Indian tonic-waters had been proposed to me by an aged
lay-brother as in incomparable specific for thirst. The importance of the
subject had been impressed upon me in a school-book which I read at the age of
twelve.
On the other hand, young men of my
acquaintance who were in the habit of voluntarily placing themselves under the
influence of alcohol had often surprised me with a recital of their strange
adventures. The mind may be impaired by alcohol, I mused, but withal it may be
pleasantly impaired. Personal experience appeared to me to be the only
satisfactory means to the resolution of my doubts. Knowing it was my first
one, I quietly fingered the butt of my glass before I raised it. Lightly I
subjected myself to an inward interrogation.
Here is to your health, said Kelly.
Good luck, I said.
The porter was sour to the palate, but viscid, potent. Kelly made long
noise as if releasing air from his interior.
I
looked at him from the corner of my eye and said:
You can’t beat a good pint.
He leaned over and put his face close to me in an earnest manner.
Do you know what I am going to tell you, he said with his wry mouth, a
pint of plain is your only man.
Notwithstanding
this eulogy, I soon found that the mass of plain porter bears an
unsatisfactory relation to its toxic content and I became subsequently
addicted to brown stout in bottle, a drink which still remains the one that I
prefer the most despite the painful and blinding fits of vomiting which a
plurality of bottles has often induced in me.
I proceeded home one evening in October after leaving a gallon of
half-digested porter on the floor of a public house in Parnell street and put myself with considerable difficulty into bed, where I remained for three
days on the pretence of a chill. I was compelled to secrete my suit beneath
the mattress because it was offensive to at least two of the senses
and bore an explanation of my illness contrary to that already advanced.
On the evening of the third day, a friend of mine, Brinsley , was
admitted to my chamber. He bore miscellaneous books and papers. I complained
on the subject of my health and ascertained him that the weather was inimical
to the well-being of invalids … He remarked that there was a queer smell in
the room.