"It is a necessity of my being, Philip."
He rose from his chair, and went to the bar. I saw him drink another half tumbler of whiskey. He tottered back to the table where I sat. Such a wreck of a man I had never seen. Though his step was unsteady, he was not overcome by the potions he had taken. His nerves, rather than his brain, seemed to be affected.
"I haven't drank much to-day, Philip. I wasted half the dollar I borrowed in getting something to eat," said he, dropping into his chair. "It is a bad habit, my boy. Never take any whiskey, Philip: in a word, never begin to drink liquor, and you will never have to leave off; for it is a great deal harder to leave off than it is to begin. This is disinterested advice: in a word, it is the counsel of one who knows all about drinking."
"I would stop it if I were you, Mr. Farringford."
"If you were Edward Farringford, you could no more leave off drinking liquor, and drinking all you could get, than you could leave off eating. I can live without eating much, but I can't live without drinking."
"I think you can leave off, sir; I hope you will try."
"You speak like a boy. You never drank any whiskey. You don't know what a fiend it is. You don't know what a horrible necessity it is to a man whose nerves are shaken, only to be steadied by this liquid fire; whose stomach, chilled and frozen, can only be warmed by this blast from Tartarus. You don't know anything about it. I hope you never will. Philip, I hope you never will."
He covered his face with his hands, and when he raised his head, I saw that he had been weeping. His eyes were filled with tears, and I pitied him from the deepest depths of my heart.
"Beware, Philip! Beware!" said he, solemnly. "Never touch a drop of whiskey, wine, or even ale,—not the tenth part of a drop,—if you are dying for the want of it. Die, but don't touch it."
"I hope I never shall."