is embalmed and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears.
When wisdom has been profitless to me, philosophy barren, and the
proverbs and phrases of those who have sought to give me
consolation as dust and ashes in my mouth, the memory of that
little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed for me all the
wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and brought me
out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the
wounded, broken, and great heart of the world. When people are
able to understand, not merely how beautiful -'s action was, but
why it meant so much to me, and always will mean so much, then,
perhaps, they will realise how and in what spirit they should
approach me. . . .

The poor are wise, more charitable, more kind, more sensitive than
we are. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man's life, a
misfortune, a casuality, something that calls for sympathy in
others. They speak of one who is in prison as of one who is 'in
trouble' simply. It is the phrase they always use, and the
expression has the perfect wisdom of love in it. With people of
our own rank it is different. With us, prison makes a man a
pariah. I, and such as I am, have hardly any right to air and sun.
Our presence taints the pleasures of others. We are unwelcome when
we reappear. To revisit the glimpses of the moon is not for us.
Our very children are taken away. Those lovely links with humanity
are broken. We are doomed to be solitary, while our sons still
live. We are denied the one thing that might heal us and keep us,
that might bring balm to the bruised heart, and peace to the soul
in pain. . . .

I must say to myself that I ruined myself, and that nobody great or