From that time to the commencement of the season for county fairs, five or six weeks later, I kept in a condition of sobriety.  County fairs, I wish to say, and especially the Rush county fairs, did more toward bringing on the disastrous career which has been mine—­a career which has befouled the record of my life and marked almost every page of its history—­witness this biography—­with blots of shame, discord and unholy suffering than any other cause of an external character.  I was very young when I first commenced to take stock to the fair to exhibit for premiums.  I always went on the first day, and always remained until the fair came to a close, staying on the grounds night and day.  There was a vagabond element in my nature which harmonized perfectly with this sort of life.  The men with whom I associated were, in general, of that class who like liquor alone or in company, and each had his jug of favorite whisky, which was supposed to be a sure preventive against cold and colds in cold weather, and against heat and fever in hot weather.  If invited to drink the rule was to accept immediately and return the courtesy as soon as convenient.

In those days I was the proud possessor of a yoke of white oxen, and I made it a point to exhibit them at every fair within my reach, for they invariably won the Red Ribbon, then a mark of the first prize.  Alas, that it did not mean to me what it now does!  It meant anything rather than total abstinence; it was an unfailing sign of drunkenness; it told of shameful revels, of days of debauchery and nights of misery when not passed in beastly slumber.  That ribbon is now a symbol of holy temperance—­it was then a souvenir of days of disorder and evil-doing.

During the winter I was engaged to teach a district school, and for three months managed to keep tolerably sober—­that is, I did not get drunk more than three or four times, and then on Saturday nights and Sundays.  One Sunday—­it was the coldest day that winter—­I went to Falmouth and visited a drinking place kept by one McPhillipps.  While there I drank eleven glasses of whisky.  At nine o’clock in the evening, I can indistinctly remember, I mounted my horse and started home, and from that moment until the next day I knew nothing whatever that took place.  From the way I was bruised and battered I judge that I must have struck almost every fence corner between McPhillipps’ place and home.  My legs were in a woful plight, and having turned black and blue, they were frightful to see.  On arriving at the gate which led into the front yard at home, I fell off my horse and tumbled to the ground, a wretched heap of helpless clay.  I remained on the ground, lying in the snow, until I froze my hands, feet, and ears.  It was about three o’clock in the morning when I got to the house.  So they told me, for I have no knowledge of going, and, indeed, I remembered nothing that took place.