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swear 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 morn-
ing, 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 morning!’ 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 deep-
er 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 sap-