Dodekanus, which he was the first to disentangle from its heterogeneous accretions, was vastly to his liking.  Why?  Because of its churchly flavour?  Not so; but because he detected therein “truth and symbol.  It is a tale of universal applicability; the type, as it were, of every great man’s life, endeavour, and reward.”  The introduction to these antiquities, setting forth his maxims for the writing of history, might have been composed not three centuries ago, but yesterday—­or even to-morrow; so modern is its note.

Hearken to these weighty words: 

“Portraiture of characters and events should take the form of one gentleman conversing with another, in the easy tone of good society.  The author who sets out to address a crowd defeats his own object; he eliminates the essence of good writing—­frankness.  You cannot be frank with men of low condition.  You must presuppose a refined and congenial listener, a man or woman whom you would not hesitate to take by the hand and lead into the circle of your own personal friends.  If this applies to literature of every kind, it applies to history in a peculiar degree.

“History deals with situations and figures not imaginary but real.  It demands therefore a combination of qualities unnecessary to the poet or writer of romance—­glacial judgment coupled with fervent sympathy.  The poet may be an inspired illiterate, the romance-writer an uninspired hack.  Under no circumstances can either of them be accused of wronging or deceiving the public, however incongruous their efforts.  They write well or badly, and there the matter ends.  The historian, who fails in his duty, deceives the reader and wrongs the dead.  A man weighted with such responsibilities is deserving of an audience more than usually select—­an audience of his equals, men of the world.  No vulgarian can be admitted to share those confidences. . . .

“The Greeks figured forth a Muse of History; they dared express their opinions.  Genesis, that ancient barrier, did not exist for them.  It stands in the way of the modern historian; it involves him in a ceaseless conflict with his own honesty.  If he values his skin, he must accommodate himself to current dogmas and refrain from truthful comments and conclusions.  He has the choice of being a chronologer or a ballad-monger-obsolete and unimportant occupations.  Unenviable fate of those who aspire to be teachers of mankind, that they themselves should be studied with a kind of antiquarian interest, stimulating thought not otherwise than as warning examples!  Clio has fallen from her pedestal.  That radiant creature, in identifying her interests with those of theocracy, has become the hand-maiden of a withered and petulant mistress, a mercenary slut.  So things will remain, till mankind has acquired a fresh body of ethics, corresponding to modern needs.  It is useless, it is dangerous, to pour new wine into old bottles. . . .”