head and eyes constantly recurred. In 1858 there came a period
when for four years he was incapable of the slightest mental
application, and the attacks varied in duration from four hours
to as many months. When the pressure was lightened a little he
went back to his work. When work was impossible, he turned to
horticulture, grew roses, and wrote a book about the cultivation
of those flowers which is a standard authority.

As he grew older the attacks moderated, although they never
departed. Sleeplessness pursued him always, the slightest
excitement would deprive him of the power of exertion, his sight
was always sensitive, and at times he was bordering on blindness.
In this hard-pressed way he fought the battle of life. He says
himself that his books took four times as long to prepare and
write as if he had been strong and able to use his faculties.
That this should have been the case is little wonder, for those
books came into being with failing sight and shattered nerves,
with sleeplessness and pain, and the menace of insanity ever
hanging over the brave man who, nevertheless, carried them
through to an end.

Yet the result of those fifty years, even in amount, is a noble
one, and would have been great achievement for a man who had
never known a sick day. In quality, and subject, and method of
narration, they leave little to be desired. There, in Parkman's
volumes, is told vividly, strongly, and truthfully, the history
of the great struggle between France and England for the mastery
of the North American continent, one of the most important events
of modern times. This is not the place to give any critical
estimate of Mr. Parkman's work. It is enough to say that it