DarqueDante/test2 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 74
when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's description of
his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum
in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more
have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of,
and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object
of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see
him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point
pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about
the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I
sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap
and made a little face of disappointment.

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps
upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly
losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!"
she cried; "I do so want a little help."

"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How
you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came
in."

"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was
always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to
a light-house.

"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should
you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about
Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about
him!"

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could
find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we
could bring him back to her?

It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he
had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the
farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been
confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered,
in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty
hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks,
breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to
be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam
Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman,
make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among
the ruffians who surrounded him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,
why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and
as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were
alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab
within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given
me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a
strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future
only could show how strange it was to be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of
steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found
the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed
down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of
drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the
door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick
and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden
berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown
back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows
there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint,
as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.
The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others
talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their
conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into
silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to
the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of
burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there
sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists,
and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for

when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's description of

his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum

in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more

have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of,

and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object

of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see

him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point

pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about

the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I

sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap

and made a little face of disappointment.

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps

upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some

dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly

losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my

wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!"

she cried; "I do so want a little help."

"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How

you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came

in."

"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was

always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to

a light-house.

"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and

water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should

you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about

Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about

him!"

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's

trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school

companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could

find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we

could bring him back to her?

It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he

had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the

farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been

confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered,

in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty

hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks,

breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to

be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam

Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman,

make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among

the ruffians who surrounded him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.

Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,

why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and

as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were

alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab

within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given

me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery

sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a

strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future

only could show how strange it was to be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.

Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves

which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.

Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of

steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found

the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed

down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of

drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the

door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick

and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden

berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in

strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown

back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,

lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows

there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint,

as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.

The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others

talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their

conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into

silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to

the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of

burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there

sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists,

and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for