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 v6rit6.' 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 



