a scratch on the cheek he had received in pulling away the sword. Ralegh
did not persist in his version. As soon as his friend was gone, he cast
his manuscript into the fire. If he could not properly estimate an event
under his own eyes, he despaired of appreciating human acts done
thousands of years before he was born. 'Truth!' he cried, 'I sacrifice
to thee.' Pinkerton, whose judgment and veracity were not equal to his
learning, led astray both Guizot and Carlyle. Carlyle talks of 'the old
story, still a true lesson for us.'

[Sidenote: _The Fact._]

Of the extent to which Ralegh had proceeded in the continuation of his
work he had himself informed the public. In his preface he 'forbears to
promise a second or third volume, which he intends if the first receives
grace and good acceptance; for that which is already done may be thought
enough and too much.' At the conclusion he wrote: 'Whereas this book
calls itself the first part of the _General History of the World_,
implying a second and third volume, which I also intended, and have hewn
out; besides many other discouragements persuading my silence, it hath
pleased God to take that glorious prince out of the world, to whom they
were directed.' His language points evidently to the collection of
'apparatus for the second volume,' as Aubrey says. It may have
comprised very possibly not a few such scattered gems of thought and
rich experience as are the glory of the printed volume. A Ralegh
Society, should it ever be instituted, might have the honour of
disinterring and reuniting some of them. No less clearly he indicates
that he had not advanced beyond the preliminary processes of inquiry and
meditation.

[Sidenote: _The Prerogative of Parliaments._]

The motive for his abandonment at this point of the thorough realization
of his plan was probably a combination of disturbing causes,
disappointment, hope, and rival occupations. Prince Henry's favour had
brought liberty and restitution very close. With a nature like his the
abrupt catastrophe did not benumb; it even stimulated; but it took the
flavour out of many of his pursuits. He could no longer indulge in
learned ease, and trust for his rehabilitation to spontaneous respect
and sympathy. The near breath of freedom had set his nerves throbbing
too vehemently for him to be able to settle down, as if for an eternity
of literary leisure, to tasks like the _History of the World_, or the
_Art of War by Sea_. He began w