There is one only way in which a book like the following can be written, with any chance of its possessing some value.—This is by aid of faithfulness to recollection, and sincerity in offering opinion. In so much as either romance or suppression enter into the record, its worth is impaired.

Personality there must be—and such bias as is decided by individuality. If a judgment beyond appeal can be formed by human creature on any question—it is, surely, not on a question of Art.—In that imaginative world and its enjoyments, human sympathies will have their share, let Reason be ever so conscientious.—Then there is association; That which we have heard during those good moments (of which Life contains many for all who will have them)—That which we have been obliged to hear, when the heart has been sad and the attention unwilling,—can, in neither case, be altogether truthfully presented.—I have tried my utmost to be a fair witness.—If there be more of myself in these pages than under other circumstances would be graceful or self-respecting, such egotism has been allowed, for the express purpose of enabling those who may read,—to agree or to differ with me in proportion as they approve my predilections, or dissent from my prejudices.

It is impossible to execute a task like mine without speaking of artists still living, as well as of those who have vanished from every scene.