any further explanation of
my motives, than the sufficient explanation which I have given already.
I do not address myself to them in this book, and shall never think of
addressing myself to them in any other.

*****

Those words formed part of the original introduction to this novel. I
wrote them nearly ten years since; and what I said then, I say now.

"Basil" was the second work of fiction which I produced. On its
appearance, it was condemned off-hand, by a certain class of readers, as
an outrage on their sense of propriety. Conscious of having designed
and written, my story with the strictest regard to true delicacy, as
distinguished from false--I allowed the prurient misinterpretation of
certain perfectly innocent passages in this book to assert itself as
offensively as it pleased, without troubling myself to protest against
an expression of opinion which aroused in me no other feeling than
a feeling of contempt. I knew that "Basil" had nothing to fear from
pure-minded readers; and I left these pages to stand or fall on such
merits as they possessed. Slowly and surely, my story forced its way
through all adverse criticism, to a place in the public favour which
it has never lost since. Some of the most valued friends I now possess,
were made for me by "Basil." Some of the most gratifying recognitions of
my labours which I have received, from readers personally strangers to
me, have been recognitions of the purity of this story, from the first
page to the last. All the indulgence I need now ask for "Basil," is
indulgence for literary defects, which are the result of inexperience;
which no correction can wholly remove; and which no one sees more
plainly, after a lapse of ten years, than the writer himself.

I have only to add, that the present edition of this book is the first
which has had the benefit of my careful revision. While the incidents of
the story remain exactly what they were, the language in which they are
told has been, I hope, in many cases greatly altered for the better.

WILKIE COLLINS.

Harley Street, London, July, 1862.

BASIL.

PART I.

I.

WHAT am I now about to write?

The history of little more than the events of one year, out of the
twenty-four years of my life.

Why do I undertake such an employment as this?

Perhaps, because I think that my narrative may do good; because I hope
that, one day, it may be put to some warning use. I am n