any of its programmes.

For that rawness of the nerves I speak of, many apply themselves to
drink; some rush to drugs; for myself, I take to music. It was
midwinter, and grand opera was here. This was fortunate. I buried
myself in a box, and opened my very pores to those nerve-healthful
harmonies. In a week thereafter I might call myself recovered. My soul
was cool, my eye bright, my mind clear and sensibly elate. Life and
its promises seemed mightily refreshed.

No one has ever called me superstitious, and yet to begin my
course-charting for a new career, I harked back to the old Astor
House. It was there that brilliant thought of tobacco overtook me two
years before. Perhaps an inspiration was to dwell in an environment.
Again I registered, and finding it tenantless, took over again my old
room.

Still I cannot say, and it is to that hostelry's credit, that my
domicile at the Astor aided me to my smuggling resolves. Those last
had growth somewhat in this fashion: I had dawdled for two hours over
coffee in the cafe--the room and the employment which had one-time
brought me fortune--but was incapable of any thought of value. I could
decide on nothing good. Indeed, I did naught save mentally curse those
Washington revenue miscreants who, failing of blackmail, had destroyed
me for revenge.

Whatever comfort may lurk in curses, at least they carry no money
profit; so after a fruitless session over coffee and maledictions, I
arose, and as a calmative, walked down Broadway. At Trinity
churchyard, the gates being open, I turned in and began ramblingly to