If there is one spot in all the black waste of desolation about which I cling with fond memory it is in my early childhood, and there is no part of my life that is so fresh and vivid as that embraced in those first early years.  I can remember distinctly events which transpired when I was but two years old, while I have forgotten thousands of incidents which have occurred within the past two years.  While it is true that in early childhood a dark shadow fell athwart my pathway, making everything sombre and painful with an impression of desolation, yet was my condition happy in comparison with the rayless and pitchy blackness which subsequently folded its curtains close about my very being, seeming to make respiration impossible at times and life a nightmare of mockery.  Seeming, do I say?  Nay, it did, for nothing can be more real than our feelings, no matter how falsely they may be created.  The agony of a dream is as keen while it lasts as any other—­more so, because there is a helplessness about it which makes it harder to resist.

Many times, lying in my bed after a disgraceful debauch of days’ or weeks’ duration, has my memory winged its way through the realms of darkness in the mournful and lonesome past, back through years of horror and suffering to the green and holy morning of life, as it at this moment seems to me, and rested for an instant on some quiet hour in that dawn which broke tempestuously, heralding the storms which would later gather and break about me.  At such times I could distinctly remember the names and features of all the persons who dwelt in the vicinity of my father’s house, although many of them died long ago or passed away from the neighborhood.  I could at this time repeat word for word conversations which took place twenty-five years ago.  I do not so much attribute this to a retentive memory as to the habit I have had of thinking, when my mind was in a condition to think, of all that was a part of my early life.  Again and again, as the years gather up around me, and the valley of life deepens its shadows toward the tomb, do I go back in memory to the days that were.  Again and again do I awaken to the beauty, the love, the faces and friends of those days.  They are all dear and sacred to me now, though I know they can come no more, and that the hollow spaces of time between the Here and There—­the Now and Then—­will reverberate forever with the echoes of many-voiced sorrows.  Could those who meet me look down into the depths of my ghastly and bitter desolation, they would behold more appalling pictures of human agony than ever mortal eye gazed upon since the opening of the day of time—­since the roses of Eden first bloomed and knew not the blight so soon to darken the earthly paradise by the rivers of the east.  But I wander from my subject.