The phenomena of drunkenness have been so ably described by Macnish, that I most gladly transcribe the following passage from that author’s excellent work, called the “Anatomy of 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 the 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 acme 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 when 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 generally 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 in 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. His 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 the ground with astonishing rapidity. In 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 under his feet and leave him walking and floundering in the air.
“The last stage of drunkenness is total insensibility. The man tumbles, perhaps, beneath the table, and is carried off in a state of stupor to his couch dead drunk.
“No sooner is his head laid upon the pillow, than it is seized with the strongest throbbing. His heart beats quick and hard against his ribs. A noise like the distant fall of a cascade, or rushing of a river is heard in his ears—rough—rough—rough—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 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 to get 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.
“Persons of tender and 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 most characters, may be said to melt the heart and open the fountain of sorrow. Their sympathy is often ridiculous, and aroused by the most trifling causes. Those who have a lively imagination, combined with this tenderness of heart, sometimes conceive fictitious cases of distress, and weep bitterly at the woes of their own creating.
“There are also some persons on 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!”