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Title: De Profundis

Author: Oscar Wilde

Release date: May 1, 1997 [eBook #921]
Most recently updated: June 11, 2013

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/921

Credits: Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price.
Note that later editions of De Profundis contained more material.
The most complete editions are still in copyright in the U.S.A

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DE PROFUNDIS
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Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org. Note that later editions of De Profundis contained more

material. The most complete editions are still in copyright in the U.S.A.

DE PROFUNDIS

. . . Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.
We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time
itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of
pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is
regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie
down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws
of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in
the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to
those external forces the very essence of whose existence is ceaseless
change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers bending over the corn, or
the grape gatherers threading through the vines, of the grass in the orchard
made white with broken blossoms or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we
know nothing and can know nothing.
For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and
moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the
light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-
barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is always
twilight in one’s cell, as it is always twilight in one’s heart. And in the
sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more.
The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget,
is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-morrow.
Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of why I am
writing, and in this manner writing. . . .
A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and my
mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her
death was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in

which to express my anguish and my shame. She and my father had
bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in
literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of my own
country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name eternally. I
had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged it through the
very mire. I had given it to brutes that they might make it brutal, and to
fools that they might turn it into a synonym for folly. What I suffered then,
and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper to record. My wife, always
kind and gentle to me, rather than that I should hear the news from
indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was, all the way from Genoa to England
to break to me herself the tidings of so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss.
Messages of sympathy reached me from all who had still affection for me.
Even people who had not known me personally, hearing that a new sorrow
had broken into my life, wrote to ask that some expression of their
condolence should be conveyed to me. . . .
Three months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that
hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written
upon it, tells me that it is May. . . .
Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in
fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is nothing
that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in
terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold
that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see is in comparison
coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it,
and even then must bleed again, though not in pain.
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise
what that means. They will know nothing of life till they do,—and natures
like his can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison to the
Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,—waited in the long dreary
corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and simple
hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as, handcuffed and
with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven for smaller
things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode of love, that the
saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or stooped to kiss the leper
on the cheek. I have never said one single word to him about what he did.

I do not know to the present moment whether he is aware that I was even
conscious of his action. It is not a thing for which one can render formal
thanks in formal words. I store it in the treasure-house of my heart. I keep
it there as a secret debt that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It
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 small
can be ruined except by his own hand. I am quite ready to say so. I am
trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment. This
pitiless indictment I bring without pity against myself. Terrible as was what
the world did to me, what I did to myself was far more terrible still.
I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my
age. I had realised this for myself at the very dawn of my manhood, and
had forced my age to realise it afterwards. Few men hold such a position in

their own lifetime, and have it so acknowledged. It is usually discerned, if
discerned at all, by the historian, or the critic, long after both the man and
his age have passed away. With me it was different. I felt it myself, and
made others feel it. Byron was a symbolic figure, but his relations were to
the passion of his age and its weariness of passion. Mine were to something
more noble, more permanent, of more vital issue, of larger scope.
The gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured into
long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a
flâneur, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the smaller
natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own genius,
and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of being on the
heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for new sensation.
What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought, perversity became to
me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end, was a malady, or a madness,
or both. I grew careless of the lives of others. I took pleasure where it
pleased me, and passed on. I forgot that every little action of the common
day makes or unmakes character, and that therefore what one has done in
the secret chamber one has some day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased
to be lord over myself. I was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not
know it. I allowed pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace.
There is only one thing for me now, absolute humility.
I have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my nature has come wild
despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to look at; terrible
and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish that wept aloud; misery
that could find no voice; sorrow that was dumb. I have passed through
every possible mood of suffering. Better than Wordsworth himself I know
what Wordsworth meant when he said—

‘Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark
And has the nature of infinity.’

But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings
were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without meaning. Now I
find hidden somewhere away in my nature something that tells me that
nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering least of all. That
something hidden away in my nature, like a treasure in a field, is Humility.

It is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate discovery at which I
have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh development. It has come to me
right out of myself, so I know that it has come at the proper time. It could
not have come before, nor later. Had any one told me of it, I would have
rejected it. Had it been brought to me, I would have refused it. As I found
it, I want to keep it. I must do so. It is the one thing that has in it the
elements of life, of a new life, Vita Nuova for me. Of all things it is the
strangest. One cannot acquire it, except by surrendering everything that one
has. It is only when one has lost all things, that one knows that one
possesses it.
Now I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what I ought to do; in
fact, must do. And when I use such a phrase as that, I need not say that I
am not alluding to any external sanction or command. I admit none. I am
far more of an individualist than I ever was. Nothing seems to me of the
smallest value except what one gets out of oneself. My nature is seeking a
fresh mode of self-realisation. That is all I am concerned with. And the
first thing that I have got to do is to free myself from any possible bitterness
of feeling against the world.
I am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet there are worse
things in the world than that. I am quite candid when I say that rather than
go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against the world, I
would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. If I got nothing
from the house of the rich I would get something at the house of the poor.
Those who have much are often greedy; those who have little always share.
I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in summer, and when
winter came on sheltering myself by the warm close-thatched rick, or under
the penthouse of a great barn, provided I had love in my heart. The external
things of life seem to me now of no importance at all. You can see to what
intensity of individualism I have arrived—or am arriving rather, for the
journey is long, and ‘where I walk there are thorns.’
Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my lot, and
that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will be to write sonnets to
the moon. When I go out of prison, R--- will be waiting for me on the other
side of the big iron-studded gate, and he is the symbol, not merely of his
own affection, but of the affection of many others besides. I believe I am to

have enough to live on for about eighteen months at any rate, so that if I
may not write beautiful books, I may at least read beautiful books; and what
joy can be greater? After that, I hope to be able to recreate my creative
faculty.
But were things different: had I not a friend left in the world; were there not
a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept the wallet and ragged
cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free from all resentment, hardness
and scorn, I would be able to face the life with much more calm and
confidence than I would were my body in purple and fine linen, and the
soul within me sick with hate.
And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love you will
find it waiting for you.
I need not say that my task does not end there. It would be comparatively
easy if it did. There is much more before me. I have hills far steeper to
climb, valleys much darker to pass through. And I have to get it all out of
myself. Neither religion, morality, nor reason can help me at all.
Morality does not help me. I am a born antinomian. I am one of those who
are made for exceptions, not for laws. But while I see that there is nothing
wrong in what one does, I see that there is something wrong in what one
becomes. It is well to have learned that.
Religion does not help me. The faith that others give to what is unseen, I
give to what one can touch, and look at. My gods dwell in temples made
with hands; and within the circle of actual experience is my creed made
perfect and complete: too complete, it may be, for like many or all of those
who have placed their heaven in this earth, I have found in it not merely the
beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also. When I think about religion at
all, I feel as if I would like to found an order for those who cannot believe:
the Confraternity of the Faithless, one might call it, where on an altar, on
which no taper burned, a priest, in whose heart peace had no dwelling,
might celebrate with unblessed bread and a chalice empty of wine. Every
thing to be true must become a religion. And agnosticism should have its
ritual no less than faith. It has sown its martyrs, it should reap its saints,
and praise God daily for having hidden Himself from man. But whether it
be faith or agnosticism, it must be nothing external to me. Its symbols must

be of my own creating. Only that is spiritual which makes its own form. If
I may not find its secret within myself, I shall never find it: if I have not got
it already, it will never come to me.
Reason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under which I am
convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which I have
suffered a wrong and unjust system. But, somehow, I have got to make
both of these things just and right to me. And exactly as in Art one is only
concerned with what a particular thing is at a particular moment to oneself,
so it is also in the ethical evolution of one’s character. I have got to make
everything that has happened to me good for me. The plank bed, the
loathsome food, the hard ropes shredded into oakum till one’s finger-tips
grow dull with pain, the menial offices with which each day begins and
finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to necessitate, the dreadful
dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at, the silence, the solitude, the
shame—each and all of these things I have to transform into a spiritual
experience. There is not a single degradation of the body which I must not
try and make into a spiritualising of the soul.
I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite simply, and
without affectation that the two great turning-points in my life were when
my father sent me to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison. I will not
say that prison is the best thing that could have happened to me: for that
phrase would savour of too great bitterness towards myself. I would sooner
say, or hear it said of me, that I was so typical a child of my age, that in my
perversity, and for that perversity’s sake, I turned the good things of my life
to evil, and the evil things of my life to good.
What is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. The important
thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I have to do, if the brief
remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and incomplete, is to
absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to make it part of me, to
accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance. The supreme vice is
shallowness. Whatever is realised is right.
When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and forget
who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising what I am that I
have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised by others to try on my

release to forget that I have ever been in a prison at all. I know that would
be equally fatal. It would mean that I would always be haunted by an
intolerable sense of disgrace, and that those things that are meant for me as
much as for anybody else—the beauty of the sun and moon, the pageant of
the seasons, the music of daybreak and the silence of great nights, the rain
falling through the leaves, or the dew creeping over the grass and making it
silver—would all be tainted for me, and lose their healing power, and their
power of communicating joy. To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest
one’s own development. To deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into
the lips of one’s own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.
For just as the body absorbs things of all kinds, things common and unclean
no less than those that the priest or a vision has cleansed, and converts them
into swiftness or strength, into the play of beautiful muscles and the
moulding of fair flesh, into the curves and colours of the hair, the lips, the
eye; so the soul in its turn has its nutritive functions also, and can transform
into noble moods of thought and passions of high import what in itself is
base, cruel and degrading; nay, more, may find in these its most august
modes of assertion, and can often reveal itself most perfectly through what
was intended to desecrate or destroy.
The fact of my having been the common prisoner of a common gaol I must
frankly accept, and, curious as it may seem, one of the things I shall have to
teach myself is not to be ashamed of it. I must accept it as a punishment,
and if one is ashamed of having been punished, one might just as well never
have been punished at all. Of course there are many things of which I was
convicted that I had not done, but then there are many things of which I was
convicted that I had done, and a still greater number of things in my life for
which I was never indicted at all. And as the gods are strange, and punish
us for what is good and humane in us as much as for what is evil and
perverse, I must accept the fact that one is punished for the good as well as
for the evil that one does. I have no doubt that it is quite right one should
be. It helps one, or should help one, to realise both, and not to be too
conceited about either. And if I then am not ashamed of my punishment, as
I hope not to be, I shall be able to think, and walk, and live with freedom.
Many men on their release carry their prison about with them into the air,
and hide it as a secret disgrace in their hearts, and at length, like poor

poisoned things, creep into some hole and die. It is wretched that they
should have to do so, and it is wrong, terribly wrong, of society that it
should force them to do so. Society takes upon itself the right to inflict
appalling punishment on the individual, but it also has the supreme vice of
shallowness, and fails to realise what it has done. When the man’s
punishment is over, it leaves him to himself; that is to say, it abandons him
at the very moment when its highest duty towards him begins. It is really
ashamed of its own actions, and shuns those whom it has punished, as
people shun a creditor whose debt they cannot pay, or one on whom they
have inflicted an irreparable, an irremediable wrong. I can claim on my
side that if I realise what I have suffered, society should realise what it has
inflicted on me; and that there should be no bitterness or hate on either side.
Of course I know that from one point of view things will be made different
for me than for others; must indeed, by the very nature of the case, be made
so. The poor thieves and outcasts who are imprisoned here with me are in
many respects more fortunate than I am. The little way in grey city or green
field that saw their sin is small; to find those who know nothing of what
they have done they need go no further than a bird might fly between the
twilight and the dawn; but for me the world is shrivelled to a handsbreadth,
and everywhere I turn my name is written on the rocks in lead. For I have
come, not from obscurity into the momentary notoriety of crime, but from a
sort of eternity of fame to a sort of eternity of infamy, and sometimes seem
to myself to have shown, if indeed it required showing, that between the
famous and the infamous there is but one step, if as much as one.
Still, in the very fact that people will recognise me wherever I go, and know
all about my life, as far as its follies go, I can discern something good for
me. It will force on me the necessity of again asserting myself as an artist,
and as soon as I possibly can. If I can produce only one beautiful work of
art I shall be able to rob malice of its venom, and cowardice of its sneer, and
to pluck out the tongue of scorn by the roots.
And if life be, as it surely is, a problem to me, I am no less a problem to
life. People must adopt some attitude towards me, and so pass judgment,
both on themselves and me. I need not say I am not talking of particular
individuals. The only people I would care to be with now are artists and
people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who

know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me. Nor am I making any
demands on life. In all that I have said I am simply concerned with my own
mental attitude towards life as a whole; and I feel that not to be ashamed of
having been punished is one of the first points I must attain to, for the sake
of my own perfection, and because I am so imperfect.
Then I must learn how to be happy. Once I knew it, or thought I knew it, by
instinct. It was always springtime once in my heart. My temperament was
akin to joy. I filled my life to the very brim with pleasure, as one might fill
a cup to the very brim with wine. Now I am approaching life from a
completely new standpoint, and even to conceive happiness is often
extremely difficult for me. I remember during my first term at Oxford
reading in Pater’s Renaissance—that book which has had such strange
influence over my life—how Dante places low in the Inferno those who
wilfully live in sadness; and going to the college library and turning to the
passage in the Divine Comedy where beneath the dreary marsh lie those
who were ‘sullen in the sweet air,’ saying for ever and ever through their
sighs—

‘Tristi fummo
Nell aer dolce che dal sol s’allegra.’

I knew the church condemned accidia, but the whole idea seemed to me
quite fantastic, just the sort of sin, I fancied, a priest who knew nothing
about real life would invent. Nor could I understand how Dante, who says
that ‘sorrow remarries us to God,’ could have been so harsh to those who
were enamoured of melancholy, if any such there really were. I had no idea
that some day this would become to me one of the greatest temptations of
my life.
While I was in Wandsworth prison I longed to die. It was my one desire.
When after two months in the infirmary I was transferred here, and found
myself growing gradually better in physical health, I was filled with rage. I
determined to commit suicide on the very day on which I left prison. After
a time that evil mood passed away, and I made up my mind to live, but to
wear gloom as a king wears purple: never to smile again: to turn whatever
house I entered into a house of mourning: to make my friends walk slowly
in sadness with me: to teach them that melancholy is the true secret of life:

to maim them with an alien sorrow: to mar them with my own pain. Now I
feel quite differently. I see it would be both ungrateful and unkind of me to
pull so long a face that when my friends came to see me they would have to
make their faces still longer in order to show their sympathy; or, if I desired
to entertain them, to invite them to sit down silently to bitter herbs and
funeral baked meats. I must learn how to be cheerful and happy.
The last two occasions on which I was allowed to see my friends here, I
tried to be as cheerful as possible, and to show my cheerfulness, in order to
make them some slight return for their trouble in coming all the way from
town to see me. It is only a slight return, I know, but it is the one, I feel
certain, that pleases them most. I saw R--- for an hour on Saturday week,
and I tried to give the fullest possible expression of the delight I really felt
at our meeting. And that, in the views and ideas I am here shaping for
myself, I am quite right is shown to me by the fact that now for the first
time since my imprisonment I have a real desire for life.
There is before me so much to do, that I would regard it as a terrible tragedy
if I died before I was allowed to complete at any rate a little of it. I see new
developments in art and life, each one of which is a fresh mode of
perfection. I long to live so that I can explore what is no less than a new
world to me. Do you want to know what this new world is? I think you can
guess what it is. It is the world in which I have been living. Sorrow, then,
and all that it teaches one, is my new world.
I used to live entirely for pleasure. I shunned suffering and sorrow of every
kind. I hated both. I resolved to ignore them as far as possible: to treat
them, that is to say, as modes of imperfection. They were not part of my
scheme of life. They had no place in my philosophy. My mother, who
knew life as a whole, used often to quote to me Goethe’s lines—written by
Carlyle in a book he had given her years ago, and translated by him, I fancy,
also:—

‘Who never ate his bread in sorrow,
Who never spent the midnight hours
Weeping and waiting for the morrow,—
He knows you not, ye heavenly powers.’

They were the lines which that noble Queen of Prussia, whom Napoleon
treated with such coarse brutality, used to quote in her humiliation and
exile; they were the lines my mother often quoted in the troubles of her later
life. I absolutely declined to accept or admit the enormous truth hidden in
them. I could not understand it. I remember quite well how I used to tell
her that I did not want to eat my bread in sorrow, or to pass any night
weeping and watching for a more bitter dawn.
I had no idea that it was one of the special things that the Fates had in store
for me: that for a whole year of my life, indeed, I was to do little else. But
so has my portion been meted out to me; and during the last few months I
have, after terrible difficulties and struggles, been able to comprehend some
of the lessons hidden in the heart of pain. Clergymen and people who use
phrases without wisdom sometimes talk of suffering as a mystery. It is
really a revelation. One discerns things one never discerned before. One
approaches the whole of history from a different standpoint. What one had
felt dimly, through instinct, about art, is intellectually and emotionally
realised with perfect clearness of vision and absolute intensity of
apprehension.
I now see that sorrow, being the supreme emotion of which man is capable,
is at once the type and test of all great art. What the artist is always looking
for is the mode of existence in which soul and body are one and indivisible:
in which the outward is expressive of the inward: in which form reveals. Of
such modes of existence there are not a few: youth and the arts preoccupied
with youth may serve as a model for us at one moment: at another we may
like to think that, in its subtlety and sensitiveness of impression, its
suggestion of a spirit dwelling in external things and making its raiment of
earth and air, of mist and city alike, and in its morbid sympathy of its
moods, and tones, and colours, modern landscape art is realising for us
pictorially what was realised in such plastic perfection by the Greeks.
Music, in which all subject is absorbed in expression and cannot be
separated from it, is a complex example, and a flower or a child a simple
example, of what I mean; but sorrow is the ultimate type both in life and art.
Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and
callous. But behind sorrow there is always sorrow. Pain, unlike pleasure,
wears no mask. Truth in art is not any correspondence between the

essential idea and the accidental existence; it is not the resemblance of
shape to shadow, or of the form mirrored in the crystal to the form itself; it
is no echo coming from a hollow hill, any more than it is a silver well of
water in the valley that shows the moon to the moon and Narcissus to
Narcissus. Truth in art is the unity of a thing with itself: the outward
rendered expressive of the inward: the soul made incarnate: the body
instinct with spirit. For this reason there is no truth comparable to sorrow.
There are times when sorrow seems to me to be the only truth. Other things
may be illusions of the eye or the appetite, made to blind the one and cloy
the other, but out of sorrow have the worlds been built, and at the birth of a
child or a star there is pain.
More than this, there is about sorrow an intense, an extraordinary reality. I
have said of myself that I was one who stood in symbolic relations to the art
and culture of my age. There is not a single wretched man in this wretched
place along with me who does not stand in symbolic relation to the very
secret of life. For the secret of life is suffering. It is what is hidden behind
everything. When we begin to live, what is sweet is so sweet to us, and
what is bitter so bitter, that we inevitably direct all our desires towards
pleasures, and seek not merely for a ‘month or twain to feed on
honeycomb,’ but for all our years to taste no other food, ignorant all the
while that we may really be starving the soul.
I remember talking once on this subject to one of the most beautiful
personalities I have ever known: a woman, whose sympathy and noble
kindness to me, both before and since the tragedy of my imprisonment,
have been beyond power and description; one who has really assisted me,
though she does not know it, to bear the burden of my troubles more than
any one else in the whole world has, and all through the mere fact of her
existence, through her being what she is—partly an ideal and partly an
influence: a suggestion of what one might become as well as a real help
towards becoming it; a soul that renders the common air sweet, and makes
what is spiritual seem as simple and natural as sunlight or the sea: one for
whom beauty and sorrow walk hand in hand, and have the same message.
On the occasion of which I am thinking I recall distinctly how I said to her
that there was enough suffering in one narrow London lane to show that
God did not love man, and that wherever there was any sorrow, though but
that of a child, in some little garden weeping over a fault that it had or had

not committed, the whole face of creation was completely marred. I was
entirely wrong. She told me so, but I could not believe her. I was not in the
sphere in which such belief was to be attained to. Now it seems to me that
love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary
amount of suffering that there is in the world. I cannot conceive of any
other explanation. I am convinced that there is no other, and that if the
world has indeed, as I have said, been built of sorrow, it has been built by
the hands of love, because in no other way could the soul of man, for whom
the world was made, reach the full stature of its perfection. Pleasure for the
beautiful body, but pain for the beautiful soul.
When I say that I am convinced of these things I speak with too much
pride. Far off, like a perfect pearl, one can see the city of God. It is so
wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it in a summer’s day. And
so a child could. But with me and such as me it is different. One can
realise a thing in a single moment, but one loses it in the long hours that
follow with leaden feet. It is so difficult to keep ‘heights that the soul is
competent to gain.’ We think in eternity, but we move slowly through time;
and how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison I need not tell again,
nor of the weariness and despair that creep back into one’s cell, and into the
cell of one’s heart, with such strange insistence that one has, as it were, to
garnish and sweep one’s house for their coming, as for an unwelcome guest,
or a bitter master, or a slave whose slave it is one’s chance or choice to be.
And, though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to believe, it is
true none the less, that for them living in freedom and idleness and comfort
it is more easy to learn the lessons of humility than it is for me, who begin
the day by going down on my knees and washing the floor of my cell. For
prison life with its endless privations and restrictions makes one rebellious.
The most terrible thing about it is not that it breaks one’s heart—hearts are
made to be broken—but that it turns one’s heart to stone. One sometimes
feels that it is only with a front of brass and a lip of scorn that one can get
through the day at all. And he who is in a state of rebellion cannot receive
grace, to use the phrase of which the Church is so fond—so rightly fond, I
dare say—for in life as in art the mood of rebellion closes up the channels
of the soul, and shuts out the airs of heaven. Yet I must learn these lessons
here, if I am to learn them anywhere, and must be filled with joy if my feet
are on the right road and my face set towards ‘the gate which is called

beautiful,’ though I may fall many times in the mire and often in the mist go
astray.
This New Life, as through my love of Dante I like sometimes to call it, is of
course no new life at all, but simply the continuance, by means of
development, and evolution, of my former life. I remember when I was at
Oxford saying to one of my friends as we were strolling round Magdalen’s
narrow bird-haunted walks one morning in the year before I took my
degree, that I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden of the
world, and that I was going out into the world with that passion in my soul.
And so, indeed, I went out, and so I lived. My only mistake was that I
confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit
side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its gloom.
Failure, disgrace, poverty, sorrow, despair, suffering, tears even, the broken
words that come from lips in pain, remorse that makes one walk on thorns,
conscience that condemns, self-abasement that punishes, the misery that
puts ashes on its head, the anguish that chooses sack-cloth for its raiment
and into its own drink puts gall:—all these were things of which I was
afraid. And as I had determined to know nothing of them, I was forced to
taste each of them in turn, to feed on them, to have for a season, indeed, no
other food at all.
I don’t regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I did it to the
full, as one should do everything that one does. There was no pleasure I did
not experience. I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup of wine. I went
down the primrose path to the sound of flutes. I lived on honeycomb. But
to have continued the same life would have been wrong because it would
have been limiting. I had to pass on. The other half of the garden had its
secrets for me also. Of course all this is foreshadowed and prefigured in my
books. Some of it is in The Happy Prince, some of it in The Young King,
notably in the passage where the bishop says to the kneeling boy, ‘Is not He
who made misery wiser than thou art’? a phrase which when I wrote it
seemed to me little more than a phrase; a great deal of it is hidden away in
the note of doom that like a purple thread runs through the texture of
Dorian Gray; in The Critic as Artist it is set forth in many colours; in The
Soul of Man it is written down, and in letters too easy to read; it is one of
the refrains whose recurring motifs make Salome so like a piece of music
and bind it together as a ballad; in the prose poem of the man who from the

bronze of the image of the ‘Pleasure that liveth for a moment’ has to make
the image of the ‘Sorrow that abideth for ever’ it is incarnate. It could not
have been otherwise. At every single moment of one’s life one is what one
is going to be no less than what one has been. Art is a symbol, because man
is a symbol.
It is, if I can fully attain to it, the ultimate realisation of the artistic life. For
the artistic life is simply self-development. Humility in the artist is his
frank acceptance of all experiences, just as love in the artist is simply the
sense of beauty that reveals to the world its body and its soul. In Marius the
Epicurean Pater seeks to reconcile the artistic life with the life of religion,
in the deep, sweet, and austere sense of the word. But Marius is little more
than a spectator: an ideal spectator indeed, and one to whom it is given ‘to
contemplate the spectacle of life with appropriate emotions,’ which
Wordsworth defines as the poet’s true aim; yet a spectator merely, and
perhaps a little too much occupied with the comeliness of the benches of the
sanctuary to notice that it is the sanctuary of sorrow that he is gazing at.
I see a far more intimate and immediate connection between the true life of
Christ and the true life of the artist; and I take a keen pleasure in the
reflection that long before sorrow had made my days her own and bound
me to her wheel I had written in The Soul of Man that he who would lead a
Christ-like life must be entirely and absolutely himself, and had taken as my
types not merely the shepherd on the hillside and the prisoner in his cell, but
also the painter to whom the world is a pageant and the poet for whom the
world is a song. I remember saying once to André Gide, as we sat together
in some Paris café, that while meta-physics had but little real interest for
me, and morality absolutely none, there was nothing that either Plato or
Christ had said that could not be transferred immediately into the sphere of
Art and there find its complete fulfilment.
Nor is it merely that we can discern in Christ that close union of personality
with perfection which forms the real distinction between the classical and
romantic movement in life, but the very basis of his nature was the same as
that of the nature of the artist—an intense and flamelike imagination. He
realised in the entire sphere of human relations that imaginative sympathy
which in the sphere of Art is the sole secret of creation. He understood the
leprosy of the leper, the darkness of the blind, the fierce misery of those

who live for pleasure, the strange poverty of the rich. Some one wrote to
me in trouble, ‘When you are not on your pedestal you are not interesting.’
How remote was the writer from what Matthew Arnold calls ‘the Secret of
Jesus.’ Either would have taught him that whatever happens to another
happens to oneself, and if you want an inscription to read at dawn and at
night-time, and for pleasure or for pain, write up on the walls of your house
in letters for the sun to gild and the moon to silver, ‘Whatever happens to
oneself happens to another.’
Christ’s place indeed is with the poets. His whole conception of Humanity
sprang right out of the imagination and can only be realised by it. What
God was to the pantheist, man was to Him. He was the first to conceive the
divided races as a unity. Before his time there had been gods and men, and,
feeling through the mysticism of sympathy that in himself each had been
made incarnate, he calls himself the Son of the one or the Son of the other,
according to his mood. More than any one else in history he wakes in us
that temper of wonder to which romance always appeals. There is still
something to me almost incredible in the idea of a young Galilean peasant
imagining that he could bear on his own shoulders the burden of the entire
world; all that had already been done and suffered, and all that was yet to be
done and suffered: the sins of Nero, of Caesar Borgia, of Alexander VI., and
of him who was Emperor of Rome and Priest of the Sun: the sufferings of
those whose names are legion and whose dwelling is among the tombs:
oppressed nationalities, factory children, thieves, people in prison, outcasts,
those who are dumb under oppression and whose silence is heard only of
God; and not merely imagining this but actually achieving it, so that at the
present moment all who come in contact with his personality, even though
they may neither bow to his altar nor kneel before his priest, in some way
find that the ugliness of their sin is taken away and the beauty of their
sorrow revealed to them.
I had said of Christ that he ranks with the poets. That is true. Shelley and
Sophocles are of his company. But his entire life also is the most wonderful
of poems. For ‘pity and terror’ there is nothing in the entire cycle of Greek
tragedy to touch it. The absolute purity of the protagonist raises the entire
scheme to a height of romantic art from which the sufferings of Thebes and
Pelops’ line are by their very horror excluded, and shows how wrong
Aristotle was when he said in his treatise on the drama that it would be

impossible to bear the spectacle of one blameless in pain. Nor in Æschylus
nor Dante, those stern masters of tenderness, in Shakespeare, the most
purely human of all the great artists, in the whole of Celtic myth and
legend, where the loveliness of the world is shown through a mist of tears,
and the life of a man is no more than the life of a flower, is there anything
that, for sheer simplicity of pathos wedded and made one with sublimity of
tragic effect, can be said to equal or even approach the last act of Christ’s
passion. The little supper with his companions, one of whom has already
sold him for a price; the anguish in the quiet moon-lit garden; the false
friend coming close to him so as to betray him with a kiss; the friend who
still believed in him, and on whom as on a rock he had hoped to build a
house of refuge for Man, denying him as the bird cried to the dawn; his own
utter loneliness, his submission, his acceptance of everything; and along
with it all such scenes as the high priest of orthodoxy rending his raiment in
wrath, and the magistrate of civil justice calling for water in the vain hope
of cleansing himself of that stain of innocent blood that makes him the
scarlet figure of history; the coronation ceremony of sorrow, one of the
most wonderful things in the whole of recorded time; the crucifixion of the
Innocent One before the eyes of his mother and of the disciple whom he
loved; the soldiers gambling and throwing dice for his clothes; the terrible
death by which he gave the world its most eternal symbol; and his final
burial in the tomb of the rich man, his body swathed in Egyptian linen with
costly spices and perfumes as though he had been a king’s son. When one
contemplates all this from the point of view of art alone one cannot but be
grateful that the supreme office of the Church should be the playing of the
tragedy without the shedding of blood: the mystical presentation, by means
of dialogue and costume and gesture even, of the Passion of her Lord; and it
is always a source of pleasure and awe to me to remember that the ultimate
survival of the Greek chorus, lost elsewhere to art, is to be found in the
servitor answering the priest at Mass.
Yet the whole life of Christ—so entirely may sorrow and beauty be made
one in their meaning and manifestation—is really an idyll, though it ends
with the veil of the temple being rent, and the darkness coming over the
face of the earth, and the stone rolled to the door of the sepulchre. One
always thinks of him as a young bridegroom with his companions, as
indeed he somewhere describes himself; as a shepherd straying through a

valley with his sheep in search of green meadow or cool stream; as a singer
trying to build out of the music the walls of the City of God; or as a lover
for whose love the whole world was too small. His miracles seem to me to
be as exquisite as the coming of spring, and quite as natural. I see no
difficulty at all in believing that such was the charm of his personality that
his mere presence could bring peace to souls in anguish, and that those who
touched his garments or his hands forgot their pain; or that as he passed by
on the highway of life people who had seen nothing of life’s mystery, saw it
clearly, and others who had been deaf to every voice but that of pleasure
heard for the first time the voice of love and found it as ‘musical as Apollo’s
lute’; or that evil passions fled at his approach, and men whose dull
unimaginative lives had been but a mode of death rose as it were from the
grave when he called them; or that when he taught on the hillside the
multitude forgot their hunger and thirst and the cares of this world, and that
to his friends who listened to him as he sat at meat the coarse food seemed
delicate, and the water had the taste of good wine, and the whole house
became full of the odour and sweetness of nard.
Renan in his Vie de Jesus—that gracious fifth gospel, the gospel according
to St. Thomas, one might call it—says somewhere that Christ’s great
achievement was that he made himself as much loved after his death as he
had been during his lifetime. And certainly, if his place is among the poets,
he is the leader of all the lovers. He saw that love was the first secret of the
world for which the wise men had been looking, and that it was only
through love that one could approach either the heart of the leper or the feet
of God.
And above all, Christ is the most supreme of individualists. Humility, like
the artistic, acceptance of all experiences, is merely a mode of
manifestation. It is man’s soul that Christ is always looking for. He calls it
‘God’s Kingdom,’ and finds it in every one. He compares it to little things,
to a tiny seed, to a handful of leaven, to a pearl. That is because one
realises one’s soul only by getting rid of all alien passions, all acquired
culture, and all external possessions, be they good or evil.
I bore up against everything with some stubbornness of will and much
rebellion of nature, till I had absolutely nothing left in the world but one
thing. I had lost my name, my position, my happiness, my freedom, my

wealth. I was a prisoner and a pauper. But I still had my children left.
Suddenly they were taken away from me by the law. It was a blow so
appalling that I did not know what to do, so I flung myself on my knees,
and bowed my head, and wept, and said, ‘The body of a child is as the body
of the Lord: I am not worthy of either.’ That moment seemed to save me. I
saw then that the only thing for me was to accept everything. Since then—
curious as it will no doubt sound—I have been happier. It was of course my
soul in its ultimate essence that I had reached. In many ways I had been its
enemy, but I found it waiting for me as a friend. When one comes in
contact with the soul it makes one simple as a child, as Christ said one
should be.
It is tragic how few people ever ‘possess their souls’ before they die.
‘Nothing is more rare in any man,’ says Emerson, ‘than an act of his own.’
It is quite true. Most people are other people. Their thoughts are some one
else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation. Christ was
not merely the supreme individualist, but he was the first individualist in
history. People have tried to make him out an ordinary philanthropist, or
ranked him as an altruist with the scientific and sentimental. But he was
really neither one nor the other. Pity he has, of course, for the poor, for
those who are shut up in prisons, for the lowly, for the wretched; but he has
far more pity for the rich, for the hard hedonists, for those who waste their
freedom in becoming slaves to things, for those who wear soft raiment and
live in kings’ houses. Riches and pleasure seemed to him to be really
greater tragedies than poverty or sorrow. And as for altruism, who knew
better than he that it is vocation not volition that determines us, and that one
cannot gather grapes of thorns or figs from thistles?
To live for others as a definite self-conscious aim was not his creed. It was
not the basis of his creed. When he says, ‘Forgive your enemies,’ it is not
for the sake of the enemy, but for one’s own sake that he says so, and
because love is more beautiful than hate. In his own entreaty to the young
man, ‘Sell all that thou hast and give to the poor,’ it is not of the state of the
poor that he is thinking but of the soul of the young man, the soul that
wealth was marring. In his view of life he is one with the artist who knows
that by the inevitable law of self-perfection, the poet must sing, and the
sculptor think in bronze, and the painter make the world a mirror for his
moods, as surely and as certainly as the hawthorn must blossom in spring,

and the corn turn to gold at harvest-time, and the moon in her ordered
wanderings change from shield to sickle, and from sickle to shield.
But while Christ did not say to men, ‘Live for others,’ he pointed out that
there was no difference at all between the lives of others and one’s own
life. By this means he gave to man an extended, a Titan personality. Since
his coming the history of each separate individual is, or can be made, the
history of the world. Of course, culture has intensified the personality of
man. Art has made us myriad-minded. Those who have the artistic
temperament go into exile with Dante and learn how salt is the bread of
others, and how steep their stairs; they catch for a moment the serenity and
calm of Goethe, and yet know but too well that Baudelaire cried to God—

‘O Seigneur, donnez moi la force et le courage
De contempler mon corps et mon coeur sans dégoût.’

Out of Shakespeare’s sonnets they draw, to their own hurt it may be, the
secret of his love and make it their own; they look with new eyes on
modern life, because they have listened to one of Chopin’s nocturnes, or
handled Greek things, or read the story of the passion of some dead man for
some dead woman whose hair was like threads of fine gold, and whose
mouth was as a pomegranate. But the sympathy of the artistic temperament
is necessarily with what has found expression. In words or in colours, in
music or in marble, behind the painted masks of an Æschylean play, or
through some Sicilian shepherds’ pierced and jointed reeds, the man and his
message must have been revealed.
To the artist, expression is the only mode under which he can conceive life
at all. To him what is dumb is dead. But to Christ it was not so. With a
width and wonder of imagination that fills one almost with awe, he took the
entire world of the inarticulate, the voiceless world of pain, as his kingdom,
and made of himself its eternal mouthpiece. Those of whom I have spoken,
who are dumb under oppression, and ‘whose silence is heard only of God,’
he chose as his brothers. He sought to become eyes to the blind, ears to the
deaf, and a cry in the lips of those whose tongues had been tied. His desire
was to be to the myriads who had found no utterance a very trumpet
through which they might call to heaven. And feeling, with the artistic
nature of one to whom suffering and sorrow were modes through which he

could realise his conception of the beautiful, that an idea is of no value till it
becomes incarnate and is made an image, he made of himself the image of
the Man of Sorrows, and as such has fascinated and dominated art as no
Greek god ever succeeded in doing.
For the Greek gods, in spite of the white and red of their fair fleet limbs,
were not really what they appeared to be. The curved brow of Apollo was
like the sun’s disc crescent over a hill at dawn, and his feet were as the
wings of the morning, but he himself had been cruel to Marsyas and had
made Niobe childless. In the steel shields of Athena’s eyes there had been
no pity for Arachne; the pomp and peacocks of Hera were all that was really
noble about her; and the Father of the Gods himself had been too fond of
the daughters of men. The two most deeply suggestive figures of Greek
Mythology were, for religion, Demeter, an Earth Goddess, not one of the
Olympians, and for art, Dionysus, the son of a mortal woman to whom the
moment of his birth had proved also the moment of her death.
But Life itself from its lowliest and most humble sphere produced one far
more marvellous than the mother of Proserpina or the son of Semele. Out
of the Carpenter’s shop at Nazareth had come a personality infinitely
greater than any made by myth and legend, and one, strangely enough,
destined to reveal to the world the mystical meaning of wine and the real
beauties of the lilies of the field as none, either on Cithaeron or at Enna, had
ever done.
The song of Isaiah, ‘He is despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows
and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him,’ had
seemed to him to prefigure himself, and in him the prophecy was fulfilled.
We must not be afraid of such a phrase. Every single work of art is the
fulfilment of a prophecy: for every work of art is the conversion of an idea
into an image. Every single human being should be the fulfilment of a
prophecy: for every human being should be the realisation of some ideal,
either in the mind of God or in the mind of man. Christ found the type and
fixed it, and the dream of a Virgilian poet, either at Jerusalem or at Babylon,
became in the long progress of the centuries incarnate in him for whom the
world was waiting.

To me one of the things in history the most to be regretted is that the
Christ’s own renaissance, which has produced the Cathedral at Chartres, the
Arthurian cycle of legends, the life of St. Francis of Assisi, the art of Giotto,
and Dante’s Divine Comedy, was not allowed to develop on its own lines,
but was interrupted and spoiled by the dreary classical Renaissance that
gave us Petrarch, and Raphael’s frescoes, and Palladian architecture, and
formal French tragedy, and St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Pope’s poetry, and
everything that is made from without and by dead rules, and does not spring
from within through some spirit informing it. But wherever there is a
romantic movement in art there somehow, and under some form, is Christ,
or the soul of Christ. He is in Romeo and Juliet, in the Winter’s Tale, in
Provençal poetry, in the Ancient Mariner, in La Belle Dame sans merci, and
in Chatterton’s Ballad of Charity.
We owe to him the most diverse things and people. Hugo’s Les Misérables,
Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal, the note of pity in Russian novels, Verlaine and
Verlaine’s poems, the stained glass and tapestries and the quattro-cento
work of Burne-Jones and Morris, belong to him no less than the tower of
Giotto, Lancelot and Guinevere, Tannhäuser, the troubled romantic marbles
of Michael Angelo, pointed architecture, and the love of children and
flowers—for both of which, indeed, in classical art there was but little
place, hardly enough for them to grow or play in, but which, from the
twelfth century down to our own day, have been continually making their
appearances in art, under various modes and at various times, coming
fitfully and wilfully, as children, as flowers, are apt to do: spring always
seeming to one as if the flowers had been in hiding, and only came out into
the sun because they were afraid that grown up people would grow tired of
looking for them and give up the search; and the life of a child being no
more than an April day on which there is both rain and sun for the
narcissus.
It is the imaginative quality of Christ’s own nature that makes him this
palpitating centre of romance. The strange figures of poetic drama and
ballad are made by the imagination of others, but out of his own
imagination entirely did Jesus of Nazareth create himself. The cry of Isaiah
had really no more to do with his coming than the song of the nightingale
has to do with the rising of the moon—no more, though perhaps no less.
He was the denial as well as the affirmation of prophecy. For every

expectation that he fulfilled there was another that he destroyed. ‘In all
beauty,’ says Bacon, ‘there is some strangeness of proportion,’ and of those
who are born of the spirit—of those, that is to say, who like himself are
dynamic forces—Christ says that they are like the wind that ‘bloweth where
it listeth, and no man can tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth.’ That
is why he is so fascinating to artists. He has all the colour elements of life:
mystery, strangeness, pathos, suggestion, ecstasy, love. He appeals to the
temper of wonder, and creates that mood in which alone he can be
understood.
And to me it is a joy to remember that if he is ‘of imagination all compact,’
the world itself is of the same substance. I said in Dorian Gray that the
great sins of the world take place in the brain: but it is in the brain that
everything takes place. We know now that we do not see with the eyes or
hear with the ears. They are really channels for the transmission, adequate
or inadequate, of sense impressions. It is in the brain that the poppy is red,
that the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings.
Of late I have been studying with diligence the four prose poems about
Christ. At Christmas I managed to get hold of a Greek Testament, and
every morning, after I had cleaned my cell and polished my tins, I read a
little of the Gospels, a dozen verses taken by chance anywhere. It is a
delightful way of opening the day. Every one, even in a turbulent, ill-
disciplined life, should do the same. Endless repetition, in and out of
season, has spoiled for us the freshness, the naïveté, the simple romantic
charm of the Gospels. We hear them read far too often and far too badly,
and all repetition is anti-spiritual. When one returns to the Greek; it is like
going into a garden of lilies out of some, narrow and dark house.
And to me, the pleasure is doubled by the reflection that it is extremely
probable that we have the actual terms, the ipsissima verba, used by Christ.
It was always supposed that Christ talked in Aramaic. Even Renan thought
so. But now we know that the Galilean peasants, like the Irish peasants of
our own day, were bilingual, and that Greek was the ordinary language of
intercourse all over Palestine, as indeed all over the Eastern world. I never
liked the idea that we knew of Christ’s own words only through a
translation of a translation. It is a delight to me to think that as far as his
conversation was concerned, Charmides might have listened to him, and

Socrates reasoned with him, and Plato understood him: that he really said
εyω ειμι ο ποιμην ο καλος, that when he thought of the lilies of the field and
how they neither toil nor spin, his absolute expression was καταyαθετε τα
κρίνα του αγρου τως αυξανει ου κοπιυ ουδε νηθει, and that his last word
when he cried out ‘my life has been completed, has reached its fulfilment,
has been perfected,’ was exactly as St. John tells us it was: τετέλεσται—no
more.
While in reading the Gospels—particularly that of St. John himself, or
whatever early Gnostic took his name and mantle—I see the continual
assertion of the imagination as the basis of all spiritual and material life, I
see also that to Christ imagination was simply a form of love, and that to
him love was lord in the fullest meaning of the phrase. Some six weeks ago
I was allowed by the doctor to have white bread to eat instead of the coarse
black or brown bread of ordinary prison fare. It is a great delicacy. It will
sound strange that dry bread could possibly be a delicacy to any one. To me
it is so much so that at the close of each meal I carefully eat whatever
crumbs may be left on my tin plate, or have fallen on the rough towel that
one uses as a cloth so as not to soil one’s table; and I do so not from hunger
—I get now quite sufficient food—but simply in order that nothing should
be wasted of what is given to me. So one should look on love.
Christ, like all fascinating personalities, had the power of not merely saying
beautiful things himself, but of making other people say beautiful things to
him; and I love the story St. Mark tells us about the Greek woman, who,
when as a trial of her faith he said to her that he could not give her the bread
of the children of Israel, answered him that the little dogs—(κυναρια, ‘little
dogs’ it should be rendered)—who are under the table eat of the crumbs that
the children let fall. Most people live for love and admiration. But it is by
love and admiration that we should live. If any love is shown us we should
recognise that we are quite unworthy of it. Nobody is worthy to be loved.
The fact that God loves man shows us that in the divine order of ideal
things it is written that eternal love is to be given to what is eternally
unworthy. Or if that phrase seems to be a bitter one to bear, let us say that
every one is worthy of love, except him who thinks that he is. Love is a
sacrament that should be taken kneeling, and Domine, non sum dignus
should be on the lips and in the hearts of those who receive it.

If ever I write again, in the sense of producing artistic work, there are just
two subjects on which and through which I desire to express myself: one is
‘Christ as the precursor of the romantic movement in life’: the other is ‘The
artistic life considered in its relation to conduct.’ The first is, of course,
intensely fascinating, for I see in Christ not merely the essentials of the
supreme romantic type, but all the accidents, the wilfulnesses even, of the
romantic temperament also. He was the first person who ever said to
people that they should live ‘flower-like lives.’ He fixed the phrase. He
took children as the type of what people should try to become. He held
them up as examples to their elders, which I myself have always thought
the chief use of children, if what is perfect should have a use. Dante
describes the soul of a man as coming from the hand of God ‘weeping and
laughing like a little child,’ and Christ also saw that the soul of each one
should be a guisa di fanciulla che piangendo e ridendo pargoleggia. He
felt that life was changeful, fluid, active, and that to allow it to be
stereotyped into any form was death. He saw that people should not be too
serious over material, common interests: that to be unpractical was to be a
great thing: that one should not bother too much over affairs. The birds
didn’t, why should man? He is charming when he says, ‘Take no thought
for the morrow; is not the soul more than meat? is not the body more than
raiment?’ A Greek might have used the latter phrase. It is full of Greek
feeling. But only Christ could have said both, and so summed up life
perfectly for us.
His morality is all sympathy, just what morality should be. If the only thing
that he ever said had been, ‘Her sins are forgiven her because she loved
much,’ it would have been worth while dying to have said it. His justice is
all poetical justice, exactly what justice should be. The beggar goes to
heaven because he has been unhappy. I cannot conceive a better reason for
his being sent there. The people who work for an hour in the vineyard in
the cool of the evening receive just as much reward as those who have
toiled there all day long in the hot sun. Why shouldn’t they? Probably no
one deserved anything. Or perhaps they were a different kind of people.
Christ had no patience with the dull lifeless mechanical systems that treat
people as if they were things, and so treat everybody alike: for him there
were no laws: there were exceptions merely, as if anybody, or anything, for
that matter, was like aught else in the world!

That which is the very keynote of romantic art was to him the proper basis
of natural life. He saw no other basis. And when they brought him one,
taken in the very act of sin and showed him her sentence written in the law,
and asked him what was to be done, he wrote with his finger on the ground
as though he did not hear them, and finally, when they pressed him again,
looked up and said, ‘Let him of you who has never sinned be the first to
throw the stone at her.’ It was worth while living to have said that.
Like all poetical natures he loved ignorant people. He knew that in the soul
of one who is ignorant there is always room for a great idea. But he could
not stand stupid people, especially those who are made stupid by education:
people who are full of opinions not one of which they even understand, a
peculiarly modern type, summed up by Christ when he describes it as the
type of one who has the key of knowledge, cannot use it himself, and does
not allow other people to use it, though it may be made to open the gate of
God’s Kingdom. His chief war was against the Philistines. That is the war
every child of light has to wage. Philistinism was the note of the age and
community in which he lived. In their heavy inaccessibility to ideas, their
dull respectability, their tedious orthodoxy, their worship of vulgar success,
their entire preoccupation with the gross materialistic side of life, and their
ridiculous estimate of themselves and their importance, the Jews of
Jerusalem in Christ’s day were the exact counterpart of the British Philistine
of our own. Christ mocked at the ‘whited sepulchre’ of respectability, and
fixed that phrase for ever. He treated worldly success as a thing absolutely
to be despised. He saw nothing in it at all. He looked on wealth as an
encumbrance to a man. He would not hear of life being sacrificed to any
system of thought or morals. He pointed out that forms and ceremonies
were made for man, not man for forms and ceremonies. He took
sabbatarianism as a type of the things that should be set at nought. The cold
philanthropies, the ostentatious public charities, the tedious formalisms so
dear to the middle-class mind, he exposed with utter and relentless scorn.
To us, what is termed orthodoxy is merely a facile unintelligent
acquiescence; but to them, and in their hands, it was a terrible and
paralysing tyranny. Christ swept it aside. He showed that the spirit alone
was of value. He took a keen pleasure in pointing out to them that though
they were always reading the law and the prophets, they had not really the
smallest idea of what either of them meant. In opposition to their tithing of

each separate day into the fixed routine of prescribed duties, as they tithe
mint and rue, he preached the enormous importance of living completely
for the moment.
Those whom he saved from their sins are saved simply for beautiful
moments in their lives. Mary Magdalen, when she sees Christ, breaks the
rich vase of alabaster that one of her seven lovers had given her, and spills
the odorous spices over his tired dusty feet, and for that one moment’s sake
sits for ever with Ruth and Beatrice in the tresses of the snow-white rose of
Paradise. All that Christ says to us by the way of a little warning is that
every moment should be beautiful, that the soul should always be ready for
the coming of the bridegroom, always waiting for the voice of the lover,
Philistinism being simply that side of man’s nature that is not illumined by
the imagination. He sees all the lovely influences of life as modes of light:
the imagination itself is the world of light. The world is made by it, and yet
the world cannot understand it: that is because the imagination is simply a
manifestation of love, and it is love and the capacity for it that distinguishes
one human being from another.
But it is when he deals with a sinner that Christ is most romantic, in the
sense of most real. The world had always loved the saint as being the
nearest possible approach to the perfection of God. Christ, through some
divine instinct in him, seems to have always loved the sinner as being the
nearest possible approach to the perfection of man. His primary desire was
not to reform people, any more than his primary desire was to a relieve
suffering. To turn an interesting thief into a tedious honest man was not his
aim. He would have thought little of the Prisoners’ Aid Society and other
modern movements of the kind. The conversion of a publican into a
Pharisee would not have seemed to him a great achievement. But in a
manner not yet understood of the world he regarded sin and suffering as
being in themselves beautiful holy things and modes of perfection.
It seems a very dangerous idea. It is—all great ideas are dangerous. That it
was Christ’s creed admits of no doubt. That it is the true creed I don’t
doubt myself.
Of course the sinner must repent. But why? Simply because otherwise he
would be unable to realise what he had done. The moment of repentance is

the moment of initiation. More than that: it is the means by which one
alters one’s past. The Greeks thought that impossible. They often say in
their Gnomic aphorisms, ‘Even the Gods cannot alter the past.’ Christ
showed that the commonest sinner could do it, that it was the one thing he
could do. Christ, had he been asked, would have said—I feel quite certain
about it—that the moment the prodigal son fell on his knees and wept, he
made his having wasted his substance with harlots, his swine-herding and
hungering for the husks they ate, beautiful and holy moments in his life. It
is difficult for most people to grasp the idea. I dare say one has to go to
prison to understand it. If so, it may be worth while going to prison.
There is something so unique about Christ. Of course just as there are false
dawns before the dawn itself, and winter days so full of sudden sunlight that
they will cheat the wise crocus into squandering its gold before its time, and
make some foolish bird call to its mate to build on barren boughs, so there
were Christians before Christ. For that we should be grateful. The
unfortunate thing is that there have been none since. I make one exception,
St. Francis of Assisi. But then God had given him at his birth the soul of a
poet, as he himself when quite young had in mystical marriage taken
poverty as his bride: and with the soul of a poet and the body of a beggar he
found the way to perfection not difficult. He understood Christ, and so he
became like him. We do not require the Liber Conformitatum to teach us
that the life of St. Francis was the true Imitatio Christi, a poem compared to
which the book of that name is merely prose.
Indeed, that is the charm about Christ, when all is said: he is just like a
work of art. He does not really teach one anything, but by being brought
into his presence one becomes something. And everybody is predestined to
his presence. Once at least in his life each man walks with Christ to
Emmaus.
As regards the other subject, the Relation of the Artistic Life to Conduct, it
will no doubt seem strange to you that I should select it. People point to
Reading Gaol and say, ‘That is where the artistic life leads a man.’ Well, it
might lead to worse places. The more mechanical people to whom life is a
shrewd speculation depending on a careful calculation of ways and means,
always know where they are going, and go there. They start with the ideal
desire of being the parish beadle, and in whatever sphere they are placed

they succeed in being the parish beadle and no more. A man whose desire
is to be something separate from himself, to be a member of Parliament, or
a successful grocer, or a prominent solicitor, or a judge, or something
equally tedious, invariably succeeds in being what he wants to be. That is
his punishment. Those who want a mask have to wear it.
But with the dynamic forces of life, and those in whom those dynamic
forces become incarnate, it is different. People whose desire is solely for
self-realisation never know where they are going. They can’t know. In one
sense of the word it is of course necessary, as the Greek oracle said, to
know oneself: that is the first achievement of knowledge. But to recognise
that the soul of a man is unknowable, is the ultimate achievement of
wisdom. The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in
the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven
heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit
of his own soul? When the son went out to look for his father’s asses, he
did not know that a man of God was waiting for him with the very chrism
of coronation, and that his own soul was already the soul of a king.
I hope to live long enough and to produce work of such a character that I
shall be able at the end of my days to say, ‘Yes! this is just where the artistic
life leads a man!’ Two of the most perfect lives I have come across in my
own experience are the lives of Verlaine and of Prince Kropotkin: both of
them men who have passed years in prison: the first, the one Christian poet
since Dante; the other, a man with a soul of that beautiful white Christ
which seems coming out of Russia. And for the last seven or eight months,
in spite of a succession of great troubles reaching me from the outside
world almost without intermission, I have been placed in direct contact with
a new spirit working in this prison through man and things, that has helped
me beyond any possibility of expression in words: so that while for the first
year of my imprisonment I did nothing else, and can remember doing
nothing else, but wring my hands in impotent despair, and say, ‘What an
ending, what an appalling ending!’ now I try to say to myself, and
sometimes when I am not torturing myself do really and sincerely say,
‘What a beginning, what a wonderful beginning!’ It may really be so. It
may become so. If it does I shall owe much to this new personality that has
altered every man’s life in this place.

You may realise it when I say that had I been released last May, as I tried to
be, I would have left this place loathing it and every official in it with a
bitterness of hatred that would have poisoned my life. I have had a year
longer of imprisonment, but humanity has been in the prison along with us
all, and now when I go out I shall always remember great kindnesses that I
have received here from almost everybody, and on the day of my release I
shall give many thanks to many people, and ask to be remembered by them
in turn.
The prison style is absolutely and entirely wrong. I would give anything to
be able to alter it when I go out. I intend to try. But there is nothing in the
world so wrong but that the spirit of humanity, which is the spirit of love,
the spirit of the Christ who is not in churches, may make it, if not right, at
least possible to be borne without too much bitterness of heart.
I know also that much is waiting for me outside that is very delightful, from
what St. Francis of Assisi calls ‘my brother the wind, and my sister the
rain,’ lovely things both of them, down to the shop-windows and sunsets of
great cities. If I made a list of all that still remains to me, I don’t know
where I should stop: for, indeed, God made the world just as much for me
as for any one else. Perhaps I may go out with something that I had not got
before. I need not tell you that to me reformations in morals are as
meaningless and vulgar as Reformations in theology. But while to propose
to be a better man is a piece of unscientific cant, to have become a deeper
man is the privilege of those who have suffered. And such I think I have
become.
If after I am free a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me to it, I
should not mind a bit. I can be perfectly happy by myself. With freedom,
flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy? Besides,
feasts are not for me any more. I have given too many to care about them.
That side of life is over for me, very fortunately, I dare say. But if after I
am free a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it, I
should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the doors of the house of mourning
against me, I would come back again and again and beg to be admitted, so
that I might share in what I was entitled to share in. If he thought me
unworthy, unfit to weep with him, I should feel it as the most poignant
humiliation, as the most terrible mode in which disgrace could be inflicted

on me. But that could not be. I have a right to share in sorrow, and he who
can look at the loveliness of the world and share its sorrow, and realise
something of the wonder of both, is in immediate contact with divine
things, and has got as near to God’s secret as any one can get.
Perhaps there may come into my art also, no less than into my life, a still
deeper note, one of greater unity of passion, and directness of impulse. Not
width but intensity is the true aim of modern art. We are no longer in art
concerned with the type. It is with the exception that we have to do. I
cannot put my sufferings into any form they took, I need hardly say. Art
only begins where Imitation ends, but something must come into my work,
of fuller memory of words perhaps, of richer cadences, of more curious
effects, of simpler architectural order, of some aesthetic quality at any rate.
When Marsyas was ‘torn from the scabbard of his limbs’—della vagina
della membre sue, to use one of Dante’s most terrible Tacitean phrases—he
had no more song, the Greek said. Apollo had been victor. The lyre had
vanquished the reed. But perhaps the Greeks were mistaken. I hear in
much modern Art the cry of Marsyas. It is bitter in Baudelaire, sweet and
plaintive in Lamartine, mystic in Verlaine. It is in the deferred resolutions
of Chopin’s music. It is in the discontent that haunts Burne-Jones’s
women. Even Matthew Arnold, whose song of Callicles tells of ‘the
triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,’ and the ‘famous final victory,’ in such
a clear note of lyrical beauty, has not a little of it; in the troubled undertone
of doubt and distress that haunts his verses, neither Goethe nor Wordsworth
could help him, though he followed each in turn, and when he seeks to
mourn for Thyrsis or to sing of the Scholar Gipsy, it is the reed that he has
to take for the rendering of his strain. But whether or not the Phrygian Faun
was silent, I cannot be. Expression is as necessary to me as leaf and
blossoms are to the black branches of the trees that show themselves above
the prison walls and are so restless in the wind. Between my art and the
world there is now a wide gulf, but between art and myself there is none. I
hope at least that there is none.
To each of us different fates are meted out. My lot has been one of public
infamy, of long imprisonment, of misery, of ruin, of disgrace, but I am not
worthy of it—not yet, at any rate. I remember that I used to say that I
thought I could bear a real tragedy if it came to me with purple pall and a

mask of noble sorrow, but that the dreadful thing about modernity was that
it put tragedy into the raiment of comedy, so that the great realities seemed
commonplace or grotesque or lacking in style. It is quite true about
modernity. It has probably always been true about actual life. It is said that
all martyrdoms seemed mean to the looker on. The nineteenth century is no
exception to the rule.
Everything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent, lacking in
style; our very dress makes us grotesque. We are the zanies of sorrow. We
are clowns whose hearts are broken. We are specially designed to appeal to
the sense of humour. On November 13th, 1895, I was brought down here
from London. From two o’clock till half-past two on that day I had to stand
on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress, and
handcuffed, for the world to look at. I had been taken out of the hospital
ward without a moment’s notice being given to me. Of all possible objects
I was the most grotesque. When people saw me they laughed. Each train
as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could exceed their
amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who I was. As soon as
they had been informed they laughed still more. For half an hour I stood
there in the grey November rain surrounded by a jeering mob.
For a year after that was done to me I wept every day at the same hour and
for the same space of time. That is not such a tragic thing as possibly it
sounds to you. To those who are in prison tears are a part of every day’s
experience. A day in prison on which one does not weep is a day on which
one’s heart is hard, not a day on which one’s heart is happy.
Well, now I am really beginning to feel more regret for the people who
laughed than for myself. Of course when they saw me I was not on my
pedestal, I was in the pillory. But it is a very unimaginative nature that only
cares for people on their pedestals. A pedestal may be a very unreal thing.
A pillory is a terrific reality. They should have known also how to interpret
sorrow better. I have said that behind sorrow there is always sorrow. It
were wiser still to say that behind sorrow there is always a soul. And to
mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing. In the strangely simple economy
of the world people only get what they give, and to those who have not
enough imagination to penetrate the mere outward of things, and feel pity,
what pity can be given save that of scorn?

I write this account of the mode of my being transferred here simply that it
should be realised how hard it has been for me to get anything out of my
punishment but bitterness and despair. I have, however, to do it, and now
and then I have moments of submission and acceptance. All the spring may
be hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may hold
the joy that is to herald the feet of many rose-red dawns. So perhaps
whatever beauty of life still remains to me is contained in some moment of
surrender, abasement, and humiliation. I can, at any rate, merely proceed
on the lines of my own development, and, accepting all that has happened
to me, make myself worthy of it.
People used to say of me that I was too individualistic. I must be far more
of an individualist than ever I was. I must get far more out of myself than
ever I got, and ask far less of the world than ever I asked. Indeed, my ruin
came not from too great individualism of life, but from too little. The one
disgraceful, unpardonable, and to all time contemptible action of my life
was to allow myself to appeal to society for help and protection. To have
made such an appeal would have been from the individualist point of view
bad enough, but what excuse can there ever be put forward for having made
it? Of course once I had put into motion the forces of society, society
turned on me and said, ‘Have you been living all this time in defiance of my
laws, and do you now appeal to those laws for protection? You shall have
those laws exercised to the full. You shall abide by what you have appealed
to.’ The result is I am in gaol. Certainly no man ever fell so ignobly, and
by such ignoble instruments, as I did.
The Philistine element in life is not the failure to understand art. Charming
people, such as fishermen, shepherds, ploughboys, peasants and the like,
know nothing about art, and are the very salt of the earth. He is the
Philistine who upholds and aids the heavy, cumbrous, blind, mechanical
forces of society, and who does not recognise dynamic force when he meets
it either in a man or a movement.
People thought it dreadful of me to have entertained at dinner the evil things
of life, and to have found pleasure in their company. But then, from the
point of view through which I, as an artist in life, approach them they were
delightfully suggestive and stimulating. The danger was half the

excitement. . . . My business as an artist was with Ariel. I set myself to
wrestle with Caliban. . . .
A great friend of mine—a friend of ten years’ standing—came to see me
some time ago, and told me that he did not believe a single word of what
was said against me, and wished me to know that he considered me quite
innocent, and the victim of a hideous plot. I burst into tears at what he said,
and told him that while there was much amongst the definite charges that
was quite untrue and transferred to me by revolting malice, still that my life
had been full of perverse pleasures, and that unless he accepted that as a
fact about me and realised it to the full I could not possibly be friends with
him any more, or ever be in his company. It was a terrible shock to him,
but we are friends, and I have not got his friendship on false pretences.
Emotional forces, as I say somewhere in Intentions, are as limited in extent
and duration as the forces of physical energy. The little cup that is made to
hold so much can hold so much and no more, though all the purple vats of
Burgundy be filled with wine to the brim, and the treaders stand knee-deep
in the gathered grapes of the stony vineyards of Spain. There is no error
more common than that of thinking that those who are the causes or
occasions of great tragedies share in the feelings suitable to the tragic
mood: no error more fatal than expecting it of them. The martyr in his
‘shirt of flame’ may be looking on the face of God, but to him who is piling
the faggots or loosening the logs for the blast the whole scene is no more
than the slaying of an ox is to the butcher, or the felling of a tree to the
charcoal burner in the forest, or the fall of a flower to one who is mowing
down the grass with a scythe. Great passions are for the great of soul, and
great events can be seen only by those who are on a level with them.
*****
I know of nothing in all drama more incomparable from the point of view
of art, nothing more suggestive in its subtlety of observation, than
Shakespeare’s drawing of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. They are
Hamlet’s college friends. They have been his companions. They bring with
them memories of pleasant days together. At the moment when they come
across him in the play he is staggering under the weight of a burden
intolerable to one of his temperament. The dead have come armed out of

the grave to impose on him a mission at once too great and too mean for
him. He is a dreamer, and he is called upon to act. He has the nature of the
poet, and he is asked to grapple with the common complexity of cause and
effect, with life in its practical realisation, of which he knows nothing, not
with life in its ideal essence, of which he knows so much. He has no
conception of what to do, and his folly is to feign folly. Brutus used
madness as a cloak to conceal the sword of his purpose, the dagger of his
will, but the Hamlet madness is a mere mask for the hiding of weakness. In
the making of fancies and jests he sees a chance of delay. He keeps playing
with action as an artist plays with a theory. He makes himself the spy of his
proper actions, and listening to his own words knows them to be but
‘words, words, words.’ Instead of trying to be the hero of his own history,
he seeks to be the spectator of his own tragedy. He disbelieves in
everything, including himself, and yet his doubt helps him not, as it comes
not from scepticism but from a divided will.
Of all this Guildenstern and Rosencrantz realise nothing. They bow and
smirk and smile, and what the one says the other echoes with sickliest
intonation. When, at last, by means of the play within the play, and the
puppets in their dalliance, Hamlet ‘catches the conscience’ of the King, and
drives the wretched man in terror from his throne, Guildenstern and
Rosencrantz see no more in his conduct than a rather painful breach of
Court etiquette. That is as far as they can attain to in ‘the contemplation of
the spectacle of life with appropriate emotions.’ They are close to his very
secret and know nothing of it. Nor would there be any use in telling them.
They are the little cups that can hold so much and no more. Towards the
close it is suggested that, caught in a cunning spring set for another, they
have met, or may meet, with a violent and sudden death. But a tragic
ending of this kind, though touched by Hamlet’s humour with something of
the surprise and justice of comedy, is really not for such as they. They
never die. Horatio, who in order to ‘report Hamlet and his cause aright to
the unsatisfied,’

‘Absents him from felicity a while,
And in this harsh world draws his breath in pain,’

dies, but Guildenstern and Rosencrantz are as immortal as Angelo and
Tartuffe, and should rank with them. They are what modern life has

contributed to the antique ideal of friendship. He who writes a new De
Amicitia must find a niche for them, and praise them in Tusculan prose.
They are types fixed for all time. To censure them would show ‘a lack of
appreciation.’ They are merely out of their sphere: that is all. In sublimity
of soul there is no contagion. High thoughts and high emotions are by their
very existence isolated.
*****
I am to be released, if all goes well with me, towards the end of May, and
hope to go at once to some little sea-side village abroad with R--- and M---.
The sea, as Euripides says in one of his plays about Iphigeneia, washes
away the stains and wounds of the world.
I hope to be at least a month with my friends, and to gain peace and
balance, and a less troubled heart, and a sweeter mood. I have a strange
longing for the great simple primeval things, such as the sea, to me no less
of a mother than the Earth. It seems to me that we all look at Nature too
much, and live with her too little. I discern great sanity in the Greek
attitude. They never chattered about sunsets, or discussed whether the
shadows on the grass were really mauve or not. But they saw that the sea
was for the swimmer, and the sand for the feet of the runner. They loved
the trees for the shadow that they cast, and the forest for its silence at noon.
The vineyard-dresser wreathed his hair with ivy that he might keep off the
rays of the sun as he stooped over the young shoots, and for the artist and
the athlete, the two types that Greece gave us, they plaited with garlands the
leaves of the bitter laurel and of the wild parsley, which else had been of no
service to men.
We call ours a utilitarian age, and we do not know the uses of any single
thing. We have forgotten that water can cleanse, and fire purify, and that
the Earth is mother to us all. As a consequence our art is of the moon and
plays with shadows, while Greek art is of the sun and deals directly with
things. I feel sure that in elemental forces there is purification, and I want
to go back to them and live in their presence.
Of course to one so modern as I am, ‘Enfant de mon siècle,’ merely to look
at the world will be always lovely. I tremble with pleasure when I think

that on the very day of my leaving prison both the laburnum and the lilac
will be blooming in the gardens, and that I shall see the wind stir into
restless beauty the swaying gold of the one, and make the other toss the pale
purple of its plumes, so that all the air shall be Arabia for me. Linnaeus fell
on his knees and wept for joy when he saw for the first time the long heath
of some English upland made yellow with the tawny aromatic brooms of
the common furze; and I know that for me, to whom flowers are part of
desire, there are tears waiting in the petals of some rose. It has always been
so with me from my boyhood. There is not a single colour hidden away in
the chalice of a flower, or the curve of a shell, to which, by some subtle
sympathy with the very soul of things, my nature does not answer. Like
Gautier, I have always been one of those ‘pour qui le monde visible existe.’
Still, I am conscious now that behind all this beauty, satisfying though it
may be, there is some spirit hidden of which the painted forms and shapes
are but modes of manifestation, and it is with this spirit that I desire to
become in harmony. I have grown tired of the articulate utterances of men
and things. The Mystical in Art, the Mystical in Life, the Mystical in
Nature this is what I am looking for. It is absolutely necessary for me to
find it somewhere.
All trials are trials for one’s life, just as all sentences are sentences of death;
and three times have I been tried. The first time I left the box to be arrested,
the second time to be led back to the house of detention, the third time to
pass into a prison for two years. Society, as we have constituted it, will
have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall
on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and
secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the
night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without
stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me
to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make
me whole.

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