Vierge's first edition of this book was published in Paris in 1882, by Bonhoure, and the drawings not only made his own name famous throughout the entire artistic world, but renewed the popularity of Quevedo. The book--and when I speak of it I refer to the illustrations and not to the letter-press--was the most brilliant, the most daring, the most original which had ever appeared. From the head-piece of the first chapter nearly to the end, almost every page contained a perfect picture which amazed all who studied it, and delighted all who could appreciate it. These exquisite little drawings displayed a knowledge of form, of action, of light and shade, of architecture, expressed with a brilliancy of handling which has never been surpassed. To make such a statement is to challenge criticism. But if there have been any more artistic drawings, or engravings of drawings, produced from the time of Dürer or Bellini, Rembrandt or of Piranesi, I have yet to find them, though I have gone in search of them through the chief Museums and Galleries of Europe. In comparison with Vierge, Dürer knows nothing of light and shade, Bellini and Vandyke and Holbein are heavy and laboured in their handling, while Piranesi and Canaletto have but an historical interest. It is true that to-day in many ways by many men Vierge is nearly approached, but he has been the inspirer and the master of them all. The ninety little process blocks in Bonhoure's edition showed the knowledge of the past, combined with the brilliancy and go of the present. But after a certain page there came a blank, and the letter-press dragged on--a libretto without the music. All that one knew was contained in a short note by the publisher: Vierge had been stricken with a grave malady, for some years he disappeared as a working artist. Those years, however, were spent in struggling against an affliction which would have killed a man less strong, but from which he has emerged able to complete his most important work. I am sure that Vierge would be the last, either himself to advertise his frightful misfortune, now happily over, or to wish to have it advertised by others. It is enough to say that when his entire right side was paralysed, and he lost the power of speech, he simply trained himself to work with his left hand, and to-day, as is proved by the last twenty illustrations in this book, and the pages of _Le Monde Illustré_ week after week, he is producing drawings which are unsurpassed. I hate and abominate the painter who fills columns with the recital of his misfortunes, telling you how he lost his paint brush, or how he had never a canvas of the right size, and soulfully lamenting the degeneracy of an age which knows quite too much to appreciate him. I can almost worship a man who silently conquers a living death.