Despite all that had occurred, my good name was not so far gone but
that I might have succeeded, by the aid of common industry and
attention, in my business. I was a good workman, and found no
difficulty in procuring employment, and, I have not the slightest
doubt, should have succeeded in my endeavor to get on in the world but
for the unhappy love of stimulating drinks, and my craving for society.
I was now my own master; all restraint was removed, and, as might be
expected, I did as I pleased in my own shop. I became careless, was
often in the barroom when I should have been at my bindery, and instead
of spending my evenings at home in reading or conversation, they were
almost invariably passed in the company of the rum bottle, which became
almost my sole household deity. Five months only did I remain in
business, and during that short period I gradually sunk deeper and
deeper in the scale of degradation. I was now the slave of a habit
which had become completely my master, and which fastened its
remorseless fangs in my very vitals. Thought was a torturing thing.
When I looked back, memory drew fearful pictures, the lines of lurid
flame, and, whenever I dared anticipate the future, hope refused to
illumine my onward path. I dwelt in one awful present; nothing to
solace me--nothing to beckon me onward to a better state.

I knew full well that I was proceeding on a downward course, and
crossing the sea of time, as it were, on a bridge perilous as that over
which Mahomet's followers are said to enter paradise. A terrible
feeling was ever present that some evil was impending which would soon
fall on my devoted head, and I would shudder as if the sword of
Damocles, suspended by its single hair, was about to fall and utterly
destroy me.