1827.] The Philosophy of Drunkenness. COS 



" When the drunkard is put to bed, let us suppose that his faculties are not 

 totally absorbed in apoplectic stupor; let us suppose that he still possesses con- 

 sciousness and feeling, though these are both disordered ; then begins " the tug 

 of war ;" then comes the misery which is doomed to succeed his previous raptures. 

 No sooner is his head laid upon the pillow than it is seized with the strangest 

 throbbing. His heart beats quick and hard against the ribs. A noise like the 

 distant fall of a cascade, or rushing of a river, is heard in his ears. Sough sough 

 sough, goes the sound. His senses now become more drowned and stupified. 

 A dim recollection of his carousals, like a shadowy and indistinct dream, passes 

 before the mind. He still hears, as in echo, the cries and laughter of his com- 

 panions. Wild fantastic fancies accumulate thickly around the brain. His giddi- 

 ness is greater than ever; and he feels as if in a ship tossed upon a heaving sea. 

 At last he drops insensibly into a profound slumber." 



Mr. Macnish notices the fact that the giddiness of intoxication is always 

 greater in darkness than in the light, but professes himself unable to declare 

 .the reason. We take it that, in general, the mind is less steady in its bear- 

 ings, and less firm, in darkness than in the light. 



" In the morning he awakes in a high fever. The whole body is parched ; the 

 palms of the hands, in particular, are like leather. His head is often violently 

 painful. He feels excessive thirst ; while his tongue is white, dry, and stiff. The 

 whole inside of the mouth is likewise hot and constricted, and the throat often sore. 

 Then look at his eyes how sickly, dull, and languid. The fire, which first lighted 

 them up the evening before, is all gone. A stupor, like that of the last stage of 

 drunkenness, still clings about them, and they are affected by the light. The com- 

 plexion sustains as great a change: it is no longer flushed with gaiety and excita- 

 tion, but pale and wayworn, indicating a profound mental and bodily exhaustion. 

 There is probably sickness, and the appetite is totally gone. Even yet the delirium 

 of intoxication has not left him, for his head still rings, his heart still throbs vio- 

 lently; and if he attempt getting up, he stumbles with giddiness. The mind also 

 is sadly depressed, and the proceedings of the previous night are painfully remem- 

 bered. Ho is sorry for his conduct, promises solemnly never again so to commit 

 himself, and calls impatiently for something to quench his thirst. Such are the 

 usual phenomena of a fit of drunkenness." 



The varieties of temper and conduct of drunkards are curiously pointed 

 out: 



" Some drunkards retain their senses after the physical powers are quite exhausted. 

 Others, even when the mind is wrought to a pitch leading to the most absurd 

 actions, preserve a degree of cunning and observation which enables them to 

 elude the tricks which their companions are preparing to play upon them. In such 

 cases they display great address, and take the first opportunity cf retaliating; or, 

 if such does not occur, of slipping out of the room unobserved and getting away. 

 Some, while the whole mind seems locked up in the stupor of forgetfulness, hear 

 all that is going on. No one should ever presume on the intoxicated state of 

 another to talk of him detractingly in his presence. While apparently deprived 

 of all sensation, he may be an attentive listener; and whatever is said, though 

 unheeded at the moment, is not forgotten afterwards, but treasured carefully up in 

 the memory. Much discord and ill-will frequently arise from such imprudence. 



" The generality of people are apt to talk of their private affairs when intoxicated. 

 They then reveal the most deeply hidden secrets to their companions. Others 

 have their minds so happily constituted that nothing escapes them. They are, even 

 in their most unguarded moments, secret and close as the grave. 



'* The natural disposition may be better discovered in drunkenness than at any 

 other time. In modern society, life is all a disguise. Every man walks in mas- 

 querade, and his most intimate friend very often does not know his real character. 

 Many wear smiles constantly upon their cheeks whose hearts are unprincipled 

 and treacherous. Many with violent tempers have all the external calm and soft- 

 ness of charity itself. Some speak always with sympathy, who, at soul, are full of 

 gall and bitterness. Intoxication tears off the veil, and sets each in its true light, 



