quite have been loved by father, son, brother, or bosom friend.

Good heavens! Barty, man and boy, Barty's wife, their children,
their grandchildren, and all that ever concerned them or concerns
them still--all this has been the world to me, and ever will be.

He wished me to tell the _absolute truth_ about him, just as I know
it; and I look upon the fulfilment of this wish of his as a sacred
trust, and would sooner die any shameful death or brave any other
dishonor than fail in fulfilling it to the letter.

The responsibility before the world is appalling; and also the
difficulty, to a man of such training as mine. I feel already
conscious that I am trying to be literary myself, to seek for turns
of phrase that I should never have dared to use in talking to Barty,
or even in writing to him; that I am not at my ease, in short--not
_me_--but straining every nerve to be on my best behavior; and
that's about the worst behavior there is.

Oh! may some kindly light, born of a life's devotion and the happy
memories of half a century, lead me to mere naturalness and the use
of simple homely words, even my own native telegraphese! that I may
haply blunder at length into some fit form of expression which Barty
himself might have approved.

One would think that any sincere person who has learnt how to spell
his own language should at least be equal to such a modest
achievement as this; and yet it is one of the most difficult things
in the world!

My life is so full of Barty Josselin that I can hardly be said to
have ever had an existence apart from his; and I can think of no
easier or better way to tell Barty's history than just telling my
own--from the days I first knew him--and in my own way; that is, in
the best telegraphese I can manage--picking each precious word with
care, just as though I were going to cable it, as soon as written,
to Boston or New York, where the love of Barty Josselin shines with
even a brighter and warmer glow than here, or even in France; and
where the hate of him, the hideous, odious odium theologicum--the
_saeva indignatio_ of the Church--that once burned at so white a
heat, has burnt itself out at last, and is now as though it had
never been, and never could be again.

P. S.--(an after-thought):

And here, in case misfortune should happen to me before this book
comes out as a volume, I wish to record my thanks to my old friend
Mr. du Maurier for the readiness with which he has promised to