tween them; and then he died one day, as he had often told
me he desired to die. He had been ailing for a week, and on rising from
his chair in the morning he was seized by a sudden faintness and died
within half-an-hour, hardly knowing, I imagine, that he was in any
danger.

It fell to me to deal with his papers. There was a certain amount of
scattered writing, but no completed work; it all dated from before the
publication of his great book. It was determined that this Diary should
eventually see the light, and circumstances into which I need not now
enter have rendered its appearance advisable at the present date.

The interest of the document is its candour and outspokenness. If the
tone of the record, until near the end, is one of unrelieved sadness,
it must be borne in mind that all the time he bore himself in the
presence of others with a singular courage and simplicity. He said to
me once, in an hour of dark despair, that he had drunk the dregs of
self-abasement. That he believed that he had no sense of morality, no
loyal affection, no love of virtue, no patience or courage. That his
only motives had been timidity, personal ambition, love of
respectability, love of ease. He added that this had been slowly
revealed to him, and that the only way out was a way that he had not as
yet strength to tread; the way of utter submission, absolute
confidence, entire resignation. He said that there was one comfort,
which was, that he knew the worst about himself that it was possible to
know. I told him that his view of his character was unjust and
exaggerated, but he only shook his head with a smile that went to my
heart. It was on that day, I think, that he touched the lowest depth of
all; and after that he found the way out, along the path that he had
indicated.

This is no place for eulogy and panegyric. My task has been just to
trace the portrait of my friend as he appeared to others; his own words
shall reveal the inner spirit. The beauty of the life to me was that he
attained, unconsciously and gradually, to the very virtues which he
most desired and in which he felt himself to be most deficient. He had
to bear a series of devastating calamities. He had loved the warmth and
nearness of his home circle more deeply than most men, and the whole of
it was swept away; he had depended for stimulus and occupation alike
upon his artistic work, and the power was taken from him at the moment
of his highest achievement. His lo