confine himself to giving a record
of the objective facts, which can be fully given in dates, statistics,
and phenomena seen from outside. But if we allow ourselves to
contemplate a philosophical history, which shall deal with the causes of
events and aim at exhibiting the evolution of human society--and perhaps
I ought to apologise for even suggesting that such an ideal could ever
be realised--we should also see that the history of literature would be
a subordinate element of the whole structure. The political, social,
ecclesiastical, and economical factors, and their complex actions and
reactions, would all have to be taken into account, the literary
historian would be concerned with the ideas which find utterance through
the poet and philosopher, and with the constitution of the class which
at any time forms the literary organ of the society. The critic who
deals with the individual work would find such knowledge necessary to a
full appreciation of his subject; and, conversely, the appreciation
would in some degree help the labourer in other departments of history
to understand the nature of the forces which are governing the social
development. However far we may be from such a consummation, and
reluctant to indulge in the magniloquent language which it suggests, I
imagine that a literary history is so far satisfactory as it takes the
facts into consideration and regards literature, in the perhaps too
pretentious phrase, as a particular function of the whole social
organism. But I gladly descend from such lofty speculations to come to a
few relevant details; and especially, to notice some of the obvious
limitations which have in any case to be accepted.

And in the first place, when we try to be philosophical, we have a
difficulty which besets us in political history. How much influence is
to be attributed to the individual? Carlyle used to tell us in my youth
that everything was due to the hero; that the whole course of human
history depended upon your Cromwell or Frederick. Our scientific
teachers are inclined to reply that no single person had much
importance, and that an ideal history could omit all names of
individuals. If, for example, Napoleon had been killed at the siege of
Toulon, the only difference would have been that the dictator would have
been called say Moreau. Possibly, but I cannot see that we can argue in
the same way in literature. I see no reason to suppose that if
Shakespeare had died prematur