* * * * *

—And you have it all because of the accident that these men were independent! You have all from six of them for that, and from the seventh you have nothing—yes, almost nothing—because he was poor! Because he was a hostler's son, and not a gentleman's son; and you sent him back to his gallipots and to his grave.

* * * * *

June 4th.

I wait to hear from the publisher merely as a matter of duty. I have never had the least idea that he will take the book.

* * * * *

I have made up my mind to drown myself. There is no mess about it, and men do not have to know of it.

* * * * *

I have often read of murder cases. They tie a rope around the body and a stone to the rope; but the stone slips out, or the rope wears, and then it is unpleasant. I used to say they were fools; why did they not get a dumb-bell or something like that, and a small chain. Then there would have been no trouble.

* * * * *

When I thought of that I smiled grimly. I am living on dry bread, and saving my money to buy a dumb-bell and a chain on Friday.

* * * * *

I pray most of the time. I have no longer the old ecstasy—such things do not come often in cities. But it will come once again before I die, that I know.

* * * * *

I have a strange attitude toward death. To me it is nothing. There is, of course, the pain of drowning—it probably hurts to be strangled, but I do not think it will hurt as much as ten lines of The Captive hurt.

* * * * *

About the physical part of it, the "invisible corruption," I never think; it is enough that it will be invisible. And for the rest, death is nothing, it is the end. I have never shrunk from the thought of it, it does not come as a stranger to me now. I take it simply and naturally—it is the end. It is the end that comes to all things in this phantom-dance of being; to flowers and to music, to mountains and to planets, to histories, and to universes, and to men.

* * * * *

I said: "It must come some day. It may come any day. Love not thy life too much—know what thou art."

* * * * *

God can spare me. He got along without me once, and doubtless he can do it again. There are many things that I should like to see—I should like to see all the ages; but that was not my fate.

* * * * *

When I was young they taught me to be orthodox. And I see them stare at me now in horror. "Suicide!" they gasp. "Suicide!"

* * * * *

Yes!—Why not? Am I not the lord of mine own life, to end it as well as to live it?

* * * * *

And the law! Prate not of laws, I know of no laws, either of man or God; my law is the right and my holy will.

* * * * *

And the punishment! Well, and if your hell be a reality, why, it is my home—it is the home of all true men. The sublime duty of being damned is ever my reply to theological impertinences.

* * * * *

—No, the sight of death does not thrill me in the least—when I stand upon the brink it will not thrill me. It is not fearful; what the weakest of men have done, I can do. And it is not sublime. Life is sublime, life thrills me; death is nothing.

* * * * *

June 5th.

To-day I wished that it were winter. A wonderful idea came to me—I am almost tempted to live and wait for winter. I said: I would choose one place where the money-blind and the folly-mad assemble—where I have seen them and had my eyes burned by the sight. I would go to the opera-house on the opening night! I would go to the top gallery, and I would put my journal, my story, under my coat; and in the midst of the thing I would give one cry, to startle them; and I would dash down that long flight of steps, and shoot over the railing headfirst.

—Ha! That would make them think! They might read the book, then.

What place could be more fitted? In an opera-house meet, as nowhere else in this world that I know of, the two extremes of life—God and the devil. I mean on a Wagner night! Here is the inspiration of a sainted poet, here is ecstasy unthinkable, flung wide and glorious as the dawn; and here is all the sodden and brutal vulgarity of wealth, deaf, blind, and strutting in its insolent pomposity.

* * * * *

—I am very ill to-day—I have a splitting headache and I am weak. It is from trying to save too much money for the dumb-bell, I fear. But I laugh—what care I? My body is going to wreck—but what care I? Ah, it is a fine thing to be death-devoted, and freed from all the ills that flesh is heir to! I go my way—do what I please—hammer on and on, and let happen what will. What, old head!—wilt ache? I guess I can stop thy aching before long! And all ye mechanical miscellaneities—stomachs and what not! Thou wilt trouble me too? Do thy pleasure, go thy way—I go mine!

* * * * *

There is a kind of intoxication in it. I climb upon all these ills that used to frighten me—I mock at them, I am a god. I smite my head—I say, "I am done with thee, old head! I have thought with thee all the thoughts I have to think!"

* * * * *

I have made me right drunk upon life, yes, that is the truth; and now the feast is over, and I will smash the crockery! Come, boys, come!—Away with it! Through the window here with the head—look out of the way below there for the stomach—ha, ha!

—Is not that Shakespearian humor for you? Such a thing it is to be death-devoted!

* * * * *

—But there is a deeper side to this wonderful thing—this prospect of peace—this end of pain. All these solemn realities that were so much to thee—this "world" and all its ways—its conventions and proprieties, its duties and its trials; how now, do they seem so much to thee after all? Cynical relative that wouldst "leave it to time"—was I so wrong, that I would not hear thy wisdom? Suppose thou wert coming with me to-morrow—hey? And to leave all thy clothes and thy clubs, thy bank-account, and thy reputation, and thy stories! Ah, thou canst not come with me, but thou wilt come after me some day, never fear. This is a journey that each man goes alone.

Oh, it is easy to be a man when you are sentenced to die. Then all things slip into their places, power and pride, wealth and fame—what strange fantasies they seem! What tales I could tell the world at this minute, of how their ways seem to me!—Oh, take my advice, good friend, and pray thy God for one hour in which thou mayst see the truth of all those foolish great things of thy life!

* * * * *

I read Alastor this afternoon. What a strange vision it is! And I, too, in awe and mystery shall journey away unto a high mountain to die.

* * * * *

—And then later I went out into the Park. I saw a flower; and suddenly the wild ecstasy flashed over me, and I sank down upon a seat, and hid my face in my hands, and everything swirled black about me. I cried: "I do not want to die! Why, I am only a boy! I love the flowers—I want to see the springtime!"

And then I felt some one take me by the shoulder, and heard a grim voice within me say, "Come! Come!"

* * * * *

Oh, it will be all right, never fear! Never yet have I failed to do what I resolved to do. And thou world, thou wouldst have me thy slave; but I am no man's slave—not I!

* * * * *

My death-warrant is ready. I go for it to-morrow.

* * * * *

June 6th.

Last night I knelt by the bedside, far into the deep hours, far into the dawn. The whole drama of my life rolled out before me, I saw it all, I lived it all again; and Him in whose arms I lay—I blessed Him for the whole of it. Now that the pain is gone I see that it was beautiful, that flower of my life. Other flowers the plant might have borne; but this flower was beautiful; and each flower is for itself.

I stretch out my arms, I float upon a tide, back, back, into the rolling source of things. Weep not for me, you who may love me; I can not die, for I never was; that which I am, I was always, and shall be ever; I am He. Go out into the world, you who may love me, and say, "This flower is he, this sunset cloud is he; this wind is his breath, this song is his spirit."

* * * * *

What is my faith, the faith in which I die? It is the faith of modern thought; it is the faith of the ages. It is a spiritual Pantheism, an impassioned Agnosticism.

* * * * *

A Presence am I; what is my source I know not, nor can I ever know. The moral fact I know, my will; and I take it as I find it, and rejoice in the making of beauty.

* * * * *

Do I believe that I ever shall live again? I know that I shall not. I do not insult His perfection and my faith, with the wish that such as I should be immortal. What I have He gave me; it is His, and He will take it. I have no rights, and I have no claims. I see not why He should give me ages because He has given me an hour. He never turns back, He never makes over again—that I know.

* * * * *

—And neither do I ask rewards; my life was beautiful, I bless Him for every prayer. I ask Him not that He cover the fair painting with whitewash.

* * * * *

I have no fear of Oblivion. I have no thoughts about it. There are no thoughts in Oblivion.

The days when thou wert not, did they trouble thee? The days when thou art not shall trouble thee as much.

* * * * *

—I have made up my mind that I will get some work this morning, or sell my coat, or something. I will go out into the country, I will be alone with Him to-night. I will fling off every chain that has bound me. I will fling off the world, I will fling off pain, I will fling off health. I will say, "Burst thyself, brain! Rend thyself, body, as thou wilt!—but I will see my God to-night before I die!"

* * * * *

I have been to the publishers. They gave me back The Captive. "It is done."

THE END