emotions and his religion, he now acquired what is to my mind the profoundest conversational charm—­the power of making swift and natural transitions into matters of what, for want of a better word, I will call spiritual experience.  I remember his once saying to me that he had learnt, from his intercourse with his village neighbours, that the one thing in the world in which every one was interested was religion; “even more,” he added, with a smile, “than is the one subject in which Sir Robert Walpole said that every one could join.”

I do not suppose that his religion was of a particularly orthodox kind; he was impatient of dogmatic definition and of ecclesiastical tendencies; but he cared with all his heart for the vital principles of religion, the love of God and the love of one’s neighbour.

He lived to see his adopted son grow up to maturity; and I do not think I ever saw anything so beautiful as the confidence and affection that subsisted between 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.