De Quincey speaks of Coleridge as though the latter had denounced opium, and not given it credit for benefits conferred, when the truth is it confers no benefits. It gives, but it takes away, and the highest point stimulation can reach will not elevate a man's abilities to the plane from which they have fallen, in the latter and confirmed stages of the habit. Therefore, a man can justly and always condemn the use of opium, even while taking advantage of its best manifestations. It is he that is the loser at all times, and not it. The case I wish to make out is just this: When a man is once a confirmed opium eater, all the pleasure he can derive from opium would not equal the enjoyment a well man receives from the animal spirits alone; and all the intellectual force obtainable from stimulation can never approach that which would have been his own freely in a natural condition. Hence, to charge Coleridge with ingratitude to opium--for that is about what it amounts to--is all bosh. It ruined him for poetry, crippled him for everything, and made his life miserable. He did the best he could under the circumstances,--to continue the argument. Had he written at all times without regard to his condition, in the first stages the ravages following stimulation would have so undone his mind, that it would have fallen far short of its natural ability; and had he written from stimulation clear through reaction, his compositions would have been lop-sided things indeed. Or, had he in the advanced stages abnegated the short and only period of intellectual complacency afforded him by opium, and written only during the wretched condition which generally subsists, his productions must of necessity have been more gloomy, and less able than they are. He had to make the most of his unfortunate situation, and seize his opportunities as they presented. It was impossible to write at all times and in all conditions, and hence he disappointed the expectations of many. Yes, and who blamed him for lacking energy? Oh, ignorant men! When an opium eater, himself surrounded by the same circumstances and in the same condition as Coleridge, contemplates the results of his labors, they seem almost miraculous. And let me tell you, dear reader, they are almost my only source of hope and consolation in this my proscribed and benighted state. In life, but not living; a man, but incapable of the happiness and pleasures of man. Nothing but darkness and dejection is my lot. Cut off forever, irretrievably cut off, from almost every social enjoyment. If I have a particle of enjoyment, it is very faint and vague; dim as the filmy line that divides me from the world and those in it, and all that enjoy this life. Wretched dejection and despair are mine; my mind a "Stygian cave forlorn," which breeds "horrid shapes and shrieks and sights unholy." But it seems the peculiar province of those so happy as to escape this earthly damnation, to deride and blame