I might give many more well written and flattering criticisms, but from the foregoing the reader can determine in what estimation to hold my labor.  For myself I am not solicitous for anything beyond escape from my thraldom, and that peace which is the sure accompaniment of a temperate Christian life.  If I thought that my readers were of the opinion held by some of my enemies that my lectures have not been productive of good, I could quote from numberless private letters received from all parts of the land, in which I am assured of the good results which have crowned my humble efforts—­in which I am told of very many instances where my words of entreaty and self-humiliation have been the means of bringing back from the darkness and death of intemperance, fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers who were on the road to destruction.  I have letters from the wives, mothers, and sisters of these men, invoking the blessings of heaven upon me for the peace and happiness thus restored to them.  I have letters from little children thanking me also for giving them back their fathers, and I thank God from the depths of my torn and desolate heart that I have been the humble instrument of good in these cases.  In my darkest hours, when I feel that all is lost, when hope seems to soar away from me to the far-off heavens from which she first descended to this world, these letters, which I often read, and over which I have so often wept grateful tears, give me strength and courage to face the struggle before me.  My most earnest prayer to God has been that I may do some good to compensate in some measure for the talent which he gave me, and which I have so sadly wasted.  I have avoided mentioning the names of the many dear friends who have not forsaken me in this last extremity.  As I write, name after name, dear to memory, crowds into my mind.  I can hardly refrain from giving them a place on these pages, but to mention a few would be manifestly unjust to the remainder, and it is out of my power to print all of them in the space which could be afforded in this small book.  But I wish to assure every man and woman who has ever given me a kind word of encouragement, or even a kind look, that they are not and never will be forgotten.  Whatever my future fate may be, you did your duty, and God will bless you.  Your names are all sacred to me.

CHAPTER XIV.

At home again—­Overwork—­Shattered nerves—­Downward to hell—­Conceive the idea of traveling with some one—­Leave Indianapolis on a third tour east in company with Gen. Macauley—­Separate from him at Buffalo—­I go on to New York alone—­Trading clothes for whisky—­Delirious wanderings—­Jersey City—­In the calaboose—­Deathly sick—­An insane neighbor—­Another—­In court—­“John Dalton”—­“Here! your honor”—­Discharged—­Boston—­Drunk—­At the residence of Junius Brutus Booth—­Lecturing again—­Home—­Converted—­Go to Boston—­Attend the Moody and Sankey meetings—­Get drunk—­Home once more—­Committed to the asylum—­Reflections—­The shadow which whispered—­“Go away!”