_“A Fool there was, and he made his prayer,_ _Even as you and I,_ _To a rag, and a bone, and a hank of hair;_ _We called her the Woman who did not care,_ _But the Fool, he called her his Lady Fair—_ _Even as you and I.”_ Good God. Here I am back in New York, alone, alone; wife and child and friends, all gone; disgraced, dishonored, and for that woman! _“A Fool there was, and his goods he spent,_ _Even as you and I,_ _Honor, Faith, and a sure Intent;_ _But it wasn’t the least what the Lady meant,_ _And a Fool must follow his natural bent—_ _Even as you and I.”_ Age comes, the body withers, the brain grows dull, the blood becomes thin, the soul grows weary; and the power to live, as once we lived, is taken from us. We sit, white-haired, blue veined, drinking in the sun, through shriveled pores, to drive the chill from our shrunken frame. It will come to you, to me, to all of us, and neither man nor God may stop it. You, Tom, you here? Before you begin, let me tell you that it is useless; nothing that you can say to me will change me in the slightest; I’ve made up my mind and my decision is unalterable. Gone, gone! Tell me what you think, Tom; tell me what every one thinks; put into words the scorn and contempt I see in every eye that looks into mine and every mirror that I look into. Gone, gone! Tell me something of your own; tell me the things that lie here and burn in my brain, and burn and burn, tell me something! Alas, not that; I know that by heart! Don’t, Tom, don’t try to save me! What is there left to save—nothing but memories, nightmares! I drink to you, gentlemen; I drink to you, Parmerly; I drink to you, Rogers, and to you, Van Dalm; I drink to you, even as you drink to me! Bumpers, gentlemen, bumpers! Bumpers? Good God, what has come over me? I thought from the beginning it was too late—the loss of honor, and dignity, and manhood, and self-respect were all new to me, Tom, and I couldn’t understand. I cursed myself and swore to God that I would not become the thing I am. Look at me, The Honorable John Schuyler! I prayed to God, Tom, but he didn’t help me. He didn’t, he didn’t; and I couldn’t help myself. I tried, oh, I tried and tried, but it was no use; there was something, I don’t know what it was! It was her eyes, Tom, it was her eyes, and I couldn’t help myself. I tried to kill myself as Parmerly did, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t, and the only forgetfulness lay in drink. Drink that sapped my strength and raised my veins, and shriveled up my brain. Don’t hate me, Tom! Pity me, for the love of God, pity me, pity me! _“The Fool was stripped to his foolish hide,_ _Even as you and I,_ _Which she might have seen, as she threw him aside;_ _But it wasn’t on record the Lady tried,_ _So some of him lived—but the most of him died—_ _Even as you and I.”_ * * * * * The Wrong Button