Is it just that an historian should have the antiquaries crying out against him from every side, because, while keeping faithfully to documents, he draws something from them that has life or light? Is it just that when a character feels, moves, and speaks, rejoices or grieves, the Areopagus should declare him to be a fictitious being who could never have existed, and a pure product of the imagination? You believe that our ancestors were people like ourselves, with hearts that beat with passion and grief.—By no means; they were icy shades like those wandering on the banks of the Styx. Hitherto men had said: This being feels and moves, therefore he lives; but according to the new school, life is a fable. Nothing is authentic but what is wearisome. A man and a history are not looked upon as real living beings, unless they are colorless, stark, and cold. Of this we have had many instances. One time we incurred this reproach: Your imagination, we were told, invents features which give animation to the subject, but about which you could know nothing. The following passage was quoted: 'When Fryth the reformer,' wrote the critic, 'was taken as a prisoner on foot to the episcopal court at Croydon, you say that "he had a calm and cheerful look, and the rest of the journey was accomplished in pious and agreeable conversation." How could you know that?' the objector went on. 'Were you of the party to see the appearance of his face?' We immediately took down the eighth volume of Foxe's _Acts and Monuments_, the appendix to which contains an account of Fryth's journey written by an eye-witness. We opened the book and found these words: 'And so with a cheerful and merry countenance, he went with them, spending the time in pleasant and godly communication.' What we were charged with having invented, was an almost literal transcript of a document more than three hundred years old. If archæology were to be substituted for history, we do not think the public would be overpleased with the authors of the transformation. The investigations of palæographers are not the edifice, but the materials prepared for its construction. History is above archæology, as the house is above its foundations. The building raised by the architect is the end. In it men find a pleasant dwelling-place, sheltered from the inclemency of the seasons. But it is a good thing to excavate, to dig out fragments of rock from the bosom of the earth; it is advantageous, when you build, to have stones, and good stones too. The historian who sets little store by archæology betrays a superficial mind; the archæologist who sets little store by history betrays a mind whose cultivation is still incomplete. But we need not fear this movement; it has no chance of success. Real history will never perish.