that its light would drive afar off the shadows of his death agony.  In that knowledge death would be vanquished and heaven would stoop to earth and cover his grave with glory.  Oh, God!  Grant me this one boon!  Give me this one request!  In every step of my life I have disappointed him.  In the future let all other hopes, and joys, and aspirations die, if needs be, all but this—­this one—­that I may never in any way touch liquor again.  May every man and woman who sees this allow their hearts to go out in an earnest prayer that I may succeed in this one thing.  It is now too late for me to reach the bright promises of other years.  It is now too late for me to regain all that has been lost, but this I would do, and it will make me feel at the last that I have not lived altogether to be a remorse and shame to those who are bound to me by ties which can not be broken.  God may answer your prayers if not mine, so that from the throne of heavenly grace may come the peace and rest for which my weary soul has sought so long in vain.

When I drank after my mother’s death, many persons took occasion, on learning of it, to censure me in unsparing terms.  It was even said that I did not love my mother in life, that I had no respect for her memory in death, and that I was a heartless wretch.  These persons had no knowledge of the power of my appetite.  They did not know that the passion for liquor, once developed or firmly established, is stronger in its unholy energy than the love of the heart—­of my heart, at least—­for mother, father, brother, or sister.  But let me beg that I may not be charged with indifference to my mother’s memory.  She comes before me now; she who was a true wife, a faithful friend, a loving and gentle mother, and I kneel to her and pray her blessing and pardon—­I would clasp her to my heart, but alas! when I would touch her, the bitter memory comes that she is gone.  But I would not repine, for I know she is with her God.  Her life was pure and blameless, and her soul, on leaving its weary earthly tabernacle, passed to its inheritance—­a mansion incorruptible, and one that will not fade away.  She bore her cross without a murmer of complaint, and she has been crowned where the spirit of the just are made perfect.  Blessed are the pure in heart, we read, and I know that I am not misquoting the spirit of the holy book when I say for the same reason, blessed is my mother, for she was pure of heart, and passed from tribulation to peace, from night to day, from sorrow to joy, from weariness to rest—­rest in the bosom of God.

It may be that some young man will read these pages whose mother is still among the living.  I do not think that such a one will be without love for his mother—­a dear, compassionate, doating, gentle mother, who loved him before he knew the name of love; who sang him to sleep in the years that were, and awoke him with kisses on the bright mornings long ago; who bathed his head with a soft hand when it