NOVEMBER 105 



strangers they may, since so it is to be, wander forth 

 again into the wide world.' 



I began my task, turned over the old, mouldy papers 

 of long, long ago, and came across a bundle of the early 

 love-letters of my father and mother. So long as I live 

 I cannot allow them to be consigned to the flames, as 

 Professor Max Miiller recommends. They are so simple, 

 so touching and interesting in their old-world language, 

 that my first impulse was to string them together anony- 

 mously, adding the little tale of the love affair as per- 

 haps no one but I could do. But even without names 

 this might possibly have shocked the taste of people who 

 are sensitive on the subject of letters. I am not one of 

 those who object to the publishing of love-letters, given 

 sufficient time for personal knowledge and recollection 

 of the writers to have crumbled away. Voltaire said: 

 ' On doit des regards aux vivants: on ne doit aux morts 

 que la veYiteV Had I myself written beautiful love- 

 letters in my youth, it would be a pride and joy to me 

 to think that generations unborn should appreciate and 

 enjoy the depths of my devotion, and forgive my weak- 

 nesses for the one great reason which will endure for 

 ever, 'because she loved much.' A little boy asked: 

 ' Why is everyone called ' ' poor ' ' and ' ' good ' ' when 

 they are put into a box in the ground? ; I say: What 

 is it all the world forgives in the future, though at 

 the time society must defend itself by hard judgments 

 and stern morality ? What we all think vile and odious, 

 and what shocks our best sensibility, though it is inevi- 

 table, is the publication of the most commonplace love- 

 letters in the police or divorce courts. But does not 

 love, above everything that we share with our common 

 humanity, belong to all ? Is it not the most brilliant, 

 glorious possession we have ? Are we not really proud 

 of it even when it is misdirected ? Is not the perusal of 



