Perhaps I might make out a case of palliation; but shall I
speak ingenuously? I confess it, as a besetting infirmity of mine, that
I am too much of an Eudaemonist; I hanker too much after a state of
happiness, both for myself and others; I cannot face misery, whether my
own or not, with an eye of sufficient firmness, and am little capable of
encountering present pain for the sake of any reversionary benefit. On
some other matters I can agree with the gentlemen in the cotton trade
{15} at Manchester in affecting the Stoic philosophy, but not in this.
Here I take the liberty of an Eclectic philosopher, and I look out for
some courteous and considerate sect that will condescend more to the
infirm condition of an opium-eater; that are "sweet men," as Chaucer
says, "to give absolution," and will show some conscience in the penances
they inflict, and the efforts of abstinence they exact from poor sinners
like myself. An inhuman moralist I can no more endure in my nervous
state than opium that has not been boiled. At any rate, he who summons
me to send out a large freight of self-denial and mortification upon any
cruising voyage of moral improvement, must make it clear to my
understanding that the concern is a hopeful one. At my time of life (six-
and-thirty years of age) it cannot be supposed that I have much energy to
spare; in fact, I find it all little enough for the intellectual labours
I have on my hands, and therefore let no man expect to frighten me by a
few hard words into embarking any part of it upon desperate adventures of
morality.
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