ill,
in all but solitary instances, be the case whether or no; both are
fascinating as a romancist; both are colorists, gorgeous as Rembrandt;
both glorify and make you admire and love their heroes, whether you are
so minded or not; both have made the epoch of which they wrote vivid as
the landscape upon which the sunset pours its crimson dyes. Motley's
hero was William the Silent, Prince of Orange; and Macaulay's hero was
William III, King of England, Prince of Orange. Motley will bear being
ranked as a great historian. He hates Philip II, as I suppose good
folks ought who despise egotism, intolerance, vindictiveness, and
horrible cruelty. He lauds William the Silent as soldier and
statesman, Prince Maurice as a soldier, and John of Barneveld as
statesman. Motley marches across old battle-fields like a soldier clad
in steel. He gives portraits of Queen Elizabeth, of Leicester, of
Granvelle, of Prince Maurice, of John of Barneveld, of Henry of
Navarre, of Philip II, of Count Egmont, of Charles V, of Don John of
Austria, of Hugo Grotius, and of William the Silent, which are as noble
as the portraits painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. I confess myself a
heavy debtor to Motley. He has taught me so much; has familiarized me
with the great world-figure, William the Silent, so that I feel at home
with him and his struggle, and participate with him in them. He has
drawn so clearly the figures of Romanist, Arminian, and Calvinist, as
to make them fairly glow upon his pages. Not as minister to St. James,
under President Grant, was Motley at his best; but rifling the archives
of Holland and Spain with an industry which knew no bounds, and
rehearsing the dry-as-dust discoveries in histories that glow like a
furnace. Here is the field in which he is all but unconquerable. Long
live the American historians!

IX

King Arthur

Perhaps no reader of the world's literature would deny that letters and
life had been indefinitely enriched by Alfred Tennyson.

How ideas affect life when once they have become participants therein
is the bar at which all ideas must stand for judgment. Carbonic-acid
gas enters the lungs, fills them, and blows out the lamp of life.
Common air enters the lungs, crimsons the blood, exhilarates the
spirit, gives elasticity to step and thought and pulse; is health, and
pours oil into the lamp of life whereby the flame burns higher, like
watch-fires on evening hills. One air brought death; one a