of the
clash and wrestling of armed men, compiled either at first hand from
the recollections of those who were actually on the field, or else
taken at second hand from others who made notes of what had been told
them by those present at the battles. This, then, is what I meant when
I said that in early times history was an art. Its method was
picturesque.

Now my next observation is that, although the science of history has
since been invented, we have, among quite modern English writers, men
of singular genius, who have to some extent followed the example,
adopted the manner, of the ancient annalist. Like him, they are
artists, their aim has been to depict famous men, to reproduce
striking incidents and scenes dramatically. Their technical methods,
so to speak, are entirely different from those of the old chronicler,
who sketched with a free hand, and trusted largely to his
inspirations, to his own experience of what was likely to have been
said or done, or to popular tradition, which is always animated and
distinct. The modern historian, of what I may call the school of
impressionists, has no such experience, he knows nothing personally of
violent scenes or fierce deeds; he composes his picture of things that
happened long ago from a mass of papers, books, memoirs, that have
come down to us. Yet although style and substance are quite different,
the chief aim, the design, of the ancient and modern artist in
history is the same. They both strive to set before their reader a
vision of certain scenes and figures at moments of energetic
action--not only to tell him a story, but to make him see it. Let me
give an example. Every one here may remember the story in the Old
Testament (2nd Book of Kings) of Jehu driving furiously into Jezreel,
how on his way he smote Ahaziah, king of Judah, with an arrow, and how
Jezebel, the Phoenician Queen, was hurled down out of her palace
window to be devoured by dogs in the street. And some of you may have
read in Froude's _History of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth_ his
description of the murder of David Rizzio by the fierce Scotch nobles,
how he was killed clinging to Queen Mary's knees in her chamber in
Holyrood Palace. Now the manner, the artistic presentation of
ferocious action, are in both cases alike; we have the words spoken
and the deeds done; we can look on at the bloody tragedy; we have a
dramatic version of the story. The ancient writer of the Old Testament
probably did his wo