itself in the breast of the artist or writer; the choice of words, the length or shortness of the period, the species of metaphor, the accent of a verse, the chain of reasoning—­all are to him an indication; while his eyes are reading the text his mind and soul are following the steady flow and ever-changing series of emotions and conceptions from which this text has issued; he is working out its psychology.  Should you desire to study this operation, regard the promoter and model of all the high culture of the epoch, Goethe, who, before composing his “Iphigenia” spent days in making drawings of the most perfect statues and who, at last, his eyes filled with the noble forms of antique scenery and his mind penetrated by the harmonious beauty of antique life, succeeded in reproducing internally, with such exactness, the habits and yearnings of Greek imagination as to provide us with an almost twin sister of the “Antigone” of Sophocles and of the goddesses of Phidias.  This exact and demonstrated divination of bygone sentiments has, in our days, given a new life to history.  There was almost complete ignorance of this in the last century; men of every race and of every epoch were represented as about alike, the Greek, the barbarian, the Hindoo, the man of the Renaissance and the man of the eighteenth century, cast in the same mold and after the same pattern, and after a certain abstract conception which served for the whole human species.  There was a knowledge of man but not of men.  There was no penetration into the soul itself; nothing of the infinite diversity and wonderful complexity of souls had been detected; it was not known that the moral organization of a people or of an age is as special and distinct as the physical structure of a family of plants or of an order of animals.  History to-day, like zooelogy, has found its anatomy, and whatever branch of it is studied, whether philology, languages or mythologies, it is in this way that labor must be given to make it produce new fruit.  Among so many writers who, since Herder, Ottfried Mueller, and Goethe have steadily followed and rectified this great effort, let the reader take two historians and two works, one “The Life and Letters of Cromwell” by Carlyle, and the other the “Port Royal” of Sainte-Beuve.  He will see how precisely, how clearly, and how profoundly we detect the soul of a man beneath his actions and works; how, under an old general and in place of an ambitious man vulgarly hypocritical, we find one tormented by the disordered reveries of a gloomy imagination, but practical in instinct and faculties, thoroughly English and strange and incomprehensible to whoever has not studied the climate and the race; how, with about a hundred scattered letters and a dozen or more mutilated speeches, we follow him from his farm and his team to his general’s tent and to his Protector’s throne, in his transformation and in his development, in his struggles of conscience and in his statesman’s resolutions, in such