remorse is the most terrible torture known.  The wind cries in the dark and the trees moan; the agonized man who lies waiting the morning thinks of the times when the whistle of the wind was the gladdest of sounds to him; his old ambitions wake from their trance and come to gaze on him reproachfully; he sees that fortune (and mayhap fame) have passed him by, and all through his own fault; he may whine about imaginary wrongs during the day when he is maudlin, but the night fairly throttles him if he attempts to turn away from the stark truth, and he remains pinned face to face with his beautiful, dead self.  Then, with a start, he remembers that he has no friends.  When he crawls out in the morning to steady his hand he will be greeted with filthy public-house cordiality by the animals to whose level he has dragged himself, but of friends he has none.  Now, is it not marvellous?  Drink is so jolly; prosperous persons talk with such a droll wink about vagaries which they or their friends committed the night before; it is all so very, very lightsome!  The brewers and distillers who put the mirth-inspiring beverages into the market receive more consideration, and a great deal more money, than an average European prince;—­and yet the poor dry-rotted unfortunate whose decadence we are tracing is like a leper in the scattering effects which he produces during his shaky promenade.  He is indeed alone in the world, and brandy or gin is his only counsellor and comforter.  As to character, the last rag of that goes when the first sign of indolence is seen; the watchers have eyes like cats, and the self-restrained men among them have usually seen so many fellows depart to perdition that every stage in the process of degradation is known to them.  No! there is not a friend, and dry, clever gentlemen say, “Yes.  Good chap enough once on a day, but can’t afford to be seen with him now.”  The soaker is amazed to find that women are afraid of him a little, and shrink from him—­in fact, the only people who are cordial with him are the landlords, among whom he is treated as a sort of irresponsible baby.  “I may as well have his money as anybody else.  He shan’t get outrageously drunk here, but he may as well moisten his clay and keep himself from being miserable.  If he gets the jumps in the night that’s his look-out.”  That is the soaker’s friend.  The man is not unkind; he is merely hardened, and his morals, like those of nearly all who are connected with the great Trade, have suffered a twist.  When the soaker’s last penny has gone, he will receive from the landlord many a contemptuously good-natured gift—­pity it is that the lost wastrel cannot be saved before that weariful last penny huddles in the corner of his pocket.

While the harrowing descent goes on our suffering wretch is gradually changing in appearance:  the piggish element that is latent in most of us comes out in him; his morality is sapped; he will beg, borrow, lie, and steal; and, worst of all, he is a butt for thoughtless young fellows.  The last is the worst cut of all, for the battered, bloodless, sunken ne’er-do-well can remember only too vividly his own gallant youth, and the thought of what he was drives him crazed.