has whitened with the sifting frosts of years, I confess that my
sophistries of smuggling seem less and less plausible, while smuggling
itself loses whatever of romantic glamour it may have been invested
with or what little color of respect to which it might seem able to
lay claim.

This tale shall be told in simplest periods. That is as should be; for
expression should ever be meek and subjugated when one's story is the
mere story of a cheat. There is scant room in such recital for heroic
phrase. Smuggling, and paint it with what genius one may, can be
nothing save a skulking, hiding, fear-eaten trade. There is nothing
about it of bravery or dash. How therefore, and avoid laughter, may
one wax stately in any telling of its ignoble details?

When, following my unfortunate crash in tobacco, I had cleared away
the last fragment of the confusion that reigned in my affairs, I was
driven to give my nerves a respite and seek a rest. For three months I
had been under severest stress. When the funeral was done--for funeral
it seemed to me--and my tobacco enterprise and those hopes it had so
flattered were forever laid at rest, my nerves sank exhausted and my
brain was in a whirl. I could neither think with clearness nor plan
with accuracy. Moreover, I was prey to that depression and lack of
confidence in myself, which come inevitably as the corollary of utter
weariness.

Aware of this personal condition, I put aside thought of any present
formulation of a future. I would rest, recover poise, and win back
that optimism that belongs with health and youth. This was wisdom; I
was jaded beyond belief; and fatigue means dejection, and dejection
spells pessimism, and pessimism is never sagacious nor excellent in