im a great but
empty speaker, with little sense contained in his long periods; I was
mistaken. Next to Plato, he is the word of antiquity made man; his
style is the grandest of any language. We suppose him meagre, because
his drapery is so magnificent; but strip him of his purple and you will
still find a vast mind, which has felt, understood, and said, all that
there was to comprehend, to feel, or to say, in his day in Rome.

LXV.

As to Tacitus, I did not even attempt to combat my partiality for him.
I preferred him even to Thucydides, the Demosthenes of history.
Thucydides relates, but does not give life and being. Tacitus is not
the historian, but a compendium of mankind. His narration is the
counter-blow of the fact in the heart of a free, virtuous, and feeling
man. The shudder that one feels as one reads not only passes over the
flesh, but is a shudder of the heart. His sensibility is more than
emotion,--it is pity; his judgments are more than vengeance,--they are
justice; his indignation is more than anger,--it is virtue. Our hearts
mingle with that of Tacitus, and we feel proud of our kindred with him.
Would you make crime impossible to your sons? Would you inspire them
with the love of virtue? Rear them in the love of Tacitus. If they do
not become heroes at such a school, Nature must have created them base
or vile. A people who adopted Tacitus as their political gospel would
rise above the common stature of nations; such a people would enact
before God the tragical drama of mankind in all its grandeur and in all
its majesty. As to me, I owe to his writings more than the fibres of
the flesh, I owe all the metallic fibres of my being. Should our vulgar
and commonplace days ever rise to the tragic grandeur of his time, and
I become the worthy victim of a worthy cause, I might exclaim in dying,
"Give the honor of my life and of my death to the master, and not to
the disciple, for it is Tacitus that lived, and dies in me."

LXVI.

I was also a passionate admirer of orators. I studied them with the
presentiment of a man who would one day have to speak to the deaf
multitude, and who would strike the chords of human auditors. I studied
Demosthenes, Cicero, Mirabeau, and especially Lord Chatham,--more
striking to my mind than all the rest, because his inspired and lyrical
eloquence seems more like a cry than like a voice. It soars above his
limited audience and the passions of the day, on the loftie