“I wish you would tell me things, and let me write the story of your life,” I said in chatting to my father one evening about six weeks before his death. “Perhaps I will, some day,” he answered. “I believe I could do it better than any one else,” I went on, with jesting vanity. “I believe you could,” he rejoined, smiling. But to write the story of Mr Bradlaugh's life with Mr Bradlaugh at hand to give information is one thing: to write it after his death is quite another. The task has been exceptionally difficult, inasmuch as my father made a point of destroying his correspondence; consequently I have very few letters to help me.”
