If we make anything, it seems that we cannot avoid making it in our own image and likeness; to this fact I attribute the note of autobiography which creeps into any ‘life’ written by one man of another. We cannot see in another qualities of which we are ourselves deficient; a man that is colour-blind cannot introduce accurate tones into his picture, be his line ever so perfect. It follows that we cannot expect a good life of St. Dominic except from a Saint. Nevertheless, as no one is without some elements of sanctity, each one, according to his measure, will be able to appreciate St. Dominic, in whom these are pressed down and running over. We must not discount his virtues because they appear as perfections of our own, for it is through these virtues that we shall reach him. The philosopher will see St. Dominic as a philosopher, the contemplative as a contemplative, the organiser as a Master General; indeed, each man sees his hero as himself, generously bereft of the frailties and indecisions flesh is heir to. This limitation of our vision is, in a way, a reflection of the mystery of the Incarnation, and, as such, a source of comfort. Man can make or reproduce only what he has seen, but the vision takes form in his own image; the maker is revealed in the thing made. It is not only ‘Dawn’ which, Eblis-like, sits upon the portals of the Underground, but Epstein; it is not Spring arising from the shell, but Botticelli; it is not only the mystery of Father Brown, but the life of Mr. Chesterton in which we are intrigued.