My hands would at times tremble so that
I could not perform the finer operations of my business, the finishing
and gilding. How could I letter straight, with a hand burning and
shaking from the effects of a debauch. Sometimes, when it was
absolutely necessary to finish off some work, I have entered the shop
with a stern determination not to drink a single drop until I completed
it. I have bitterly felt that my failing was a matter of common
conversation in the town, and a burning sense of shame would flush my
fevered brow at the conviction that I was scorned by the respectable
portion of the community. But these feelings passed away like the
morning cloud or early dew, and I pursued my old course.
One day I thought I would not go to work, and a great inducement to
remain at home existed in the shape of my enemy, West India rum, of
which I had a quantity in the house. Although the morning was by no
means far advanced, I sat down, intending to do nothing until
dinner-time. I could not sit alone without rum, and I drank glass
after glass until I became so stupefied that I was compelled to lie
down on the bed, where I soon fell asleep.
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