It reads more like what we are accustomed to see in journalism or in a novel than in history: but that is only a superficial judgment, caused by the association of ideas. We have here a vast number of facts thrown together in an order that makes them so striking as to present a true picture. Only the weather is lacking; and that Lenotre mentions a little later: the intense sunlight and the heat of that early morning of August 10, 1792. Every adjective, every substantive and every verb contains a definite historical truth, ascertainable, concrete, objective; not one presupposes (apparently) a moral hypothesis or the passing of a judgment upon the time.

Of what value then, one may say, is this as history-since it is the function of history to judge and to present the action of man, a moral being?

Its value lies in this: that when you have presented the mere physical picture so vividly and so truly, a great number of false judgments, a whole series of moral actions in the men concerned, which bias might presupposé, are seen to be impossible. You have seen the men at work.

In other words, this method of history which depends upon the gathering of a great number of physical and objective impressions, frames and limits the subjective part of history in such a manner as to subject the relation of motive and of human actions to much the same standard as they receive from our daily sight and hearing and touch of contemporary things.

One of the disputed points in history is whether Robespierre was shot by Merda or whether he shot himself.

The point has been argued from physical evidence and from moral. It is important, for it both concludes a remarkable historical career and illuminates, one way or the other, the character of a principal historic personage.

See how this modern method which

I plead for would approach the problem. It would not neglect either the subjective or the objective evidence, but it would lay a foundation for judging the matter by giving the reader an almost personal acquaintance with Robespierre from outside.

He would be noted in his tricks, his gestures, his clothes, his daily habits, almost as though you had seen him. You would come to know him pushing his spectacles up over his forehead to speak to his audience, settling them down again to read his manuscript to them; walking simply enough with his great dog; talking pedantically, yet nobly and sincerely, to his intimates; you would perceive his absurd little vanities; you would mark him standing in front of the bust of himself and beside a picture of himself, talking to his admirers; you would observe his indifference to nervous strain, how little he felt noise or lack of sleep; you would follow his careful toilet, you would see his really attractive smile and his bright, light-gray eyes, you would note his attachment to a few friends marred by a self absorption in manner, which too often made him seem indifferent and which always rendered him grossly tactless. In general, you would see the man as a contemporary might have seen him; not indeed piercing the intimate veils of personality (for no human being can boast of doing so in the observation of another), but judging the man from all external evidences as we judge a fellow being of our own time.

With such an equipment you would be far better prepared to judge the details of his supposed attempted suicide than anyone who had neglected the method of which I speak.

As with the details of history so with the large sweeps of it. Present to a man an Elizabethan village. Show him the small holdings; the number of virtual freeholds still remaining; the

respect for the lord; the type of road that would command its communications with the market town, and that market town with London; the physical habits of its parson; the external daily occupations of its people—and he will be able to understand the vast and disastrous revolution which the wealthy effected in English life between 1555 and 1580 as he could not understand it from a mere consultation of the documents of ecclesiastical or diplomatic history.

I might sum the whole thing up and say, by the use of a mathematical metaphor, that it is our business nowadays to integrate.

Integration consists in the putting together of a mass of infinitely small details, so that the sum of them shall take on body and form. Integration is what we do when we look with our eyes upon physical nature. We integrate when we recognize a voice or gesture as certainly belonging to someone whom we know. And we must integrate the dead past if we are to make it live.

But now, at the very close of my plea, I must very briefly consider two aspects of this new method.

First, is it one possible of achievement? Secondly, is there any criterion by which we may judge whether the historian using it is acting honestly or no?

As to the first point: I believe integration nowadays to be quite possible with at least many set periods of the past.

The character of historical study in our time is that it has accumulated an enormous mass of detail. Our science permits us to reconstruct the veritable external aspects of things upon any one of a very large number of occasions with which our historical curiosity for the past is concerned. Selection is necessary of course in that vast mass, but if our selection be guided by a deLIVING AGE. VOL. LII. 2732

sire to present the most vivid things, it is not very difficult of achievement. The process is intensely laborious. No other writing of history is to be compared with it for sheer toil. No one

man could cover more than a small section even of a limited field. But where the scholar is concerned with vision and where he begins with vision before he attempts interpretation, he can, to-day, succeed. The material for. his building is there. It is before him in superabundance.

As to the second point, whether there is any criterion by which we may judge whether the integration presented to us be honest or no, I confess there is no such criterion available to the general reader. But, on the other hand, if the task of writing such history be approached by many men, competition will decide.

It is quite easy for the general reader to distinguish between a picture which accumulates objective detail and one in which the artist has shirked the labor which that accumulation involves. Between two men who each pretend to have accomplished this kind of work, the sincere man will at once convince where the insincere man will not; for in the first place he will be impregnable to attack in his details and in the second place his facts will co-ordinate and fit in one with the other. If only a few men are at work upon this method in a particular field, there will be room for the charlatan. Where many men are at work the real picture will tell and will stand out against every false one, in the same way as reality tells and stands out against illusions or make-believes.

Upon this I base my conclusion that this new method in history is at once possible of achievement and recognizable in the long run to those before whom it is presented, and if it be attempted by the younger generation of historical writers we may have a solid

foundation of truth which will make of the past something very different from a wrangling ground for expert authorities, whose different theories have hitherto bewildered the lay public and have

The Dublin Review.

more recently disgusted it with that form of knowledge which is necessary to a comprehension of the State: history.

Hilaire Belloc.

The

Does the present cult-we might almost say the present cant-of sincerity make for social amenity? It is surely doubtful, to say the least. The social world, at any rate, is a stage, whatever the real world may be. chief parts are assigned to women; the by-play and the wording are always new, but the plot does not change with the ages, and the play is by no means an altogether extempore affair. The actors depend upon each other, and wait for their cues, even though these may not be verbal. Of course, the social world is not synonymous with the great world any more than "the urban population" is synonymous with the dwellers in London. There is a society everywhere, and a play going on in it in which all, except the mass, are both actors and spectators. Conditions differ in detail in different parts of the social world, just as conditions differ in detail in different towns of the same country, but fundamentally they are alike. The latest stage convention is roughness-everywhere-and it bids fair to destroy the delicate nuances of the play. Why roughness should be supposed to denote sincerity it is hard to say, since roughness is a common affectation, and very few educated women are naturally rough.

We sup

pose that that ubiquitous force, reaction, must be looked to for an explanation. But, whatever the cause of the present affectation of sincerity, its result is sameness.

Take a small matter to begin withthe question of the inflections of the

voice. There was a time when the sound of voices at a little distance gave some vague suggestion of the nature of the subject which occupied the speakers. Nowadays everything is discussed in the same tone. To give or to receive a piece of bad news-though it had no personal effect on anyone present-with voluble cheerfulness is certainly not art, neither, for that matter, is it nature; it is simply affectation -an affectation of sincerity. It is true, no doubt, that there is a certain pleasure in conveying any news, and a certain pleasure in hearing it—even though it be bad-so long as it does not concern ourselves or those whom we love as ourselves; but the pleasure is not fiendish-it is dramatic. This is a fact which it is surely good for the community to keep before their minds, and it is, if we may be allowed a paradoxical phrase, most naturally expressed by a little acting. It is perfectly legitimate in the hearer to heighten the dramatic effect; indeed, it is unsocial to ignore it. To insist upon saying to all and sundry that we enjoy the news, and are indifferent to its nature, is absurd. We decrease its interest even as we speak, and so add to the dulness of the world. Until lately, intimacy or special kindness was suggested by inflections of the voice. Now the same hard tones do for everyone, and women address their dearest friends and their own children very often, much as they might address a strange policeman. The loss of variety in address is a considerable loss, for in

England we are not rich in forms, and have no substitute for the French and German "thee" and "thou." No doubt the older fashion led to affectation. So do all fashions. The pleasanter affectation should always be preferred.

Again, there are certain modern social traditions which have stood for a long time, and whose origin marked a social advance from which, in the pursuit of sincerity, we are going back. It has been for generations an understood thing that we do not visit each other primarily for the sake of what we can get, though it is impossible to eliminate that consideration as secondary. Originally no doubt feasting came first. Men met to eat rather than to talk, and social life languishes among the poor because food is scarce. When wealth first began to be the fashion, a polite fiction was maintained that it still constituted but a lesser part of social attraction. Now its charms are quite openly acknowledged. People do not keep up a pretence of seeking the rich because they like them. In very many cases they would be sorry to be thought to have such bad taste. Again, we are speaking of society as a whole-not of those circles whose doings are chronicled in newspapers, and not of those "rich" whose wealth is sufficient to ensure powerwe are speaking of the whole social world: of the majority of that world where wealth means nothing more than motor-cars and many servants, and much fine food and some degree of display. Nowadays many of these rich people are as openly criticized as they are openly sought-for what the seeker can get. No one makes any pretence that if they were poor they would go near them. The word "poor" brings to mind another instance of affected sincerity. It is the fashion among the lesser rich not only to make sham confessions of economy, but to complain of actual poverty, in a manner which the

real poor must regard as cynical, and which must make them distrustful of all public expression of sympathy. Such "crocodile" complaints serve no purpose but to inform the world that the complainer would be still more at home in a more "lordly pleasure house" than the one in which he finds himself.

Turn now to the subject of "old friends." There has been since the beginning of what we call modern times a certain amount of struggle upwards plainly observable in every province of the world of society. Different peaks attract different mountaineers. The sunny atmosphere which surrounds the highly born is considered a tonic by some the smell of money refreshes many—and a prominent situation attracts more. This is natural; it is not therefore inevitable, but it is excusable. Before these days of bare sincerity a social stage tradition existed which provided for the treatment of old friends. The outward forms of courtesy were maintained them, even at a sacrifice. pretence is out of fashion. disagreeable and cynical about kicking down the ladder was invented, it is true, a good many years ago

towards All such

The very expression

when the sound of its clatter was rare and more remarkable. Now social aspirations are openly expressed and social nerves are strained to the uttermost without disguise, and all impedimenta are discarded as soon as the goal is fairly in view. The race is a very ugly sight; now and then the fact strikes even those who are racing.

But if people do, and intend to do. all these rather contemptible things, is it not much better that they should throw aside all disguise and do them? Is it not always best to be sincere? One wonders, as one asks oneself this question, whether, after all, they are sincere. They used to do very much the same things, but they were ashamed, and the probability is that