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he lay intoxicated. The violence with which they hoisted one end of the boat threw him into the other, and it being so dark that the sailors failed to observe him, he barely saved his life by an outcry which alarmed the seamen, and they took him on board. By this voyage he obtained sufficient money to buy some furniture, and he married the sister of the captain with whom he had sailed. Again he became steady for a while, and went to church, and almost began to cherish a slight hope of reform; but the overpowering strength of that monster habit was too much for his resolutions, and again he went down lower than ever. Even the young men who had been half-decent companions in drinking, began to be ashamed of him, and avoid his society. The oblivion which followed these reflections was that of the wine cup. His nature, sensitive to the slightest suspicion of ill-treatment, could not endure the coldness of those who had laughed loudest at his sport when in better circumstances, and he sought relief in the intoxicating bowl. Through the exertions of a friend in Newburyport, an Englishman, he was again partially reclaimed only to fall again, and now his constitution began to be impaired by his debaucheries. He became so nervous that, drunk or sober, he was unable to do the finer parts of book binding and gilding. He resorted to the most miserable expedients to keep up an appearance of decency, but

each successively was a more signal failure. His wife now left him on a visit to his sister, and he was, if possible, more free to carouse than ever. He bought a gallon of rum, and invited a fellow in to help him drink it, and for three days he subsisted upon rum alone, without a morsel of food.

But for thus abusing his system, retribution, though tardy, was terrible. We have followed him from one step to another, till now he was to encounter that fearful malady, delirium tremens. After having drank a great amount of liquor, his throat becoming more parched and his tongue more dry by each application of the stimulant, a horrible feeling, hitherto unknown to him, began to be experienced. He sought relief in the use of tobacco, but not being able to stand up to light a match, ignited it while lying upon the bed, lit his pipe and threw the match carelessly by. Very soon the narcotic effect of the tobacco displayed itself, and he slept till the neighbors, alarmed by the smell and smoke, came into the room and aroused him from a lethargy which in fifteen minutes more would have been fatal. Thus aroused, he went out and purchased a pint of rum, which he drank in half an hour, when he was seized by a violent attack of the disease above alluded to. For three days he was tortured seemingly with a visit from all the inhabitants of the infernal regions. Hideous faces stared from out beneath shaggy locks,

horrid phantoms floated through the air, and clutched their bony fingers at his throat. Frightful sounds issued from every object, and demons from Pandemonium seemed holding a horrible jubilee about their suffering victim.

But strange as it may seem, he recovered, and tells us that upon surveying his features, haggard and pale, in a glass, he thought of his mother! After spending some time in reflection upon the prayers and tears which she had poured forth for him, the instruction which she had given him, he went out and took a glass of brandy; another and another followed till he was again intoxicated. Yet again he found employment as an actor, in which employment he continued, till from debauchery he was too worthless to be of service, when they reprimanded him so severely that he became angry, and upon the strength of it attended to the business. Thus it continued for a while, when he again sought his old avocation, and managed to conceal his drunkenness sufficiently to retain his situation. His wife becoming ill about this time, by the advice of friends, he purchased two quarts of rum, so as to have some in the house if needed, and he soon found use for it: after ten days his wife and child both died, and then he drank to forgetfulness. At times, however, in his deepest degradation, the spirit of his mother seemed to beckon him to reform. He thus beautifully alludes to it:

"And through the mists of memory my mother's face would often appear, just as it was when I stood by her knee and listened to the lessons of wisdom and goodness from her loving lips. I would see her mild, reproving face, and seem to hear her warning voice; and surrounded by my riotous companions, at certain seasons reason would struggle for the throne whence she had been driven, and I would, whilst enjoying the loud plaudits of companions,

'See a hand they could not see,
Which beckoned me away.""

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We have reached the lowest point in his history— indeed, he or any man could have gone no lower. He was habitually intoxicated, keeping partially sober only when necessary to obtain the means for obtaining a supply of spirits. The most wretched outcast in Boston felt above him, and his life was a burden to himself. Had it not been for that instinctive clinging to an existence whose terrors we know, and the instinctive dread of future horrors we apprehend may be worse, he would doubtless have committed suicide. He felt, and in his bitterness exclaimed, that "no man cared for his soul." His prospects were utterly ruined, his reputation gone, his wife and child dead, and he realized that deep loneliness which none can feel but they who have been in his isolated position. His constitution was also greatly impaired by abuse and by the attack of delirium.

His was a most wretched and hopeless case. But a great work was yet before him—a work in which his natural powers of mind, hitherto partially developed, should have full scope upon the work of reform and humanity. Experience was to him a dear schoolmaster, but just the one needed to fit him for his great life's work. In order to paint those glowing pictures in after life so successfully as to draw the admiration of listening thousands, he must himself pass through the scenes which his pencil would portray. He must feel the deadly clasp of the tyrant from whose embrace he would free others, and experience for himself the utter wretchedness of the inebriate whom he would reclaim. To his own personal acquaintance with these things must we trace that startling reality which he made the soul, the life of his pictures, when a lecturer.

In the month of October, 1842, he was wandering hopelessly through the streets of Worcester, Massachusetts, reflecting upon his deplorable condition, when some one tapped him gently upon the shoulder, and said in a mild voice, as he looked around, "Mr. Gough, I believe." "That is my name," replied he; upon which the stranger entered into conversation with him about his dissipated habits, and questioned him kindly about his prospects for the future. Mr. Gough told him his circumstances, mentioned that he was tired of life, and cared not how soon he should

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