mistake. His leading idea was to make history a true romance. He has
accomplished this; and he has given us _a historical novel drawn from
authentic documents_. This is, no doubt, a very useful thing to do, a
most interesting book to read; it is very pleasant literature, and has
a certain teaching of its own to a certain order of readers. But it is
not history. It sacrifices the breadth of view, the organic life, the
philosophy, the grand continuity of human society. It must be a
sectional picture of a very limited period in a selected area; it can
give us only the external; it inevitably tends to trivial detail and to
amusing personalities; it necessarily blinds us to the slow sequence of
the ages. Besides this, it explains none of the deeper causes of
movement; for, to make a picture, the artist must give us the visible
and the obvious. History, in its highest sense, is the record of the
evolution of humanity, in whole or in part. To compose an historical
novel from documents is to put this object aside. History, said
Macaulay in his _Hallam_, "is a compound of poetry and philosophy." But
in practice, he substituted word-painting for poetry, and anecdote for
philosophy. His own delightful and popular _History of England_ is a
compound of historical romance and biographical memoir.

Macaulay's strong point was in narrative, and in narrative he has been
surpassed by hardly any historian and even by few novelists. Scott and
Victor Hugo have hardly a scene more stirring than Macaulay's death of
Charles II., Monmouth's rebellion, the flight of James II., the trial
of Titus Gates, the inner life of William III. This is a very great
quality which has deservedly made him popular. And if Macaulay had
less philosophy than almost any historian of the smallest pretension,
he has a skill in narration which places him in a fair line with the
greatest. Unfortunately, this superb genius for narration has rarely
been devoted to the grander events and the noblest chiefs in history.