A man can never recover from the effects of such a seven years'
experience, morally or physically.

The month of October had nearly drawn to a close, and on its last
Sunday evening I wandered out into the streets, pondering as well as I
was able to do--for I was somewhat intoxicated--on my lone and
friendless condition. My frame was much weakened and little fitted to
bear the cold of winter, which had already begun to come on. But I had
no means of protecting myself against the bitter blast, and, as I
anticipated my coming misery, I staggered along, houseless, aimless,
and all but hopeless.

Some one tapped me on the shoulder. An unusual thing that, to occur to
me, for no one now cared to come in contact with the wretched,
shabby-looking drunkard. I was a disgrace, "a living, walking
disgrace." I could scarcely believe my own senses when I turned and
met a kind look; the thing was so unusual, and so entirely unexpected
that I questioned the reality of it, but so it was. It was the first
touch of kindness which I had known for months; and simple and trifling
as the circumstance may appear to many, it went right to my heart, and
like the wing of an angel, troubled the waters in that stagnant pool of
affection, and made them once more reflect a little of the light of
human love. The person who touched my shoulder was an entire stranger.
I looked at him, wondering what his business was with me. Regarding me
very earnestly, and apparently with much interest, he said:

"Mr. Gough, I believe?"

"That is my name," I replied, and was passing on.