Here I am only concerned to prove that he took unlimited pains.

He kept no secretary, he was his own copyist, and he was not a good proof- reader.

Those natural blots, quas aut incuria fudit, aut humaria parum cavit natura, are to be found, no doubt, in his pages.

From a conscientious obedience to truth as he understood it, and a resolute determination to present it as he saw it, he never swerved.

He was not a chronicler, but an artist, a moralist, and a man of genius.
Unless an historian can put himself into the place of the men about whom he is writing, think their thoughts, share their hopes, their aspirations, and their fears, he had better be taking a healthy walk than poring over dusty documents.