“There,” he exclaim’d, “the same old plea again!— Your weakness is your wickedness. Why, friend, Does not our conscience come from consciousness? And when, then, are we conscious? When unwell: Hot, swollen blood frets limbs that feel inflamed: A sound man lives unconscious of its flow. And so a morbid train of foul ideas Will vex a soul diseased. But if in health, Its aims all true to God and self,—what call For conscience, which we wear but as the curb Whereby God reins the thought that love reins not?— If right I be, then nothing needs to cross Pure love. It may have freedom.— “Or at most Our conscience is the leaven of character; And just enough of it may sweeten life, But too much keeps in ferment moods that work, Like brewings, flung to froth and sediment: The froth flies up and off to vex our friends; The rest sinks down in self, embittering Our own experience.” “And yet,” I said, “Our conscience, in religion”— “There,” he cried, “This too much conscience, overbalancing All wiser judgment, has wrought worse results, Made men crave heaven and fear for hell, so much That, in the gap betwixt the two, was left No charity with which to do good here While on the earth.” “I hope that mine,” I said, “Will prompt to some small good in present life. What would you say, some day, were I a nun?” “‘Say!’” answer’d he—and scorn was in the tone,— “What say?—why this: that if those blooming looks Hid wormy fruit like that, I ne’er would trust Sound health again! “Pauline, I half believe The conscience of a nun is consciousness Of mere unrest—no more. In natures framed Of spirit, mind, and flesh, the cause may be Some sin that clogs the current of the soul; But, just as likely, thought that puzzles one; Yes, yes, or indigestion, nerves diseased— No trace of sin whatever;—moods cured best By sunshine, clean clothes, larders full, good cheer.” XL. His words I styled “irreverent, unjust!”—