hame that overwhelmed them when at length their eyes were
opened might have melted the heart of a stone. But it did not melt
mine, for I was by that time so completely the slave of my vices that I
had lost every vestige of natural feeling. I continued my drunken
habits as long as I had money to spend on liquor; and when finally I had
exhausted my own resources I stole from my parents the means to still
continue in the indulgence of my degrading vice. It broke my poor
mother's heart, and she died; and on the day of her funeral I was unable
to follow her body to its last resting-place, because I was too drunk to
stand or speak! That was the crowning act of my disgraceful career; for
on that very day my father gave me twenty pounds and turned me out of
his house, forbidding me ever again to darken his door. I went to
London, spent my twenty pounds in a wild life, got into a street fight,
and was carried to a hospital with a knife-wound between my ribs; and
there I lingered between life and death for nearly a month before I took
a turn for the better and began to mend; and it was three months before
I was up and out again. But during that three months the hospital
chaplain contrived to gain my confidence. He induced me to tell him my
story; and in return he told me some home truths that had the eventual
effect of opening my eyes to the enormity of my guilt, the effect being
helped, perhaps, by the fact that during my stay in the hospital I had
been cured of my cursed craving for drink. When at length I was ready
to leave the hospital my friend the chaplain offered to communicate with
my father and endeavour to effect a reconciliation; but I refused. I
had vowed that I would never return home until I could do so as a
thoroughly reformed character; I therefore made my way down to the
docks, took the first berth that offered, and, under the assumed name of
George Gurney, became a common sailor. You will think, perhaps, that to
go to sea, and in such a capacity, was not quite the best possible
method whereby to effect my reformation, and may be it was not, but I
was determined that nothing--nothing--should stand in my way; and I
think I may now say, without undue confidence, that I have succeeded.
Gracie, to whom I have told my story, assures me that I need no longer
fear to face my father, and I believe her, for a woman can see more
deeply than a man. So now I shall return home, to be a comfort, as I
devoutly hope, to