To the Reader

I here present you, courteous reader, with the record of a remarkable period in my life: according to my application of it, I trust that it will prove not merely an interesting record, but in a considerable degree useful and instructive. In that hope it is that I have drawn it up; and that must be my apology for breaking through that delicate and honourable reserve which, for the most part, restrains us from the public exposure of our own errors and infirmities. Nothing, indeed, is more revolting to English feelings than the spectacle of a human being obtruding on our notice his moral ulcers or scars, and tearing away that “decent drapery” which time or indulgence to human frailty may have drawn over them; accordingly, the greater part of our confessions (that is, spontaneous and extra-judicial confessions) proceed from demireps, adventurers, or swindlers: and for any such acts of gratuitous self-humiliation from those who can be supposed in sympathy with the decent and self-respecting part of society, we must look to French literature, or to that part of the German which is tainted with the spurious and defective sensibility of the French. All this I feel so forcibly, and so nervously am I alive to reproach of this tendency, that I have for many months hesitated about the propriety of allowing this or any part of my narrative to come before the public eye until after my death (when, for many reasons, the whole will be published); and it is not without an anxious review of the reasons for and against this step that I have at last concluded on taking it.

I present you, courteous reader, with an account of a remarkable period in my life. I hope that, as I have presented it, the account will be not only interesting but also considerably useful and instructive. It was in that hope that I wrote it. And that must be my excuse for breaking through the delicate and honorable reserve that usually keeps us from exposing our own errors and weaknesses in public. Indeed, nothing is more revolting to English sensibilities than seeing someone thrust their moral sores or scars upon our notice. Such a person tears away the “decent drapery” that time or tolerance of human weakness may have drawn over them. Accordingly, most of our confessions (that is, voluntary confessions made outside a court of law) come from women of doubtful reputation, adventurers, or swindlers. For such needless acts of self-humiliation by people who might be expected to share the feelings of decent, self-respecting society, we must look elsewhere. We must look to French literature, or to the part of German literature tainted by the false and flawed sensibility of the French. I feel all this so strongly, and I am so nervously aware that I may be accused of this tendency, that I have hesitated for many months. I have wondered whether any part of my narrative should be made public before my death. After my death, the whole will be published, for many reasons. Only after anxiously reviewing the arguments for and against publishing now have I finally decided to do so.

Guilt and misery shrink, by a natural instinct, from public notice: they court privacy and solitude: and even in their choice of a grave will sometimes sequester themselves from the general population of the churchyard, as if declining to claim fellowship with the great family of man, and wishing (in the affecting language of Mr. Wordsworth)

Guilt and misery instinctively shrink from public notice. They seek privacy and solitude. Even in their choice of a grave, they will sometimes set themselves apart from the rest of the churchyard. It is as if they refuse to claim kinship with the great family of humankind, and wish (in Mr. Wordsworth’s moving words)

It is well, upon the whole, and for the interest of us all, that it should be so: nor would I willingly in my own person manifest a disregard of such salutary feelings, nor in act or word do anything to weaken them; but, on the one hand, as my self-accusation does not amount to a confession of guilt, so, on the other, it is possible that, if it did, the benefit resulting to others from the record of an experience purchased at so heavy a price might compensate, by a vast overbalance, for any violence done to the feelings I have noticed, and justify a breach of the general rule. Infirmity and misery do not of necessity imply guilt. They approach or recede from shades of that dark alliance, in proportion to the probable motives and prospects of the offender, and the palliations, known or secret, of the offence; in proportion as the temptations to it were potent from the first, and the resistance to it, in act or in effort, was earnest to the last. For my own part, without breach of truth or modesty, I may affirm that my life has been, on the whole, the life of a philosopher: from my birth I was made an intellectual creature, and intellectual in the highest sense my pursuits and pleasures have been, even from my schoolboy days. If opium-eating be a sensual pleasure, and if I am bound to confess that I have indulged in it to an excess not yet recorded [^1] of any other man, it is no less true that I have struggled against this fascinating enthralment with a religious zeal, and have at length accomplished what I never yet heard attributed to any other man—have untwisted, almost to its final links, the accursed chain which fettered me. Such a self-conquest may reasonably be set off in counterbalance to any kind or degree of self-indulgence. Not to insist that in my case the self-conquest was unquestionable, the self-indulgence open to doubts of casuistry, according as that name shall be extended to acts aiming at the bare relief of pain, or shall be restricted to such as aim at the excitement of positive pleasure.

On the whole, it is good for all of us that this should be so. I would not willingly show contempt for such healthy feelings, or do or say anything to weaken them. But my accusation against myself does not amount to an admission of guilt. Even if it did, the record of an experience bought at so heavy a price might benefit others. That benefit might far outweigh any offense to the feelings I have mentioned and justify breaking the general rule. Weakness and suffering do not necessarily imply guilt. They come closer to or move further from that dark association depending on the offender’s likely motives and prospects. They also depend on the known or secret circumstances that lessen the offense. And they depend on how powerful the temptations were from the start, and how earnestly the offender resisted them, in action or effort, to the end. For my part, I can say truthfully and modestly that my life has, on the whole, been a philosopher’s life. From birth, I was made an intellectual creature. Even as a schoolboy, my pursuits and pleasures were intellectual in the highest sense. Opium-eating may be a sensual pleasure, and I must confess that I have indulged in it to an excess not yet recorded [^1] of any other man. But it is equally true that I have struggled against this captivating bondage with religious zeal. At last, I have done what I have never heard credited to any other man. I have untwisted, almost to its final links, the cursed chain that bound me. Such self-conquest may reasonably be weighed against any kind or degree of self-indulgence. I need not insist that, in my case, the self-conquest was beyond doubt. Whether there was self-indulgence is a question of moral interpretation. The answer depends on whether the term includes acts intended merely to relieve pain, or only those intended to produce positive pleasure.

Guilt, therefore, I do not acknowledge; and if I did, it is possible that I might still resolve on the present act of confession in consideration of the service which I may thereby render to the whole class of opium-eaters. But who are they? Reader, I am sorry to say a very numerous class indeed. Of this I became convinced some years ago by computing at that time the number of those in one small class of English society (the class of men distinguished for talents, or of eminent station) who were known to me, directly or indirectly, as opium-eaters; such, for instance, as the eloquent and benevolent ——, the late Dean of ——, Lord ——, Mr. —— the philosopher, a late Under-Secretary of State (who described to me the sensation which first drove him to the use of opium in the very same words as the Dean of ——, viz., “that he felt as though rats were gnawing and abrading the coats of his stomach”), Mr. ——, and many others hardly less known, whom it would be tedious to mention. Now, if one class, comparatively so limited, could furnish so many scores of cases (and that within the knowledge of one single inquirer), it was a natural inference that the entire population of England would furnish a proportionable number. The soundness of this inference, however, I doubted, until some facts became known to me which satisfied me that it was not incorrect. I will mention two. (1) Three respectable London druggists, in widely remote quarters of London, from whom I happened lately to be purchasing small quantities of opium, assured me that the number of amateur opium-eaters (as I may term them) was at this time immense; and that the difficulty of distinguishing those persons to whom habit had rendered opium necessary from such as were purchasing it with a view to suicide, occasioned them daily trouble and disputes. This evidence respected London only. But (2)—which will possibly surprise the reader more—some years ago, on passing through Manchester, I was informed by several cotton manufacturers that their workpeople were rapidly getting into the practice of opium-eating; so much so, that on a Saturday afternoon the counters of the druggists were strewed with pills of one, two, or three grains, in preparation for the known demand of the evening. The immediate occasion of this practice was the lowness of wages, which at that time would not allow them to indulge in ale or spirits, and wages rising, it may be thought that this practice would cease; but as I do not readily believe that any man having once tasted the divine luxuries of opium will afterwards descend to the gross and mortal enjoyments of alcohol, I take it for granted

I therefore do not admit guilt. But even if I did, I might still decide to confess for the sake of the service I could render to all opium-eaters. But who are they? Reader, I am sorry to say they are a very numerous group indeed. I became convinced of this some years ago, when I counted the opium-eaters known to me, directly or indirectly, in one small class of English society. These were men distinguished by their talents or prominent positions. They included, for instance, the eloquent and benevolent [blank], the late Dean of [blank], Lord [blank], Mr. [blank] the philosopher, and a former Under-Secretary of State. The Under-Secretary described to me the sensation that first drove him to use opium. He used the very same words as the Dean of [blank]: “that he felt as though rats were gnawing and abrading the coats of his stomach”. There was also Mr. [blank], and many others hardly less well known, whom it would be tedious to name. Now, this one class was comparatively small, yet it provided scores of cases, and that within the knowledge of a single person making inquiries. It was natural to infer that the whole population of England would provide a proportionate number. Yet I doubted whether this inference was sound, until I learned some facts that satisfied me it was not mistaken. I will mention two. (1) Recently, I happened to buy small quantities of opium from three respectable London druggists in widely separated parts of the city. They assured me that the number of amateur opium-eaters, as I may call them, was immense at the time. They found it hard to distinguish people who needed opium out of habit from those buying it to kill themselves. This difficulty caused them trouble and disputes every day. This evidence concerned London alone. But (2), and this may surprise the reader more, I passed through Manchester some years ago. Several cotton manufacturers told me that their workers were rapidly taking up the habit of eating opium. The habit had spread so far that druggists scattered pills of one, two, or three grains across their counters on Saturday afternoons. They did this in preparation for the demand they knew would come that evening. The immediate reason for the practice was low wages, which at the time left the workers unable to afford ale or spirits. As wages rose, one might think the practice would cease. But I do not readily believe that anyone who has once tasted the divine luxuries of opium will afterwards descend to the coarse and mortal pleasures of alcohol. I therefore take it for granted

Indeed, the fascinating powers of opium are admitted even by medical writers, who are its greatest enemies. Thus, for instance, Awsiter, apothecary to Greenwich Hospital, in his “Essay on the Effects of Opium” (published in the year 1763), when attempting to explain why Mead had not been sufficiently explicit on the properties, counteragents, &c., of this drug, expresses himself in the following mysterious terms (φωναντα συνετοισι): “Perhaps he thought the subject of too delicate a nature to be made common; and as many people might then indiscriminately use it, it would take from that necessary fear and caution which should prevent their experiencing the extensive power of this drug, for there are many properties in it, if universally known, that would habituate the use, and make it more in request with us than with Turks themselves; the result of which knowledge,” he adds, “must prove a general misfortune.” In the necessity of this conclusion I do not altogether concur; but upon that point I shall have occasion to speak at the close of my Confessions, where I shall present the reader with the moral of my narrative.

Indeed, even medical writers, opium's greatest enemies, admit its fascinating powers. Take Awsiter, the apothecary at Greenwich Hospital, for example. In his “Essay on the Effects of Opium” (published in 1763), he tries to explain why Mead had not been sufficiently clear about the drug's properties, antidotes, and other such matters. Awsiter puts the matter in these mysterious terms (φωναντα συνετοισι): “Perhaps he thought the subject too delicate to make public. Many people might then use the drug indiscriminately, losing the necessary fear and caution that should prevent them from experiencing its extensive power. For opium has many properties that, if universally known, would make its use habitual and make it more sought after among us than among the Turks themselves.” The result of such knowledge, he adds, “must prove a general misfortune.” I do not entirely agree that this conclusion must follow. But I shall return to that point at the close of my Confessions, where I shall present the reader with the moral of my narrative.