the adornments of style, forbidden the companionship of heroes, and requested to occupy herself industriously with Blue Books and the growth of constitutions. I know nothing more significant than Professor Seeley's warning to modern historians not to resemble Tacitus,—of which there seems but little danger,—unless, indeed, it be the complacency with which a patriotic and very popular American critic congratulates himself and us on the felicity of having plenty of young poets of our own, who do not in the least resemble Wordsworth, or Shelley, or Keats.
Yet when we take from history all that gives it color, vivacity, and charm, we lose perchance more than our mere enjoyment,—though that be a heavy forfeiture,—more than the pleasant hours spent in the storied past. Even so stern a master as Mr. Lecky is fain to admit that these obsolete narratives, which once called themselves histories, "gave insight into human character, breathed noble sentiments, rewarded and stimulated noble actions, and kindled high patriotic feeling by their strong appeals to the imagination." This was no unfruitful labor, and until we
