nd the psycho-pathologist the unspeakable.
There is a singular fascination in watching the eagerness with
which the learned author ferrets out every circumstance which may
throw discredit on his hero. His heart warms to him when he
can bring forward some example of cruelty or meanness, and he
exults like an inquisitor at the <i auto da fe> of an heretic
when with some forgotten story he can confound the filial piety
of the Rev. Robert Strickland. His industry has been amazing.
Nothing has been too small to escape him, and you
may be sure that if Charles Strickland left a laundry bill
unpaid it will be given you <i in extenso>, and if he forebore
to return a borrowed half-crown no detail of the transaction
will be omitted.

Chapter II

When so much has been written about Charles Strickland, it may
seem unnecessary that I should write more. A painter's
monument is his work. It is true I knew him more intimately
than most: I met him first before ever he became a painter,
and I saw him not infrequently during the difficult years he
spent in Paris; but I do not suppose I should ever have set
down my recollections if the hazards of the war had not taken
me to Tahiti. There, as is notorious, he spent the last years
of his life; and there I came across persons who were familiar
with him. I find myself in a position to throw light on just
that part of his tragic career which has remained most obscure.
If they who believe in Strickland's greatness are right,
the personal narratives of such as knew him in the
flesh can hardly be superfluous. What would we not give for
the reminiscences of someone who had been as intimately
acquainted with El Greco as I was with Strickland?

But I seek refuge in no such excuses. I forget who it was
that recommended men for their soul's good to do each day two
things they disliked: it was a wise man, and it is a precept
that I have followed scrupulously; for every day I have got up
and I have gone to bed. But there is in my nature a strain of
asceticism, and I have subjected my flesh each week to a more
severe mortification. I have never failed to read the Literary
Supplement of <i The Times>. It is a salutary discipline to
consider the vast number of books that are written, the fair
hopes with which their authors see them published, and the
fate which awaits them. What chance is there that any book
will make its way among that multitude? And the successful
books are bu