Page 552 - for-the-term-of-his-natural-life

in this diary of mine, and I will not. No evasions, no gloss-
ings over of my own sins. This journal is my confessor, and
I bare my heart to it.
It is curious the pleasure I feel in setting down here in
black and white these agonies and secret cravings of which
I dare not speak. It is for the same reason, I suppose, that
murderers make confession to dogs and cats, that people
with something ‘on their mind’ are given to thinking aloud,
that the queen of Midas must needs whisper to the sedges
the secret of her husband’s infirmity. Outwardly I am a man
of God, pious and grave and softly spoken. Inwardly—what?
The mean, cowardly, weak sinner that this book knows me...
Imp! I could tear you in pieces!...One of these days I will. In
the meantime, I will keep you under lock and key, and you
shall hug my secrets close. No, old friend, with whom I have
communed so long, forgive me, forgive me. You are to me
instead of wife or priest.
I tell to your cold blue pages—how much was it I bought
you for in Parramatta, rascal?—these stories, longings, re-
morses, which I would fain tell to human ear could I find
a human being as discreet as thou. It has been said that a
man dare not write all his thoughts and deeds; the words
would blister the paper. Yet your sheets are smooth enough,
you fat rogue! Our neighbours of Rome know human na-
ture. A man must confess. One reads of wretches who have
carried secrets in their bosoms for years, and blurted them
forth at last. I, shut up here without companionship, with-
out sympathy, without letters, cannot lock up my soul, and
feed on my own thoughts. They will out, and so I whisper

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