As an historical writer, Bancroft belongs to the period of his first volumes and not to that of his last. His interpretation of men and events rests upon his political philosophy, and his political philosophy was a heritage of the times of Andrew Jackson. To this philosophy he was faithful. Ranke, the German historian, once said to him, “Your history is the best book ever written from the democratic point of view.” Bancroft was aware of his democratic bias; but he would have denied with vehemence that this bias infused a subjective taint into his candour or laid a tinge of partiality upon his judgment. The “History” has been called an “epic of liberty.” It is philosophical, at times rhapsodical—not scientific—history. It treats an heroic theme in an heroic manner. Recent criticism of his method and political theories tends to obscure the brilliancy of his services to American historiography. Over and above the serious spirit in which he set about his task, the exacting search among contemporary sources, the unceasing devotion to truth, and an unsparing and prodigious industry, the broad and national character of the whole achievement calls for grateful recognition. Bancroft raised the history of America above the plane of provincialism and local interests, and set forth both the total march of internal events incident to national development and the manifold relations of the United States to the history of Europe. This wide perspective of events and causes would hardly have been possible except for years of residence, both as student and diplomat, in the capitals of Germany and Great Britain. In the matter of method also, Bancroft’s services to historical research must not be overlooked. He presented to Americans an object-lesson in the collection, criticism, and use of scattered materials. His distinction, then, as the founder of a new American school rests upon a double basis: his wide conception of a national history and his improved methodology in research. He reaped abundant success, both in the popular enthusiasm with which his books were hailed and in the extraordinary personal honours bestowed upon him until the time of his death. And it is no disparagement of his services to say that his great popularity rests rather upon a genius for catching up and reflecting the youthful spirit of genuine and uncritical Americanism than upon a capacity for setting down without passion and for interpreting without prejudice the human events of an inspiring epoch.
Contemporaries of Bancroft.—The writers of American history who came nearest to rivalling Bancroft in his own day were Richard Hildreth (1807–65), a vigorous New England leader writer and anti-slavery pamphleteer, and George Tucker (1775–1861), a Southern lawyer, who served for twenty years as professor of philosophy and political economy in the University of Virginia. Hildreth’s “History of the United States” (1849–52, 6 volumes) comes down to 1821, Tucker’s (1856–58, 4 volumes) to 1841. Both did careful work, though both have been criticised for their partisan leanings. Each gives a relatively large space to the Colonial and Revolutionary history of his own section. In the constitutional period, Hildreth commonly accepts the view of events most favourable to the Federalist party, whereas Tucker inclines to side even more strongly with the Democrats, of whose leader, Jefferson, he had published, in 1837, a sympathetic life. In connection with this branch of the New England School should be mentioned John Gorham Palfrey’s illustrious “History of New England” (1858–75, 4 volumes; a supplemental volume, edited by F. W. Palfrey, 1890). Palfrey was a graduate of Harvard and for several years the editor of The North American Review. His work is commonly regarded as the best of the colonial histories of New England; it occupies besides a secure place in American literature.
William Hickling Prescott.—Eminent among the men of the “classical” period who wrote picturesque and romantic histories, stands Prescott (1796–1859), author of “The History of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic” (1838), “The History of the Conquest of Mexico with a Preliminary View of the Ancient Mexican Civilization and the Life of the Conqueror Hernando Cortés” (1843), “The History of the Conquest of Peru, with a Preliminary View of the Civilization of the Incas” (1847), “The History of the Reign of Philip the Second, King of Spain” (1855–58), and other historical and literary works. “The Reign of Philip” was not finished, as Prescott suffered, during its preparation (1858), a shock of apoplexy, and died the following year. After working for ten years—so quietly that but few of his friends knew of the undertaking—upon his “Ferdinand and Isabella,” Prescott, upon its publication, found himself suddenly famous. “Love of the author gave the first impulse,” declared the author’s friend, Gardiner; “the extraordinary merits of the work did all the rest.” The American demand for the “History” was unparalleled, and all Europe sent liberal and judicious praise. Translations were called for in Russia, France, Spain, Italy, and Germany.
A bodily affliction, the partial loss of sight in early manhood, has lent a peculiar personal interest to Prescott’s heroic performances. He has been called, with but little exaggeration, “the blind historian.” During his junior year at Harvard, an accident destroyed the sight of one eye, and not long afterward the uninjured eye became permanently affected. A career in the practice of law had to be abandoned. Much of his subsequent life was spent in the dark. A great part of his historical labours had to be done with the aid of readers and secretaries. The task of mastering a language (he began Spanish at twenty-eight) and of collecting materials from libraries and archives would have seemed to be impossible. Nevertheless it was accomplished. The histories bear but little evidence of the writer’s physical infirmities. They are renowned for their accuracy and thoroughness. Recent ethnological discovery and advancement in historical method have, it is true, necessitated revision in certain statements of fact (e. g., regarding the social and private life of the Aztecs); but that is an accident of time. His thoroughness is attested by Jared Sparks, who knew of no historian, “in any age or language, whose researches into the materials with which he was to work have been so extensive, thorough, and profound as those of Mr. Prescott.” But the wide popularity of Prescott’s historical writings rests first upon their literary merits. He wrote in a clear, graceful, and dignified style upon epochs and personages that were surrounded by charm and romance. His power for pictorial representation was great. The admirable qualities of his books strongly suggest the author himself. He was cheerful, amiable, spontaneous, warm-hearted, and much beloved. At forty-five, Sumner said of him that he possessed the “freedom and warmth and frolic of a boy.” At the same time, Prescott’s capacity for self-criticism and for rigorous discipline was unusual. Without these qualities, he would hardly have succeeded in the face of painful disabilities. For many years it was his custom to analyse his powers and weaknesses, and to formulate exacting rules for his own guidance. At twenty-eight he wrote in his journal: “To the end of my life I trust I shall be more avaricious of time and never put up with a smaller average than seven hours’ intellectual occupation per diem.” About this time he wrote down a list of “rules for composition.” Among them are to be found these: “Rely upon myself for estimation and criticism of my composition;” “write what I think without affectation upon subjects I have examined;” “never introduce what is irrelevant or superfluous or unconnected for the sake of crowding in more facts.” He was early attracted toward historical writing, although he devoted much time to biography and critical reviews. The interest in Spanish history seems to have come from Ticknor’s lectures on Spanish literature, which Prescott heard at Harvard. The Ferdinand and Isabella theme first came to him in 1826. “The age of Ferdinand,” he remarks at this time, “is most important as containing the germs of the modern system of European politics.... It is in every respect an interesting and momentous period of history; the materials ample, authentic,—I will chew upon this matter, and decide this week.” The decision came, however, only after two years of further consideration. With Irving, Ticknor, and Motley, Prescott stands as one of the men who gave to the English-speaking world a clear and brilliant account of the history and literature of Spain. It is, however, a fact of still greater moment to American letters that Prescott should have embodied in permanent form a series of histories of great men and great events that is the common possession of the Old World and the New, and that marks the advancement of American historical writing beyond the limits of national feeling and national interest.
John Lothrop Motley.—Bancroft, Prescott, Motley (1814–77), and Parkman were all born and reared in the vicinity of Boston, and all were graduated from Harvard University. Motley and Bancroft continued their studies at Göttingen and Berlin. While in Germany, Motley enjoyed the friendship of Prince Bismarck, who was his fellow-student. “We lived,” said Bismarck, “in the closest intimacy, sharing meals and outdoor exercise.” In 1841 Motley was appointed secretary to the American Legation at St. Petersburg; but he soon relinquished the post and returned to America. Ten years later he took up his residence in Europe, where he remained for half a decade pursuing historical studies. At the end of this time (1856) appeared “The Rise of the Dutch Republic: A History.” In 1860 came the first two volumes of “The History of the United Netherlands,” and in 1868 the last two. The continuation of the Dutch history came out in biographical form (1874) as “The Life and Death of John of Barneveld, Advocate of Holland; with a View of the Primary Causes and Movements of the Thirty Years’ War.” Meanwhile, Motley had been appointed to the American Ministry to Austria (1861) and to England (1869). Both appointments ended unhappily. An interesting circumstance connects Motley’s career with Prescott’s and, indirectly, with Washington Irving’s. With noble generosity, Irving had abandoned his well-formed plan of writing a Conquest of Mexico when he learned, through a common friend, of Prescott’s intentions in the same field. This act involved real sacrifice. “I had,” Irving afterward confesses, “no other subject at hand to supply its place. I was dismounted from my cheval de bataille, and have never been completely mounted since.” Prescott was presently to realise the cost of Irving’s surrender. For Motley, in turn, essayed to enter the field made illustrious by the author of “Ferdinand and Isabella.” In ignorance of Prescott’s plans for “The History of Philip,” Motley began his study of related subjects. The news then came to him as a blow. “For I had not,” Motley says, “first made up my mind to write a history, and then cast about to take up a subject. My subject had taken me up, drawn me on, and absorbed me into itself.” Prescott listened to the younger man’s proposal to retire, “with frank, ready, and liberal sympathy,” and insisted that Motley should proceed. More than this, he made handsome allusion, in the Preface to his “Philip,” to the forthcoming work on the revolt of the Netherlands. Motley wrote with zeal and enthusiasm. He loved liberty. The story of a people fighting for freedom fired his imagination. His ardour led him, naturally, toward the advocacy of favourite characters and parties; and the greater moderation of the Dutch historians themselves tends to support the charge of partiality. But Motley’s partiality was not mere partisanship. It rested upon a nice discrimination of the good and the bad, of the noble and the mean. His Dutch history is classic. It is renowned for its scholarly qualities and for its vivid colouring. Froude, without previous knowledge of the writer or of his work, placed “The Rise of the Dutch Republic” among “the finest histories in this or in any language.” While, by the more exacting standards of current schools, it is criticised for its lack of philosophical insight, it is still justly regarded as a faithful and striking picture of an heroic people.
Francis Parkman.—The New England School had told the story of the Spaniard in America and in the Netherlands. It was further to enrich its native literature by another brilliant history of the struggle for conquest of a great nation in foreign lands. Parkman (1823–93) is the historian of the rise and decline of France’s power in North America. Like Motley, he was captivated by an impressive and dramatic cycle of events, and—again like Motley—he possessed breadth of vision and tenacity of purpose sufficient to his task. Parkman had a passion for the wilderness;—a passion which he fed in youth and early manhood by excursions, large and small, to the woods, the prairies, and the mountains. In his twenties, he appears, a picturesque figure in the great West, living and hunting with Indians, eating pemmican, and playing host at a feast of dog-meat and tea. In spite of outdoor life and travel, Parkman was seldom well. A serious affection of the eyes, and nervous troubles which may have emanated from it, kept him, from his undergraduate days, either incapacitated or on the border-line of invalidism. He was tortured till his death by pain, lameness, insomnia, and at times almost complete blindness. His suffering and infirmities recall Prescott. It is not easy to decide which of the two men struggled more heroically against overwhelming odds. As early as his sophomore year at Harvard, Parkman planned to write the history of the “Old French War” for the conquest of Canada; “for here, as it seems to me,”—so he writes—“the forest drama was more stirring and the forest stage more thronged with appropriate actors than in any other passage of our history.” “The Oregon Trail”—an account of his adventures on the great plains and beyond—began to appear in The Knickerbocker Magazine in 1847, and “The Conspiracy of Pontiac” came out in 1851. Later, the plan widened to include the whole course of the conflict in America between France and England. The result was a series of books unexcelled in western historiography: “The Pioneers of France in the New World” (1865), “The Jesuits in North America” (1867), “La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West” (1869), “The Old Régime” (1874), “Count Frontenac and New France under Louis XIV” (1877), “Montcalm and Wolfe” (1884), and, finally, “A Half-Century of Conflict” (1892). The series received the general title, “France and England in North America.” In his “Montcalm and Wolfe,” Parkman reached the height of his fame. Wretched health turned the author’s attention to horticultural diversions. In 1871 he was appointed professor of horticulture in Harvard University; in 1866 he published his famous “Book of Roses.” His intimate knowledge of the scenes and peoples of whom he wrote and an engaging and finished manner impart to his historical books an unusual vivacity and charm. His work, while it is, as he intended, “a history of the American forest,” is also the history of two powerful and opposing systems of civilisation—“feudal, militant, and Catholic France in conflict with democratic, industrial, and Protestant England.” Less impulsive than Motley and less serene than Prescott, Parkman possessed at once the ardour and the restraint necessary to the vivid and impartial rendering of a glowing theme vastly important in the history of the New World. Himself cast in an heroic mould and exhibiting a fine type of the Puritan spirit, he was at home among chivalrous men and bold and impressive deeds. Jameson, writing of him shortly before his work was finished (see “The History of Historical Writing in America,” 1891), declares him to be, “next after one or two who survived from the preceding period, the most conspicuous figure in the American historiography of the last twenty-five years, the only historian who can fairly be called classical.”
Recent Historical Writings.—Since the Civil War America has been prolific in historical records. General histories and local histories abound; histories of administrations, of periods, of popular movements, indefatigable and scholarly researches in politics, war, finance, and social and economic institutions. The literary value of these records is not, however, to be inconsiderately judged from their bulk. Times and standards in American historiography have changed. Among the multitude of authors one must not look for many names which may be written down with those of Prescott, Motley, and Parkman. Not that the modern period is wanting in good work or able writers. These are to be found in abundance. But most of the work belongs to science and not to letters; and besides, eminence is not fostered by the catholic distribution of talent and training. Jameson picks up Amiel’s blunt opinion that “the era of mediocrity in all things is commencing” and applies it to American historians. At the same time, this wise critic inclines to the belief that the vast improvement in technical process and workmanship realised within the present generation is the natural means to the development of a more substantial and more profound school of historians than the West has thus far created. The term “mediocrity” does not, indeed, do full justice to the period and the authors in question, and we must seek other grounds of excuse for the brevity of our review of them. These grounds are found, first, in the indirect importance to literature of the great mass of recent work, and, secondly, in the impossibility of setting the achievements of contemporary workers in just perspective.
The writers, great and little, of the periods already surveyed were, in large measure, self-trained. Until the last two or three decades, colleges and universities offered little incentive to methodical work upon historical subjects. Even Harvard, from whose doors went one after another the men who were to make the New England School famous, taught history only incidentally. Now, an academic school has arisen. Young men and women are trained in undergraduate and graduate studies by teachers who are themselves historical writers and investigators. Students are taught the discriminating use of historical instruments, and sound methods of reconstruction and interpretation. The change has been wrought under the unequal pressure of external influence, emphasis laid upon scientific method, a quickened consciousness of the importance and dignity of American history, and, finally, the example of those graceful and inspiring writers who gave to Western historiography an honourable place in the world’s literature. The academic school owes its existence to no single founder. It is, by its nature, a school of coöperative endeavour,—coöperation, first, between teacher and pupil, and coöperation, later, in the conjoint and organised labour of productive hands and brains. Among its early advocates and promoters were Charles Kendall Adams, university professor and president, teacher and historian, who adapted the German seminary method to the American university; Henry Adams, professor at Harvard University and author of a brilliant history in nine volumes (1889–91) of the country under Jefferson and Madison (1801–17); Justin Winsor, librarian, bibliographer, and editor of the useful and scholarly “Narrative and Critical History of America” (1884–89), and Herbert Baxter Adams, of Johns Hopkins, historian and instructor of historical students. The coöperative labours of the period have borne abundant fruit. Besides Winsor’s volumes should be mentioned “The American Nation: a History from Original Sources by Associated Scholars,” a gigantic work in twenty-seven volumes just finished (1904–8) under the editorship of Albert Bushnell Hart. The authorship is divided among a number of competent historical writers. The collection lays claim to being “the first comprehensive history of the United States, now completed, which covers the whole period” from the discovery of America to the present. Similar undertakings are, however, in progress, and a number of coöperative works of smaller scope are already in print. Other notable histories covering comparatively long periods of time are Edward Channing’s “A History of the United States,” to be completed in eight volumes; a series of nine volumes relating to preconstitutional times written by John Fiske, after the manner of Parkman, and including “The Critical Period of American History” (1888), “The Beginnings of New England” (1889), “The American Revolution” (1891), “The Discovery of America” (1892), etc.; James Schouler’s “History of the United States under the Constitution” (1880–99); “A Popular History of the United States” (1876–81), by William Cullen Bryant and Sydney H. Gay; “A History of the People of the United States from the Revolution to the Civil War” (6 of the 7 volumes published, 1883–1906), by John B. McMaster; “The Constitutional and Political History of the United States,” (1877–92), by Hermann E. von Holst, and “A History of the American People” (1902), by President Woodrow Wilson of Princeton University. Channing’s attempt to cover, by the labours of a single competent scholar, the entire history of the country is comparable to that of George Bancroft. John Fiske wrote readable and popular narratives of historical events. He did much, both by books and lectures, to arouse general interest in matters of American life past and present. McMaster’s substantial and illuminating history is social rather than political. He seeks to portray the whole life of the people. Von Holst’s aim was, on the other hand, political. The author was a German-American. He held, among academic posts, professorships at Freiburg and the University of Chicago. His critical review, often disparaging to democratic institutions, may be taken as a counterblast to the ebullient patriotism of earlier, native writers. As the work of a foreign observer of American affairs, it suggests the reflections of de Tocqueville, of James Bryce, and of Goldwin Smith. President Wilson’s five volumes contain a wise and judicial commentary, in the form of a long and attractive essay, on the main course of events since the days of discovery. For the multitude of American historical writers who have treated single epochs, space permits mention of only one or two names. James Ford Rhodes’ “History of the United States from the Compromise of 1850” (7 volumes, 1902–6), the work of “nineteen years’ almost exclusive devotion,” is commonly regarded as the most thorough and best balanced study of the Civil War, its causes and its consequences. Henry Adams has, in his “History of the United States,” etc., investigated with competence and penetration the administrations of Jefferson and Madison.
This meagre list of the more important productions of the academic school clearly reveals the attraction of the American theme for the present American historian. Capable and impressive studies of foreign subjects there have been, it is true;—David Jayne Hill’s “History of Diplomacy in the International Development of Europe” and Henry C. Lea’s work on the medieval church are conspicuous instances;—but the great mass of research and writing has been gathered at home. Governmental affairs and political events loom large. Less interest has been taken in the subtler phases of national character and individual motive; although Fiske and McMaster and Woodrow Wilson and certain of the best biographers (whose important service to literature deserves separate consideration) represent a current tendency toward reflective and philosophical writing of a literary quality, which augurs well for the future of American historiography.