though he be,--and is not without its use, expanding his mind by thoughts of something more than what is merely present, and refining it with conceptions which surpass and postpone the claims of instinctive want.

"Between two worlds life hovers like a star,

"Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge:

How little do we know that which we are!

How less what we may be! The eternal surge

Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar
Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
Lashed from the foam of ages; while the graves

Of empires heave but like some passing waves.'

Though there is a mute history in the physical structure of our planet, its fissures and dislocations,-in the organic remains of known and unknown forms of life, and of those, when known, reposing in climates to which they were unindigenous,-in far-spread ruins of cities with their crumbled palaces and temples, amidst which the owl hoots and the lazy lizard crawls,—though in all these there is a voice, a potent sound of instruction,-yet by History we more commonly understand the narrations of former events by known and accredited writers. To these we resort, yet not exclusively, for our knowledge of what has happened ere our bosoms drew in this vital air, and our eyes opened on this stirring world.

The historian has consequently been always held in high celebrity. It was at the Olympic Games that the young Thucydides dropped a tear of enthusiasm, the enthusiasm of delight and emulation, while Herodotus, the illustrious prototype and chief of Historic literature, read to the assembled myriads, the Expedition of Xerxes against the liberty of Greece. While the youth, his future rival, wept with delight, the generous man paused, and congratulated Olorus on the strong impulse thus expressed by his child for learning. The tragedian, however greatly honoured, scarcely was allowed the same rank with the writer of history, while the painter and sculptor were always placed far lower. So important was a just chronicle

Byron.

felt by the ancient heroes, that a Xenophon and a Cæsar commemorate, though with a modest simplicity, their own disasters and exploits. The Spartans always, before going into battle, sacrificed to the Muses, that their achievements might be worthily recorded. May not the passing criticism be then introduced here? Great difference of opinion has existed for ages concerning the titles given to the different books of Herodotus. They are called by the names of the Nine Muses. But can we suppose, that, if this be the work of editors, it was done to cast discredit over him? The panegyric was lofty, and moreover was appropriate, seeing that even the Lacedæmonians sought historic justice at the hands of the Sacred Nine. And who will not accord to that fine eulogium of Bacon, on knowledge in general, but peculiarly applicable to this species of it?" If the invention of the ship was thought so noble, which carrieth riches and commodities from place to place, and consociateth the most remote regions in participation of their fruits,how much more are letters to be magnified, which, as ships pass through the vast seas of time, and make ages, so distant, participate of the wisdom, illuminations, and inventions, the one of the other."

The credit attached to History, apart from its convenience and its adaptation to the human mind, may be resolved into the following two reasons.

The Historian has few temptations to misrepresent and disfigure the events of which he writes. All that can affect him depends upon his fidelity. He cannot be indifferent to fame. Many of the ancient, as well as modern authors, confess the passion. Like Phidias in sculpturing the shield of Minerva, they so engrave and diffuse their name, that it may be coeval with their works. Theirs must be a chastity of truth. Breathe upon their veracity, and the taint remains. They must cherish a philosophic calm. Low partisanship they must despise. Placed aloft, they must look upon the earth, and not along it: as from a promontory, they must behold afar the elemental war.

A second reason may be found.-A historian has fewer opportunities of fraud than temptations to it. For supposing

that the misanthrope should attempt to blot the page with his characters of venom, or that the parasite should endeavour to palliate and embellish vice, or that the bigoted abettor should colour every transaction and person to the hue of his jaundiced eye, how instantaneous would be the detection, and how unsparing would be his disgrace! If he write long after the events, no one will believe unless he present contemporary proof,-if he write in the period of those events, every distortion will be readily marked by them who can judge of them as well as himself.

Genuine and authentic are therefore the epithets we apply to the highest, the most veracious, class of historians.

By genuine is intended that the works are really the productions of the authors whose names are affixed to them. An anonymous history is not necessarily untrue. By some strange chance the name may have been lost. The misfortune of such books is, that no moral character, that no intellectual reputation, are committed to their truth. They will, therefore, be always held cheap, unless borne out by independent authorities. When we know who the writer is, we see that he has his all at stake. If trustworthy in his acknowledged habits and principles, we incline to receive his report of things. Nor can we consistently carry our scruples further than to enquire into his competency, after approving his personal fidelity and worth. It is certain, notwithstanding, that there are people hard to move, whatever the evidence you offer. A cautious magistrate, it is said, was requested by a party appearing before him to attest that he was living on the 16th of that month, the request being made on the following day. Most persons would have given credit to the party that, manifestly being alive on the 17th, he had been on the 16th. But sensible evidence was wanting, and Justice Shallow refused. Very different was the conduct of Cicero. He was once in company with a lady who was a little antique, but who declared that she was only forty years old. A youth of the party asked him whether he believed that she was no more? "Certainly," exclaimed the orator, "on her own word; for I have heard her repeatedly say so for the last ten years.”

If it can be proved that any name has been surreptitiously affixed to a historical work, it is a circumstance of grave suspicion. It is a literary forgery, and an unworthy counterfeit. The extreme probability is, that there is some artifice in the story from which this device is contrived to turn our attention.

It will be supposed by many that the most authentic history must be written by one who lives in the very scenes which he describes. It is a natural presumption that he is of all men the best equipped and qualified. He has communed with the living actors, and trod the actual stage. He has not only been spectator, he has performed a part. This is, however, a very doubtful advantage. Such a one can scarcely struggle out of the vortex of local and individual feeling. It can hardly be expected that he has lived isolated amidst surrounding society. Will not the tinge of feeling be involuntarily communicated to his leaves? "Personal Narratives," "Memoirs of His Own Times," are, at least, not now uncommon. They never form a good basis of history. They are often nothing better than licensed libels. It is the exhaustion of a poisoned quiver. But it is not always so with a correspondence, between coetaneous parties, afterwards brought to light. This is highly illustrative. It is a by-play to the drama. The names of Pepys, Evelyn, Ellis, Horace Walpole, Mary Wortley Montague, will at once recur to our memory,-and who has not seen the little dim, but perfect, shadowings of the great and stirring events of public interest, transferred to their minds, and moving over their epistles, as in a camera obscura? And here we see how freely men can breathe in private, whom history only describes in court-dress, what hard words can flow from the statues of velvet and brocade,-and what are the reprisals of those to whom etiquette has denied even the point of Hatton's step, and the manifold meaning of Burleigh's nod. Still should we be wary. These letter-writers and diary-keepers stole their remarks. Worlds would not have tempted them to do any thing beyond thinking thus aloud. They were not before the public. They were not bound over in recognizances for good behaviour. Spite they might have, and spite they might insinuate. Newts and

worms live in darkness and slime, but are burnt up by the noon-tide sun. And it is not uncommon to trace, in these secret parleys, the sneer and inuendo to which the coward has recourse, and which, like the craped face and dark lantern of the tiptoe assassin, are necessary to the silent deed of blood. When the Censor of Strawberry Hill strikes his lampoon of scandal at those whom he is even then caressing, we are reminded of the worst and most muffled characters in his Otranto,-nor can disgust be too strong at his banter of Addison's dying bed! Far better collateral evidence is, however, to be found in the fasciculi of pamphlets of the day, whether in satire, ballad, or sober appeal. Such are the Somers' Tracts. The Harleian Manuscripts must be of invaluable interest to those who cultivate the abstruser points of historic lore.

The power of the historian is not, therefore, absolute. He is restrained by every consideration which self-love and conscious responsibility can impose. He is controlled by influences which no citizen can slight. He writes under a constellation of keenly-attentive and expressive eyes. One act of historic libertinism dashes his bust from the niche of fame. Convict him of a bias, and all suspect him. The light of truth disclaims the medium unless it be transmitted unrefracted. Gibbon presents a specimen of punishment which will always, soon or late, fall retributively upon the historian who suffers his prejudices to sway him. He is far less credited than he deserves to be, in consequence of this, to use the mildest word, indiscretion. His extenuation of Julian is blind to the fact of that monarch's cruel persecution of his former fellow-disciples. "Christianity," he says, "grew up in silence and obscurity."* An assertion more flagrantly untrue was, surely, never uttered. What was its birth-place? A land which formed the geographical centre of the inhabited earth, commanding a principal shore of the Mediterranean, extending to the coast of Tyre, washed by all but the waves of the Grecian Archipelago, stretching to the frontiers of Syria, close on the Asiatic access to Egypt, lying in the pathway to India, looking forth on the Italian seas. • Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Vol. II., Chap: 15.