But after all, such accidents, depressing as they are at the moment, are unimportant.

The dead clay knows nothing of our feelings, and whether it is borne to the grave in pompous procession and laid to rest in a great abbey amid the mourning of a nation or tossed as dust to the wind, is a matter of utter indifference.
Heine's verse holds the supreme consolation: Immerhin mich wird umgeben Gotteshimmel dort wie hier Und wie Todtenlampen schweben Nachts die Sterne ueber mir.
Oscar Wilde's work was over, his gift to the world completed years before.

Even the friends who loved him and delighted in the charm of his talk, in his light-hearted gaiety and humour, would scarcely have kept him longer in the pillory, exposed to the loathing and contempt of this all-hating world.
The good he did lives after him, and is immortal, the evil is buried in his grave.

Who would deny to-day that he was a quickening and liberating influence?
If his life was given overmuch to self-indulgence, it must be remembered that his writings and conversation were singularly kindly, singularly amiable, singularly pure.

No harsh or coarse or bitter word ever passed those eloquent laughing lips.