And let not the over-estimator expect any sympathy from the world, or any part of it, whilst he is experiencing the “remorse of conscience” stage. Katzenjammer patients are sternly and forcibly refused admission to any public hospitals, even if _in extremis_; for mercy, charity, and the medical faculty have refused hitherto to recognize the fact that alcoholism is a disease. And he who is “jumpy” and nervous of a morning has just as much chance of obtaining condolence from friends or relatives as has the casual sufferer from gout. Both disorders are, in fact, excellent provocatives of badinage and laughter. I remember hearing of an accountant in Cape Town, a hardened and determined “night bird,” a frequenter of hostelries, a boon companion—in short, a sot. He was called as a witness in an intricate case in the High Court, one morning, whilst suffering terribly from nerves. It was heart-rending to watch his agony. His features twitched, his eyes rolled, and his hands shook as though afflicted with palsy on the higher scale. The ledgers which {200} were occasionally handed up to him by the usher, for reference, slipped from his grasp, and documentary testimony flew all over the counsels’ wigs. At length the notice of the judge was attracted to the state of things. “What is the matter with that witness?” asked his lordship. “Is he trifling with the court?” “M’lord,” said counsel for the plaintiff, “I am instructed that the witness is what may be called a free-liver, and that it is often necessary for him to swallow a dram in the morning, before proceeding to business. I am also instructed that the witness overslept himself this morning, and had no time to procure the necessary dose, before appearing as a witness before your lordship.” “Tut, tut!” exclaimed the judge. “This is wasting the time of the court. Let him be removed at once to the waiting-room and dosed with old brandy.” He was a practical judge; and in five minutes’ time that accountant had pulled himself together. And an even more painful case than the above is within my memory. A certain newspaper-proprietor was in the habit of paying the weekly wages of his staff himself, each member having to sign a receipt for the reward of merit. The fashion-editor—a hardened libertine—turned up one Saturday, before his chief, absolutely incapable of signing his name, or any part of it. His gait was all right, as was his speech; but the pen slipped through his fingers as though it had been a well-oiled icicle. The {201} chief called the next case, the while some of us poured over-proof rum down the throat of the fashion-editor at an adjacent hostelry. He subsequently trousered his salary, and signed the receipt, satisfactorily, after pleading that he was suffering that morning from “shock.” The chief looked somewhat incredulous. “Is he an inebriate?” he asked, as soon as the invalid had left the office. “Oh! dear no, sir,” replied the acrostic-editor, “he’s almost a teetotaller.”