COMING OUT OF THE SPREE.
THERE was one man who went to sleep with the 4th of July in his arms, under
the impression that it was an angel from heaven; and awoke the next morning
to find he was being strangled by a demon. He was not what is called a drinking
man; but he loved the glass from convivial motives. He was out all day on
the 4th, being one of the fire-men. He didn't intend to drink much, but just
enough to feel good. What he despised above ground was to get drunk himself
while his cooler friends kept comparatively sober. He was going to look out
for this to-day, and guard against injurious excesses. This he determined
before he had taken any thing. With the first glass down, a little dissipation
lost its harsh aspect. Besides, those with him appeared to think just as
he did. They were not the cold-blooded sort of folks, but
believed in having
a good time without any reference to the result. They weren't the sort that
would get him drunk, and then make fun of it the next day. Their freedom
encouraged him to proceed. As the day progressed, he grew less guarded, and
more communicative. He met and got acquainted with a number of brother-firemen
visiting town, and received each fresh acquaintance with a heartiness that
must have been eminently gratifying. His heart expanded like debt as the
hours rolled on. He wanted to treat everybody. More than that, he was delighted
with everybody, and was particular that everybody should drink. He didn't
believe in doing these things on a half-shell; and kindly continued to assure
everybody in the company of the fact, although it was evident that talking
was becoming painfully difficult to him. He grew more and more affectionate
and more and more demonstrative with that excellent trait as the night drew
near. Once in a while he came across one who was a veteran in the art of
drinking, and who could not be beguiled into promiscuous inundation of self
and sweet confidences. These stony faces tended to make him uneasy, and finally
to fill him with pain. After a while, the light of intelligence began to
flicker in its socket; and, after a few fitful flashes, the flame went out
together.
It was the morning of the 5th when he awoke, and quite early in the morning
at that; for the inexperienced
drunkard is a light sleeper. There was a confused
expression on his mind, as if the broad daylight which struck his eyes had
also suddenly pierced to his brain; but the awful fact that he was awake,
and not dreaming, came upon him with terrific, flattening force. This was
his own room. How came he here? He had no memory of reaching it himself.
Was he brought here? Sickening thought! Who brought him? Who has seen him?
Any of the neighbors? Any of his friends? What did he do? What awful silliness
was he guilty of during that carousal? He would give the world to know every
circumstance of his conduct during that fearful day, and yet recoils in horror
from the thought. His head throbs, his flesh is feverish, his tongue swollen,
and his joints ache. He tries his best to recall every detail of yesterday's
debauch. If he can only remember every thing he has done, he is comparatively
safe from the innuendoes of those who saw him, as he can prepare for every
attack. But he can make no satisfactory survey of the performance. He remembers
how he started off; but things grow more and more indistinct in consecutive
occurrence; while here and there flash out incidents which cause his heart
to sink within him, and his face to burn with shame,—sentiments that he
expressed, promises that he gave, invitations that he extended, exhibitions
of himself made before sober people;
while the darkness of his mind is peopled
with a score of horrid absurdities whose nature he cannot fathom, but which
he is confident some one saw and remembers. Be tries to hope for the best,
and is momentarily buoyed up, only to be cast down farther than before. Then
he curses the drink with penitential earnestness, and solemnly swears he
will never touch another drop. There is comfort in this resolution; but he
no sooner grasps it than it is suddenly wrenched away from him in an overpowering
flood of recollections of his folly. Again he becomes desperate, and determines
to brave it out, and to show that the debauch is not a new thing to him by
going on another in the same company. But remorse comes in, and kicks this
prop from under him; and he rolls over, and groans in the agony of his despair.
Why was he such an ass? Why was he such an idiot? Would that he had died
before he saw the men whom yesterday he hugged, whom at no other time would
he have noticed, and whom now he loathes with all the strength of his being!
What a head, what a mouth, what a mind, that man carries with him all day
of the 5th of July! He shrinks from going out on the street; and yet he dare
not stay in all day, lest those who were with him will think that he is
completely floored. And so he goes out among his fellow-men, shrinking from
their gaze, avoiding those places which he remembers visiting,
and wondering
with exquisite agony if those he passes were distinguished by his presence,
and what phase of his awful idiocy he exhibited there. At every sound and
voice he starts, expecting every moment to meet or be overtaken by some one
who witnessed his shame and is only too glad to recall the particulars to
his attention. He is settled in no purpose but one; and that is, to shut
square off on drinking. Never again will another drop of liquor pass his
lips, never,—never again. And let no man pull down his vest.
