If anything whatever is done, it must be done through suffering, and by herculean efforts to overcome the distaste and disgust that assail one. It is all against the tide. There is no current to move with. Everything original seems contemptible, at least of little weight; and although he can judge the works of others correctly, they excite but faint interest. But the sickening weight that overpowers one and holds him back, like the hand of a strong man, is the greatest obstacle. He might ignore his lack of interest. A man in health warms with his subject, and takes great pleasure in it. The opium eater remains passive and the same all the way along, and ends feeling that he has not done justice to his natural ability, and chafes with grief, disappointment, and despair at his confined and weakened powers. As a structure, he is riddled "from turret to foundation-stone." To expect as much from a man in this condition as from one in the healthful enjoyment of all his faculties, shocks the sense of justice,--it is "to reason most absurd." Would you expect grapes from a hyperborean iceberg?--figs from the Sahara?--palms from Siberia? Would you compare the fettered African with the roving Arabian?--the bond to the free? In sober practice, would you say to the blind, "Copy this writing?"--to the palsied, "Run you this errand,"--to the sick in bed, "Arise, and write a book?" Would you do this? You say it is ridiculous. So was it ridiculous, so was it wrong, to expect from Coleridge constant writing, and more than he accomplished. Why, the human face itself tells the story in a word. The _face_ remains, but the countenance, the expression and divine resemblance, are erased and stricken off. So the body remains, but like a blasted oak, whose hollow trunk contains no sap, and whose withered branches are barren. Coleridge did well,--he did nobly,--and left a legacy the value of which will yet be learned to man's everlasting gain. Numbered with the saints in heaven is the sweet-minded, long-suffering Coleridge. Oh, venerated shade! thy spirit living yet upon the earth has kept mine company in this sad ebb and flow of time. Thy nature, so gentle, so tender, and so true; thy heart so pure; thy whole being so perfect and so high, hath been a lighted torch to me in this my dark estate, travelling up the rugged hill of time, and rolling my stone along; hath been balm to my wounds, wine to my spirit, and hope to my o'er-freighted heart! To know thee as thou wert, my own kindred suffering tearing all prejudice away, is at least one solace ungiven the world at large. Thou hast borne thy part and won thy crown; may the humblest of thy friends join thee at last in the realms of peace! CHAPTER XIV. OPIUM VERSUS SLEEP.--MANNER OF TAKING OPIUM.--DIFFERENT CONSIDERATIONS RELATING TO THE HABIT.--A PROPHETIC WARNING.