Once while in a state of beastly intoxication at Rushville, my father came for me and took me home in a wagon, and for two weeks I scarcely stirred outside of the house.  But the house which should have been a paradise to me was made a prison by reason of my desires for the hell-created liberty of entering saloons and associating with men as reckless as myself.  I became morose, nervous, and uneasy.  I took a horseback ride one morning and would not admit to myself that I cared less for the ride than to feel that I could go where I could get liquor.  I did not want to drink, but like the moth which returns by some fatal charm again and again to the flames which eventually consume it, I could not resist the temptation to go where I could lay my hands on the curse.  There was on the farm, among the horses, one that was unusually wild, which had hitherto thrown every person that mounted it.  The only way it could be managed at all was with a rough curb-bitted bridle, and even then each rein had to be drawn hard.  If there was any one thing on which I prided myself at that time it was my proficiency in riding horses.  I determined on mastering this horse, and early one morning I mounted his back.  I got along without a great amount of difficulty in keeping my seat until I got to Raleigh.  Here I dismounted and sat in the corner groceries for an hour or more, talking to acquaintances.  Finally, like the dog returning to his vomit, I crossed the street and went into a saloon.  Had the door opened into the vermilion lake of fire I would have passed through it if I had been sure of getting a drink, so sudden and uncontrollable was the appetite awakened.  Only a few minutes before I had with religious solemnity assured two young men who were keeping a dry goods store there that I had quit drinking forever.  To test me, I suppose, one of them had said to me that he had some excellent old whisky, and wanted me to try a little of it, and offered me the jug.  I carried it to my mouth, and took a swallow.  It was a villainous compound of whisky, alcohol and drugs of various kinds, which he sold in quart bottles under the name of some sort of bitters which were warranted to cure every disease:  and I will add that I believe to this day that they would do what he said they would, for I do not think any human being, bird, or beast, unless there is another Quilp living, could drink two bottles of it in that number of days and not be beyond the need of further attention than that required to prepare him for burial.  It was the sight of the jug and the taste of the poison slop which it contained that aroused my appetite and scattered my resolves to the tempest.  Once in the saloon I drank without regard to consequences, and without caring whether the horse I rode was as jaded and tame as Don Quixote’s ill-favored but famous steed, or as wild and unmanageable as the steed to which the ill-starred Mazeppa was lashed.  I did not stop to consider that a clear head and steady hand