history ought not to be written, for the inner nature of the persons of whom it speaks is the essential thing about them; and, in fact, the historian assumes that he does know it, for his work without it is pointless and colourless. And yet to penetrate really into the hearts and souls of men, to give each his due, to represent him as he appeared at his best to himself, and not to his enemies, to sympathise in the collision of principles with each party in turn, to feel as they felt, to think as they thought, and to reproduce the various beliefs, the acquirements, the intellectual atmosphere of another age, is a task which requires gifts as great or greater than those of the greatest dramatists, for all is required which is required of the dramatist, with the obligation to truth of ascertained fact besides. It is for this reason that historical works of the highest order are so scanty. The faculty itself, the imaginative and reproductive insight, is among the rarest of human qualities. The moral determination to use it for purposes of truth only is rarer still-nay, it is but in particular ages of the world that such work can be produced at all. The historians of genius themselves, too, are creatures of their own time, and it is only at periods when men of intellect have "swallowed formulas," when conventional and established ways of thinking have ceased to satisfy, that, if they are serious and conscientious, they are able to sympathise with opposite sides."

It is said that history is not of individuals; that the proper concern of it is with broad masses of facts, with tendencies which can be analysed into laws, with the evolution of humanity in general. Be it so-but a science can make progress only when the facts are completely ascertained; and before any facts of human life are available for philosophy we must have those facts exactly as they were. You must have Hamlet before you can have a theory of Hamlet, and it is to be observed that the more completely we know the truth of any incident, or group of incidents, the less it lends itself to theory. We have our religious historians, our constitutional historians, our philosophical historians; and they tell their stories each in their own way, to point conclusions which they have begun by assuming-but the conclusion seems plausible only because they know their case imperfectly, or because they state their case imperfectly. The writers of books are Protestant or Catholic, religious or atheistic, despotic or liberal; but nature is neither the one nor the other, but all in turn. Nature is not a partisan, but out of her ample

treasure house she produces children in infinite variety, of which she is equally the mother, and disowns none of them; and when, as in Shakespeare, nature is represented truly, the impressions left upon the mind do not adjust themselves to any philosophical system. The story of Hamlet in Saxo Grammaticus might suggest excellent commonplace lessons on the danger of superstition, or the evils of uncertainty in the law of succession to the crown, or the absurdity of monarchical government when the crown can be the prize of murder. But reflections of this kind would suggest themselves only where the story was told imperfectly, and because it was told imperfectly. If Shakespeare's Hamlet be the true version of that Denmark catastrophe, the mind passes from commonplace moralising to the tragedy of humanity itself. And it is certain that if the thing did not occur as it stands in the play, yet it did occur in some similar way, and that the truth, if we knew it, would be equally affecting equally unwilling to submit to any representation except the undoctrinal and dramatic.

What I mean is this, that whether the history of humanity can be treated philosophically or not; whether any evolutionary law of progress can be traced in it or not; the facts must be delineated first with the clearness and fulness which we demand in an epic poem or a tragedy. We must have the real thing before we can have a science of a thing. When that is given, those who like it may have their philosophy of history, though probably they will care less about it; just as wise men do not ask for theories of Hamlet, but are satisfied with Hamlet himself. But until the real thing is given, philosophical history is but an idle plaything to entertain grown children with. (From Life of Carlyle.)

CHARLES KINGSLEY

[Charles Kingsley was born at Holne Vicarage, near Ashburton, in one of the most characteristic districts of the county of which he was afterwards to be the landscape-painter in prose, on 12th June 1819. He took his degree at Cambridge (his College was Magdalene) in 1842 with double honours, became curate of Eversley in Hampshire as soon as he was ordained, succeeded to the living in 1844, and held it till his death there on 23rd January 1875. The only events of his life, except the dates of publication of his books, that need be mentioned are his tenure between 1860 and 1869 of the Professorship of Modern History at Cambridge, his appointment to a Canonry at Chester when he resigned this post, his journey to the West Indies in 1871, and his translation, two years before his death, from Chester to Westminster.

Kingsley's works were somewhat voluminous, considering that his life was both short and busy professionally. He began by being what is called a Christian Socialist, and settled down into Broad Churchmanship. But his Sermons, which at their best are excellent, meddle very little with doctrine, either in the negative or positive way. Professorially, he wrote some historical books on which his fame does not rest. He was much interested in natural history, and one of his earliest books, Glaucus (1854), was the result of this interest, which appeared continuously in his work. And he was an excellent essayist, his contributions to magazines (chiefly to Fraser) being of remarkable excellence in their kind. But his great and durable claim in prose letters (his verse, small in amount, is excellent in quality) is as a writer of prose fiction. In this, beginning with two brilliant attempts in more or less political novel-writing, Alton Locke and Yeast (1849), he afterwards produced Hypatia, which some put at the head of his work (1853); Westward Ho! the general favourite, and one of the strongest and most brightly coloured of historical novels (1855); Two Years Ago (1857, a more unequal production), the delightful fantasy piece of The Water Babies (1863); and Hereward the Wake (1866).]

THE merits of Kingsley as a writer, and especially as a writer of fiction, are so vivid, so various, and so unquestionable by any sound and dispassionate criticism, that while cynics may almost wonder at his immediate and lasting popularity with readers, serious judges may feel real surprise at his occasional disrepute

with critics. The reasons of this latter, however, are not really very hard to find. He was himself a passionate partisan, and exceedingly heedless as to the when, where, and how of obtruding his partisanship. He had that unlucky foible of inaccuracy in fact which sometimes, though by no means always, attends the faculty of brilliant description and declamation, and which especially characterised his own set or coterie. Although possessed of the keenest sense both of beauty and of humour, he was a little uncritical in expressing himself in both these departments, and sometimes laid himself open in reality, while he did so much oftener in appearance, to the charge of lapses in taste. Although fond of arguing he was not the closest or most guarded of logicians. And lastly, the wonderful force and spontaneity of his eloquence, flowing (like the pool of Bourne, that he describes at the opening of his last novel) a river all at once from the spring, was a little apt to carry him away with it.

This allowance is pretty ample, and will at once explain some critical depreciation of Kingsley, and cover everything that can fairly be said against him. But it must be a singularly hidebound and prejudiced judgment which allows more than his merits can meet and yet leave an ample credit-balance. Those, indeed, who can never admire unless they agree, may have difficulty with Kingsley; but anyone who is subject to this limitation is in truth and in fact incapable of criticism altogether. The point in Kingsley as a partisan, which is a positive literary merit, far transcending any possible defect in his selection of sides, is the marvellous and contagious enthusiasm which he displays, and the atmosphere of passionate nobility which he throws around his own creeds and idols. Nothing of this sort could be created except by an intense sincerity working through literary faculty of the highest kind, and this being so, a true critic, even though he should disagree with the creed, and discredit the idol in toto, ought to bestow unreserved admiration on the advocate.

The literary faculty just mentioned shows itself in ways sufficiently various. Its most obvious achievement is a very unusual combination in descriptive power, both of scenery and action. As a rule the great landscape painters in words, like those in colours, are rather in need of somebody else to "put in the figures"; and the great depicters of action content them