unt, his hair is turning grey; but there
is nothing of the let-down of middle age in his nature, always tense,
intense; scrupulously, deeply rebellious.

Even before his meeting with Marie, his open acts of sympathy with what
is rejected by society had put him more and more in the position of an
outcast. Some of the members of his family had become fairly successful
in the ways of the world. Terry might easily have taken his place in
comfortable bourgeois society. But his temperament and his idealism led
him to the disturbed life of the radical rejector. And he was rejected,
in turn, by all, even by his family.

Between him and his mother there was perhaps an uncommon bond, but even
she in the end cast him out. He wrote of her:

"She taught me that I did not belong in this world; she did not know how
deeply she was right. When she crossed my arms over my childish breast
at night and bade me be prepared, she gave me the motive of my life. She
told me I would weep salt tears in this world, and they have run into my
mouth. She loved me, as I never have been loved before or since, even up
to the hour of my social crucifixion: then she basely deserted me. But I
rallied, and the motive she implanted in me remains. Though a child
without any childhood, I had my reason for existence, just the same.
Everything is meaningless and transitory, except to be prepared. And I
finally became prepared for anything and everything. My life was and is
a preparation--for what? For social crucifixion, I suppose, for I belong
to those baffled beings who are compelled to unfold within because there
is no place for them without. I am a remaining product of the slums,
consciously desiring to be there. I know its few heights and many
depths. There have I seen unsurpassed devotion and unbelievable
atrocities, which I would not dare, even if I could, make known. The
truth, how can we stand it, or stand for it? I think a sudden revelation
has wofully unbalanced many a fine mind. Hamlet, revealing himself to
Ophelia, drives distraught one of the sweetest of souls. Fortunately we
never know the whole truth, which may account for man being gregarious.
One cannot help noticing that they who have a hopeless passion for truth
are left largely alone--when nothing worse can be inflicted upon them."

Terry's experience in the slums was no other than many another's, but
the effect it made upon his great sensibility was far from ordinary. In
another letter,