I never had given a thought to religion or my hereafter before this time. To illustrate this: When they amputated my arm, they asked me distinctly if I had any religion. They told me afterward they expected me to die. I said: "Yes, I have been raised a Catholic." They wanted to send for a priest. I said: "No, I do not want you to send for a priest." They asked me why? "Well," I said, "as I have lived, thus will I die; I don't have much faith in the hereafter business." I did not have much faith in hell, I meant. I was interested, directly and indirectly, in several gambling establishments, and my proclivities were in that direction. The passion of gambling controlled me to such an extent that I was capable of all sins and crimes to indulge in it. It was one day up, one day down; one day with plenty, another day without a cent. I continued in this wild, reckless career, until fate turned my footsteps toward the city of Louisville. For it was fate, sure enough, or I don't know what it was. I was sitting one Sunday in front of the old Willard Hotel, Steve Holcombe was preaching that Sunday on the courthouse steps. His remarks were such as to elicit my closest attention; so impressive were they that he seemed to picture before me a panorama of my whole life, in referring to his own career. When he got through with his sermon, I walked up to him, and said: "Mr. Holcombe, you are the first man that I ever heard in my life who impressed me with the importance of preparing for death and meeting God." I then commenced attending the Mission, on Jefferson street, near Fifth, daily. I was there nearly every day. I then went South, to New Orleans, and fell from grace again--commenced going through the same old routine--gambling, drinking, spreeing. In fact, I was a fearful periodical spreer; if I took one drink, I had to keep drinking for a month. As long as I kept away from it I was all right. I was very abusive when I was drinking; I would knock a man down with a club. I have been arrested, I guess, fifty times for fighting and drunken brawls. From New Orleans I again came back to Louisville, the 6th of August a year ago, still going on in the same reckless manner, getting drunk, and being drunk, as usual, a week at a time--sometimes a month; in fact, I lived in bar-rooms here. One night, while Mr. Murphy was here--I do not recollect the night, but at one of Mr. Murphy's meetings--he appealed to us all to try and reform and be sober men. I met Mr. Werne and Miles Turpin there, and while there, Mr. Werne asked me if I did not intend to reform, or something like that--that was the substance of the conversation of himself and his wife with me--and he told me that Miles Turpin had reformed. I said: "If Miles Turpin has reformed, I can, too. From this day henceforth I will be a sober man." And I signed the Murphy pledge a short time afterward, and I have not taken anything intoxicating from that day to this.