likely to influence their judgment, he is guilty of fraud, and, when
justice is done in this world, will be condemned to refund all moneys
he has made by his false professions, with compound interest. This
sort of fraud is unknown to the law, but to nobody else. 'Let me know
the facts!' may well be the agonized cry of the student who finds
himself floating down what Arnold has called 'the vast Mississippi of
falsehood, History.' Secondly comes a catholic temper and way of
looking at things. The historian should be a gentleman and possess a
moral breadth of temperament. There should be no bitter protesting
spirit about him. He should remember the world he has taken upon
himself to write about is a large place, and that nobody set him up
over us. Thirdly, he must be a born story-teller. If he is not this,
he has mistaken his vocation. He may be a great philosopher, a useful
editor, a profound scholar, and anything else his friends like to call
him, except a great historian. How does Carlyle meet these
requirements? His veracity, that is, his laborious accuracy, is
admitted by the only persons competent to form an opinion, namely,
independent investigators who have followed in his track; but what may
be called the internal evidence of the case also supplies a strong
proof of it. Carlyle was, as everyone knows, a hero-worshipper. It is
part of his mysticism. With him man, as well as God, is a spirit,
either of good or evil, and as such should be either worshipped or
reviled. He is never himself till he has discovered or invented a
hero; and, when he has got him, he tosses and dandles him as a mother
her babe. This is a terrible temptation to put in the way of an
historian, and few there be who are found able to resist it. How easy
to keep back an ugly fact, sure to be a stumbling-block in the way of
weak brethren! Carlyle is above suspicion in this respect. He knows no
reticence. Nothing restrains him; not even the so-called proprieties
of history. He may, after his boisterous fashion, pour scorn upon you