The liquor habit had fastened itself upon me when I was still a very young man, and for at least twenty-five years I was compelled to fight it constantly. By sheer force of will, I would abstain from drink for months at a time, but the return to it seemed to be inevitable. It did not require the tears of those who were nearest and dearest to me, nor the admonition of friends, to remind me of my condition, for I realized it fully myself, the shame of it and the pity of it, since through the use of liquor I had frittered away precious years and golden opportunities. I had never hesitated to accept anything that gave me the slightest promise or hope of freedom from the curse that was overshadowing me. I consulted the best physicians and the leading specialists at home and abroad, faithfully followed their advice, and took their prescriptions. I tried sanitariums and reformatories. I flew to all sorts of "cures." There was scarcely an hour during the period named in which I did not strive earnestly to overcome the habit. I loathed it, and loathed myself for submitting to it, but it seemed to hold me in its grip. During those intervals when I seemed to be master of the situation, and when my family and friends were most confident that I had at length triumphed over the enemy, the fear of succumbing to it again was always with me, and this fear was not less harrowing than the affliction itself. The periods of continued abstinence grew shorter as I grew older, and the physical and mental suffering attending each recurring relapse became intensified as the years went by. During the two years previous to 1901, I scarcely recovered from the effects of one period of intemperance before I had plunged into another. Whereas formerly I could hold myself erect for months at a time, the intervals had now become reduced to weeks and even to days.
Early in 1901 I was granted leave of absence from my desk, that I might visit a watering-place which had several times before proved beneficial to me. I returned from this place only to find myself in the old condition within a week. This was late in February. Early in March I had become so unfit for the performance of my daily task that, not caring to impose further upon the kind consideration of my employer, and despairing of relief, I resigned my position. My resignation was not accepted, and I made another effort to prove worthy of the words of encouragement and confidence which accompanied its declination, but to no avail.
Toward the middle of March word was brought that my presence at my desk on the ensuing Monday was demanded by every consideration of loyalty to those who had so often overlooked my infirmity, as well as to my profession. The call was imperative, and I felt bound in honor to respond to it, if such a thing were possible; but it seemed utterly impossible. I was confined to bed, sick almost unto death. I had not slept naturally for weeks. Of late the soporifics administered to me by our family physician failed to affect me. On the evening of the following Monday, also, I was under obligations to appear in public, and the circumstances were such that my absence would have caused serious disappointment to others, as well as disagreeable comment. But it was now Saturday; I was physically a wreck; I was in mental torture: all the past was filled with shame and failure; the future, as I saw it, had nothing better to offer; death would have been most welcome to me; the thought of suicide was constantly in my mind; at the very best, I could not hope to leave my bed for a week.
