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Fools that we are of our own senses! When I think of her I
blush; when I hear her name my heart leaps, and I grow pale.
Love! What is the love of two pure souls, scarce conscious
of the Paradise into which they have fallen, to this madden-
ing delirium? I can understand the poison of Circe’s cup;
it is the sweet-torment of a forbidden love like mine! Away
gross materialism, in which I have so long schooled myself!
I, who laughed at passion as the outcome of temperament
and easy living—I, who thought in my intellect, to sound all
the depths and shoals of human feeling—I, who analysed
my own soul—scoffed at my own yearnings for an immor-
tality—am forced to deify the senseless power of my creed,
and believe in God, that I may pray to Him. I know now why
men reject the cold impersonality that reason tells us rules
the world—it is because they love. To die, and be no more;
to die, and rendered into dust, be blown about the earth; to
die and leave our love defenceless and forlorn, till the bright
soul that smiled to ours is smothered in the earth that made
it! No! To love is life eternal. God, I believe in Thee! Aid me!
Pity me! Sinful wretch that I am, to have denied Thee! See
me on my knees before Thee! Pity me, or let me die!
December 9th.—I have been visiting the two condemned
prisoners, Dawes and Bland, and praying with them. O Lord,
let me save one soul that may plead with Thee for mine! Let
me draw one being alive out of this pit! I weep—I weary
Thee with my prayers, O Lord! Look down upon me. Grant
me a sign. Thou didst it in old times to men who were not
more fervent in their supplications than am I. So says Thy
Book. Thy Book which I believe—which I believe. Grant me