not metaphorically. It seemed hopeless that I could ever climb back up. Even when I woke, I did not feel that I had climbed back up. I will not dwell on this. The gloom that accompanied these magnificent spectacles cannot be expressed in words. At last, it became utter darkness, like the darkness of suicidal despair.

3. The sense of space, and in the end the sense of time, were both powerfully affected. Buildings, landscapes, &c., were exhibited in proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not fitted to receive. Space swelled, and was amplified to an extent of unutterable infinity. This, however, did not disturb me so much as the vast expansion of time; I sometimes seemed to have lived for 70 or 100 years in one night—nay, sometimes had feelings representative of a millennium passed in that time, or, however, of a duration far beyond the limits of any human experience.

3. My sense of space, and eventually my sense of time, were both powerfully affected. Buildings, landscapes, and other things appeared on a scale too vast for the eye to take in. Space swelled and expanded into an indescribable infinity. But this did not disturb me as much as the vast expansion of time. Sometimes I seemed to have lived for 70 or 100 years in a single night. At times, I even felt as though a thousand years had passed in one night. Or at least, it felt like a span of time far beyond the limits of any human experience.

4. The minutest incidents of childhood, or forgotten scenes of later years, were often revived: I could not be said to recollect them, for if I had been told of them when waking, I should not have been able to acknowledge them as parts of my past experience. But placed as they were before me, in dreams like intuitions, and clothed in all their evanescent circumstances and accompanying feelings, I recognised them instantaneously. I was once told by a near relative of mine, that having in her childhood fallen into a river, and being on the very verge of death but for the critical assistance which reached her, she saw in a moment her whole life, in its minutest incidents, arrayed before her simultaneously as in a mirror; and she had a faculty developed as suddenly for comprehending the whole and every part. This, from some opium experiences of mine, I can believe; I have indeed seen the same thing asserted twice in modern books, and accompanied by a remark which I am convinced is true; viz., that the dread book of account which the Scriptures speak of is in fact the mind itself of each individual. Of this at least I feel assured, that there is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscriptions on the mind; accidents of the same sort will also rend away this veil; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever, just as the stars seem to withdraw before the common light of day, whereas in fact we all know that it is the light which is drawn over them as a veil, and that they are waiting to be revealed when the obscuring daylight shall have withdrawn.

4. The smallest events of childhood, or forgotten scenes from later years, often came back to me. I could not say that I remembered them. If someone had told me about them while I was awake, I could not have identified them as experiences from my past. But in dreams they appeared before me like intuitions, surrounded by all their fleeting details and accompanying feelings. I recognised them instantly. A close relative once told me that she had fallen into a river as a child. She was on the very brink of death when help arrived just in time. In a moment, she saw her whole life, down to its smallest events, laid out before her at once, as if in a mirror. She also suddenly gained the ability to grasp the whole of it and every part. Because of some of my own experiences with opium, I can believe her. In fact, I have seen the same thing claimed twice in modern books. Both accounts included an observation that I am convinced is true: the dreadful book of account mentioned in the Scriptures is actually each individual’s own mind. At least I am certain of this: the mind cannot truly forget anything. A thousand accidents may, and will, place a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscriptions on the mind. Accidents of the same kind will also tear that veil away. But whether hidden or revealed, the inscription remains forever. It is just as the stars seem to disappear before ordinary daylight. In fact, as we all know, the light is drawn over them like a veil. The stars are waiting to be revealed when the obscuring daylight has passed.

Having noticed these four facts as memorably distinguishing my dreams from those of health, I shall now cite a case illustrative of the first fact, and shall then cite any others that I remember, either in their chronological order, or any other that may give them more effect as pictures to the reader.

I have noted four striking ways my dreams differed from those I had in good health. I will now give an example of the first. Then I will give any other examples I remember, either in chronological order or in whatever order makes them most vivid for the reader.

I had been in youth, and even since, for occasional amusement, a great reader of Livy, whom I confess that I prefer, both for style and matter, to any other of the Roman historians; and I had often felt as most solemn and appalling sounds, and most emphatically representative of the majesty of the Roman people, the two words so often occurring in Livy—Consul Romanus, especially when the consul is introduced in his military character. I mean to say that the words king, sultan, regent, &c., or any other titles of those who embody in their own persons the collective majesty of a great people, had less power over my reverential feelings. I had also, though no great reader of history, made myself minutely and critically familiar with one period of English history, viz., the period of the Parliamentary War, having been attracted by the moral grandeur of some who figured in that day, and by the many interesting memoirs which survive those unquiet times. Both these parts of my lighter reading, having furnished me often with matter of reflection, now furnished me with matter for my dreams. Often I used to see, after painting upon the blank darkness a sort of rehearsal whilst waking, a crowd of ladies, and perhaps a festival and dances. And I heard it said, or I said to myself, “These are English ladies from the unhappy times of Charles I. These are the wives and the daughters of those who met in peace, and sate at the same table, and were allied by marriage or by blood; and yet, after a certain day in August 1642, never smiled upon each other again, nor met but in the field of battle; and at Marston Moor, at Newbury, or at Naseby, cut asunder all ties of love by the cruel sabre, and washed away in blood the memory of ancient friendship.” The ladies danced, and looked as lovely as the court of George IV. Yet I knew, even in my dream, that they had been in the grave for nearly two centuries. This pageant would suddenly dissolve; and at a clapping of hands would be heard the heart-quaking sound of Consul Romanus; and immediately came “sweeping by,” in gorgeous paludaments, Paulus or Marius, girt round by a company of centurions, with the crimson tunic hoisted on a spear, and followed by the alalagmos of the Roman legions.

In my youth, and sometimes since, I had read a great deal of Livy for pleasure. I confess that I prefer him to any other Roman historian, both for his style and for what he writes about. I had often found two words that appear frequently in Livy deeply solemn and awe-inspiring: Consul Romanus. To me, they expressed the majesty of the Roman people with particular force, especially when the consul appeared as a military commander. Words such as king, sultan, and regent stirred less reverence in me. So did any other titles of those who embody the collective majesty of a great people in their own persons. Though I did not read much history, I had also studied one period of English history closely and critically: the Parliamentary War. I was drawn to it by the moral grandeur of some who lived then and by the many interesting memoirs that survive from those troubled times. Both parts of my lighter reading had often given me things to reflect on. Now they gave me material for my dreams. Often, while awake, I would first picture a kind of rehearsal against the blank darkness. Then I would see a crowd of ladies, and perhaps a festival and dancing. I heard someone say, or I said to myself, “These are English ladies from the unhappy times of Charles I. They are the wives and daughters of men who once met in peace, sat at the same table, and were related by marriage or blood. Yet after a certain day in August 1642, those men never smiled at one another again. They met only on the battlefield. At Marston Moor, Newbury, or Naseby, they cut all ties of love with the cruel sabre and washed away the memory of old friendship in blood.” The ladies danced and looked as lovely as those at the court of George IV. Yet even in my dream, I knew they had been in the grave for nearly two centuries. This pageant would suddenly dissolve. Then, at a clap of hands, I would hear the heart-shaking sound of Consul Romanus. At once Paulus or Marius came “sweeping by” in splendid military robes, surrounded by centurions. A crimson tunic was raised on a spear, and the alalagmos of the Roman legions followed.

Many years ago, when I was looking over Piranesi’s Antiquities of Rome, Mr. Coleridge, who was standing by, described to me a set of plates by that artist, called his Dreams, and which record the scenery of his own visions during the delirium of a fever. Some of them (I describe only from memory of Mr. Coleridge’s account) represented vast Gothic halls, on the floor of which stood all sorts of engines and machinery, wheels, cables, pulleys, levers, catapults, &c. &c., expressive of enormous power put forth and resistance overcome. Creeping along the sides of the walls you perceived a staircase; and upon it, groping his way upwards, was Piranesi himself: follow the stairs a little further and you perceive it come to a sudden and abrupt termination without any balustrade, and allowing no step onwards to him who had reached the extremity except into the depths below. Whatever is to become of poor Piranesi, you suppose at least that his labours must in some way terminate here. But raise your eyes, and behold a second flight of stairs still higher, on which again Piranesi is perceived, but this time standing on the very brink of the abyss. Again elevate your eye, and a still more aërial flight of stairs is beheld, and again is poor Piranesi busy on his aspiring labours; and so on, until the unfinished stairs and Piranesi both are lost in the upper gloom of the hall. With the same power of endless growth and self-reproduction did my architecture proceed in dreams. In the early stage of my malady the splendours of my dreams were indeed chiefly architectural; and I beheld such pomp of cities and palaces as was never yet beheld by the waking eye unless in the clouds. From a great modern poet I cite part of a passage which describes, as an appearance actually beheld in the clouds, what in many of its circumstances I saw frequently in sleep:

Many years ago, I was looking through Piranesi’s Antiquities of Rome. Mr. Coleridge, who was standing nearby, described a series of prints by the same artist called his Dreams. They depicted Piranesi’s own visions during a fever delirium. Some showed vast Gothic halls, with all sorts of machinery on their floors: wheels, cables, pulleys, levers, catapults, and more. These suggested enormous power being exerted and resistance being overcome. I describe them only from memory of Mr. Coleridge’s account. Along the walls, you could see a staircase winding upward. On it, Piranesi himself was groping his way up. Follow the stairs a little farther, and you see them end suddenly, without a railing. Anyone who reached the end could take no further step except into the depths below. Whatever becomes of poor Piranesi, you suppose that his efforts must at least end here. But look up, and you see a second flight of stairs, higher still. On it is Piranesi again, now standing at the very edge of the abyss. Look higher again, and you see an even loftier flight of stairs. Once more, poor Piranesi is busy with his upward struggle. And so it goes on, until both Piranesi and the unfinished stairs disappear into the darkness high above the hall. The architecture in my dreams grew and reproduced itself with the same endless power. Early in my illness, the splendors of my dreams were chiefly architectural. I saw cities and palaces of a magnificence no waking eye has ever seen, except in the clouds. I quote part of a passage by a great modern poet. It describes something he actually saw in the clouds, and many of its features appeared often in my sleep:

The sublime circumstance, “battlements that on their restless fronts bore stars,” might have been copied from my architectural dreams, for it often occurred. We hear it reported of Dryden and of Fuseli, in modern times, that they thought proper to eat raw meat for the sake of obtaining splendid dreams: how much better for such a purpose to have eaten opium, which yet I do not remember that any poet is recorded to have done, except the dramatist Shadwell; and in ancient days Homer is I think rightly reputed to have known the virtues of opium.

The magnificent image of “battlements that on their restless fronts bore stars” might have been copied from my architectural dreams, because it often appeared in them. In modern times, Dryden and Fuseli are said to have eaten raw meat to produce splendid dreams. How much better it would have been to eat opium for that purpose! Yet I do not remember any poet recorded as having done so, except the dramatist Shadwell. And I think Homer is rightly believed to have known the virtues of opium in ancient times.

To my architecture succeeded dreams of lakes and silvery expanses of water: these haunted me so much that I feared (though possibly it will appear ludicrous to a medical man) that some dropsical state or tendency of the brain might thus be making itself (to use a metaphysical word) objective; and the sentient organ project itself as its own object. For two months I suffered greatly in my head, a part of my bodily structure which had hitherto been so clear from all touch or taint of weakness (physically I mean) that I used to say of it, as the last Lord Orford said of his stomach, that it seemed likely to survive the rest of my person. Till now I had never felt a headache even, or any the slightest pain, except rheumatic pains caused by my own folly. However, I got over this attack, though it must have been verging on something very dangerous.

My dreams of architecture gave way to dreams of lakes and silvery stretches of water. These haunted me so much that I feared some swelling or tendency toward swelling in my brain might be making itself objective. A doctor might find this fear ridiculous. But I feared that the organ of perception might project itself as its own object, to use a metaphysical term. For two months I suffered greatly from pain in my head. Until then, my head had been completely free of any physical weakness. I used to say of my head, as the last Lord Orford said of his stomach, that it seemed likely to outlive the rest of me. Until then, I had never felt even a headache or the slightest pain, except for rheumatic pains caused by my own folly. However, I recovered from this attack, though it must have been close to something very dangerous.

The waters now changed their character—from translucent lakes shining like mirrors they now became seas and oceans. And now came a tremendous change, which, unfolding itself slowly like a scroll through many months, promised an abiding torment; and in fact it never left me until the winding up of my case. Hitherto the human face had mixed often in my dreams, but not despotically nor with any special power of tormenting. But now that which I have called the tyranny of the human face began to unfold itself. Perhaps some part of my London life might be answerable for this. Be that as it may, now it was that upon the rocking waters of the ocean the human face began to appear; the sea appeared paved with innumerable faces upturned to the heavens—faces imploring, wrathful, despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by generations, by centuries: my agitation was infinite; my mind tossed and surged with the ocean.

The waters now changed their character. The clear lakes, shining like mirrors, became seas and oceans. Then came a tremendous change, unfolding slowly like a scroll over many months. It promised lasting torment, and in fact it never left me until my ordeal ended. Until then, human faces had often appeared in my dreams, but they had not dominated them or especially tormented me. But now what I have called the tyranny of the human face began to unfold. Perhaps some part of my life in London was responsible for this. Whatever the cause, human faces now began to appear on the rocking waters of the ocean. The sea seemed paved with countless faces turned up to the heavens. They were pleading, angry, despairing faces, surging upward by the thousands, by countless multitudes, by generations, by centuries. My distress was boundless. My mind tossed and surged with the ocean.

May, 1818

May, 1818

The Malay has been a fearful enemy for months. I have been every night, through his means, transported into Asiatic scenes. I know not whether others share in my feelings on this point; but I have often thought that if I were compelled to forego England, and to live in China, and among Chinese manners and modes of life and scenery, I should go mad. The causes of my horror lie deep, and some of them must be common to others. Southern Asia in general is the seat of awful images and associations. As the cradle of the human race, it would alone have a dim and reverential feeling connected with it. But there are other reasons. No man can pretend that the wild, barbarous, and capricious superstitions of Africa, or of savage tribes elsewhere, affect him in the way that he is affected by the ancient, monumental, cruel, and elaborate religions of Indostan, &c. The mere antiquity of Asiatic things, of their institutions, histories, modes of faith, &c., is so impressive, that to me the vast age of the race and name overpowers the sense of youth in the individual. A young Chinese seems to me an antediluvian man renewed. Even Englishmen, though not bred in any knowledge of such institutions, cannot but shudder at the mystic sublimity of castes that have flowed apart, and refused to mix, through such immemorial tracts of time; nor can any man fail to be awed by the names of the Ganges or the Euphrates. It contributes much to these feelings that southern Asia is, and has been for thousands of years, the part of the earth most swarming with human life, the great officina gentium. Man is a weed in those regions. The vast empires also in which the enormous population of Asia has always been cast, give a further sublimity to the feelings associated with all Oriental names or images. In China, over and above what it has in common with the rest of southern Asia, I am terrified by the modes of life, by the manners, and the barrier of utter abhorrence and want of sympathy placed between us by feelings deeper than I can analyse. I could sooner live with lunatics or brute animals. All this, and much more than I can say or have time to say, the reader must enter into before he can comprehend the unimaginable horror which these dreams of Oriental imagery and mythological tortures impressed upon me. Under the connecting feeling of tropical heat and vertical sunlights I brought together all creatures, birds, beasts, reptiles, all trees and plants, usages and appearances, that are found in all tropical regions, and assembled them together in China or Indostan. From kindred feelings, I soon brought Egypt and all her gods under the same law. I was stared at, hooted at, grinned at, chattered at, by monkeys, by parroquets, by cockatoos. I ran into pagodas, and was fixed for centuries at the summit or in secret rooms: I was the idol; I was the priest; I was worshipped; I was sacrificed. I fled from the wrath of Brama through all the forests of Asia: Vishnu hated me: Seeva laid wait for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris: I had done a deed, they said, which the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was buried for a thousand years in stone coffins, with mummies and sphynxes, in narrow chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles; and laid, confounded with all unutterable slimy things, amongst reeds and Nilotic mud.

The Malay has been a terrifying enemy for months. Because of him, I have been transported to Asiatic scenes every night. I do not know whether others share my feelings about this. But I have often thought that I would go mad if I had to leave England and live in China, surrounded by Chinese customs, ways of life, and scenery. The causes of my horror run deep, and some of them must be shared by others. Southern Asia in general is a place of awe-inspiring images and associations. As the cradle of the human race, it would inspire a vague feeling of reverence for that reason alone. But there are other reasons. No one can claim to be affected by the wild, barbarous, and unpredictable superstitions of Africa or of savage tribes elsewhere in the same way as by the ancient, monumental, cruel, and elaborate religions of Indostan and other such places. The sheer age of Asiatic things, their institutions, histories, religions, and so on, is deeply impressive. To me, the vast age of the race and its name overwhelms any sense of youth in the individual. A young Chinese person seems to me a man from before the Flood, born again. Even Englishmen, though not raised with knowledge of such institutions, cannot help shuddering at the mysterious grandeur of castes. These castes have remained separate and refused to mix for stretches of time beyond memory. Nor can anyone fail to be awed by the names of the Ganges or the Euphrates. Southern Asia is, and has been for thousands of years, the part of the earth most crowded with human life. This adds greatly to my feelings. It is the great officina gentium, the workshop of nations. In those regions, man is a weed. Asia's enormous population has always been gathered into vast empires. These empires lend further grandeur to the feelings associated with all Oriental names or images. China has all these things in common with the rest of southern Asia. Beyond them, I am terrified by its ways of life and manners. I am also terrified by the barrier of complete hatred and lack of sympathy between us. Feelings deeper than I can analyze have placed this barrier there. I could more readily live with lunatics or wild animals. The reader must understand all this, and much more than I can say or have time to say. Only then can the reader grasp the unimaginable horror these dreams of Oriental imagery and mythological tortures impressed upon me. The shared feeling of tropical heat and sunlight directly overhead brought all tropical regions together in my mind. I gathered all their creatures, birds, beasts, and reptiles, all their trees and plants, customs and sights, and assembled them in China or Indostan. For similar reasons, I soon brought Egypt and all her gods under the same rule. Monkeys, parakeets, and cockatoos stared at me, hooted at me, grinned at me, and chattered at me. I ran into pagodas and was held there for centuries, at the top or in secret rooms. I was the idol. I was the priest. I was worshipped. I was sacrificed. I fled from the wrath of Brama through all the forests of Asia. Vishnu hated me. Seeva lay in wait for me. I suddenly came upon Isis and Osiris. They said I had done a deed that made the ibis and the crocodile tremble. I was buried for a thousand years in stone coffins, with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids. Crocodiles gave me cancerous kisses. I was laid among reeds and Nile mud, mixed up with every unspeakable slimy thing.

I thus give the reader some slight abstraction of my Oriental dreams, which always filled me with such amazement at the monstrous scenery that horror seemed absorbed for a while in sheer astonishment. Sooner or later came a reflux of feeling that swallowed up the astonishment, and left me not so much in terror as in hatred and abomination of what I saw. Over every form, and threat, and punishment, and dim sightless incarceration, brooded a sense of eternity and infinity that drove me into an oppression as of madness. Into these dreams only it was, with one or two slight exceptions, that any circumstances of physical horror entered. All before had been moral and spiritual terrors. But here the main agents were ugly birds, or snakes, or crocodiles; especially the last. The cursed crocodile became to me the object of more horror than almost all the rest. I was compelled to live with him, and (as was always the case almost in my dreams) for centuries. I escaped sometimes, and found myself in Chinese houses, with cane tables, &c. All the feet of the tables, sofas, &c., soon became instinct with life: the abominable head of the crocodile, and his leering eyes, looked out at me, multiplied into a thousand repetitions; and I stood loathing and fascinated. And so often did this hideous reptile haunt my dreams that many times the very same dream was broken up in the very same way: I heard gentle voices speaking to me (I hear everything when I am sleeping), and instantly I awoke. It was broad noon, and my children were standing, hand in hand, at my bedside—come to show me their coloured shoes, or new frocks, or to let me see them dressed for going out. I protest that so awful was the transition from the damned crocodile, and the other unutterable monsters and abortions of my dreams, to the sight of innocent human natures and of infancy, that in the mighty and sudden revulsion of mind I wept, and could not forbear it, as I kissed their faces.

I offer the reader this brief account of my Oriental dreams. Their monstrous scenery always amazed me so much that, for a while, sheer astonishment overwhelmed my horror. Sooner or later, my feelings surged back and swallowed up my astonishment. They left me feeling not so much terror as hatred and disgust at what I saw. A sense of eternity and infinity hung over every form, threat, punishment, and dim, sightless confinement. It weighed on me until I felt close to madness. With one or two minor exceptions, physical horrors appeared only in these dreams. All the terrors before had been moral and spiritual. But here the main agents were ugly birds, snakes, or crocodiles, especially crocodiles. The cursed crocodile became an object of greater horror to me than almost anything else. I was forced to live with him for centuries, as was almost always the case in my dreams. Sometimes I escaped and found myself in Chinese houses, with cane tables and other furnishings. The legs of the tables, sofas, and other furnishings soon came alive. The crocodile’s hateful head and leering eyes stared out at me, repeated a thousand times. I stood there, disgusted and fascinated. The hideous reptile haunted my dreams so often that the very same dream was interrupted in the very same way many times. I heard gentle voices speaking to me (I hear everything when I am sleeping), and I woke at once. It was broad noon, and my children were standing hand in hand at my bedside. They had come to show me their colored shoes or new dresses, or to show me they were dressed to go out. I swear, the change was overwhelming. I went from seeing the damned crocodile and the other unspeakable monsters and grotesque creatures of my dreams to seeing innocent human natures and infancy. The sudden, powerful reversal of feeling made me weep. I could not help it as I kissed their faces.

June 1819

June 1819

I have had occasion to remark, at various periods of my life, that the deaths of those whom we love, and indeed the contemplation of death generally, is (cæteris paribus) more affecting in summer than in any other season of the year. And the reasons are these three, I think: first, that the visible heavens in summer appear far higher, more distant, and (if such a solecism may be excused) more infinite; the clouds, by which chiefly the eye expounds the distance of the blue pavilion stretched over our heads, are in summer more voluminous, massed and accumulated in far grander and more towering piles. Secondly, the light and the appearances of the declining and the setting sun are much more fitted to be types and characters of the Infinite. And thirdly (which is the main reason), the exuberant and riotous prodigality of life naturally forces the mind more powerfully upon the antagonist thought of death, and the wintry sterility of the grave. For it may be observed generally, that wherever two thoughts stand related to each other by a law of antagonism, and exist, as it were, by mutual repulsion, they are apt to suggest each other. On these accounts it is that I find it impossible to banish the thought of death when I am walking alone in the endless days of summer; and any particular death, if not more affecting, at least haunts my mind more obstinately and besiegingly in that season. Perhaps this cause, and a slight incident which I omit, might have been the immediate occasions of the following dream, to which, however, a predisposition must always have existed in my mind; but having been once roused it never left me, and split into a thousand fantastic varieties, which often suddenly reunited, and composed again the original dream.

At various times in my life, I have noticed that the deaths of loved ones affect us more deeply in summer than in any other season, all else being equal. The same is true of thinking about death in general. I think there are three reasons for this. First, the visible sky in summer seems much higher, more distant and, if I may put it so incorrectly, more infinite. Clouds are the main way our eyes judge the distance of the blue canopy above us. In summer, they are larger and gather in far grander, towering heaps. Second, the light and appearance of the sinking and setting sun are much better suited to symbolize the Infinite. Third, and most importantly, the overflowing, wild abundance of life naturally drives the mind more powerfully toward the opposite thought of death and the wintry barrenness of the grave. Generally, when two thoughts are opposites and seem to exist by repelling each other, each tends to suggest the other. For these reasons, I find it impossible to put death out of my mind when I walk alone through the endless days of summer. Any particular death, if not more affecting, at least haunts and besieges my mind more persistently in that season. Perhaps this, along with a small incident I will not describe, was the immediate cause of the following dream. Even so, I must always have had a tendency toward the dream in my mind. Once the dream was stirred up, it never left me. It split into a thousand fantastic variations, which often suddenly came together again to form the original dream.

I thought that it was a Sunday morning in May, that it was Easter Sunday, and as yet very early in the morning. I was standing, as it seemed to me, at the door of my own cottage. Right before me lay the very scene which could really be commanded from that situation, but exalted, as was usual, and solemnised by the power of dreams. There were the same mountains, and the same lovely valley at their feet; but the mountains were raised to more than Alpine height, and there was interspace far larger between them of meadows and forest lawns; the hedges were rich with white roses; and no living creature was to be seen, excepting that in the green churchyard there were cattle tranquilly reposing upon the verdant graves, and particularly round about the grave of a child whom I had tenderly loved, just as I had really beheld them, a little before sunrise in the same summer, when that child died. I gazed upon the well-known scene, and I said aloud (as I thought) to myself, “It yet wants much of sunrise, and it is Easter Sunday; and that is the day on which they celebrate the first fruits of resurrection. I will walk abroad; old griefs shall be forgotten to-day; for the air is cool and still, and the hills are high and stretch away to heaven; and the forest glades are as quiet as the churchyard, and with the dew I can wash the fever from my forehead, and then I shall be unhappy no longer.” And I turned as if to open my garden gate, and immediately I saw upon the left a scene far different, but which yet the power of dreams had reconciled into harmony with the other. The scene was an Oriental one, and there also it was Easter Sunday, and very early in the morning. And at a vast distance were visible, as a stain upon the horizon, the domes and cupolas of a great city—an image or faint abstraction, caught perhaps in childhood from some picture of Jerusalem. And not a bow-shot from me, upon a stone and shaded by Judean palms, there sat a woman, and I looked, and it was—Ann! She fixed her eyes upon me earnestly, and I said to her at length: “So, then, I have found you at last.” I waited, but she answered me not a word. Her face was the same as when I saw it last, and yet again how different! Seventeen years ago, when the lamplight fell upon her face, as for the last time I kissed her lips (lips, Ann, that to me were not polluted), her eyes were streaming with tears: the tears were now wiped away; she seemed more beautiful than she was at that time, but in all other points the same, and not older. Her looks were tranquil, but with unusual solemnity of expression, and I now gazed upon her with some awe; but suddenly her countenance grew dim, and turning to the mountains I perceived vapours rolling between us. In a moment all had vanished, thick darkness came on, and in the twinkling of an eye I was far away from mountains, and by lamplight in Oxford Street, walking again with Ann—just as we walked seventeen years before, when we were both children.

I dreamed it was a Sunday morning in May, Easter Sunday, and still very early. I seemed to be standing at the door of my own cottage. Before me lay the very scene I could actually see from there, but the power of dreams had made it grander and more solemn, as usual. There were the same mountains and the same lovely valley at their feet. But the mountains rose higher than the Alps, and much wider meadows and forest clearings lay between them. The hedges were full of white roses. No living creature was in sight, except for cattle resting peacefully on the green graves in the churchyard. They lay especially around the grave of a child I had dearly loved. I had really seen them there like that shortly before sunrise, in the same summer when the child died. I gazed at the familiar scene and thought I said aloud to myself, “It is still a long time until sunrise, and it is Easter Sunday, the day they celebrate the first fruits of resurrection. I will go out for a walk. Today I will forget old sorrows, for the air is cool and still, and the hills are high and reach toward heaven. The forest clearings are as quiet as the churchyard. I can wash the fever from my forehead with the dew, and then I will be unhappy no longer.” I turned as if to open my garden gate. At once, on my left, I saw a very different scene, yet the power of dreams had brought it into harmony with the first. It was an Eastern scene, and there too it was Easter Sunday, very early in the morning. Far in the distance, the domes and cupolas of a great city appeared like a stain on the horizon. The city was an image, or a faint impression, perhaps taken from a picture of Jerusalem I had seen as a child. Less than a bowshot away, a woman sat on a stone in the shade of Judean palms. I looked, and it was Ann! She fixed her eyes on me intently, and at last I said to her, “So, then, I have found you at last.” I waited, but she did not answer me. Her face was the same as when I had last seen it, and yet how different! Seventeen years earlier, the lamplight had fallen on her face as I kissed her lips for the last time. Those lips, Ann, were not polluted to me. Her eyes had been streaming with tears. Now the tears were gone. She seemed more beautiful than she had then, but in every other way she was the same, and no older. Her expression was calm, but unusually solemn, and I gazed at her with some awe. But suddenly her face grew dim. Turning toward the mountains, I saw mist rolling between us. In a moment everything had vanished, and thick darkness fell. In the blink of an eye I was far from the mountains, walking with Ann again by lamplight in Oxford Street, just as we had walked seventeen years earlier, when we were both children.

As a final specimen, I cite one of a different character, from 1820.

As a final example, I offer one of a different kind, from 1820.

The dream commenced with a music which now I often heard in dreams—a music of preparation and of awakening suspense, a music like the opening of the Coronation Anthem, and which, like that, gave the feeling of a vast march, of infinite cavalcades filing off, and the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty day—a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature, then suffering some mysterious eclipse, and labouring in some dread extremity. Somewhere, I knew not where—somehow, I knew not how—by some beings, I knew not whom—a battle, a strife, an agony, was conducting, was evolving like a great drama or piece of music, with which my sympathy was the more insupportable from my confusion as to its place, its cause, its nature, and its possible issue. I, as is usual in dreams (where of necessity we make ourselves central to every movement), had the power, and yet had not the power, to decide it. I had the power, if I could raise myself to will it, and yet again had not the power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the oppression of inexpiable guilt. “Deeper than ever plummet sounded,” I lay inactive. Then like a chorus the passion deepened. Some greater interest was at stake, some mightier cause than ever yet the sword had pleaded, or trumpet had proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms, hurryings to and fro, trepidations of innumerable fugitives—I knew not whether from the good cause or the bad, darkness and lights, tempest and human faces, and at last, with the sense that all was lost, female forms, and the features that were worth all the world to me, and but a moment allowed—and clasped hands, and heart-breaking partings, and then—everlasting farewells! And with a sigh, such as the caves of Hell sighed when the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of death, the sound was reverberated—everlasting farewells! And again and yet again reverberated—everlasting farewells!

The dream began with music I now often heard in dreams. It was music of preparation and growing suspense, like the opening of the Coronation Anthem. Like that, it gave the feeling of a vast march, of endless cavalcades filing past, and of countless armies marching. Morning had come on a mighty day. It was a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature. Human nature was suffering some mysterious eclipse and struggling in some terrible extremity. Somewhere, I did not know where, somehow, I did not know how, some beings were engaged in a battle, a struggle, an agony. I did not know who they were. The struggle was unfolding like a great drama or piece of music. My sympathy was all the harder to bear because I did not understand its place, cause, nature, or possible outcome. I had the power to decide the outcome, and yet I did not. That is usual in dreams, where we necessarily make ourselves central to everything that happens. I had the power if I could raise myself to will it. Yet I did not have the power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the burden of guilt that could never be forgiven. “Deeper than ever plummet sounded,” I lay unable to act. Then, like a chorus, the passion deepened. Some greater interest was at stake, some mightier cause than any the sword had ever fought for or the trumpet proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms, people rushing back and forth, and countless fugitives trembling with fear. I did not know whether the fugitives were fleeing from the good cause or the bad. There were darkness and lights, a storm and human faces. At last, I felt that all was lost. Then came female forms, and faces that were worth all the world to me. Only a moment was allowed for clasped hands and heartbreaking partings, and then came everlasting farewells! A sigh echoed the words, “everlasting farewells!” It was like the sigh from the caves of Hell when the incestuous mother spoke the hated name of death. Again and yet again the words echoed: everlasting farewells!

And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud—“I will sleep no more.”

And I woke up struggling and cried out, “I will not sleep again.”

But I am now called upon to wind up a narrative which has already extended to an unreasonable length. Within more spacious limits the materials which I have used might have been better unfolded, and much which I have not used might have been added with effect. Perhaps, however, enough has been given. It now remains that I should say something of the way in which this conflict of horrors was finally brought to a crisis. The reader is already aware (from a passage near the beginning of the introduction to the first part) that the Opium-eater has, in some way or other, “unwound almost to its final links the accursed chain which bound him.” By what means? To have narrated this according to the original intention would have far exceeded the space which can now be allowed. It is fortunate, as such a cogent reason exists for abridging it, that I should, on a maturer view of the case, have been exceedingly unwilling to injure, by any such unaffecting details, the impression of the history itself, as an appeal to the prudence and the conscience of the yet unconfirmed opium-eater—or even (though a very inferior consideration) to injure its effect as a composition. The interest of the judicious reader will not attach itself chiefly to the subject of the fascinating spells, but to the fascinating power. Not the Opium-eater, but the opium, is the true hero of the tale, and the legitimate centre on which the interest revolves. The object was to display the marvellous agency of opium, whether for pleasure or for pain: if that is done, the action of the piece has closed.

But I must now bring to a close a narrative that has already gone on too long. With more space, I could have developed the material I used more fully. I could also have added much that I left out, to good effect. Perhaps, however, I have said enough. I must now say something about how this struggle with horrors finally came to a crisis. The reader already knows, from near the beginning of the introduction to the first part, that the Opium-eater has somehow “unwound almost to its final links the accursed chain which bound him.” How did he do this? To tell the story as I originally intended would take far more space than I can now allow. It is fortunate that I have such a compelling reason to shorten the account. On further reflection, I would be very reluctant to weaken the impression of the story with such unmoving details. The story is meant to appeal to the prudence and conscience of those not yet fully addicted to opium. I would also be reluctant to weaken its effect as a piece of writing, though that matters far less. The discerning reader will be interested less in the person under the spell than in the power that casts it. The true hero of the story is not the Opium-eater but the opium. The story rightly centers our interest on the opium. My purpose was to show the marvelous power of opium, whether to give pleasure or pain. If I have done that, the action of the piece is over.

However, as some people, in spite of all laws to the contrary, will persist in asking what became of the Opium-eater, and in what state he now is, I answer for him thus: The reader is aware that opium had long ceased to found its empire on spells of pleasure; it was solely by the tortures connected with the attempt to abjure it that it kept its hold. Yet, as other tortures, no less it may be thought, attended the non-abjuration of such a tyrant, a choice only of evils was left; and that might as well have been adopted which, however terrific in itself, held out a prospect of final restoration to happiness. This appears true; but good logic gave the author no strength to act upon it. However, a crisis arrived for the author’s life, and a crisis for other objects still dearer to him—and which will always be far dearer to him than his life, even now that it is again a happy one. I saw that I must die if I continued the opium. I determined, therefore, if that should be required, to die in throwing it off. How much I was at that time taking I cannot say, for the opium which I used had been purchased for me by a friend, who afterwards refused to let me pay him; so that I could not ascertain even what quantity I had used within the year. I apprehend, however, that I took it very irregularly, and that I varied from about fifty or sixty grains to 150 a day. My first task was to reduce it to forty, to thirty, and as fast as I could to twelve grains.

However, some people, despite all laws to the contrary, will keep asking what became of the Opium-eater and how he is now. I answer for him as follows: The reader knows that opium had long since stopped ruling him through the magic of pleasure. It kept its hold solely through the torment of trying to give it up. Yet continuing to obey such a tyrant brought its own torments, which may seem no less severe. So he could only choose between evils. He might as well have chosen the one that, however terrifying in itself, offered the prospect of happiness in the end. This seems true, but sound reasoning gave the author no strength to act on it. However, a crisis came that threatened the author’s life and other things still dearer to him. Those things will always be far dearer to him than his life, even now that his life is happy again. I saw that I must die if I continued taking opium. I therefore resolved to die giving it up, if that should be necessary. I cannot say how much I was taking then. A friend had bought my opium for me and later refused to let me pay him back. So I could not even determine how much I had used during the year. I believe, however, that I took it very irregularly, varying from about fifty or sixty grains to 150 a day. My first task was to reduce the dose to forty grains, then thirty, and, as fast as I could, to twelve.

I triumphed. But think not, reader, that therefore my sufferings were ended, nor think of me as of one sitting in a dejected state. Think of me as one, even when four months had passed, still agitated, writhing, throbbing, palpitating, shattered, and much perhaps in the situation of him who has been racked, as I collect the torments of that state from the affecting account of them left by a most innocent sufferer [^20] of the times of James I. Meantime, I derived no benefit from any medicine, except one prescribed to me by an Edinburgh surgeon of great eminence, viz., ammoniated tincture of valerian. Medical account, therefore, of my emancipation I have not much to give, and even that little, as managed by a man so ignorant of medicine as myself, would probably tend only to mislead. At all events, it would be misplaced in this situation. The moral of the narrative is addressed to the opium-eater, and therefore of necessity limited in its application. If he is taught to fear and tremble, enough has been effected. But he may say that the issue of my case is at least a proof that opium, after a seventeen years’ use and an eight years’ abuse of its powers, may still be renounced, and that he may chance to bring to the task greater energy than I did, or that with a stronger constitution than mine he may obtain the same results with less. This may be true. I would not presume to measure the efforts of other men by my own. I heartily wish him more energy. I wish him the same success. Nevertheless, I had motives external to myself which he may unfortunately want, and these supplied me with conscientious supports which mere personal interests might fail to supply to a mind debilitated by opium.

I triumphed. But do not think, reader, that my suffering was therefore over. Nor imagine me merely sitting in a dejected state. Even after four months, I was still agitated, writhing, throbbing, palpitating, and shattered. I was perhaps much like someone who had been tortured on the rack. I know of those torments from the moving account left by a most innocent sufferer [^20] in the time of James I. Meanwhile, no medicine helped me except one prescribed by a highly distinguished Edinburgh surgeon: ammoniated tincture of valerian. So I have little medical information to offer about my liberation from opium. And even that little would probably only mislead, since I am so ignorant of medicine. In any case, such information would be out of place here. The moral of my story is meant for the opium-eater, so its application is necessarily limited. If it teaches him to fear and tremble, it has done enough. But he may say that my case at least proves that opium can still be given up. I used it for seventeen years and abused its powers for eight. He may also happen to bring more energy to the task than I did. Or, if his constitution is stronger than mine, he may achieve the same result with less effort. This may be true. I would not presume to measure other men's efforts by my own. I heartily wish him more energy. I wish him the same success. Nevertheless, I had motives beyond my own interests that he may unfortunately lack. These gave me moral support that personal interests alone might not give a mind weakened by opium.

Jeremy Taylor conjectures that it may be as painful to be born as to die. I think it probable; and during the whole period of diminishing the opium I had the torments of a man passing out of one mode of existence into another. The issue was not death, but a sort of physical regeneration; and I may add that ever since, at intervals, I have had a restoration of more than youthful spirits, though under the pressure of difficulties which in a less happy state of mind I should have called misfortunes.

Jeremy Taylor suggests that being born may be as painful as dying. I think that is likely. Throughout the time I was reducing my opium use, I suffered like a man passing from one form of existence into another. The result was not death, but a kind of physical rebirth. I might add that, ever since, my spirits have at times been even higher than in my youth. This has happened despite difficulties that, in a less happy state of mind, I would have called misfortunes.

One memorial of my former condition still remains—my dreams are not yet perfectly calm; the dread swell and agitation of the storm have not wholly subsided; the legions that encamped in them are drawing off, but not all departed; my sleep is still tumultuous, and, like the gates of Paradise to our first parents when looking back from afar, it is still (in the tremendous line of Milton)

One reminder of my former condition still remains. My dreams are not yet completely calm. The dreadful swell and turmoil of the storm have not entirely subsided. The legions that camped in my dreams are withdrawing, but not all have left. My sleep is still troubled. And like the gates of Paradise when our first parents looked back at them from a distance, my sleep is still, in Milton’s tremendous line,