I used to be an honest man.  I am crumbling.  No—­I have crumbled.  When they assessed me at $75,000 a fortnight ago I went out and tried to borrow the money, and couldn’t; then when I found they were letting a whole crop of millionaires live in New York at a third of the price they were charging me I was hurt, I was indignant, and said:  “This is the last feather.  I am not going to run this town all by myself.”  In that moment—­in that memorable moment—­I began to crumble.  In fifteen minutes the disintegration was complete.  In fifteen minutes I had become just a mere moral sand-pile; and I lifted up my hand along with those seasoned and experienced deacons and swore off every rag of personal property I’ve got in the world, clear down to cork leg, glass eye, and what is left of my wig.

Those tax officers were moved; they were profoundly moved.  They had long been accustomed to seeing hardened old grafters act like that, and they could endure the spectacle; but they were expecting better things of me, a chartered, professional moralist, and they were saddened.

I fell visibly in their respect and esteem, and I should have fallen in my own, except that I had already struck bottom, and there wasn’t any place to fall to.

At Tuskeegee they will jump to misleading conclusions from insufficient evidence, along with Doctor Parkhurst, and they will deceive the student with the superstition that no gentleman ever swears.

Look at those good millionaires; aren’t they gentlemen?  Well, they swear.  Only once in a year, maybe, but there’s enough bulk to it to make up for the lost time.  And do they lose anything by it?  No, they don’t; they save enough in three minutes to support the family seven years.  When they swear, do we shudder?  No—­unless they say “damn!” Then we do.  It shrivels us all up.  Yet we ought not to feel so about it, because we all swear—­everybody.  Including the ladies.  Including Doctor Parkhurst, that strong and brave and excellent citizen, but superficially educated.

For it is not the word that is the sin, it is the spirit back of the word.  When an irritated lady says “oh!” the spirit back of it is “damn!” and that is the way it is going to be recorded against her.  It always makes me so sorry when I hear a lady swear like that.  But if she says “damn,” and says it in an amiable, nice way, it isn’t going to be recorded at all.

The idea that no gentleman ever swears is all wrong; he can swear and still be a gentleman if he does it in a nice and, benevolent and affectionate way.  The historian, John Fiske, whom I knew well and loved, was a spotless and most noble and upright Christian gentleman, and yet he swore once.  Not exactly that, maybe; still, he—­but I will tell you about it.

One day, when he was deeply immersed in his work, his wife came in, much moved and profoundly distressed, and said:  “I am sorry to disturb you, John, but I must, for this is a serious matter, and needs to be attended to at once.”