of a nation, the contrary occurs. The crisis dissolves the bands which bind national character together, and sets some of its elements against others. All are equally necessary; they must ultimately be recombined and reabsorbed; they do not really exist in the form in which they show themselves under the exigencies of conflict. Revolutionary epochs may be the most interesting, but they are not the most instructive. They may show us forcible characters, but these characters are rarely attractive. They may emphasize national characteristics, but they do not show them in the form in which they really work. It is true that a decisive choice will be made which elements are to be dominant in the new combination. So far as those elements were unknown and unsuspected before, the interest lies in dis covering their origin and the source whence they drew their power. picturesqueness of revolutionary periods is really dramatic and psychological, not strictly historical.

The

careers were only dimly and imperfectly felt. Let me illustrate what I meant when I said that it was in possible for later writers to create deeper impressions than were present in the minds of contemporaries. Two situations occur to me as surpassing all others in English history in vividness and dramatic effect; they are the murder of S. Thomas of Canterbury and the death of Wolsey. This is entirely due to the fact that they profoundly moved men's minds at the time, and are recorded in language which is full of the emotion so engendered. Both were regarded as great and significant catastrophes, important in themselves and in their results. The death of Wolsey is a remarkable instance. In outward circumstance it is inferior to the execution of More, or the burning of Cranmer. Yet it remains more picturesque. We feel that More and Cranmer fell in a way like soldiers on the field of battle. They shared the fortunes of their cause, and our interest lies in discovering the exact point on which they took their intellectual stand, and laid down their lives rather than take a step further. But Wolsey is a type of human fortunes, of the inherent limitations of man's endeavors, of the sudden versal of high hopes, of the restless chafing of an imprisoned spirit, and its final despair. This position arises from the literary skill of his biographer, Cavendish, reflecting doubtless the permanent impression of his time, and expressing with deepening melancholy the profound pathos of the wreckage of a life. This intensity of feeling could not have gathered round an ordinary career, but was engendered by the profound conviction that with the fall of Wolsey England had entered upon a new course in its national life-a course the end and goal of which no man could foresee. Wolsey had striven to make England powerful in a changing world. He had created forces which he could not restrain within the limits which his pru

re

dence had prescribed. There was deeper emotion at the downfall of him who strove to keep the peace than over the sad fate of combatants on either side when once war had been proclaimed. It is only the pen of one who is conscious of living through such a crisis that can be instinct with real feeling and can convey that feeling to after-times.

It is curious to observe that these two instances, of Thomas of Canterbury and Wolsey, are both cases of men who pursued clear and decided objects, and whose characters consequently detached themselves from the general background of contemporary life. The objects which they pursued were not in either case popular, and they had to trust mainly to their own resoluteness and skill for ultimate success. Hence came the attraction of their characters for their biographers. They were men who could be studied and described in themselves, apart from the results of their actions. In fact, any estimate of or sympathy with their line of action was entirely secondary to the interest of the men themselves. In this sense they resemble the subjects of Italian or French history. They rose to power by their own capacity, and they used their posttion consciously for the furtherance of objects which they deliberately selected for themselves. It is this which gives a picturesque interest to characters in history. We are most easily attracted by a sense of completeness and self-determination. This, indeed, is the artistic quality in character, and alone admits of clear and forcible delineation. Opportunism, however successful, cannot well be depicted clearly; it must be considered by reference to a number of possibilities, and challenges our judgment at every step. A man who is doing his best under untold difficulties may be heroic, but he rarely enjoys any great moments which set forth his heroism in a striking way. Our judgment may after a long survey recognize his worth, but that does not make him picturesque. William the Silent can never fill a large

canvas, great as was his contribution to the best interests of the world.

The picturesqueness, then, of the history of any nation, or period, depends upon the possibility of an individual detaching himself from ordinary life, in such a way as to express in himself its unconscious tendencies. The possibility of such individual detachment depends on the ideas on which the ordinary life of the nation is founded. If these ideas are to be represented by a person, they must be comparatively simple. For this reason great crises in a nation's history are the most picturesque, for they simplify national ideas by forcing one or two great principles into temporary supremacy over all else. Yet even in great crises England has not brought forth clearly representative characters. Oliver Cromwell, for instance, was the executor, rather than the representative, of the principles of the Great Rebellion. They were never definite enough to be summed up by any individual. However highly we may rate Cromwell's capacity, we cannot make him out as eminently picturesque, or place him by the side of Napoleon.

We may, I think, go a step further. The ideas on which national life are founded may be ultimately reduced to the national conception of liberty. Ultimately each man values the society of which he forms part for the opportunities which it affords him of doing or being what he wishes to do or be.

Now there is a difference, which is not always recognized, in the meaning of liberty to different peoples. It would be a long matter to attempt to explain this difference in detail and account for it. But we may say generally that it depends on the way in which the rights of the individual are regarded in relation to the rights of the community. Let me apply this to the instances of picturesqueness which I have taken. In Italy, in the sixteenth century, the communities were so small, and their position was so precarious, that men longed for the growth of a national spirit, as the limits in

which their actual life was lived were too narrow to express that life in its fulness. A nation could only pe formed by the power and influence of a dominant and resolute personality. Hence men were so interested in the development of such a personality that they were ready to watch various experiments and to endure much tyranny in the hopes of final success. This created a curious accentuation of the value of individual character, and an absence of any sense of its limitations, which was undoubtedly fitted to produce picturesqueness, but had serious drawbacks in practice.

In the same way, the historical circumstances of the consolidation of the provinces of France under the Monarchy developed a high appreciation of individual character; and the keenly logical intelligence of the French mind gave it a permanent place in literature.

England, on the other hand, became in early times an organized community, and there was no violent break in the pursuit of this organization. I cannot now trace in detail the results of the different course of English and French history as reflected in the characters of the people. But this at least is obvious: the average Frenchman conceives of himself as having a right to gratify his individual desires, without thought of others, to a degree unknown to the average Englishman. French civilization is concerned with the arrangement of the externals of life in the most comfortable way. English civilization is concerned primarily with political institutions and with the organization of the activities of life. The Frenchman conceives himself as an individual; the Englishman conceives himself as part of a community. The Frenchman, though wedded to his own country, and having no desire to leave it, still considers himself as a citizen of the world. The Englishman, though a rambler and an adventurer, ready to make his home anywhere, still considers himself an Englishman wherever he goes. France took for the motto of its aspirations "Liberty, Fraternity, Equality." I be

lieve that if England had had occasion to formulate its aspirations in the same way, its motto would have run "Liberty, Justice, Duty."

Now picturesqueness is obtained by isolating men from their surroundings by getting clear-cut situations. To this a Frenchman lends himself; he is accustomed to think and act by and for himself. An Englishman objects to isolation; however much he may be alone, and however decidedly he may act, it is as a representative of England, with a mass of national tradition behind him, which he would not rid himself of if he could. He will take enormous responsibility upon himself, but while taking it repudiates it. He minimizes his own individual part in what he does, and is persistently apologetic.

I think I can illustrate my meaning from our literature. Shakespeare has shown with curious insight the difference between northern and southern peoples. Othello and Romeo, when touched with passion, are pure individuals, and act entirely with reference to their own feelings. The difficulties of Hamlet lay in the fact that he could not forget that he was heir to the throne of Denmark, and could not act in such a way that righteous vengeance should seem to be private ambition. He could not escape from his attachment to society, and therefore he will always fail to have the picturesqueness which belongs to individual detachment.

I have been speaking of picturesqueness in its ordinary sense. The upshot of my remarks is that in proportion as history is picturesque in this sense it is not really history. For history is concerned with the life of the community, and picturesqueness with the character of individuals. But there is, I think, a larger and truer picturesqueness, which may be found not in details but in principles. The great object of history is to trace the continuity of national life, and to discover and estimate the ideas on which that life is founded. Individuals are only valuable as they express those ideas and embody that

life. Such expressions are often to be found in lowly places, and are manifested in inconspicuous lives. It is the true function of history to discover and exhibit them wherever they may be. In our own history, at all events, I am convinced that we need a heightened sense of the causes which produced those qualities which have created the British Empire. The most picturesque hero is the English people itself, growing through manifold training into the full manhood which it still enjoys. What made it? What principles does it embody? How may these principles be enlarged in view of its great and growing responsibilities? These are questions which have an undying interest, and men's minds are being more and more turned towards them. For us, at all events, the highest imaginative charm gathers, not round individuals, but round the growth of our conceptions of public duty. To trace the growth of that body of ideas which make up England's contribution to the world's progress, to estimate their defects, and to consider how they may be increased by broader sympathies and greater teachableness-this is a task which requires the qualities at

once of a scientific explorer and of a consummate artist.

THE BISHOP OF LONDON.

From The Revue des Deux Mondes.
DIJON.

I once knew an Englishman who adored Dijon. Never once did he fail to stop there, when, regularly as the spring came round, he set out upon his yearly pilgrimage among the old cities of Italy. "It is a charming place," he used to say, "which I recommend without reserve; all the more because I know you detest a night upon the trains as heartily as I do. I leave Paris in the evening, and I get to Dijon in time to enjoy, at an hotel near the station, the best dinner of the whole year. Ah, what a dinner! What wine, what fish, what roasts; to say nothing of the mus

tard! Then I get a good night in a large chamber, thoroughly warmed, and the next morning I fare forth on my way refreshed and rejuvenated, and carrying with me from that delightful town, an impression of mingled gratitude and regret." It occurred to me one day to ask my friend if there were no other curiosities at Dijon, for I knew him to be a bit of an archæologist, and rather enamoured of fine monuments. "Upon my word," he replied, "I never thought to inquire. I do remember a sort of triumphal arch near the hotel; and I should say you saw spires from the railway. But the town is some little way off; the express won't wait, and it is enough for me that Dijon is one of the places where you dine best, in all this world."

My friend was quite right. You can get an admirable dinner at Dijon as I myself ascertained, when I too came to stop over there. And I also observed that mine was not the only Englishman who had discovered the fact. Every evening saw new batches of his compatriots arriving at the hotel which he had eulogized. They dine and sleep there, and take the first train in the morning. Some are off for Marseilles and Nice. Others for Milan, or the smiling shores of the Lake of Geneva. Not one of them seems ever to have suspected that this place "where you dine so well," is also one of the most interesting cities in all Europe; one of the richest in works of art and historic associations; a city which is, as a matter of fact, neither Italian, Provençal, nor even Burgundian, but simply Dijonian, having an elegance and a charm quite peculiar to itself. They have no notion whatever that beyond the small triumphal arch aforesaid, ten churches await them, each one unique in its way - Saint Benigne, Notre Dame, which is as pure and harmonious in its lines as any Greek temple, the amazing church of Saint Michel, the graceful one of Sainte Anne; while a hundred steps from the station on the other side, you have in the ancient gateway of the Carthusian monastery and the Puits de Möise, the most perfect, in fact the sole authentic masterpiece of the Flemish

sculpture of the Renaissance. Least of all do people suspect that, at Dijon, better than almost anywhere else, one may study the succession of the ages; taking in at a single glance, the primitive physiognomy, the characteristic aspect, and the continuous life of the town.

However, these foreigners are at least alive to one of the merits of the Burgundian capital. But how many of the French travellers who pass through Dijon, have ever cared to pause there? Time was, of course, when everybody did so. Dijon was the first important stage on the route to the South, and there is not one of the old-fashioned books on Italy or Switzerland, which does not begin with a description of the palace of the dukes of Burgundy. But nowadays people are in too great a hurry to halt short of Milan or Genoa or Lausanne; and Dijon, save for its railway restaurant, is absolutely of no account. Many another town has met the same destiny. Of all the countless tourists who traverse Belgium every summer, are there so many as five who ever dream of pausing by the way to visit the church, the venerable streets and the museum of Saint Quentin; or to make the acquaintance of Arras and Douai, those noble slumbering cities; or to give a look at the paintings, the drawings, the Tête-de-Cire, which constitute, or rather which did constitute before, alas! they were all overgrown with fungi the matchless treasure of the museum of Lille?

For the rest it is not time alone that is lacking. The opinion has grown up and is being industriously propagated, that provincial France is absolutely devoid of interest: Paris having absorbed all the life, thought, and art of the country. It is admitted, of course, that the old monuments are still there; that their stones have thus far resisted the stress of centralization. But they are regarded as dead things in dead places, and the desire to see them is gradually diminishing. There is an idea that everything curious and beautiful in France, is bound sooner or later to be brought to the capital; and the influx of

people and of objects is indeed always upon the increase. To speak only of Dijon-have we not witnessed the installation in the Louvre of two of the most local of its works of art: the tomb of "Phillippe Pot," and the charming Virgin of the Rue Porte-aux-Lions? And has not the proposal actually been made to follow up these removals, by exchanging a few Bolonais or a Sèvres vase, for the two tombs in the museum, and the Puits de Möise?

Luckily this last is only a project; and, pending their complete spoliation the provincial towns of France are still tolerably rich in noble works of art. Dijon, for instance, is now, as it has always been, a living museum. There is a soul in every street. Each dwelling delights the eye by some elegant or piquant peculiarity. We get the impression when there-to quote Emile Montégut of "a town which has always prospered, and which has had the good sense not to change too much." One has but to glance at the illustrations of a work lately consecrated by M. Chabeuf, to the glories of his native town, at once to comprehend the variety, the charm, and the venerable yet ever fresh beauty of Dijon. No, God be thanked! aris has not yet absorbed all the art of France, nor all of its life and thought! There is a book, written, illustrated, and published in the provinces; and it is, indubitably one of the most beautiful which has appeared for many years; one of the most sumptuous and carefully prepared, and one of the best-written; almost more interesting to read than merely to see. The author, M. Chabeuf lives in Dijon, or. rather in Saint-Seine at the gates of Dijon, but he has a capital style for all that. He is not content with knowing his town; he carries, so to speak, its past within himself. The life of the old city, from age to age, is evoked before his eyes. The chapter entitled "r eudal and Ducal Dijon," contains some of the most vivid, exact, and fascinating pictures of mediæval society ever produced. The author is, moreover, a sage and a phi1 Dijon: Monuments et Souvenirs par Henri Chabeuf. Dijon Librarie Damidot.