Weaving spiders, come not here iv

On Thursday evenings,

the Bohemian Club will

present entertainments

in the dining room. It

will be natural, to ap-

plaud or otherwise mark

one's delight. One ev-

ening, I clapped; and

from across the table,

a fellow barked, Those

are hands that have

never worked. Al-

though not uncon-

scionable in that 

precinct, friends did

exploit this outburst

unlimitedly in private,

and it is a jest that

follows me to this day.

I regard this portrait,

then, with curiosity -

The face is excellent.

The hands are coarse.

What went wrong?

I honestly have never

minded this silliness

behind the closed doors

of convivial subscrip-

tion. But I have dread-

ed and detested its

publication to an un-

knowing world since my

earliest youth. I have

known since the age of

6 or 7, that I would

need law, and that I

would need my own kind,

if more than one of us

existed.