They say _"mea culpa,"_ "damn," or _"Kismet,"_ according to their various traditions, and go forth comforted to their workaday pursuits.

I envy them.

I enter this exquisite Torture Chamber, and I shriek at the first twinge of the thumbscrew and faint at the preliminary embraces of the scavenger's daughter.
I envy a fellow like Caesar Borgia.

He could murder a friend, seduce his widow, and rob the orphans all on a summer's day, and go home contentedly to supper; and after a little music he could sleep like a man who has thoroughly earned his repose.

What manner of creatures are other men?
They area blank mystery to me; and I am writing--or have been writing--a sociological study of the most subtle generation of them that has ever existed! I am an empty fool.