Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, April 1885

In this connection one danger peculiar to itself deserves especial notice. Other narcotics are seldom given or sold save under their own names; and if administered in combination, in quack medicine or unexplained prescriptions, their effect betrays itself. Opium forms the basis of innumerable remedies and very effective remedies, sold under titles altogether reassuring and misleading. Nearly all soothing-syrups and powders for example – “mother’s blessings” and infant’s curses – are really opiates. These are known or suspected by most well-informed people. What is less generally known is that nine in ten of the popular remedies for catarrh, bronchitis, cough, cold and asthma are also opiates. So powerful indeed is the effect of opium upon the lining membrane of the lungs and air passages, so difficult is it to find an effective substitute, that the efficacy, at least the certain and rapid efficacy, of any specific remedy for cold whose exact nature is not known affords strong ground for suspecting the presence of opium. Many chemists are culpably, almost criminally, reckless; and not a few culpably ignorant in this matter. An experienced man bought from a fashionable West-end shop a box of cough lozenges, pleasant to the taste and relieving a severe cough with wonderful rapidity. Familiar with the influence of opium on the stomach and spirits, he was sure before he had sucked half-a-dozen of the lozenges that he had taken a dose powerful enough to affect his accustomed system, and strong enough to poison a child, and do serious harm to a sensitive adult. Yet the lozenges were sold without warning or indication of their character; few people would have taken any special precaution to keep them out of the way of children, and the box, falling into the hands of a heedless or disobedient child, might have poisoned a whole nursery.

Another personal experience may serve to dispel the popular delusion that opium is necessarily or generally a stupefying agent. A mismanaged minor operation exposed two sensitive nerves, producing an intolerable hyperæsthesia and a nervous terror which rendered surgical relief for the time impossible, and endurance utterly beyond human power. For a fortnight or more the patient was never free from agony save when the nerves of sensation were practically paralysed by opium. During that fortnight he took up for the first time, and thoroughly mastered, as a college examination shortly afterwards proved, Mill’s Principles of Political Economy, a work not merely taxing to the uttermost the natural faculties of nineteen, but demanding beyond any other steady persistent coherence and lucidity of thought. The patient affirmed that never had his mind been clearer, his power of concentration greater, his receptive faculties more perfect or his memory more tenacious. That the drug had in no wise impaired the intellectual, however it might have quelled the muscular or nervous energies, seems obvious. Yet at that time the patient was ignorant of the two antidotes above mentioned; and neither coffee nor aperient medicine qualified or mitigated the influence of the opiates; an influence strong enough to quell for some twenty-two hours out of the twenty-four an acute and terrible nervous torture.

After the use of a fortnight or a month – especially when used legitimately to relieve pain and not to procure pleasure – the entire abandonment of opium may be easily accomplished in the course of two or three days. The pain or the disease it is used to overcome carries off, so to speak, or diverts in great measure the injurious influence of the drug; as a person suffering from diarrhœa, snakebite, or other cause of intense lowering of physical and nervous power, may take with impunity a dose of brandy which in health would certainly intoxicate him. But after six months’ or a year’s daily use or abuse, only the strongest and sternest resolution can overcome or shake off the tyranny of opium, and then only at a price of suffering and misery, of physical and mental torture such as only those who have known it can conceive.

It would be as foolish to depreciate the value as to underrate the danger of this, the most powerful and in many respects the safest of anæsthetics. Nothing else can do what opium can to relieve chronic, persistent, incurable nervous pain, to give sleep when sleeplessness is produced by suffering. The more potent anæsthetics, like chloroform, are applicable only to brief intense tortures, whose period can be foreseen or determined – to produce insensibility during an operation, or to mitigate the pangs of child-birth. Opium can relieve incurable chronic pain that would otherwise render life intolerable, and perhaps drive the sufferer to suicide; and this, if moderation be observed, and the necessary correctives employed, without impairing, as other narcotics would, the intellectual faculties. It is, moreover, as aforesaid, the quickest and surest cure for bronchial affections of every kind, and might not impossibly, as De Quincey thought, if used in time and with sufficient decision, prolong a life otherwise doomed, if it could not actually cure phthisis or consumption after the formation of tubercle has once begun. But its legitimate use is limited to three cases. It can relieve temporary neuralgic pain when cure would be slow, or while awaiting a curative operation. One peculiarity of neuralgic pain is its tendency to perpetuate itself. The nerves continue to thrill and throb because worn out by pain. Give them, through whatever agency, a brief period of rest, and it may well happen that, the temporary cause removed, the pain will not return. Secondly, opium is the one anæsthetic agency available to mitigate incurable and intolerable suffering. Not only can it render endurable a life that must otherwise be one continuous torture, till torture hastens death; but it may in many cases render that life serviceable as well as endurable. De Quincey gives the instance of a surgeon, suffering under incurable disease of an intolerably painful kind, who owed the power of steady professional work for more than twenty years to the constant use of opium in enormous quantities. Finally, when a working life draws near its natural close, when old age is harassed by the nervous consequences of protracted over-work or over-strain such as is often almost inseparable from the anxieties of business – the severe taxation of the mental powers by professional or literary labor – opium, given habitually in small quantities and under careful medical direction, often does what wine effects with less certainty and safety; gives rest and repose, calms an irritability of nerve and temper more trying to the patient himself than to those around him, and renders the last decade of a useful and honorable life much more comfortable, and no wit less useful or honorable, than it might otherwise have been.

But except as a relief in incurable disease, or in that most incurable of all diseases, old age, the continual or prolonged use of opium is always dangerous and nearly always fatal. It impairs the will; not infrequently it exercises a directly, visibly, unmistakably deteriorating influence upon the moral nature. There is nothing strange in this to those who know how an accidental injury to the skull may impair or pervert the moral no less than the intellectual powers. That moral is hardly a less common or less distinctive disease than mental insanity, that the conscience as well as the intellect of the drunkard is distorted and weakened, no physiologist doubts. Opium has a similar power, but exerts it with characteristic slowness of action. The demoralization of the narcotist is not, like that of the drunkard, rapid, violent, and palpable; but gradual, insidious, perceptible only to close observers or near and intimate friends. In nine cases out of ten, moreover, opium ultimately and certainly poisons the whole vital system. The patient loses physical and mental energy, courage, and enterprise; shrinks from exertion of every kind, dreads the labor of a walk, the trouble of writing a letter, dreads still more intensely any effort that calls for moral courage, flinches from a scene, a quarrel, a social or domestic conflict, becomes at last selfish, shameless, weak, useless, miserable to the last degree.

But this, like every other effect of opium, is in some measure uncertain; and hence arises one of its subtlest dangers. De Quincey would seem to have been less susceptible than most men to the worst influences of his favorite drug, seeing what work, excellent in quality as well as considerable in quantity he achieved after he had become a confirmed opium-eater. It took, no doubt, a tenfold greater amount of opium to reduce him to intellectual impotence than would suffice to destroy the minds of nine brain-workers in ten. But his own story clearly reveals how completely the enormous doses to which he had recourse at last overpowered a mind exceptionally energetic, and a temperament exceptionally capable of assimilating, perhaps, rather than resisting the power of opium. Here and there we find a constitution upon which it exerts few or none of its characteristic effects. As a few cannot take it at all, so a few can take it with apparent impunity. With them it will relieve pain and will not paralyse the nerves, will quell excitement without affecting mental energy; nay, while leaving physical activity little more impaired than age and temperament alone might have impaired it. Here and there we may find a confirmed opium-eater capable of taking and enjoying active exercise – a fairly fearless rider, a lover of nature tempted by taste, or it may be by restlessness, to walks beyond his muscular strength; with vivid imagination well under his own control; in whom even the will seems but little weakened, whose dread of pain and flinching from danger are not more marked after twenty years spent under the influence of opium than when they first drove him to its use. Such cases are, of course, wholly exceptional; but their very existence is a danger to others, misleads them into the idea that they may dally with the tempter, may profit by its pleasure-giving and pain-quelling powers without falling under its yoke, or may fall under that yoke and find it a light one. I doubt, however, whether the most fortunate of its victims would encourage the latter idea; whether there be any opium-eater who would not give a limb never to have known what opium can do to spare suffering, to give strength for protracted exertion, if he had never known what slavery to its influence means.

Dread of pain, dislike of excitement and worry, impatience of suffering and discomfort, of irritation, and sleeplessness, are all strong and increasingly-marked characteristics of our highly artificial life and perhaps almost overstrained civilization. Nature knows no influence that can relieve worry, mitigate pain, charm away restlessness, discomfort, and even sleeplessness, as opium can. Alcohol is at once too stupefying and too exciting for the tastes and temperaments that belong to cultivated natures and highly-developed brains. Beer suits the sluggish laborer, or the energetic navvy when his work is done, and his system, like that of a Scandinavian Viking or Scythian warrior in his hours of repose, craves first exhilaration and then stupid, thoughtless contentment. Wine suits less active and more passionate races, to whom excitement is an unmixed pleasure; brandy those who crave for stronger excitement to stimulate less susceptible nerves. But the physical stimulants of our fathers and grandfathers, as the moral excitements of remoter times, are far too violent for our generation. Champagne has succeeded port and sherry as the favorite wine of those who can afford it, being the lightest of all; and time was, not so long ago, when medical men were accused of recommending champagne with somewhat careless facility to those whose nerves, worn out by unhealthy pursuit of pleasure, by unnatural hours and unwholesome excitement, might have been effectually though more gradually restored by a change which to most of them at least was possible; by life in the country rather than in London, by the fresh air of the early morning instead of that of midnight in over-heated gas-lighted rooms and a poisoned atmosphere. There is a danger lest, as even champagne has proved too much of a stimulant and too little of a sedative, narcotics should take its place. The doctors will hardly recommend opium, but their patients, obliged for one reason or another to forego wine, might be driven upon it.

As aforesaid, the craving for stimulation or tranquillization of the brain – in one word, for that whole class of nerve-agents to which tea, opium, and brandy alike belong – is so universal, has so prevailed in all ages, races and climates, that it must be considered, if not originally natural, yet as by this time an ingrained, all but ineradicable, human appetite. To baffle such an appetite by any coercive means, by domestic, social or legislative penalties, has ever proved impossible. Deprive it of its gratification in one form, and it is impelled or forced to find a substitute; and finds it, as all strong human cravings have ever found some kind of satisfaction. And here lies one of the worst, most certain and yet least considered dangers of the legislation eagerly demanded by a constantly increasing party. Maine liquor laws, prohibition, local option, every measure that threatens to deprive of their favorite stimulant those who are not willing or have not the resolve to abandon it, would probably fail in their primary object. If they succeeded in that, they would, in a majority of instances, force the drinker, not to be content with water or even with tea, but to find a subtler substitute of lesser bulk, more easily obtained and concealed. Opium is the most obvious, and, among sedatives powerful enough to be substituted for wine or spirits, the least mischievous resource. And opium, once adopted as a substitute for alcohol, would take hold with far greater tenacity, and its use would spread with terrible rapidity, because its evil influence is so subtle, so slowly perceptible; and because, if used in moderation and with fitting precautions, its worst effects may not be felt for many years; because women could use it without detection, and men without alarm or discredit. This peril is one of which wiser men than Sir Wilfrid Lawson will not make light, but which too many comparatively rational advocates of total abstinence seem to have totally overlooked. Without underrating the frightful evils of intoxication, its baneful influence upon the individual, upon large classes, and upon the country as a whole, no one who knows them both can doubt that narcotism is the more dangerous and more destructive habit. The opiatist will not brawl in the street, will not beat his wife or maltreat his children; but he is rendered as a rule, even more rapidly and certainly than the drunkard, a useless member of society, a worthless citizen, an indifferent husband, helpless as the bread-winner, impotent as the master and ruler of a household. And opium, to the same temperaments and to many others, is quite as seductive as alcohol; far more poisonous, and incomparably more difficult to shake off when once its tyranny has been established. To forbid it, as some have proposed to forbid the sale or manufacture of beer, wine, and spirits, is impossible; to exclude it from the country is out of the question; its legitimate uses are too important, and no restrictions whatever can put it out of the reach of those who desire it. Silks, spirits, tobacco were smuggled as long as it paid to smuggle them; opium, an article of incomparably less bulk and incomparably greater value, would bring still larger profit to the importer; while the customer would not merely be attracted by cheapness or fashion, but impelled by the most imperious and irresistible of acquired cravings. Any man could smuggle through any barriers enough to satisfy his appetite for a year, enough to poison a whole battalion. That opium can become the favorite indulgence with numerous classes, and apparently with a whole people, the experience of more than one Eastern nation clearly shows. As the Oriental tea and coffee have to so large an extent superseded beer as the daily drink of men as well as women and children, so opium is calculated under favoring circumstances to replace wine and spirits as a stimulant. It might well do so even while the competition was open. Every penalty placed on the use of wine or brandy is a premium on that of opium.

De Quincey is not the only opium-eater who has given his experience to the world. It is evident that the practice is spreading in America, and the records published by its victims are as terrible as the worst descriptions of the drunkard’s misery or even as the horrors of delirium tremens. It is noteworthy, however, how little any of these seem to know of other experiences than their own – for instance, of the numerous forms and methods in which the drug can be and is administered. Opium – the solidified juice of the poppy – is the natural product from which laudanum, the spirituous tincture of opium, and all the various forms of morphia, which may be called the chemical extract, the essential principle of opium, are obtained. Morphia, again, is sold by chemists and exhibited by doctors in many forms, the principal of which are the acetate, the sulphate and the muriate of morphia – the substance itself combined with acetic, sulphuric, or hydrochloric acid. Of these last the muriate is, we believe, the safest, the acetate and in a lesser degree the sulphate having more of the pleasurable, sedative, seductive influence of opium in proportion to their pain-quelling power. They act, in some way, more powerfully upon the spirits while exerting the same anæsthetic influence, and the injurious effects of each dose are more marked and less easily counteracted. Laudanum, containing proof spirit as well as morphine, and through the proof spirit diffusing the narcotic influence more rapidly and affecting the brain more quickly and decidedly, is perhaps the worst vehicle through which the essential drug can be taken. Again, morphine, in its liquid forms can be injected under the skin; as solid opium it can be smoked or eaten, as morphia it can be swallowed or injected. Of all modes of administration – speaking, of course, of the self-administered abuse, not of the strict medical use of the drug – subcutaneous injection is the worst. It acts the most speedily and apparently the most pleasurably; it passes off the most rapidly, and tempts, therefore the most frequent, re-application. Apart, moreover, from the poisonous influence itself, this mode of application has injurious effects of its own; produces callosities and sores of a painful and revolting character. Smoking seems to be the most stupefying manner in which solid opium can be consumed, the one which acts most powerfully and injuriously upon the brain. But opium-smoking is hardly likely to take a strong hold on English or European taste. A piece of opium no larger than a pea, chopped up and mixed with a large bowlful of tobacco, produces on the veteran tobacco-smoker a nauseating effect powerfully recalling that of the first pipe of his boyhood; while its flavor is incomparably more disagreeable to the palate accustomed to the best havanas or the worst shag or bird’s-eye than these were to the unvitiated taste. It is probable that the Englishman who makes his first acquaintance with opium in this form will be revolted rather than tempted, unless indeed the pipe be used to relieve a pain so intolerable that the nauseousness of the remedy is disregarded. Morphia in all its forms, liquid or solid, has a thoroughly unpleasant bitterness, but neither the nauseous taste of the pipe nor the intensely disgusting flavor of laudanum, a flavor so revolting to the unaccustomed palate that only when largely diluted by water can it possibly be swallowed. On the whole, the muriate, dissolved in a quantity of water large enough to render each drop the equivalent of a drop of laudanum, is probably the safest, and should be swallowed rather than injected. But rather than swallow even this, a wise man, unless more confident in his own constancy and self-command than wise men are wont to be, had better endure any temporary pain that nature may inflict or any remedial operation that surgery can offer. —Contemporary Review.

FOLK-LORE FOR SWEETHEARTS

BY REV. M. G. WATKINS, M.A

As marriage and death are the chief events in human life, an enormous mass of popular beliefs has in all nations crystallised round them. Perhaps the sterner and more gloomy character of Kelts, Saxons, and Northmen generally found vent in the greater prominence they have given to omens of death, second-sight, ghosts, and the like; whereas the lighter and sunnier disposition of Southern Europe has delighted more in love-spells, methods of divining a future partner, the whole pomp and circumstance attending Venus and her doves. The writhing of the wryneck so graphically portrayed in Theocritus, or the spells of the lover in his Latin imitator, with their refrain —

Ducite ab urbe domum, mea carmina, ducite Daphnim,4

may thus be profitably compared with the darker superstitions of St. Mark’s Eve, the Baal fires, and compacts with the evil one, which so constantly recur throughout the Northern mythologies. But there are times and festivities when the serious Northern temperament relaxes; and any one who has the least acquaintance with the wealth of folk-lore which recent years have shown the natives of Great Britain that they possess, well knows that the times of courtship and marriage are two occasions when this lighter vein of our composite nature is conspicuous. The collection of these old-world beliefs amongst our peasantry did not begin a moment too soon. Day by day the remnants of them are fast fading from the national memory. The disenchanting wand of the modern schoolmaster, the rationalistic influences of the press, the Procrustes-like system of standards in our parish schools – these act like the breath of morn or the crowing of a cock upon ghosts, and at once put charms, spells, and the like to flight. Before the nation assumes the sober hues of pure reason and unpitying logic, in lieu of the picturesque scraps of folk-lore and old-wifish beliefs in which imagination was wont to clothe it, no office can be more grateful to posterity than for enthusiastic inquirers to search out and put on record these notes of fairy music which our villagers used to listen to with such content. By way of giving a sample of their linked sweetnesses long drawn out through so many generations of country dwellers – of which the echoes still vibrate, especially in the north and west of the country – it is our purpose to quote something of the legendary lore connected with love and marriage. This must interest everybody. Even the most determined old bachelor probably fell once, at least, in love to enable him to discover the hollowness of the passion; and as for the other sex, they may very conveniently, if illogically, be classed here as they used to be at the Oxford Commemoration, the married, the unmarried, and those who wish to be married. Some of these spells and charms possess associations for each of these divisions, and we are consequently sure of the suffrages of the fair sex.

Folk-lore, like Venus herself, has indeed specially flung her cestus over “the palmer in love’s eye.” She has more charms to soothe his melancholy than were ever prescribed by Burton. She is not above dabbling in spells and the unholy mysteries of the black art to inform him who shall be his partner for life. When sleep at length seals his eyes, she waits at his bedside next morning to tell him the meaning of his dreams. And most certainly the weaker sex has not been forgotten by folk-lore, which, in proportion to their easier powers of belief, provides them with infinite store of solace and prediction. Milkmaids, country lasses, and secluded dwellers in whitewashed farm or thick-walled ancestral grange are her particular charge. The Juliets and Amandas of higher rank already possess enough nurses, confidantes, and bosom friends, to say nothing of the poets and novelists. Perhaps it would be well for them if they never resorted to more dangerous mentors than do their rustic sisters when they listen to old wives’ wisdom at the chimney corner. Yet an exception must be made in favor of some lovers of rank, when we recall the ludicrously simple wooing of Mr. Carteret and Lady Jemima Montagu, and how mightily they were indebted to the good offices of the more skilled Samuel Pepys, who literally taught them when they ought to take each other’s hand, “make these and these compliments,” and the like; “he being the most awkerd man I ever met with in my life as to that business,” as the garrulous diarist adds. For ourselves, we do not profess to be love casuists, and the profusion of receipts which the subject possesses is so remarkable that we shall be unable to preserve much order in our prescriptions. Like those little books which possess wisdom for all who look within them, we can only promise our readers a peep into a budget fresh from fairy-land, and each may select what spell he or she chooses. Autolycus himself did not open a pack stuffed with greater attractions for his customers, especially for the fair sex.