And Larry, under the bridge, had no delirium like mine.

I am confident that his sleep was stupefied and dreamless, and that he awoke next day merely to heaviness and moroseness, and that if he lives to-day he does not remember that night, so passing was it as an incident.

But my brain was seared for ever by that experience.

Writing now, thirty years afterward, every vision is as distinct, as sharp-cut, every pain as vital and terrible, as on that night.
I was sick for days afterward, and I needed none of my mother's injunctions to avoid John Barleycorn in the future.

My mother had been dreadfully shocked.