“Indeed, no!” exclaimed Henry; “but both the subject and your way of treating it are, I confess, a little new to me.”

“You are surprised to find one who is what is popularly known as a drunkard not so much ashamed of as interested in himself; isn’t that it?  Well, that comes of the introspective literary temperament.  It is only the oyster fascinated by the pearl that is killing it.”

“You should write some ‘Confessions’ after the manner of De Quincey,” said Henry.

“Indeed, I’ve often thought of it, for there’s so much that needs saying on the subject.  There is nothing with which we are at once so familiar and of which we know so little.  For example”—­and now he was quite plainly off again—­“for example, the passion for, I might say the dream of, drink is usually regarded as a sensual appetite, a physical indulgence.  No doubt in its first crude stages it often is so; but soon it becomes something much more strange and abstract.  It becomes a mysterious command, issuing we know not whence.  It is hardly a desire, and it is not so much a joyless, as a quite colourless, obedience to an imperious necessity, decreed by some unknown will.  You might well imagine that I like the taste of this brandy there, as a child is greedily fond of sweetstuff; but it would be quite a mistake.  For my own personal taste, there is no drink like a cup of tea; it is the demon, the strange will that has imposed itself upon me, that has a taste for brandy.

“I sometimes wonder whether we poor drunkards are not the victims of disembodied powers of the air who, by some chance, have contracted a craving for earthly liquors, and can only satisfy that craving by fastening themselves upon some unhappy human organism.  At times there comes an intermission of the command, as mysterious almost as the command itself.  For weeks together we give no thought to our tyrant.  We grow gay and young and innocent again.  We are free,—­so free, we seem to have forgotten that we were ever enslaved.  Then suddenly one day we hear the call again.  We cry for mercy; we throw ourselves on our knees in prayer.  We clutch sacred relics; we conjure the aid of holy memories; we say over to ourselves the names of the dead we have loved:  but it is all in vain—­surely we are dragged to the feet of that inexorable will, surely we submit ourselves once more to the dark dominion.”

Henry listened, fascinated, and a little frightened.

“The longer I live, the more I grow convinced that this is no mere fancy, but actual science,” Mr. Gerard continued; “for, again, you might well imagine that one drinks for the dreams or other illusory effects it is said to produce.  At first, perhaps, yes; but such effects speedily pass away, they pass away indeed before the tyranny has established itself, while it would still be possible to shake it off.  No, the dreams of drink are poor things, not worth having at the best.  Indeed, there are no dreams worth having, believe me, but those of youth and health and spring-water.”