his vice, but he had to accept it, and Father Oliver
thought how much it must have cost his curate to come to tell him that
he wanted to lie drunk for some days in an outhouse in order to escape
for a few days from the agony of living. 'That is what he called it, and
I, too, would escape from it.'

His thoughts turned suddenly to a poem written by a peasant in County
Cork a hundred years ago to a woman who inspired a passion that wrecked
his mind altogether in the end. And he wondered if madness would be the
end of his suffering, or if he would go down to the lake and find rest
in it.

'Oh, succour me, dear one, give me a kiss from thy mouth,
And lift me up to thee from death,
Or bid them make for me a narrow bed, a coffin of boards,
In the dark neighbourhood of the worm and his friends.
My life is not life but death, my voice is no voice but a wind,
There is no colour in me, nor life, nor richness, nor health;
But in tears and sorrow and weakness, without music, without
sport, without power,
I go into captivity and woe, and in the pain of my love of thee.'

XI

_From Father Oliver Gogarty to Miss Nora Glynn._

'GARRANARD, BOHOLA,

'_March_ 12, 19--.

'A long time has passed without your hearing from me, and I am sure you
must have said more than once: "Well, that priest has more sense than I
gave him credit for. He took the hint. He understood that it would be
useless for us to continue to write long letters to each other about
remorse of conscience and Mr. Poole's criticism of the Bible." But the
sight of my handwriting will call into question the opinion you have
formed of my good sense, and you will say: "Here he is, beginning it all
over again." No, I am not. I am a little ashamed of my former letters,
and am writing to tell you so. My letters, if I write any, will be quite
different in the future, thanks to your candour. Your letter from
Rapallo cured me; like a surgeon's knife, it took out the ulcer that was
eating my life away. The expression will seem exaggerated, I know; but
let it remain. You no doubt felt that I was in ignorance of my own state
of feelings regarding you, and you wrote just such a letter as would
force me to look into my heart and to discover who I really was. You
felt that you could help me to some knowledge of myself by telling me
about yourself.

'The shock on reading your confession--for I look upon your Rapallo
letter as one--was v