Fate said "No," and I began my journey to the Antipodes, leaving as a legacy to the Kentucky woman--a lie! Fifteen years later we met in New York. We drove through Central Park and I told her the truth. When I had finished she said nothing; for almost an hour we drove in silence. She then turned to me and simply replied, "Well I've waited all these years to prove what I thought was true. It is over now and I presume we both are happy." Are we? I wonder! It was Poe who wrote Annabel Lee:-- The moon never beams Without bringing me dreams Of my beautiful Annabel Lee. It is a strange world. The young lady married some few years ago. I hope she is happy; she deserves to be. _Chapter XLIX_ THE CONFESSIONAL Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call to-day his own; He, who, secure within, can say: "Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day!" Come fair or foul, or rain or shine. The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine! Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been, has been, And I have had my hour.--JOHN DRYDEN I have-- been addicted to the use of alcoholic stimulants--but always with distinguished and worthy companions; deserted home and fireside, always by request, bought and dearly paid for; lied--to myself--for recreation; cheated--the undertaker; deceived--only "yours truly;" been a reveler--during the day, always too busy at night; been a gambler--on the green; a rambler--on the nod; an actor--on the job; a hypocrite?--no, by God! The Shubert theatres and Carnegie libraries are running a dead heat in an earnest endeavor to perpetuate their respective names. What sublime egotism and how humorous! A race between a Scotchman and a Jew! Now if only a New England Yankee could be persuaded to enter the race I would back him to win! He would be sure to erect against every library and theatre a soup house in which to feed the inartistic hungry--and he would get the money, too. * * * * * I have been accused by many of my reviewers of being a casual person, with no reverence for my art; a trifler, unreliable, never taking myself seriously. To all of which I plead guilty. I am casual; I never found it necessary to plod. I have little reverence for the art that has never played fair with me. I had to play in London to discover that I was an artist. A trifler? Yes--when circumstances compelled me to associate with pin-headed critics. And why should I take myself seriously when nobody else does?