melancholy imprinted on my features, on the dead forms of those who
were flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. During the miserable hours
of darkness I would steal from my lonely bed to the place where my dead
wife and child lay, and, in agony of soul, pass my shaking hand over
their cold faces, and then return to my bed after a draught of rum,
which I had obtained and hidden under the pillow of my wretched couch.

How apt the world is to judge of a man pursuing the course I did as one
destitute of all feeling, with no ambition, no desire for better
things! To speak of such a man's pride seems absurd, and yet drink
does not destroy pride, ambition, or high aspirations. The sting of
his misery is that he has ambition but no expectation; desire for
better things but no hope; pride but no energy; therefore the
possession of these very qualities is an additional burden to his load
of agony. Could he utterly forget his manhood, and wallow with the
beasts that perish, he would be comparatively happy. But his curse is
that he thinks. He is a man, and must think. He cannot always drown
thought or memory. He may, and does, fly for false solace to the
drink, and may stun his enemy in the evening, but it will rend him like
a giant in the morning. A flower, or half-remembered tune, a child's
laughter, will sometimes suffice to flood the victim with recollections
that either madden him to excess or send him crouching to his miserable
room, to sit with face buried in his hands, while the hot, thin tears
trickle over his swollen fingers.

I believe this to be one reason why I shrink from society; why I have
so often refused kind invitations; why, though I love my personal
friends as strongly and as truly as any man's friends are ever loved, I
have so steadily withdrawn from social parties, dinners, or
introductions. This is the penalty I must ever pay.