PHENOMENA OF DRUNKENNESS.
The consequences of drunkenness are dreadful, but the pleasures of
getting drunk are certainly ecstatic. While the illusion lasts, happiness
is complete; care and melancholy are thrown to the wind; and Elysium,
with all its glories, descends upon the dazzled imagination of the
drinker.
Some authors have spoken of the pleasure of being completely drunk; this,
however, is not the most exquisite period. The time is when a person is
neither “drunken nor sober, but neighbour to both,” as Bishop Andrews
says in his “Ex—ale—tation of Ale.” The moment is when the ethereal
emanations begin to float around the brain—when the soul is commencing
to expand its wings and rise from earth—when the tongue feels itself
somewhat loosened in the mouth, and breaks the previous taciturnity, if
any such existed.
What are the sensations of incipient drunkenness? First, an unusual
serenity prevails over the mind, and the soul of the votary is filled
with a placid satisfaction. By degrees he is sensible of a soft and
not unmusical humming in his ears, at every pause of the conversation.
He seems, to himself, to wear his head lighter than usual upon his
shoulders. Then a species of obscurity, thinner than the finest mist,
passes before his eyes, and makes him see objects rather indistinctly.
The lights begin to dance and appear double. A gaiety and warmth are felt
at the same time about the heart. The imagination is expanded, and filled
with a thousand delightful images. He becomes loquacious, and pours
forth, in enthusiastic language, the thoughts which are born, as it were,
within him.
Now comes a spirit of universal contentment with himself and all the
world. He thinks no more of misery: it is dissolved in the bliss of
the moment. This is the acmé of the fit—the ecstasy is now perfect. As
yet the sensorium is in tolerable order: it is only shaken, but the
capability of thinking with accuracy still remains. About this time, the
drunkard pours out all the secrets of his soul. His qualities, good or
bad, come forth without reserve; and now, if at any time, the human heart
may be seen into. In a short period, he is seized with a most inordinate
propensity to talk nonsense, though he is perfectly conscious of doing
so. He also commits many foolish things, knowing them to be foolish.
The power of volition, that faculty which keeps the will subordinate to
the judgment, seems totally weakened. The most delightful time seems
to be that immediately before becoming very talkative. When this takes
place, a man turns ridiculous, and his mirth, though more boisterous, is
not so exquisite. At first the intoxication partakes of sentiment, but,
latterly, it becomes merely animal.
After this the scene thickens. The drunkard’s imagination gets disordered
with the most grotesque conceptions. Instead of moderating his drink, he
pours it down more rapidly than ever: glass follows glass with reckless
energy. His head becomes perfectly giddy. The candles burn blue, or
green, or yellow; and where there are perhaps only three on the table, he
sees a dozen. According to his temperament, he is amorous, or musical,
or quarrelsome. Many possess a most extraordinary wit; and a great flow
of spirits is a general attendant. In the latter stages, the speech is
thick, and the use of the tongue in a great measure lost. His mouth is
half open, and idiotic in the expression; while his eyes are glazed,
wavering, and watery. He is apt to fancy that he has offended some one of
the company, and is ridiculously profuse with his apologies. Frequently
he mistakes one person for another, and imagines that some of those
before him are individuals who are, in reality, absent or even dead. The
muscular powers are, all along, much affected: this indeed happens before
any great change takes place in the mind, and goes on progressively
increasing. He can no longer walk with steadiness, but totters from
side to side. The limbs become powerless, and inadequate to sustain his
weight. He is, however, not always sensible of any deficiency in this
respect: and while exciting mirth by his eccentric motions, imagines
that he walks with the most perfect steadiness. In attempting to run,
he conceives that he passes over the ground with astonishing rapidity.
To his distorted eyes all men, and even inanimate nature itself, seem
to be drunken, while he alone is sober. Houses reel from side to side
as if they had lost their balance; trees and steeples nod like tipsy
Bacchanals; and the very earth seems to slip from under his feet, and
leave him walking and floundering upon the air. The last stage of
drunkenness is total insensibility. The man tumbles perhaps beneath the
table, and is carried away in a state of stupor to his couch. In this
condition he is said to be _dead drunk_.
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 consciousness 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 strongest 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 companions. Wild fantastic fancies accumulate thickly
around the brain. His giddiness 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.
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 disagreeably affected by the light.
The complexion sustains as great a change: it is no longer flushed with
the gaiety and excitation, 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 violently; 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
remembered. He 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.
In the beginning of intoxication we are inclined to sleep, especially if
we indulge alone. In companies, the noise and opportunity of conversing
prevent this; and when a certain quantity has been drunk, the drowsy
tendency wears away. A person who wishes to stand out well, should never
talk much. This increases the effects of the liquor, and hurries on
intoxication. Hence, every experienced drunkard holds it to be a piece of
prudence to keep his tongue under restraint.
The giddiness of intoxication is always greater in darkness than in the
light. I know of no rational way in which this can be explained; but,
certain it is, the drunkard never so well knows his true condition as
when alone and in darkness. Possibly the noise and light distracted the
mind, and made the bodily sensations be, for the time, in some measure
unfelt.
There are some persons who get sick from drinking even a small quantity;
and this sickness is, upon the whole, a favourable circumstance, as it
proves an effectual curb upon them, however much they may be disposed
to intemperance. In such cases, it will generally be found that the
sickness takes place as soon as vertigo makes its appearance: it seems,
in reality, to be produced by this sensation. This, however, is a rare
circumstance, for though vertigo from ordinary causes has a strong
tendency to produce sickness, that arising from drunkenness has seldom
this effect. The nausea and sickness sometimes occurring in intoxication,
proceed almost always from the surcharged and disordered state of the
stomach, and very seldom from the accompanying giddiness.
Intoxication, before it proceeds too far, has a powerful tendency to
increase the appetite. Perhaps it would be more correct to say, that
inebriating liquors, by stimulating the stomach, have this power. We
often see gluttony and drunkenness combined together at the same time.
This continues till the last stage, when, from overloading and excess of
irritation, the stomach expels its contents by vomiting.
All along, the action of the kidneys is much increased, especially at the
commencement of intoxication. When a large quantity of intoxicating fluid
has been suddenly taken into the stomach, the usual preliminary symptoms
of drunkenness do not appear. An instantaneous stupefaction ensues; and
the person is at once knocked down. This cannot be imputed to distention
of the cerebral vessels, but to a sudden operation on the nervous
branches of the stomach. The brain is thrown into a state of collapse,
and many of its functions suspended. In such cases, the face is not at
first tumid and ruddy, but pale and contracted. The pulse is likewise
feeble, and the body cold and powerless. When re-action takes place,
these symptoms wear off, and those of sanguineous apoplexy succeed;
such as turgid countenance, full but slow pulse, and strong stertorous
breathing. The vessels of the brain have now become filled, and there is
a strong determination to that organ.
Persons of tender or compassionate minds are particularly subject, during
intoxication, to be affected to tears at the sight of any distressing
object, or even on hearing an affecting tale. Drunkenness in such
characters, may be said to melt the heart, and open up the fountains
of sorrow. Their sympathy is often ridiculous, and aroused by the most
trifling causes. Those who have a living imagination, combined with this
tenderness of heart, sometimes conceive fictitious causes of distress,
and weep bitterly at the wo of their own creating.
There are some persons in whom drunkenness calls forth a spirit of
piety, or rather of religious hypocrisy, which is both ludicrous and
disgusting. They become sentimental over their cups; and, while in a
state of debasement most offensive to God and man, they will weep at the
wickedness of the human heart, entreat you to eschew swearing and profane
company, and have a greater regard for the welfare of your immortal soul.
These sanctimonious drunkards seem to consider ebriety as the most venial
of offences.
During a paroxysm of drunkenness, the body is much less sensible to
external stimuli than at other times: it is particularly capable
of resisting cold. Seamen, when absent on shore, are prone to get
intoxicated; and they will frequently lie for hours on the highway,
even in the depth of winter without any bad consequences. A drunk man
seldom shivers from cold. His frame seems steeled against it, and he
holds out with an apathy which is astonishing. The body is, in like
manner, insensible to injuries, such as cuts, bruises, &c. He frequently
receives, in fighting, the most severe blows, without seemingly feeling
them, and without, in fact, being aware of the matter till sobered.
Persons in intoxication have been known to chop off their fingers, and
otherwise disfigure themselves, laughing all the while at the action.
But when the paroxysm is off, and the frame weakened, things are changed.
External agents are then withstood with little vigour, with even less
than in the natural state of the body. The person shivers on the
slightest chill, and is more than usually subject to fevers and all sorts
of contagion.
External stimuli frequently break the fit. Men have been instantly
sobered by having a bucket of cold water thrown upon them, or by falling
into a stream. Strong emotions of the mind produce the same effect,
such as the sense of danger, or a piece of good or bad news, suddenly
communicated.
There are particular situations and circumstances in which a man can
stand liquor better than in others. In the close atmosphere of a large
town, he is soon overpowered; and it is here that the genuine drunkard is
to be met with in the greatest perfection. In the country, especially in
a mountainous district, or on the sea-shore, where the air is cold and
piercing, a great quantity may be taken with impunity. The highlanders
drink largely of ardent spirits, and they are often intoxicated, yet,
among them, there are comparatively few who can be called habitual
drunkards. A keen air seems to deaden its effects, and it soon
evaporates from their constitutions. Sailors and soldiers who are hard
wrought, also consume enormous quantities without injury: porters and all
sorts of labourers do the same. With these men exercise is a corrective;
but in towns, where no counteracting agency is employed, it acts with
irresistible power upon the frame, and soon proves destructive.
A great quantity of liquors may also be taken without inebriating, in
certain diseases, such as spasm, tetanus, gangrene, and retrocedent gout.
Certain circumstances of constitution make one person naturally more
apt to get intoxicated than another. “Mr. Pitt,” says a modern writer,
“would retire in the midst of a warm debate, and enliven his faculties
with a couple of bottles of Port. Pitt’s constitution enabled him to do
this with impunity. He was afflicted with what is called a coldness of
stomach; and the quantity of wine that would have closed the oratory of
so professed a Bacchanalian as Sheridan, scarcely excited the son of
Chatham.”[9]
All kinds of intoxicating agents act much more rapidly and powerfully
upon an empty than upon a full stomach. In like manner, when the stomach
is disordered, and subject to weakness, heartburn, or disease of any
kind, ebriety is more rapidly produced than when this organ is sound and
healthy.
The stomach may get accustomed to a strong stimulus, and resist it
powerfully, while it yields to one much weaker. I have known people who
could drink eight or ten glasses of raw spirits at a sitting without
feeling them much, become perfectly intoxicated by half the quantity made
into toddy. In like manner, he who is in the constant habit of using one
spirit—rum, for instance—cannot, for the most part, indulge to an equal
extent in another, without experiencing more severe effects than if he
had partaken of his usual beverage. This happens even when the strength
of the two liquors is the same.
The mind exercises a considerable effect upon drunkenness, and may
often control it powerfully. When in the company of a superior whom we
respect, or of a female in whose presence it would be indelicate to get
intoxicated, a much greater portion of liquor may be withstood than in
societies where no such restraints operate.
Drunkenness has sometimes a curious effect upon the memory. Actions
committed during intoxication may be forgotten on a recovery from
this state, and remembered distinctly when the person becomes again
intoxicated. Drunkenness has thus an analogy to dreaming, in which state
circumstances are occasionally brought to mind which had entirely
been forgotten. The same thing may also occur in fevers, wherein even
languages with which we were familiar in childhood or youth, but had
forgotten, are renewed upon the memory and pass away from it again when
the disease which recalled them is removed.
With most people intoxication is a gradual process, and increases
progressively as they pour down the liquor; but there are some
individuals in whom it takes place suddenly, and without any previous
indication of its approach. It is not uncommon to see such persons sit
for hours at the bottle without experiencing any thing beyond a moderate
elevation of spirits, yet assume all at once the outrage and boisterous
irregularity of the most decided drunkenness.
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 of 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.
There are persons who are exceedingly profuse, and fond of giving away
their money, watches, rings, &c., to the company. This peculiarity will
never, I believe, be found in a miser: avarice is a passion strong under
every circumstance. Drinking does not loosen the grasp of the covetous
man, or open his heart: he is for ever the same.
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. Almost every
man walks in masquerade, 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 softness 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 his true light,
whatever that may be. The combative man will quarrel, the amorous will
love, the detractor will abuse his neighbour. I have known exceptions,
but they are few in number. At one time they seemed more numerous,
but closer observation convinced me that most of those whom I thought
drunkenness had libelled, inherited, at bottom, the genuine dispositions
which it brought forth. The exceptions, however, which now and then occur
are sufficiently striking, and point out the injustice of always judging
of a man’s real disposition from his drunken moments. To use the words
of Addison, “Not only does this vice betray the hidden faults of a man,
and show them in the most odious colours, but often occasions faults to
which he is not naturally subject. Wine throws a man out of himself, and
infuses qualities into the mind which she is a stranger to in her sober
moments.” The well known maxim, “_in vino veritas_,” therefore, though
very generally true, is to be received with some restrictions, although
these, I am satisfied, are not by any means so numerous as many authors
would have us to believe.