ning!" In the morning, "Would to God it were evening!"
I loathe myself, and all around me. I am nerveless, passionless, bowed
down with a burden like the burden of Saul. I know well what will
restore me to life and ease--restore me, but to cast me back again into
a deeper fit of despair. I drink. One glass--my blood is warmed, my
heart leaps, my hand no longer shakes. Three glasses--I rise with hope
in my soul, the evil spirit flies from me. I continue--pleasing images
flock to my brain, the fields break into flower, the birds into song,
the sea gleams sapphire, the warm heaven laughs. Great God! what man
could withstand a temptation like this?

By an effort, I shake off the desire to drink deeper, and fix my
thoughts on my duties, on my books, on the wretched prisoners. I succeed
perhaps for a time; but my blood, heated by the wine which is at once my
poison and my life, boils in my veins. I drink again, and dream. I feel
all the animal within me stirring. In the day my thoughts wander to all
monstrous imaginings. The most familiar objects suggest to me loathsome
thoughts. Obscene and filthy images surround me. My nature seems
changed. By day I feel myself a wolf in sheep's clothing; a man
possessed by a devil, who is ready at any moment to break out and tear
him to pieces. At night I become a satyr. While in this torment I at
once hate and fear myself. One fair face is ever before me, gleaming
through my hot dreams like a flying moon in the sultry midnight of a
tropic storm. I dare not trust myself in the presence of those whom
I love and respect, lest my wild thoughts should find vent in wilder
words. I lose my humanity. I am a beast. Out of this depth there is but
one way of escape. Downwards. I must drench the monster I have awakened
until he sleeps again. I drink and become oblivious. In these last
paroxysms there is nothing for me but brandy. I shut myself up alone and
pour down my gullet huge draughts of spirit. It mounts to my brain. I am
a man again! and as I regain my manhood, I topple over--dead drunk.

But the awakening! Let me not paint it. The delirium, the fever, the
self-loathing, the prostration, the despair. I view in the looking-glass
a haggard face, with red eyes. I look down upon shaking hands, flaccid
muscles, and shrunken limbs. I speculate if I shall ever be one of those
grotesque and melancholy beings, with bleared eyes and running noses,
swollen bellies and shrunken legs! Ugh!--it is too likel