The opium trade has dishonoured the name of God among the heathen more extensively than any other traffic of ancient or modern times. ‘The flowing poison’, the ‘vile dirt’, ‘the dire calamity brought upon us by foreigners’, these, and a hundred like them, are the names it bears, in the language of this empire. Its foreign origin has been bruited everywhere, and its introducers and their character branded in every city and hamlet throughout China.

What is it that has made the provinces of Malwa, Bihar, and Benares the chief localities of the opium cultivation? Why are vast tracts of land in those districts, formerly occupied with other articles, now covered with poppies? Although so wide-spread, why is the culture still rapidly on the increase?

The traffic is the creature of the East India Company, itself the organ of the British government. The revenues of India, the opium branch included, have repeatedly received the sanction of Parliament. The opium manufacture, and the trade inseparable from it, have received the highest sanction bestowable in one country, on an article proscribed in another. The British merchant went out from the high places of legislation to attend the sales of the East India Company. Authority, example, sympathy, were on his side; what cared he for the interdicts of the strange, despotic, repulsive government of China? Misled by Parliament he was confirmed in error by the decisions of society. No order of society was proof against this illusion. Will not the Stanhopes, the Noels, the Harrises take up this argument and tell the people of England that in the application of the principle of benevolence they are below the Chinese? Ought not this uprising of a Pagan empire against the demon of seduction, to react with power on Christians in the west? My oldest friend in China – a man familiar with the language – says: ‘I have talked with many hundreds about the use of the drug, and never found one, to defend, or even palliate it.’ Among all its victims it has no advocate. In England the licensed and gilded gin-palace courts every passer-by; the Chinese smoker threads his way to his secret haunt guilty and ashamed.

It is estimated that there are 80,000 chests of the drug in existence. Under this enormous accumulation, it is evident that the cultivation of the poppy, throughout India, should immediately cease. The lands which have been engrossed by this deleterious culture, should be returned to uses not incompatible with human life, virtue, and happiness.

Already, we are told, the use of the drug is insinuating itself into the habits of a morbid portion of Western society. (The consumption of Great Britain for 1831-32 was over 28,000 lbs per annum.) Such a taste once spread and fixed, by transmission through one or two generations, how shall it be eradicated?

It is undeniable that some of the most important ends of Providence in our day, are being brought about by the agency of national tastes. The manner in which England and China are and have long been, bound together by the taste for tea is a good instance. And let it be remembered that the same Providence which uses these peculiar predilections as means of national friendship can turn them also to purposes of social chastisement. May it not happen that any such retributions – the recoil of a depraved taste, the reaction of temptation on the tempter – await the Western states in commerce with China.