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 he
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 loss of fortune is not to be reckoned among his calamities,
because it was no calamity to him. He ended by finding a richer
treasure than any that he had set out to obtain; and I remember
that he said to me once, not long before his end, that whatever
others might feel about their own lives, he could not for a moment
doubt that his own had been an education of a deliberate and loving
kind, and that the day when he realised that, when he saw that
there was not a single incident in his life that had not a deep and