analysis of his National History.

Prescott, the prince of scholars and gentlemen, matchless in the department he chose, was rather a biographer than a historian. He selected stirring epochs and their prominent men, the pivots of certain times, upon whom the affairs of two worlds turned at critical periods,—the great warders who stood at the portals of America and Europe in the sixteenth century. Thus, Ferdinand and Isabella, Cortez, Pizarro, Charles V., and Philip II., wonderfully as they revive in the books of Prescott, exquisite in accuracy, harmonious style, and enamelled finish, are but beautiful cabinet-pictures of the princes and heroes of the age. The Life of a Nation requires a taller and wider canvas, a bolder and broader brush. And, so it is with the historical labors of Irving and Motley, though the latter has closely approached the true grandeur of History in his narrative of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. Yet, it must ever remain as the highest praise of our late colleague, that, in the field of national biographies, national in all their elements, he stands beside the masters on the platform of acknowledged success. He was the real pioneer in the unexplored wilderness of our historical literature. "Indeed," says one familiar with his works, "it requires considerable knowledge on the part of a reader, a knowledge of the state of things, of the obstacles and perplexities, in the way of effort, and of the hard conditions of success, at the time when Mr. Sparks gave himself to his large and costly enterprise, in order that his eminent devotion and success may be, even in degree, appreciated." But he brought together the dispersed fragments of colonial and revolutionary days, and made the writing of history untroublesome for authors who, in "slippered ease" and comfortable libraries, availed themselves of his labor, and patronizingly patted him on the head. These are the silk-worms of literature, whose glory is spun from the digested leaves of other men's culture. It was his habit, when allusions were made to such appropriations, to find sufficient reward in his own diligence, and to comfort himself for this "way of the world" by a patient shrug and a pinch of snuff.[3] Irving, in his advanced life, could never have written his Washington, had not Sparks organized his twelve volumes of materials, and analysed them in the biography. That work must be studied, in order to be appreciated in relation to Mr. Sparks's literary merit: it is a mine of editorial tact and industry, displaying the mathematical spirit of the author in its method and organization, in its lucid statements, and in his sagacious perception of the value of what was retained and the worthlessness of what was rejected, so that Washington is self-shown to the hereafter by what he thought, and wrote, and did. The commendation bestowed on Mr. Sparks, in the masterly eulogium of Mr. Haven before the American Antiquarian Society, may be taken as a wise and exact definition of his labors in the field of History: "Not that Mr. Sparks," said he, "limited himself to the preparation and preservation of history in bulk; for he was equally able in narrative, in criticism, and in controversy,—he was an essayist as well as a compiler; but the last was his forte, his peculiar field of usefulness and eminence, where, it may be said, he reigns supreme."

This estimate of Mr. Sparks by his friend does not classify him with the annalist and chronicler who build up a fleshless skeleton of facts and dates. Nothing could be less just to the subject or the commentator. Imagination was not a predominant quality of Mr. Sparks's mind. Its cool precision so curbed the exercise of the ideal faculty that it was unjustly subdued if not absolutely stifled; and thus we do not always discern in him that creative power, so rarely found combined with sagacity in gathering and marshalling details, which, while it apprehends the true relation of men and circumstances, masses the historic groups with picturesque effect, delineates character with intuitive insight, gives soul to the moving drama of national life, and vividly realizes the scenes and personages of the past. But, if he was not so brilliant in description as others, or in the majestic and harmonious march of his story, or in keen scrutiny of character, he unquestionably excelled in ample, direct, and truthful statement, so that his narrative was not only transparent in the fulness of detail, but the detail itself disclosed its philosophic lesson. No man can charge him with hasty or capricious censure. He was always the careful protector of human reputation, dealing with the unresisting and undefending dead as their advocate as well as righteous judge; reluctant to condemn by argument or inference, and never unless the proved facts were irresistible. He studiously discarded all that might either attract or detract by fancy or elaborate discussion; in a word, he shunned ambitious rhetoric, so perilous to solid judgments, and so often giving false color to historical portraits, for he knew the risk of losing the reliable in the brilliant. In his style, he was an artless artist, if there is truth in Thackeray's observation, that the "true artist makes you think of a great deal more than the objects before you." His extreme calmness may have, sometimes, made him cold; yet, by conforming himself to plain forms of language, he always aimed to convey the absolute truth, which he regarded as the coveted prize of history. For history, to his mind, was a serious thing, not a melodramatic tale, and he wrote it as he would have delivered testimony in the presence of God. His desire was that the fact and not the form should fascinate and teach; because the fact was permanent and independent, the form flexible and voluntary. No one knew better or more dreaded the risk of biasing opinion by over or under-statements concerning the conspicuous persons of whom he wrote. If his theme was not so large as Mr. Bancroft's, he still felt that both addressed the American nation in words that were to last, concerning the founders of our political system and the Chief who presided at the foundation. What he recorded was to form the opinions of posterity, and thus, not merely to influence but virtually to become a principle of action for his countrymen in relation to the great things that concern patriots. Enthusiastic, yet, never excited; patient, and devoid of partizanship; he had the rare faculty of writing so fairly of men of a near period that his books were satisfactory to every one, save Lord Mahon. He never wrote a sentence that was not in the interest of his whole country. He was so calmly judicial in temper, that he found it easy to convert himself into what Madame de Stael so happily called "contemporaneous posterity."

His life demonstrates that cultivated talents, independent self-respect, and industry in intellectual pursuits, not only secure reputation but fortune. It is a plea for wholesome literature in our land. Literature, though never a speculation in his hands, was, as he conducted it, a successful enterprise. His career was charmingly rounded by honor, prosperity, and the love of mankind. In all respects it was a requited life. Be it said, with reverence, that, considering the difference of their fields, there is a singular concord between the virtues and common sense of Washington and Sparks, and hence the sympathetic veneration of the Author for the Hero. If I attempted to characterize him briefly, I might say that he attained all the ends of an ambitious life without being, at any time, ambitious.