or sentiment or selfishness; and sin does not cloud the vision so much as stupidity and conceit.  I have a dream, then, of what I desire and aspire to, though it is hard to put it into words.  I want to learn to distinguish between what is important and unimportant, between what is beautiful and ugly, between what is true and false.  The pomps and glories of the world are unimportant, I believe, and all the temptations which arise from wanting to do things, as it is called, on a large scale.  Money, the love of which as representing liberty is a sore temptation to such as myself, is unimportant.  Conventional orthodoxies, whether they be of manners, or of ways of life, or of thought, or of religion, or of education, are unimportant.  What then remains?  Courage, and patience, and simplicity, and kindness, and beauty, and, last of all, ideas remain; and these are the things to lay hold of and to live with.

And even so one cannot help puzzling and grieving and wondering over all the dreadful waste of time and energy, all the stupidities and misunderstandings, all the unnecessary business and tiresome pleasure, all the spitefulness and malignity, all the sham rules and artificial regulations, all the hard judgments and dismal fears and ugly cruelties of the world, beginning so early and ending so late.  An hour ago I met two tiny children, a boy and girl, in the road.  The girl was the older and stronger.  The little boy, singing to himself, had gathered some leaves from the hedge, and was enjoying his posy harmlessly enough.  What must his sister do?  She wanted some fun; so she took the posy away, dodged her brother when he tried to catch her, and finally threw it over a paling, and went off rejoicing in her strength, while the little boy sate down and cried.  Why should they not have played together in peace?  On my table lie letters from two old friends of mine who have had a quarrel over a small piece of business, involving a few pounds.  One complains that the other claims the money unjustly; the other resents being accused of meanness; the result, a rupture of familiar relations.  One cannot, it seems, prevent sorrows and pains and tragedies; but what is the ironical power which gives us such rich materials for happiness, and then infects us with the devilish power of misusing them, and worrying over them, and hating each other, and despising ourselves?  And then the little lives cut relentlessly short, how does that fit in?  And even when the life is prolonged, one becomes a puckered, winking, doddering old thing, stiff and brittle, disgraceful and humiliated, and, what is worse than anything, feeling so young and sensible inside the crazy machine.  If we knew that it was all going to help us somewhere, sometime, no matter how far off, to be strong and cheerful and brave and kind, how easy to bear it all!