aye entempesting anew The unfathomable hell within." That, distorting the intellect and imagination, it also distorts the moral perceptions and drys up the fountains of moral energy, is the greatest curse of opium indulgence; the soul lives on under the mighty bereavement, but, weeping amidst her orphaned faculties, she cries aloud in the extremity of her anguish that it were better far to have died. Like a ruined city, among whose prostrate domes wander the silent ghosts of the past, the majestic ruins of De Quincey's mind were haunted by "vast processions" which "passed along in mournful pomp; friezes of never-ending stories, that [to his feelings] were sad and solemn as if they were stories drawn from times before Edipus or Priam, before Tyre, before Memphis." Every night he seemed to descend, not metaphorically, he says, but literally, into chasms and sunless abysses, depth below depth, from which it seemed impossible ever to reäscend; nor when awake did he feel that he had reäscended. His mind had now become the unwilling theatre of the most frightful imagery; he was "stared at, hooted at, grinned at, chattered at, by monkeys," and "kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles; and laid, confounded with all unutterable slimy things, among reeds and Nilotic mud." He was fixed for centuries on the summits of Chinese pagodas, and "buried for thousands of years, in stone coffins, with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids." But more horrible than all the rest was the tyranny of the human face; he was surrounded by seas which appeared "paved with innumerable faces, upturned to the heavens-faces imploring, wrathful, despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by generations, by centuries;" his agitation at such moments was indescribablehis mind "tossed and surged with the ocean." Three times did De Quincey succeed in throwing off the horrid enthrallment of opium, and thrice was he again trampled ignominiously into servitude; and though we were led nearly forty years ago to believe that he had entirely overcome this degrading habit, he was to the day of his death almost as much its slave as ever. Have we not in him, and also in Coleridge, ever memorable proofs of the awful fascinations and despotism of this wonderful drug? If this be its influence upon gifted and highly cultivated men, how terrible must it be among those rude and barbaric millions who are re strained neither by the blessed light of reason, nor the holy influ ences of the Christian religion. Indeed, we are not left to speculate upon its effects there. So necessary do opium excitements become to the Theriakis of Constantinople, that when the drug in its usual form has lost its original power over their systems, they mix it with corrosive sublimate, even to the extent of ten grains per diem, in order to give it greater potency. "The Javanese," says Lord Macartney, "under an extraordinary dose of opium, become frantic as well as desperate. They acquire an artificial courage; and, when suffering from misfortune and disappointment, they not only stab the objects of their hate, but sally forth to attack in like manner every person they meet, till self-preservation renders it necessary to destroy them." It is said that they shout, as they run, "Amok, amok" (kill, kill); hence the phrase, running a-muck. There is a story of a Javanese who ran a-muck along the streets of Batavia, and, having killed several persons, a soldier at last run him through with his pike. The man, however, had become so infuriated by the drug that he pressed himself forward on the pike, stabbed his adversary, and they expired together. Are there any advantages to the man of letters resulting from the use of opium?-do not the benefits overbalance the injuries? These are pertinent questions, and demand candid consideration; for if answered in the affirmative, a plausable reason for its use will at once be furnished. Opium, unquestionably, stimulates the imagination lashes it, as it were, into preternatural activity; but it never imparts power! Whipping a horse gives him no additional strength, but only causes him to make larger drafts on that which he already possesses, and sooner to exhaust the original capital. Thus it is with opium. It never makes an unimaginative man imaginative. Let the lion provide never so splendid a banquet, the hogs he invites will always cry clamorously for grains. The phantasmagoric splendors which opium revealed in De Quincey were the result of his own inherent power, unduly and unnaturally excited, and are useful only as they furnish data for a wider induction on the morbid anatomy of the human mind. Besides destroying the nervous system, and paralyzing the energies, opium destroys the power to think consecutively, and is fatal to all intellectual system and order. Where the imagination is powerful, it is made to bring forth in such abundance that amid the sphinxine wanderings of its metaphors "all comprehension wanders lost." The rhetoric of the late Rufus Choate, who, unfortunately, was addicted to opium-eating, was greatly vitiated in consequence; and the writings of De Quincey are not wholly free from the same stain. [To be continued.] DESOR ON PARKER. WE are enabled through the kindness of Mr. Josiah D. Whitney, the geologist, to lay before the readers of the Dial the following extracts from a private letter to him from the distinguished naturalist of Neufchatel. It was when Desor was in this country, some ten years ago, that the intimate friendship between him and Theodore Parker was formed, which lasted until he followed the remains of the great American to their resting-place. The letter serves also to show the tendencies of the scientific mind of Europe in the matter of religion. NEUFCHATEL, 10th June, 1860. MY DEAR FRIEND :- It requires some time for the head and heart to settle again after they have been shaken so deeply as mine have been of late. You understand that I mean to speak of the death of our dear friend, Theodore Parker. Moleschott writes, "with him a column of humanity has fallen down; and this is true. There will be a long time before another Theodore Parker arises. But his work, though unfinished, will not be lost: his writings will remain a living fountain for many who are thirsty for truth and righteousness. To me his death has been a hard blow. I went to Italy with the hope and prospect of meeting him at Rome and of going thence with him on an excursion to Naples and Vesuvius, which he refused to visit during the winter because he wanted to see it with me. From thence we were to return to Florence, stay a short time about the Italian Lakes, for the purpose of searching for subaquatic (Celtic) habitations, in which he had become quite interested, then come over to my chalet and stay until Autumn, when he expected to return to New England. Instead of that, I found him very weak,- he had been failing rapidly for several weeks; and the idea of an excursion to Naples had to be given up at once. He had hardly strength to ride some two or three times with me to visit the chief monuments of the Eternal City. Of course, he could not fail to become aware of his declin ing condition; and all at once his mind became engrossed with one idea, that of leaving Rome as soon as possible, because he could not bear the idea of laying his bones in the cursed soil. It was a trying case, for I did not feel at all sure that he could ever reach Florence; but he was bent upon going, in spite of rain and wind. Dr. Appleton, of Boston, who had attended him regularly, went so far in his kindness towards Mr. Parker as to accompany us; he also provided for the carriage, the passports, and all the little comforts that might be necessary on the journey. Thus we started on the 20th of April,-- Mr. and Mrs. Parker, Mr. and Mrs. Appleton, and myself, with a vetturino,- for Florence. He declared that he had "decided upon reaching Florence;" that he had "wound himself up to the task, and would get there," but after that he did not promise anything at all. It was the last effort of his strong, energetic mind. So it happened. But the effort he had to make was followed by a great prostration. As soon as we arrived he went to bed, not to rise again. He at the same time lost the control of his mind, which, with the exception of a few lucid intervals, was more or less wandering all the time. In one of these lucid intervals he asked for me, and gave me the direction for his burial (which has been followed), observing that he hoped it would soon be over,—but did no longer express any regret about his unfinished work. He seemed perfectly resigned. This was the last time he spoke to us in a perfectly lucid way. Still he always recognized his friends, though he was unconscious of the placeshe mostly thought himself at Boston, or on board the steamer on his way home. I have tried to cheer him as much as I could. His wife never left him an instant. Miss Stevenson had left him a short time before my arrival, but came back when informed of his failing. His death was a very quiet, and, I dare say, unconscious one: his wife did not become aware of it for a time after his breath came no longer. * * I hastened off as soon as possible, and sought some distraction among the collections of Boulogne, Milan and Turin. It is a hard experience of advancing age that we must see all those who were dear to us disappear, one after the other, at a period of life when we have no longer the required adaptiveness to form new friends. * * * * Last summer, when at my chalet, at the occasion of the death of my friend Küchler, with whom he had been staying some time, we decided together that we should write a kind of album dedicated to his memory, and in which all those assembled at CombeVaria should take part. Mr. Parker promised two articles, one on the Teutonic races, the other a fine irony upon the pretensions of some modern naturalists (of the Bridgewater school)—" A Bumble-Bee's Thoughts on the Plan and Purpose of Creation." The first was not written out, but the latter has just gone through the press; it is, therefore, Theodore Parker's last production, and will be the jewel of the Album. I have given direction to the printer to send several copies to America. The publication of the Album must, of course, be somewhat postponed in order to enable me to write a short notice of Mr. Parker. The Album will now be called Ein Nachruf an Parker und Küchler. Will not the scientific and literary bodies of the United States feel ashamed now for the manner in which they have treated the the man who, after a short time, will outweigh them all — the noblest specimen of American scholarship that ever lived? Had he lived but two months longer I would have secured for him the Secular Doctorship at the Jubilee of the University of Basle, to be celebrated next month. LOVE. I THINK that Love makes all things musical: I think that, touched by its deep spiritual breaths, I thought the lingering and the passing feet |