When you start out to cure a vicious friend by arguing with him, do you ever reflect how little you know what goes on within him? Suppose that in his nerves there is a craving ten thousand times louder and stronger than your most virtuous arguments? What good will those arguments do? No use whispering poetry to a man in a boiler shop. No use humming a love song in a whirlwind. The poetry, the song, are out of place. Any sort of argument save the most powerful is wasted on a man whose soul is filled with the racket of a dominating passion, such as drink or gambling. ---- Just two things can cure a drunkard--two things, and nothing else on earth. First, his own cold reason and strength of will. Second, the growth within him of some passion stronger than his love of drink. Love of his children, love of a woman, will cure a drunkard (but we earnestly advise any woman to make sure he is cured before trusting her future to him). Ambition--which includes every form of vanity and self-delusion--will cure a drunkard, and has cured many thousands. Even the miser's passion of economy may outweigh love of drink and cure the lesser desire. ---- To cure a drunkard, try to arouse within him some desire stronger than his desire to drink. Any boy will stop smoking to play football or to excel in any sort of athletics. You reach his vanity. What preaching could produce the same effect? If you feel that you must use argument, try such arguments as will appeal to the man himself, not such as seem sound to you in your fine state of virtue. The American drunkard is usually manufactured by the vile American habit of drinking pure whiskey or cocktails. No other race, except among the most degraded classes, absorbs crude spirits as stupidly as this race. ---- Suppose you have a young friend whose tendency to drink "straight" whiskey makes you nervous. You see what it is leading to. Instead of trying to make a teetotaler of him, try to transform him into a sensible drinker. ---- When your friend orders his whiskey, start off as follows: Tell him you take it for granted that he knows all about the mucous membrane. He will say that he does--for it is our American mania to want to appear wise. Casually state that of course he knows the covering of his eyeball is identical in all important respects--especially as regards sensitiveness--with the lining of his stomach; in fact, of his whole interior from his mouth down. He will assent and gravely pour out his poison. Then say to him: "Just dip the tip of your finger in that whiskey and put the finger to your eye-ball." If he does so he will feel the eye smart. The eyeball will become inflamed, and sight for a moment will be difficult. Then let him dilute the whiskey with water--four or five parts water to one of whiskey. That dilution, rubbed into the other eye, instead of irritating it, will act as a gentle stimulant. It will produce an agreeable effect.