paratively brief passage in the political history of the past. We may
extend the social circle in which we move, a circle perhaps narrowed and
restricted through circumstances beyond our control, by making intimate
acquaintances, perhaps even close friends, among a society long
departed, but which, when we have once learnt the trick of it, we may,
if it so pleases us, revive.

It is this kind of historical reading which is usually branded as
frivolous and useless; and persons who indulge in it often delude
themselves into thinking that the real motive of their investigation
into bygone scenes and ancient scandals is philosophic interest in an
important historical episode, whereas in truth it is not the philosophy
which glorifies the details, but the details which make tolerable the
philosophy. Consider, for example, the case of the French Revolution.
The period from the taking of the Bastile to the fall of Robespierre is
about the same as that which very commonly intervenes between two of our
general elections. On these comparatively few months, libraries have
been written. The incidents of every week are matters of familiar
knowledge. The character and the biography of every actor in the drama
has been made the subject of minute study; and by common admission there
is no more fascinating page in the history of the world. But the
interest is not what is commonly called philosophic, it is personal.
Because the Revolution is the dominant fact in modern history, therefore
people suppose that the doings of this or that provincial lawyer, tossed
into temporary eminence and eternal infamy by some freak of the
revolutionary wave, or the atrocities committed by this or that mob,
half drunk with blood, rhetoric, and alcohol, are of transcendent
importance. In truth their interest is great, but their importance is
small. What we are concerned to know as students of the philosophy of
history is, not the character of each turn and eddy in the great social
cataract, but the manner in which the currents of the upper stream drew
surely in towards the final plunge, and slowly collected themselves
after the catastrophe again, to pursue at a different level their
renewed and comparatively tranquil course.

Now, if so much of the interest of the French Revolution depends upon
our minute knowledge of each passing incident, how much more necessary
is such knowledge when we are dealing with the quiet nooks and corners
of history; when we ar