ently and indisputably requisite
in the outset of historical composition, that men forget that genius and
taste are required for its completion. They see that the edifice must be
reared of blocks cut out of the quarry; and they fix their attention on
the quarriers who loosen them from the rock, without considering that
the soul of Phidias or Michael Angelo is required to arrange them in the
due proportion in the immortal structure. What makes great and durable
works of history so rare is, that they alone, perhaps, of any other
production, require for their formation a combination of the most
opposite qualities of the human mind, qualities which only are found
united in a very few individuals in any age. Industry and genius,
passion and perseverance, enthusiasm and caution, vehemence and
prudence, ardour and self-control, the fire of poetry, the coldness of
prose, the eye of painting, the patience of calculation, dramatic power,
philosophic thought, are all called for in the annalist of human events.
Mr Fox had a clear perception of what history should be, when he placed
it _next to poetry in the fine arts, and before oratory_. Eloquence is
but a fragment of what is enfolded in its mighty arms. Military genius
ministers only to its more brilliant scenes. Mere ardour, or poetic
imagination, will prove wholly insufficient; they will be deterred at
the very threshold of the undertaking by the toil with which it is
attended, and turn aside into the more inviting paths of poetry and
romance. The labour of writing the "Life of Napoleon" killed Sir Walter
Scott. Industry and intellectual power, if unaided by more attractive
qualities, will equally fail of success; they will produce a respectable
work, valuable as a book of reference, which will slumber in forgotten
obscurity in our libraries. The combination of the two is requisite to
lasting fame, to general and durable success. What is necessary in an
historian, as in the _elite_ of an army, is not the desultory fire of
light troops, nor the ordinary steadiness of common soldiers, but the
regulated ardour, the burning but yet restrained enthusiasm, which,
trained by discipline, taught by experience, keeps itself under control
till the proper moment for action arrives, and then sweeps, at the voice
of its leader, with "the ocean's mighty swing" on the foe.

MICHAUD is, in many respects, an historian peculiarly qualified for the
great undertaking which he has accomplished, of gi