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 throbbed with pain, and smiled when the
glow of health was on his cheek. She wept holy tears when he suffered, and
when he was delighted her heart beat with pleasure. It was she who taught
him that august prayer which is sacred in its simplicity to childhood. She
is aged now; her wealth of brown hair is white with age's