season. Headed by brass bands, all the classes whose reunions fall in
the same year march to the Yale Athletic Field to see the game and
renew their youth--using up as much vigor in one delirious day as would
insure a ripe old age if less prodigally expended. These classes, with
their bands and cheering, accompanied by thousands of other
vociferating enthusiasts, march through West Chapel Street--the most
direct route from the Campus to the Field. It is upon this line of
march that Grace Hospital is situated, and I knew that on the day of
the game the Yale thousands would pass the scene of my incarceration.

I have endured so many days of the most exquisite torture that I
hesitate to distinguish among them by degrees; each deserves its own
unique place, even as a Saint's Day in the calendar of an olden Spanish
inquisitor. But, if the palm is to be awarded to any, June 26th, 1900,
perhaps has the first claim.

My state of mind at that time might be pictured thus: The criminal
charge of attempted suicide stood against me on June 23rd. By the 26th
many other and worse charges had accumulated. The public believed me
the most despicable member of my race. The papers were filled with
accounts of my misdeeds. The thousands of collegians gathered in the
city, many of whom I knew personally, loathed the very thought that a
Yale man should so disgrace his Alma Mater. And when they approached
the hospital on their way to the Athletic Field, I concluded that it
was their intention to take me from my bed, drag me to the lawn, and
there tear me limb from limb. Few incidents during my unhappiest years
are more vividly or circumstantially impressed upon my memory. The
fear, to be sure, was absurd, but in the lurid lexicon of Unreason
there is no such word as "absurd." Believing, as I did, that I had
dishonored Yale and forfeited the privilege of being numbered among her