Now I am not here to disparage Macaulay, Froude, or Carlyle. They were
all, in my opinion, authors of rare genius, whose places in the
forefront of the literature of the nineteenth century are permanently
secure. Yet I fear that the tendency of the twentieth century is
unfavourable to the artistic historian. It seems to me probable, much
to my personal regret, that the scientific writing of history, based
upon exhaustive research, accumulation and minute sifting of all
available details, relentless verification of every statement, will
gradually discourage and supersede the art of picturesque composition.
In the first place the spirit of doubt and distrust is abroad, every
statement is scrutinised and tested. The imaginative historian cannot
lay on his colours, or fill up his canvas, by effective and lively
touches without finding his work placed under the microscope of
erudite analysts, some of whom, like Iago, are nothing if not
critical, are not only exact but very exacting. In these days a writer
who endeavours to illuminate some scene of ages past, to show us, as
by a magic lantern, the moving figures brought out in relief against
the surrounding darkness, is liable to be set down as an illusionist,
possibly even as a charlatan or conjurer. Yet one feels the charm of
the splendid vision, though it may fade into the light of common day
when it falls under relentless scrutiny, and one is haunted by the
doubt whether the scientific historian, with all his conscientious
accuracy, is after all much nearer the reality than the literary
artist. For it is seriously questionable whether the precise truth
about bygone events and men long dead can ever actually be discovered,
whether, by piecing together what has come down to us in documents, we
can resuscitate from the dust-heap of records the state of society
many centuries ago. And in regard to historical portrait painting Lord
Acton has warned intending historians to seek no unity of
character--to remember that allowance must always be made for human
inconsistencies; that a man is never all of one piece. But cautious
conclusions, nice weighing of evidence, do not satisfy the ordinary
reader. The vivid impressions that are stamped on his mind by the
power of style are what he mostly requires and retains; and these we
are all reluctant to lose. We must concede to the writer, as to the
painter, some indulgence of his imaginative faculty. Otherwise we must
leave the battle sce