And on the strength of peccadillos, reprehensible in an
author, but excusable in a son, the Anglo-Saxon race is
accused of prudishness, humbug, pretentiousness, deceit,
cunning, and bad cooking. Personally I think it was rash of
Mr. Strickland, in refuting the account which had gained
belief of a certain "unpleasantness" between his father and
mother, to state that Charles Strickland in a letter written
from Paris had described her as "an excellent woman," since
Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was able to print the letter in
facsimile, and it appears that the passage referred to ran in
fact as follows: I wish she was in hell.> It is not thus that the Church
in its great days dealt with evidence that was unwelcome.

Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was an enthusiastic admirer of Charles
Strickland, and there was no danger that he would whitewash him.
He had an unerring eye for the despicable motive in
actions that had all the appearance of innocence. He was a
psycho-pathologist, as well as a student of art, and the
subconscious had few secrets from him. No mystic ever saw
deeper meaning in common things. The mystic sees the
ineffable, and the psycho-pathologist the unspeakable.
There is a singular fascination in watching the eagerness with
which the learned author ferrets out every circumstance which may
throw discredit on his hero. His heart warms to him when he
can bring forward some example of cruelty or meanness, and he
exults like an inquisitor at the of an heretic
when with some forgotten story he can confound the filial piety
of the Rev. Robert Strickland. His industry has been amazing.
Nothing has been too small to escape him, and you