delusion than that a man in a great position gets his own way. He is envied by the ignorant and thoughtless for his supposed power, for his freedom from those petty inconveniences of which they themselves are keenly conscious. The opportunity to do what one wills—this is assumed to be the privilege of those who direct affairs. One of the great lessons of history is to show the bondage, as well as the responsibility, of power. The trials and disappointments of the great deserve recognition—not only their failures in great undertakings, the dramatic downfall of over-lofty schemes, but the small difficulties of their daily business, the imperious limitations by which they were constantly hampered. This has a meaning of direct importance to us all; but it is hard to make the troubles of daily life picturesque. The writer of fiction moves us by the stirring adventures of his hero and heroine in overcoming difficulties which stood in the way of their marriage. Then he leaves them to settle down to humdrum life as best they can. They are no longer interesting, but become as ignoble and commonplace as their parents were at the beginning of the book. The historian cannot treat his personages in the same way. He has to face the difficulty of extracting some interest from their average occupations. He is tempted to shirk it, and to hurry on to something in which he can find fuller scope for his power of description.
It is, therefore, this diplomatic record which goes far to injure the picturesqueness of history. It constantly reveals limitations which could not be overcome. It shows us the hero in his shirt-sleeves,
