It has been left to me to record the last thirty years of my dear father's life, to take up the pen which dropped from his hand the day before he died, and to conclude the task he left uncompleted.

It will be a labour of love to recall and chronicle those events in his life at which I either personally assisted, or of which he spoke to me in the intimacy of our friendship–a friendship which never from my earliest childhood to the day of his death suffered the slightest break, or was marred by even the most transient misunderstanding on either side.

The readers of the preceding chapters will have formed an estimate of my father's character, of his indefatigable industry, his entire devotion to his art, his modesty, and his genial and lovable nature; but it is only those who lived in daily association with him who could fathom the depths of his kindness and of his unselfishness, his sympathy, and the chivalry which led him not only to forgive, but to conceal the pain of any hurt he might receive. There never was a kinder father or a better friend, and the void his death has made, not only in his family, but in a wide circle of acquaintances, will be felt for many a year to come.