death. Neither spoke, but
each was drawn close to the other, since both had kissed the rosebud
plucked by Sylvia's fingers.

CHAPTER VIII. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

October 21st.--I am safe for another six months if I am careful, for my
last bout lasted longer than I expected. I suppose one of these days I
shall have a paroxysm that will kill me. I shall not regret it.

I wonder if this familiar of mine--I begin to detest the
expression--will accuse me of endeavouring to make a case for myself
if I say that I believe my madness to be a disease? I do believe it.
I honestly can no more help getting drunk than a lunatic can help
screaming and gibbering. It would be different with me, perhaps, were
I a contented man, happily married, with children about me, and family
cares to distract me. But as I am--a lonely, gloomy being, debarred from
love, devoured by spleen, and tortured with repressed desires--I become
a living torment to myself. I think of happier men, with fair wives
and clinging children, of men who are loved and who love, of Frere for
instance--and a hideous wild beast seems to stir within me, a monster,
whose cravings cannot be satisfied, can only be drowned in stupefying
brandy.

Penitent and shattered, I vow to lead a new life; to forswear spirits,
to drink nothing but water. Indeed, the sight and smell of brandy make
me ill. All goes well for some weeks, when I grow nervous, discontented,
moody. I smoke, and am soothed. But moderation is not to be thought of;
little by little I increase the dose of tobacco. Five pipes a day become
six or seven. Then I count up to ten and twelve, then drop to three or
four, then mount to eleven at a leap; then lose count altogether. Much
smoking excites the brain. I feel clear, bright, gay. My tongue is
parched in the morning, however, and I use liquor to literally "moisten
my clay". I drink wine or beer in moderation, and all goes well. My
limbs regain their suppleness, my hands their coolness, my brain its
placidity. I begin to feel that I have a will. I am confident, calm,
and hopeful. To this condition succeeds one of the most frightful
melancholy. I remain plunged, for an hour together, in a stupor of
despair. The earth, air, sea, all appear barren, colourless. Life is a
burden. I long to sleep, and sleeping struggle to awake, because of the
awful dreams which flap about me in the darkness. At night I cry, "Would
to God it were mor