1860.] Effects of Opium Eating. pose alone. The grown-up man who is enthralled by this vice is a sufficiently pitiable spectacle, but what shall we say of the child who, as sometimes happens, has been drawn by the example of its elders into a premature acquaintance with this baneful source of comfort? There is nothing so revolting, because there 18 nothing SO thoroughly alien from the simplicity and freshness of childhood, as to see one of tender years abandoned to the self-concentrated indulgence which we are only accustomed to associate in imagination with the hardened or worn-out man of mature age. The only subject which De Quincey seems to have clung to while at this nadir of his energies, was political economy, which he had taken up for the first time and deeply studied in 1811. That a branch of knowledge dealing so much with the realities of human affairs should have formed the chief mental food of one who was dreaming away his existence, might seem wonderful enough, if we did not recollect that the science is a deductive one, and capable of being pursued to a great extent apart from experience, or even from books. Ricardo's work it was which roused him to even this degree of exertion, and he thought out and dictated some observations which he called Prolegomena to all Future Systems of Political Economy. But it required a preface; as he could not accomplish this, the book never appeared. To his own account of his state at this time, it would be impossible to add anything either in the way of description or condemnation: In thus describing and illustrating my intellectual torpor, I use terms that apply, more or less, to every part of the years during which I was under the Circean spells of opium. But for misery and suffering, I might, indeed, be said to have existed in a dormant state. I seldom could prevail upon myself to write a letter; an answer of a few words, to any that I received, was the utmost that I could accomplish; and often that not until the letter had lain for weeks, or even months, on my writing-table. Without the aid of Mmy whole 791 domestic economy, whatever became of political economy, must have gone into irretrievable confusion. I shall not afterwards allude to this part of the case; it is one, however, which the opium-eater will find, in the end, most oppressive and tormenting, from the sense of incapacity and feebleness, from the direct embarrassments incident to the neglect or procrastination of each day's appropriate labours, and from the remorse which must often exasperate the stings of these evils to a conscientious mind. The opiumeater loses none of his moral sensibilities or aspirations; he wishes and longs as earnestly as ever to realise what he believes possible, and feels to be exacted by duty; but his intellectual apprehension of what is possible infinitely outruns his power, not of execution only, but even of proposing or willing. He lies under a world's weight of incubus and nightmare; he lies in sight of all that he would fain perform, just as a man forcibly confined to his bed by the mortal languor of paralysis, who is compelled to witness injury or outrage offered to some object of his tenderest love:-he would lay down his life if he might but rise and walk; but he is powerless as an infant, and cannot so much as make an effort to move. We fear that this moral prostration alone would not have led De Quincey to do what was necessary to shake it off; indeed, it seems a psychological paradox to imagine the prevalence of a particular state of volition acting as a motive for getting rid of itself; if the will is annihilated, what is left to act? But it had not quite come to this; and the motive of actual misery was now added as a stimulant to some exertion. The dreams occasioned by opium became so frightful and so oppressive that it seemed as if no one could endure them and live. Fatiguing splendour, suicidal gloom, the tormenting sense of endless duration, the overwhelming panorama of a whole life's events crowded into a few long-drawn moments— ideas gathered from the majesty of style in books, from the elaboration of architecture in buildings-visions of mirage-like lakes, expanding into oceans, paved with human facesof oriental scenery and mythology -of antediluvian monsters multiplied into endless forms of loathsome spawning life,-succeeded each other in aspects of constantly increasing horror, till sleep grew a thought of dread, and other physical derangements seemed impending, from which escape would soon become impossible. Convinced that nothing but death or lunacy lay on one hand, on the other the unspeakable torture of renunciation, he summoned up resolution for the latter course, and through decreasing stages at length weaned himself from his thraldom- but shattered in body, and with a mind trained, as it were, to enter on its threads of dreadful association whenever sleep delivered it from the control of the active powers. Soon after this recovery he contributed to the London Magazine the papers which were both the firstfruits of his mind, and the productions by which he has ever been most widely known-the Confessions of an Opium-Eater. This was, we believe, his first appearance in print. From this time, however, he continued to write to almost the close of his life, though with occasional interruptions, during which he had allowed his habit of opium eating to gain renewed ascendancy. It would perhaps be practicable, by a careful search through the periodical literature of the last forty years, to fix the chronology of his various writings; but no good purpose would be served by the accomplishment of such a task. When a man who is afterwards remarkable, begins to write at an early age, it is interesting to go through his works in the order in which they were written, because we are thus able to trace the growth of his mind. In the case of one who has always been a student and thinker, but takes to writing only at the age of thirty-six, we have very little in the way of growth' to investigate. The man's mind is formed, and all that we learn from knowing the dates of his compositions is, that he happened to have his attention directed to certain subjects at certain times; or, that a particular subject was popular in a certain year. Indeed, in the case of men who have spent the years between twenty and thirty-six in reading and reflection, it is likely enough that their first works may be the best. With De Quincey his earliest effort was, if not the best, certainly the most remarkable and original In the sequel to it, the Suspiria de Profundis, written in 1845, there is a more sustained flow of elevated style, and a greater quantity-in bulk-of thrilling description; and in some of his later Essays there is more neatness, more evidence of literary ease and practice, and a power of saying the exact thing he means to say, which we do not so often observe in the Confessions; but in the latter there are passages which in respect of powerful writing he never afterwards surpassed. And though his writing is unequal, this is not to be attributed to anything in the nature of real improvement or decline, but sometimes to the necessities of periodical composition, sometimes, probably, to his depressed physical state. Therefore, though we think the arrangement he himself adopted in his own edition an unnecessarily elaborate one, we do not desiderate, as is generally the case, the preservation of the strict chronological order. Of his life after it began to be a literary one, we have not much to say, for it was passed either in total retirement among his own family, or with friends who have been more reticent of his errors and eccentricities than he has been of theirs. His residence, from the time we have mentioned up to 1832, was chiefly in Westmoreland; after which date he removed to a cottage at Lasswade, near Edinburgh, the same in which Scott passed the first years of his marriage; and which De Quincey left only for an occasional visit to Wilson or some other friend at Edinburgh. He had lost his wife some time before his death. While the present edition of his works was passing through the press, he lived at the northern metropolis entirely; and there on the 7th December last he died in the presence of two of his family. Of his writings we propose to speak next month. H. W. S. THE GLACIERS OF THE ALPS.* DR. TYNDALL'S Excursions among the Alps, and his Observations on their Glaciers, is a very interesting volume, the perusal of which can be unreservedly recommended to every one interested in the magnificent objects and phenomena on which it treats. Switzerland is indeed a land of beauty. We are disposed to believe that it presents combinations of objects of which the external loveliness cannot be exceeded. While its mountain outlines are lines of beauty and sublimity, the mountains themselves are not too high for many of them to be seen from a single point of view in charming combination, while their higher ranges are still high enough to secure a perpetual covering of that unsullied snow which alone can form a surface capable of reflecting in all its purity and brilliancy the light with which the mountain tops are illumined when Sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought, In recent years, since the facilities otherwise know of the nature and constitution of the mighty masses from which they flow. It would seem scarcely possible that while the eye of the traveller rests on the outward beauty of these snowclad heights, his mind should not feel some curiosity to penetrate, as it were, beneath their surface, and examine their interior structure. For this purpose, he must interrogate the glaciers; and the moment he does so with scientific intelligence, he will find these mountains possessing for him a new interest, widely different from that which they can possess for one who regards them merely with admiration of their external beauty. He will soon be led to recognise the fact that the perpetual snows are perpetual only in form, while their substance is ever changing; and that though they appear as immovable as the rocks on which they rest, every particle of them is in motion, and in one only of those phases of existence through which it passes in the infinitely diversified path of its earthly wanderings. It is converted from water into vapour by the sun's heat, and elevated into the atmosphere, whence it is deposited as snow on the mountain tops; converted into ice, it descends in the glacier; it is again converted into water, and descends to the ocean, from which it may have been originally elevated, while the bounding outlines of these accumulated masses appear unchangeable. This conservation of form, combined with change of substance, brings down the mountain snow, as it were, to a comparison, not only with the more dignified and persistent forms of organic life, but even with the ephemeral beings which flit away their existence in the briefest span of time. Both depend on the vivifying energy which the sun dispenses around them, only that the cycle of change * The Glaciers of the Alps. Being a Narrative of Excursions and Ascents, an Account of the Origin and Phenomena of Glaciers, and an Exposition of the Physical Principles to which they are related. By John Tyndall, F.R.S. London: John Murray, Albemarle-street. 1860. may be reckoned in one case by hours, in the other by centuries. The geologist will possibly be led to carry this train of thought still further, and extend his prophetic eye to that period so remote that we venture not to give numerical expression to the intervening time, when not only the snows but the mountains themselves shall have been swept away like the ephemeral existences of which we have spoken, and leave no trace behind them, but such as the geologist now so frequently recognises of those similar but far greater changes which have taken place in the times which are past. But we must not forget that we have here to deal more immediately with the present than with the past or the future. glacial theories; while those who delight in contemplating the beauties of external nature, may be assured that it is the production of one fully capable of appreciating them. The author has given accounts of five ascents which he made up three of the highest mountains in Switzerland-one to the summit of Mont Blanc in 1857; a second up the Finsteraarhorn, two ascents of Monte Rosa, and a second of Mont Blanc, all in 1858. The first ascent of the latter mountain with Mr. Hirst and a single guide, Simond, appears to have been one of the most difficult. The second ascent was made under the guidance of Balmat, with several porters to carry the scientific apparatus and other things required in the ascent. After sleeping at the cabin on the Grand Mulets, the party set out early in the morning towards the summit of the mountain. The following extract from the account of this ascent affords a good specimen of Dr. Tyndall's style, and of the feeling with which he regarded the magnificent scenes that presented themselves: The establishment of an Alpine Club, which publishes the memoirs of such of its members as like to contribute them, is not without its significance, as an indication of the extended interest among Eng lish travellers in Alpine scenes and Alpine phenomena. Its objects may not be scientific, and the majority of its members may possibly delight more in the hardy exploits of the mountaineer than in the patient, and not unfrequently more dangerous, explorations of the man of science in these glacial regions. Still, such a society cannot be without its influence in encouraging a wider interest in these Alpine mountains. Dr. Tyndall is one of its most active members, and one of the principal contributors to its published memoirs. His work, deeply into the snow. which is now under our notice, has appeared at the right time, and appears to us to be of the right character to extend and elevate the general feeling of interest in the region of which it treats. author will necessarily secure the sympathies of the great majority of Alpine travellers by his daring exploits as a mountaineer, and as the first, and we believe still the only man who has stood alone on the topmost point of Monte Rosa. Further, the work may be recommended to the scientific glacialist, as containing by far the best general account of the existing state of Its And now the sky began to brighten towards dawn, with that deep and calm beauty which suggests the thought of adoration to the human mind. Helped by the contemplation of the brightening east, which seemed to lend lightness to our muscles, we cheerily breasted the steep slope up to the Grand Plateau. The snow here was deep, and each of our porters took the lead in turn. We paused upon the Grand Plateau and had breakfast; digging, while we halted, our feet Thence up to the corridor, by a totally different route from that pursued by Mr. Hirst and myself the year previously; the slope was steep, but it had not a precipice for its boundary. Deep steps were necessary for a time, but when we reached the summit our ascent became more gentle. The eastern sky continued to brighten, and by its illumination the Grand Plateau and its bounding heights were lovely beyond conception. The snow was of the purest white, and the glacier, as it pushed itself on all sides into the basin, was riven by fissures filled with a coerulean light, which deepened to inky gloom as the vision descended into them. The edges were overhung with fretted cornices, from which depended long clear icicles, tapering from 1860.] Mountain Ascent and Prospect. their abutments like spears of crystal. The distant fissures, across which the vision ranged obliquely without descending into them, emitted that magical firmamental shimmer which, contrasted with the pure white of the snow, was inexpressibly lovely. Near to us also grand castles of ice reared themselves, some erect, some overturned, with clear cut sides, striped by the courses of the annual snows, while high above the séracs of the plateau rose their still grander brothers of the Dôme du Gouté. There was a nobility in this glacier scene which I think I have never seen surpassed ;-a strength of nature, and yet a tenderness, which at once raised and purified the soul. The gush of the direct sunlight could add nothing to this heavenly beauty; indeed I thought its yellow beams a profanation as they crept down from the humps of the Dromedary, and invaded more and more the solemn purity of the realm below. Our way lay for a time amid fine fissures with blue walls, until at length we reached the edge of one which elicited other sentiments than those of admiration. It must be crossed. At the opposite side was a high and steep bank of ice which prolonged itself downwards, and ended in a dependent eave of snow which quite overhung the chasm, and reached to within about a yard of our edge of the crevasse. Balmat came forward with his axe, and tried to get a footing on the eave: he beat it gently, but the axe went through the snow, forming an aperture through which the darkness of the chasm was rendered visible. Our guide was quite free, without rope or any other means of security; he beat down the snow so as to form a kind of stirrup, and upon this he stepped. The stirrup gave way, it was right over the centre of the chasm, but with wonderful tact and coolness he contrived to get sufficient purchase from the yielding mass to toss himself back to the side of the chasm. The rope was now brought forward and tied round the waist of one of the porters; another step was cautiously made in the eave of snow, the man was helped across, and lessened his own weight by means of his hatchet. He gradually got footing on the face of the steep, which he mounted by escaliers; and on reaching a sufficient height he cut two large steps in which his feet might rest securely. Here he laid his breast against the sloping wall, and another person was sent forward, who drew himself up by the rope which was attached to the leader. Thus we all passed, each of us in turn bearing the strain of his successor upon the rope; it was our last difficulty. 795 The following description of the view which our author enjoyed from the top of Finsteraarhorn may also be added: It is difficult to convey any just impression of the scene from the summit of the Finsteraarhorn: one might, it is true, arrange the visible mountains in a list, stating their heights and distances, and leaving the imagination to furnish them with peaks and pinnacles, to build the precipices, polish the snow, rend the glaciers, and cap the highest summits with appropriate clouds. But if imagination did its best in this way, it would hardly exceed the reality, and would certainly omit many details which contribute to the grandeur of the scene itself. The various shapes of the mountains, some grand, some beautiful, bathed in yellow sunshine, or lying black and riven under the frown of impervious cumuli; the pure white peaks, cornices, bosses, and amphitheatres; the blue ice rifts, the stratified snow-precipices, the glaciers issuing from the hollows of the eternal hills, and stretching like frozen serpents through the sinuous valleys; the lower cloud field -itself an empire of vaporous hillsshining with dazzling whiteness, while here and there grim summits, brown by nature, and black by contrast, pierce through it like volcanic islands through a shining sea,-add to this the consciousness of one's position which clings to one unconsciously, that undercurrent of emotion which surrounds the question of one's personal safety, at a height of more than 14,000 feet above the sea, and which is increased by the weird strange sound of the wind surging with the full deep boom of the distant sea against the precipice behind, or rising to higher cadences as it forces itself through the crannies of the weatherworn rocks,-all conspire to render the scene from the Finsteraarhorn worthy of the monarch of the Bernese Alps. The following passage from the account of the first ascent of Monte Rosa will also be read with interest, as exhibiting at least an apparent danger which had to be encountered, more than usually striking to the imagination. From the vast boss which constitutes the lower portion of Monte Rosa cliffy edges run upwards to the summit. Were the snow removed from these we should, I doubt not, see them as toothed or serrated crags, justifying the term 'kamm,' or comb,' applied to such edges by the Germans. Our way now lay along such ་ |