Icaro-Menippus--A Dialogue.
INTRODUCTION.
Lucian, in Greek Loukianos, was a Syrian, born about the year 120 at
Samosata, where a bend of the Euphrates brings that river nearest to
the borders of Cilicia in Asia Minor. He had in him by nature a
quick flow of wit, with a bent towards Greek literature. It was
thought at home that he showed as a boy the artist nature by his
skill in making little waxen images. An uncle on his mother's side
happened to be a sculptor. The home was poor, Lucian would have his
bread to earn, and when he was fourteen he was apprenticed to his
uncle that he might learn to become a sculptor. Before long, while
polishing a marble tablet he pressed on it too heavily and broke it.
His uncle thrashed him. Lucian's spirit rebelled, and he went home
giving the comic reason that his uncle beat him because jealous of
the extraordinary power he showed in his art.
After some debate Lucian abandoned training as a sculptor, studied
literature and rhetoric, and qualified himself for the career of an
advocate and teacher at a time when rhetoric had still a chief place
in the schools. He practised for a short time unsuccessfully at
Antioch, and then travelled for the cultivation of his mind in
Greece, Italy, and Gaul, making his way by use of his wits, as
Goldsmith did long afterwards when he started, at the outset also of
his career as a writer, on a grand tour of the continent with
nothing in his pocket. Lucian earned as he went by public use of
his skill as a rhetorician. His travel was not unlike the modern
American lecturing tour, made also for the money it may bring and
for the new experience acquired by it.
Lucian stayed long enough in Athens to acquire a mastery of Attic
Greek, and his public discourses could not have been without full
seasoning of Attic salt. In Italy and Gaul his success brought him
money beyond his present needs, and he went back to Samosata, when
about forty years old, able to choose and follow his own course in
life.
He then ceased to be a professional talker, and became a writer,
bold and witty, against everything that seemed to him to want
foundation for the honour that it claimed. He attacked the gods of
Greece, and the whole system of mythology, when, in its second
century, the Christian Church was ready to replace the forms of
heathen worship. He laughed at the philosophers, confounding
together in one censure deep conviction with shallow convention.
His vigorous winnowing sent chaff to the winds, but not without some
scattering of wheat. Delight in the power of satire leads always to
some excess in its use. But if the power be used honestly--and even
if it be used recklessly--no truth can be destroyed. Only the
reckless use of it breeds in minds of the feebler sort mere pleasure
in ridicule, that weakens them as helpers in the real work of the
world, and in that way tends to retard the forward movement. But on
the whole, ridicule adds more vigour to the strong than it takes
from the weak, and has its use even when levelled against what is
good and true. In its own way it is a test of truth, and may be
fearlessly applied to it as jewellers use nitric acid to try gold.
If it be uttered for gold and is not gold, let it perish; but if it
be true, it will stand trial.
The best translation of the works of Lucian into English was that by
Dr. Thomas Francklin, sometime Greek Professor in the University of
Cambridge, which was published in two large quarto volumes in the
year 1780, and reprinted in four volumes in 1781. Lucian had been
translated before in successive volumes by Ferrand Spence and
others, an edition, completed in 1711, for which Dryden had written
the author's Life. Dr. Francklin, who produced also the best
eighteenth century translation of Sophocles, joined to his
translation of Lucian a little apparatus of introductions and notes
by which the English reader is often assisted, and he has skilfully
avoided the translation of indecencies which never were of any use,
and being no longer sources of enjoyment, serve only to exclude good
wit, with which, under different conditions of life, they were
associated, from the welcome due to it in all our homes. There is a
just and scholarly, as well as a meddlesome and feeble way of
clearing an old writer from uncleannesses that cause him now to be a
name only where he should be a power. Dr. Francklin has understood
his work in that way better than Dr. Bowdler did. He does not
Bowdlerise who uses pumice to a blot, but he who rubs the copy into
holes wherever he can find an honest letter with a downstroke
thicker than becomes a fine-nibbed pen. A trivial play of fancy in
one of the pieces in this volume, easily removed, would have been as
a dead fly in the pot of ointment, and would have deprived one of
Lucian's best works of the currency to which it is entitled.
Lucian's works are numerous, and they have been translated into
nearly all the languages of Europe.
The "Instructions for Writing History" was probably one of the
earliest pieces written by him after Lucian had settled down at
Samosata to the free use of his pen, and it has been usually
regarded as his best critical work. With ridicule of the
affectations of historians whose names and whose books have passed
into oblivion, he joins sound doctrine upon sincerity of style.
"Nothing is lasting that is feigned," said Ben Jonson; "it will have
another face ere long." Long after Lucian's day an artificial
dignity, accorded specially to work of the historian, bound him by
its conventions to an artificial style. He used, as Johnson said of
Dr. Robertson, "too big words and too many of them." But that was
said by Johnson in his latter days, with admission of like fault in
the convention to which he had once conformed: "If Robertson's
style is bad, that is to say, too big words and too many of them, I
am afraid he caught it of me." Lucian would have dealt as
mercilessly with that later style as Archibald Campbell, ship's
purser and son of an Edinburgh Professor, who used the form of one
of Lucian's dialogues, "Lexiphanes," for an assault of ridicule upon
pretentious sentence-making, and helped a little to get rid of it.
Lucian laughed in his day at small imitators of the manner of
Thucydides, as he would laugh now at the small imitators of the
manner of Macaulay. He bade the historian first get sure facts,
then tell them in due order, simply and without exaggeration or toil
after fine writing; though he should aim not the less at an enduring
grace given by Nature to the Art that does not stray from her, and
simply speaks the highest truth it knows.
The endeavour of small Greek historians to add interest to their
work by magnifying the exploits of their countrymen, and piling
wonder upon wonder, Lucian first condemned in his "Instructions for
Writing History," and then caricatured in his "True History,"
wherein is contained the account of a trip to the moon, a piece
which must have been enjoyed by Rabelais, which suggested to Cyrano
de Bergerac his Voyages to the Moon and to the Sun, and insensibly
contributed, perhaps, directly or through Bergerac, to the
conception of "Gulliver's Travels." I have added the Icaro-
Menippus, because that Dialogue describes another trip to the moon,
though its satire is more especially directed against the
philosophers.
Menippus was born at Gadara in Coele-Syria, and from a slave he grew
to be a Cynic philosopher, chiefly occupied with scornful jests on
his neighbours, and a money-lender, who made large gains and killed
himself when he was cheated of them all. He is said to have written
thirteen pieces which are lost, but he has left his name in
literature, preserved by important pieces that have taken the name
of "Menippean Satire."
Lucian married in middle life, and had a son. He was about fifty
years old when he went to Paphlagonia, and visited a false oracle to
detect the tricks of an Alexander who made profit out of it, and who
professed to have a daughter by the Moon. When the impostor offered
Lucian his hand to kiss, Lucian bit his thumb; he also intervened to
the destruction of a profitable marriage for the daughter of the
Moon. Alexander lent Lucian a vessel of his own for the voyage
onward, and gave instructions to the sailors that they were to find
a convenient time and place for throwing their passenger into the
sea; but when the convenient time had come the goodwill of the
master of the vessel saved Lucian's life. He was landed, therefore,
at AEgialos, where he found some ambassadors to Eupator, King of
Bithynia, who took him onward upon his way.
It is believed that Lucian lived to be ninety, and it is assumed,
since he wrote a burlesque drama on gout, that the cause of his
death was not simply old age. Gout may have been the immediate
cause of death. Lucian must have spent much time at Athens, and he
held office at one time in his later years as Procurator of a part
of Egypt.
The works of Lucian consist largely of dialogues, in which he
battled against what he considered to be false opinions by bringing
the satire of Aristophanes and the sarcasm of Menippus into
disputations that sought chiefly to throw down false idols before
setting up the true. He made many enemies by bold attacks upon the
ancient faiths. His earlier "Dialogues of the Gods" only brought
out their stories in a way that made them sound ridiculous.
Afterwards he proceeded to direct attack on the belief in them. In
one Dialogue Timocles a Stoic argues for belief in the old gods
against Damis an Epicurean, and the gods, in order of dignity
determined by the worth of the material out of which they are made,
assemble to hear the argument. Damis confutes the Stoic, and laughs
him into fury. Zeus is unhappy at all this, but Hermes consoles him
with the reflection that although the Epicurean may speak for a few,
the mass of Greeks, and all the barbarians, remain true to the
ancient opinions. Suidas, who detested such teaching, wrote a Life
of him, in which he said that Lucian was at last torn to pieces by
dogs.
Dr. Francklin prefaced his edition with a Life, written by a friend
in the form of a Dialogue of the Dead in the Elysian Fields between
Lord Lyttelton--who had been, in his Dialogues of the Dead, an
imitator of the Dialogues so called in Lucian--and Lucian himself.
"By that shambling gait and length of carcase," says Lucian, "it
must be Lord Lyttelton coming this way." "And by that arch look and
sarcastic smile," says Lyttelton, "you are my old friend Lucian,
whom I have not seen this many a day. Fontenelle and I have just
now been talking of you, and the obligations we both had to our old
master: I assure you that there was not a man in all antiquity for
whom, whilst on earth, I had a greater regard than yourself." After
Lucian has told Lyttelton something about his life, his lordship
thanks Lucian for the little history, and says, "I wish with all my
heart I could convey it to a friend of mine in the other world"--
meaning Dr. Francklin--"to whom, at this juncture, it would be of
particular service: I mean a bold adventurer who has lately
undertaken to give a new and complete translation of all your works.
It is a noble design, but an arduous one; I own I tremble for him."
Lucian replies, "I heard of it the other day from Goldsmith, who
knew the man. I think he may easily succeed in it better than any
of his countrymen, who hitherto have made but miserable work with
me; nor do I make a much better appearance in my French habit,
though that I know has been admired. D'Ablancourt has made me say a
great many things, some good, some bad, which I never thought of,
and, upon the whole, what he has done is more a paraphrase than a
translation." Then, says Lord Lyttelton, "All the attempts to
represent you, at least in our language, which I have yet seen, have
failed, and all from the same cause, by the translator's departing
from the original, and substituting his own manners, phraseology,
expression, wit, and humour instead of yours. Nothing, as it has
been observed by one of our best critics, is so grave as true
humour, and every line of Lucian is a proof of it; it never laughs
itself, whilst it sets the table in a roar; a circumstance which
these gentlemen seem all to have forgotten: instead of the set
features and serious aspect which you always wear when most
entertaining, they present us for ever with a broad grin, and if you
have the least smile upon your countenance make you burst into a
vulgar horse-laugh: they are generally, indeed, such bad painters,
that the daubing would never be taken for you if they had not
written 'Lucian' under the picture. I heartily wish the Doctor
better luck." Upon which the Doctor's friend makes Lucian reply:
"And there is some reason to hope it, for I hear he has taken pains
about me, has studied my features well before he sat down to trace
them on the canvas, and done it con amore: if he brings out a good
resemblance, I shall excuse the want of grace and beauty in his
piece. I assure you I am not without pleasing expectation;
especially as my friend Sophocles, who, you know, sat to him some
time ago, tells me, though he is no Praxiteles, he does not take a
bad likeness. But I must be gone, for yonder come Swift and
Rabelais, whom I have made a little party with this morning: so, my
good lord, fare you well."
Lucian had another translator in 1820, who in no way superseded Dr.
Francklin. The reader of this volume is reminded that the notes are
Dr. Francklin's, and that any allusion in them to a current topic,
has to be read as if this present year of grace were 1780.
H. M.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR WRITING HISTORY.
Lucian, in this letter to his friend Philo, after having, with
infinite humour, exposed the absurdities of some contemporary
historians, whose works, being consigned to oblivion, have never
reached us, proceeds, in the latter part of it, to lay down most
excellent rules and directions for writing history. My readers will
find the one to the last degree pleasant and entertaining; and the
other no less useful, sensible, and instructive. This is, indeed,
one of Lucian's best pieces.
My Dear Philo,--In the reign of Lysimachus, {17} we are told that
the people of Abdera were seized with a violent epidemical fever,
which raged through the whole city, continuing for seven days, at
the expiration of which a copious discharge of blood from the
nostrils in some, and in others a profuse sweat, carried it off. It
was attended, however, with a very ridiculous circumstance: every
one of the persons affected by it being suddenly taken with a fit of
tragedising, spouting iambics, and roaring out most furiously,
particularly the Andromeda {18a} of Euripides, and the speech of
Perseus, which they recited in most lamentable accents. The city
swarmed with these pale seventh-day patients, who, with loud voices,
were perpetually bawling out--
"O tyrant love, o'er gods and men supreme," etc.
And this they continued every day for a long time, till winter and
the cold weather coming on put an end to their delirium. For this
disorder they seem, in my opinion, indebted to Archelaus, a
tragedian at that time in high estimation, who, in the middle of
summer, at the very hottest season {18b} of the year, exhibited the
Andromeda, which had such an effect on the spectators that several
of them, as soon as they rose up from it, fell insensibly into the
tragedising vein; the Andromeda naturally occurring to their
memories, and Perseus, with his Medusa, still hovering round them.
Now if, as they say, one may compare great things with small, this
Abderian disorder seems to have seized on many of our literati of
the present age; not that it sets them on acting tragedies (for the
folly would not be so great in repeating other people's verses,
especially if they were good ones), but ever since the war was begun
against the barbarians, the defeat in Armenia, {19a} and the
victories consequent on it, not one is there amongst us who does not
write a history; or rather, I may say, we are all Thucydideses,
Herodotuses, and Xenophons. Well may they say war is the parent of
all things, {19b} when one action can make so many historians. This
puts me in mind of what happened at Sinope. {20a} When the
Corinthians heard that Philip was going to attack them, they were
all alarmed, and fell to work, some brushing up their arms, others
bringing stones to prop up their walls and defend their bulwarks,
every one, in short, lending a hand. Diogenes observing this, and
having nothing to do (for nobody employed him), tucked up his robe,
and, with all his might, fell a rolling his tub which he lived in up
and down the Cranium. {20b} "What are you about?" said one of his
friends. "Rolling my tub," replied he, "that whilst everybody is
busy around me, I may not be the only idle person in the kingdom."
In like manner, I, my dear Philo, being very loath in this noisy age
to make no noise at all, or to act the part of a mute in the comedy,
think it highly proper that I should roll my tub also; not that I
mean to write history myself, or be a narrator of facts; you need
not fear me, I am not so rash, knowing the danger too well if I roll
it amongst the stones, especially such a tub as mine, which is not
over-strong, so that the least pebble I strike against would dash it
in pieces. I will tell you, however, what my design is--how I mean
to be present at the battle and yet keep out of the reach of danger.
I intend to shelter myself from the waves and the smoke, {21} and
the cares that writers are liable to, and only give them a little
good advice and a few precepts; to have, in short, some little hand
in the building, though I do not expect my name will be inscribed on
it, as I shall but just touch the mortar with the tip of my finger.
There are many, I know, who think there is no necessity for
instruction at all with regard to this business, any more than there
is for walking, seeing, or eating, and that it is the easiest thing
in the world for a man to write history if he can but say what comes
uppermost. But you, my friend, are convinced that it is no such
easy matter, nor should it be negligently and carelessly performed;
but that, on the other hand, if there be anything in the whole
circle of literature that requires more than ordinary care and
attention, it is undoubtedly this. At least, if a man would wish,
as Thucydides says, to labour for posterity. I very well know that
I cannot attack so many without rendering myself obnoxious to some,
especially those whose histories are already finished and made
public; even if what I say should be approved by them, it would be
madness to expect that they should retract anything or alter that
which had been once established and, as it were, laid up in royal
repositories. It may not be amiss, however, to give them these
instructions, that in case of another war, the Getae against the
Gauls, or the Indians, perhaps, against the barbarians (for with
regard to ourselves there is no danger, our enemies being all
subdued), by applying these rules if they like them, they may know
better how to write for the future. If they do not choose this,
they may even go on by their old measure; the physician will not
break his heart if all the people of Abdera follow their own
inclination and continue to act the Andromeda. {23}
Criticism is twofold: that which teaches us what we are to choose,
and that which teaches us what to avoid. We will begin with the
last, and consider what those faults are which a writer of history
should be free from; next, what it is that will lead him into the
right path, how he should begin, what order and method he should
observe, what he should pass over in silence, and what he should
dwell upon, how things may be best illustrated and connected. Of
these, and such as these, we will speak hereafter; in the meantime
let us point out the faults which bad writers are most generally
guilty of, the blunders which they commit in language, composition,
and sentiment, with many other marks of ignorance, which it would be
tedious to enumerate, and belong not to our present argument. The
principal faults, as I observed to you, are in the language and
composition.
You will find on examination, that history in general has a great
many of this kind, which, if you listen to them all, you will be
sufficiently convinced of; and for this purpose it may not be
unseasonable to recollect some of them by way of example. And the
first that I shall mention is that intolerable custom which most of
them have of omitting facts, and dwelling for ever on the praises of
their generals and commanders, extolling to the skies their own
leaders, and degrading beyond measure those of their enemies, not
knowing how much history differs from panegyric, that there is a
great wall between them, or that, to use a musical phrase, they are
a double octave {24a} distant from each other; the sole business of
the panegyrist is, at all events and by every means, to extol and
delight the object of his praise, and it little concerns him whether
it be true or not. But history will not admit the least degree of
falsehood any more than, as physicians say, the wind-pipe {24b} can
receive into it any kind of food.
These men seem not to know that poetry has its particular rules and
precepts; and that history is governed by others directly opposite.
That with regard to the former, the licence is immoderate, and there
is scarce any law but what the poet prescribes to himself. When he
is full of the Deity, and possessed, as it were, by the Muses, if he
has a mind to put winged horses {25a} to his chariot, and drive some
through the waters, and others over the tops of unbending corn,
there is no offence taken. Neither, if his Jupiter {25b} hangs the
earth and sea at the end of a chain, are we afraid that it should
break and destroy us all. If he wants to extol Agamemnon, who shall
forbid his bestowing on him the head and eyes of Jupiter, the breast
of his brother Neptune, and the belt of Mars? The son of Atreus and
AErope must be a composition of all the gods; nor are Jupiter, Mars,
and Neptune sufficient, perhaps, of themselves to give us an idea of
his perfection. But if history admits any adulation of this kind,
it becomes a sort of prosaic poetry, without its numbers or
magnificence; a heap of monstrous stories, only more conspicuous by
their incredibility. He is unpardonable, therefore, who cannot
distinguish one from the other; but lays on history the paint of
poetry, its flattery, fable, and hyperbole: it is just as
ridiculous as it would be to clothe one of our robust wrestlers, who
is as hard as an oak, in fine purple, or some such meretricious
garb, and put paint {26} on his cheeks; how would such ornaments
debase and degrade him! I do not mean by this, that in history we
are not to praise sometimes, but it must be done at proper seasons,
and in a proper degree, that it may not offend the readers of future
ages; for future ages must be considered in this affair, as I shall
endeavour to prove hereafter.
Those, I must here observe, are greatly mistaken who divide history
into two parts, the useful and the agreeable; and in consequence of
it, would introduce panegyric as always delectable and entertaining
to the reader. But the division itself is false and delusive; for
the great end and design of history is to be useful: a species of
merit which can only arise from its truth. If the agreeable
follows, so much the better, as there may be beauty in a wrestler.
And yet Hercules would esteem the brave though ugly Nicostratus as
much as the beautiful Alcaeus. And thus history, when she adds
pleasure to utility, may attract more admirers; though as long as
she is possessed of that greatest of perfections, truth, she need
not be anxious concerning beauty.
In history, nothing fabulous can be agreeable; and flattery is
disgusting to all readers, except the very dregs of the people; good
judges look with the eyes of Argus on every part, reject everything
that is false and adulterated, and will admit nothing but what is
true, clear, and well expressed. These are the men you are to have
a regard to when you write, rather than the vulgar, though your
flattery should delight them ever so much. If you stuff history
with fulsome encomiums and idle tales, you will make her like
Hercules in Lydia, as you may have seen him painted, waiting upon
Omphale, who is dressed in the lion's skin, with his club in her
hand; whilst he is represented clothed in yellow and purple, and
spinning, and Omphale beating him with her slipper; a ridiculous
spectacle, wherein everything manly and godlike is sunk and degraded
to effeminacy.
The multitude perhaps, indeed, may admire such things; but the
judicious few whose opinion you despise will always laugh at what is
absurd, incongruous, and inconsistent. Everything has a beauty
peculiar to itself; but if you put one instead of another, the most
beautiful becomes ugly, because it is not in its proper place. I
need not add, that praise is agreeable only to the person praised,
and disgustful to everybody else, especially when it is lavishly
bestowed; as is the practice of most writers, who are so extremely
desirous of recommending themselves by flattery, and dwell so much
upon it as to convince the reader it is mere adulation, which they
have not art enough to conceal, but heap up together, naked,
uncovered, and totally incredible, so that they seldom gain what
they expected from it; for the person flattered, if he has anything
noble or manly in him, only abhors and despises them for it as mean
parasites. Aristobulus, after he had written an account of the
single combat between Alexander and Porus, showed that monarch a
particular part of it, wherein, the better to get into his good
graces, he had inserted a great deal more than was true; when
Alexander seized the book and threw it (for they happened at that
time to be sailing on the Hydaspes) directly into the river:
"Thus," said he, "ought you to have been served yourself for
pretending to describe my battles, and killing half a dozen
elephants for me with a single spear." This anger was worthy of
Alexander, of him who could not bear the adulation of that architect
{29} who promised to transform Mount Athos into a statue of him; but
he looked upon the man from that time as a base flatterer, and never
employed him afterwards.
What is there in this custom, therefore, that can be agreeable,
unless to the proud and vain; to deformed men or ugly women, who
insist on being painted handsome, and think they shall look better
if the artist gives them a little more red and white! Such, for the
most part, are the historians of our times, who sacrifice everything
to the present moment and their own interest and advantage; who can
only be despised as ignorant flatterers of the age they live in; and
as men, who, at the same time, by their extravagant stories, make
everything which they relate liable to suspicion. If
notwithstanding any are still of opinion, that the agreeable should
be admitted in history, let them join that which is pleasant with
that which is true, by the beauties of style and diction, instead of
foisting in, as is commonly done, what is nothing to the purpose.
I will now acquaint you with some things I lately picked up in Ionia
and Achaia, from several historians, who gave accounts of this war.
By the graces I beseech you to give me credit for what I am going to
tell you, as I could swear to the truth of it, if it were polite to
swear in a dissertation. One of these gentlemen begins by invoking
the Muses, and entreats the goddesses to assist him in the
performance. What an excellent setting out and how properly is this
form of speech adapted to history! A little farther on, he compares
our emperor to Achilles, and the Persian king to Thersites; not
considering that his Achilles would have been a much greater man if
he had killed Hector rather than Thersites; if the brave should fly,
he who pursues must be braver. Then follows an encomium on himself,
showing how worthy he is to recite such noble actions; and when he
is got on a little, he extols his own country, Miletus, adding that
in this he had acted better than Homer, who never tells us where he
was born. He informs us, moreover, at the end of his preface, in
the most plain and positive terms, that he shall take care to make
the best he can of our own affairs, and, as far as lies in his
power, to get the upper hand of our enemies the barbarians. After
investigating the cause of the war, he begins thus: "That vilest of
all wretches, Vologesus, entered upon the war for these reasons."
Such is this historian's manner. Another, a close imitator of
Thucydides, that he may set out as his master does, gives us an
exordium that smells of the true Attic honey, and begins thus:
"Creperius Calpurnianus, a citizen of Pompeia, hath written the
history of the war between the Parthians and the Romans, showing how
they fought with one another, commencing at the time when it first
broke out." After this, need I inform you how he harangued in
Armenia, by another Corcyraean orator? or how, to be revenged of the
Nisibaeans for not taking part with the Romans, he sent the plague
amongst them, taking the whole from Thucydides, excepting the long
walls of Athens. He had begun from AEthiopia, descended into Egypt,
and passed over great part of the royal territory. Well it was that
he stopped there. When I left him, he was burying the miserable
Athenians at Nisibis; but as I knew what he was going to tell us, I
took my leave of him.
Another thing very common with these historians is, by way of
imitating Thucydides, to make use of his phrases, perhaps with a
little alteration, to adopt his manner, in little modes and
expressions, such as, "you must yourself acknowledge," "for the same
reason," "a little more, and I had forgot," and the like. This same
writer, when he has occasion to mention bridges, fosses, or any of
the machines used in war, gives them Roman names; but how does it
suit the dignity of history, or resemble Thucydides, to mix the
Attic and Italian thus, as if it was ornamental and becoming?
Another of them gives us a plain simple journal of everything that
was done, such as a common soldier might have written, or a sutler
who followed the camp. This, however, was tolerable, because it
pretended to nothing more; and might be useful by supplying
materials for some better historian. I only blame him for his
pompous introduction: "Callimorphus, physician to the sixth legion
of spearmen, his history of the Parthian war." Then his books are
all carefully numbered, and he entertains us with a most frigid
preface, which he concludes with saying that "a physician must be
the fittest of all men to write history, because AEsculapius was the
son of Apollo, and Apollo is the leader of the Muses, and the great
prince of literature."
Besides this, after setting out in delicate Ionic, he drops, I know
not how, into the most vulgar style and expressions, used only by
the very dregs of the people.
And here I must not pass over a certain wise man, whose name,
however, I shall not mention; his work is lately published at
Corinth, and is beyond everything one could have conceived. In the
very first sentence of his preface he takes his readers to task, and
convinces them by the most sagacious method of reasoning that "none
but a wise man should ever attempt to write history." Then comes
syllogism upon syllogism; every kind of argument is by turns made
use of, to introduce the meanest and most fulsome adulation; and
even this is brought in by syllogism and interrogation. What
appeared to me the most intolerable and unbecoming the long beard of
a philosopher, was his saying in the preface that our emperor was
above all men most happy, whose actions even philosophers did not
disdain to celebrate; surely this, if it ought to be said at all,
should have been left for us to say rather than himself.
Neither must we here forget that historian who begins thus: "I come
to speak of the Romans and Persians;" and a little after he says,
"for the Persians ought to suffer;" and in another place, "there was
one Osroes, whom the Greeks call Oxyrrhoes," with many things of
this kind. This man is just such a one as him I mentioned before,
only that one is like Thucydides, and the other the exact
resemblance of Herodotus.
But there is yet another writer, renowned for eloquence, another
Thucydides, or rather superior to him, who most elaborately
describes every city, mountain, field, and river, and cries out with
all his might, "May the great averter of evil turn it all on our
enemies!" This is colder than Caspian snow, or Celtic ice. The
emperor's shield takes up a whole book to describe. The Gorgon's
{35} eyes are blue, and black, and white; the serpents twine about
his hair, and his belt has all the colours of the rainbow. How many
thousand lines does it cost him to describe Vologesus's breeches and
his horse's bridle, and how Osroes' hair looked when he swam over
the Tigris, what sort of a cave he fled into, and how it was shaded
all over with ivy, and myrtle, and laurel, twined together. You
plainly see how necessary this was to the history, and that we could
not possibly have understood what was going forward without it.
From inability, and ignorance of everything useful, these men are
driven to descriptions of countries and caverns, and when they come
into a multiplicity of great and momentous affairs, are utterly at a
loss. Like a servant enriched on a sudden by coming into his
master's estate, who does not know how to put on his clothes, or to
eat as he should do; but when fine birds, fat sows, and hares are
placed before him, falls to and eats till he bursts, of salt meat
and pottage. The writer I just now mentioned describes the
strangest wounds, and the most extraordinary deaths you ever heard
of; tells us of a man's being wounded in the great toe, and expiring
immediately; and how on Priscus, the general, bawling out loud,
seven-and-twenty of the enemy fell down dead upon the spot. He has
told lies, moreover, about the number of the slain, in contradiction
to the account given in by the leaders. He will have it that
seventy thousand two hundred and thirty-six of the enemy died at
Europus, and of the Romans only two, and nine wounded. Surely
nobody in their senses can bear this.
Another thing should be mentioned here also, which is no little
fault. From the affectation of Atticism, and a more than ordinary
attention to purity of diction, he has taken the liberty to turn the
Roman names into Greek, to call Saturninus, [Greek], Chronius;
Fronto, [Greek], Frontis; Titianus, [Greek], Titanius, and others
still more ridiculous. With regard to the death of Severian, he
informs us that everybody else was mistaken when they imagined that
he perished by the sword, for that the man starved himself to death,
as he thought that the easiest way of dying; not knowing (which was
the case) that he could only have fasted three days, whereas many
have lived without food for seven; unless we are to suppose that
Osroes stood waiting till Severian had starved himself completely,
and for that reason he would not live out the whole week.
But in what class, my dear Philo, shall we rank those historians who
are perpetually making use of poetical expressions, such as "the
engine crushed, the wall thundered," and in another place, "Edessa
resounded with the shock of arms, and all was noise and tumult
around;" and again, "often the leader in his mind revolved how best
he might approach the wall." At the same time amongst these were
interspersed some of the meanest and most beggarly phrases, such as
"the leader of the army epistolised his master," "the soldiers
bought utensils," "they washed and waited on them," with many other
things of the same kind, like a tragedian with a high cothurnus on
one foot and a slipper on the other. You will meet with many of
these writers, who will give you a fine heroic long preface, that
makes you hope for something extraordinary to follow, when after
all, the body of the history shall be idle, weak, and trifling, such
as puts you in mind of a sporting Cupid, who covers his head with
the mask of a Hercules or Titan. The reader immediately cries out,
"The mountain {39} has brought forth!" Certainly it ought not to be
so; everything should be alike and of the same colour; the body
fitted to the head, not a golden helmet, with a ridiculous breast-
plate made of stinking skins, shreds, and patches, a basket shield,
and hog-skin boots; and yet numbers of them put the head of a
Rhodian Colossus on the body of a dwarf, whilst others show you a
body without a head, and step directly into the midst of things,
bringing in Xenophon for their authority, who begins with "Darius
and Parysatis had two sons;" so likewise have other ancient writers;
not considering that the narration itself may sometimes supply the
place of preface, or exordium, though it does not appear to the
vulgar eye, as we shall show hereafter.
All this, however, with regard to style and composition, may be
borne with, but when they misinform us about places, and make
mistakes, not of a few leagues, but whole day's journeys, what shall
we say to such historians? One of them, who never, we may suppose,
so much as conversed with a Syrian, or picked up anything concerning
them in the barbers' {40} shop, when he speaks of Europus, tells us,
"it is situated in Mesopotamia, two days' journey from Euphrates,
and was built by the Edessenes." Not content with this, the same
noble writer has taken away my poor country, Samosata, and carried
it off, tower, bulwarks, and all, to Mesopotamia, where he says it
is shut up between two rivers, which at least run close to, if they
do not wash the walls of it. After this, it would be to no purpose,
my dear Philo, for me to assure you that I am not from Parthia, nor
do I belong to Mesopotamia, of which this admirable historian has
thought fit to make me an inhabitant.
What he tells us of Severian, and which he swears he heard from
those who were eye-witnesses of it, is no doubt extremely probable;
that he did not choose to drink poison, or to hang himself, but was
resolved to find out some new and tragical way of dying; that
accordingly, having some large cups of very fine glass, as soon as
he had taken the resolution to finish himself, he broke one of them
in pieces, and with a fragment of it cut his throat; he would not
make use of sword or spear, that his death might be more noble and
heroic.
To complete all, because Thucydides {41} made a funeral oration on
the heroes who fell at the beginning of the Peloponnesian war, he
also thought something should be said of Severian. These
historians, you must know, will always have a little struggle with
Thucydides, though he had nothing to do with the war in Armenia; our
writer, therefore, after burying Severian most magnificently, places
at his sepulchre one Afranius Silo, a centurion, the rival of
Pericles, who spoke so fine a declamation upon him as, by heaven,
made me laugh till I cried again, particularly when the orator
seemed deeply afflicted, and with tears in his eyes, lamented the
sumptuous entertainments and drinking bouts which he should no more
partake of. To crown all with an imitation of Ajax, {42} the orator
draws his sword, and, as it became the noble Afranius, before all
the assembly, kills himself at the tomb. So Mars defend me! but he
deserved to die much sooner for making such a declamation. When
those, says he, who were present beheld this, they were filled with
admiration, and beyond measure extolled Afranius. For my own part,
I pitied him for the loss of the cakes and dishes which he so
lamented, and only blamed him for not destroying the writer of the
history before he made an end of himself.
Others there are who, from ignorance and want of skill, not knowing
what should be mentioned, and what passed over in silence, entirely
omit or slightly run through things of the greatest consequence, and
most worthy of attention, whilst they most copiously describe and
dwell upon trifles; which is just as absurd as it would be not to
take notice of or admire the wonderful beauty of the Olympian
Jupiter, {43} and at the same time to be lavish in our praises of
the fine polish, workmanship, and proportion of the base and
pedestal.
I remember one of these who despatches the battle at Europus in
seven lines, and spends some hundreds in a long frigid narration,
that is nothing to the purpose, showing how "a certain Moorish
cavalier, wandering on the mountains in search of water, lit on some
Syrian rustics, who helped him to a dinner; how they were afraid of
him at first, but afterwards became intimately acquainted with him,
and received him with hospitality; for one of them, it seems, had
been in Mauritania, where his brother bore arms." Then follows a
long tale, "how he hunted in Mauritania, and saw several elephants
feeding together; how he had like to have been devoured by a lion;
and how many fish he bought at Caesarea." This admirable historian
takes no notice of the battle, the attacks or defences, the truces,
the guards on each side, or anything else; but stands from morning
to night looking upon Malchion, the Syrian, who buys cheap fish at
Caesarea: if night had not come on, I suppose he would have supped
there, as the chars {44} were ready. If these things had not been
carefully recorded in the history we should have been sadly in the
dark, and the Romans would have had an insufferable loss, if
Mausacas, the thirsty Moor, could have found nothing to drink, or
returned to the camp without his supper; not to mention here, what
is still more ridiculous, as how "a piper came up to them out of the
neighbouring village, and how they made presents to each other,
Mausacas giving Malchion a spear, and Malchion presenting Mausacas
with a buckle." Such are the principal occurrences in the history
of the battle of Europus. One may truly say of such writers that
they never saw the roses on the tree, but took care to gather the
prickles that grew at the bottom of it.
Another of them, who had never set a foot out of Corinth, or seen
Syria or Armenia, begins thus: "It is better to trust our eyes than
our ears; I write, therefore, what I have seen, and not what I have
heard;" he saw everything so extremely well that he tells us, "the
Parthian dragons (which amongst them signifies no more than a great
number, {45} for one dragon brings a thousand) are live serpents of
a prodigious size, that breed in Persia, a little above Iberia; that
these are lifted up on long poles, and spread terror to a great
distance; and that when the battle begins, they let them loose on
the enemy." Many of our soldiers, he tells us, were devoured by
them, and a vast number pressed to death by being locked in their
embraces: this he beheld himself from the top of a high tree, to
which he had retired for safety. Well it was for us that he so
prudently determined not to come nigh them; we might otherwise have
lost this excellent writer, who with his own brave hand performed
such feats in this battle; for he went through many dangers, and was
wounded somewhere about Susa, I suppose, in his journey from Cranium
to Lerna. All this he recited to the Corinthians, who very well
knew that he had never so much as seen a view of this battle painted
on a wall; neither did he know anything of arms, or military
machines, the method of disposing troops, or even the proper names
of them. {46}
Another famous writer has given an account of everything that
passed, from beginning to end, in Armenia, Syria, Mesopotamia, upon
the Tigris, and in Media, and all in less than five hundred lines;
and when he had done this, tells us, he has written a history. The
title, which is almost as long as the work, runs thus: "A narrative
of everything done by the Romans in Armenia, Media, and Mesopotamia,
by Antiochianus, who gained a prize in the sacred games of Apollo."
I suppose, when he was a boy, he had conquered in a running match.
I have heard of another likewise, who wrote a history of what was to
happen hereafter, {47} and describes the taking of Vologesus
prisoner, the murder of Osroes, and how he was to be given to a
lion; and above all, our own much-to-be-wished-for triumph, as
things that must come to pass. Thus prophesying away, he soon got
to the end of the story. He has built, moreover, a new city in
Mesopotamia, most magnificently magnificent, and most beautifully
beautiful, and is considering with himself whether he shall call it
Victoria, from victory, or the City of Concord, or Peace, which of
them, however, is not yet determined, and this fine city must remain
without a name, filled as it is with nothing but this writer's folly
and nonsense. He is now going about a long voyage, and to give us a
description of what is to be done in India; and this is more than a
promise, for the preface is already made, and the third legion, the
Gauls, and a small part of the Mauritanian forces under Cassius,
have already passed the river; what they will do afterwards, or how
they will succeed against the elephants, it will be some time before
our wonderful writer can be able to learn, either from Mazuris or
the Oxydraci.
Thus do these foolish fellows trifle with us, neither knowing what
is fit to be done, nor if they did, able to execute it, at the same
time determined to say anything that comes into their ridiculous
heads; affecting to be grand and pompous, even in their titles: of
"the Parthian victories so many books;" Parthias, says another, like
Atthis; another more elegantly calls his book the Parthonicica of
Demetrius.
I could mention many more of equal merit with these, but shall now
proceed to make my promise good, and give some instructions how to
write better. I have not produced these examples merely to laugh at
and ridicule these noble histories; but with the view of real
advantages, that he who avoids their errors, may himself learn to
write well--if it be true, as the logicians assert, that of two
opposites, between which there is no medium, the one being taken
away, the other must remain. {49}
Somebody, perhaps, will tell me that the field is now cleansed and
weeded, that the briars and brambles are cut up, the rubbish cleared
off, and the rough path made smooth; that I ought therefore to build
something myself, to show that I not only can pull down the
structures of others, but am able to raise up and invent a work
truly great and excellent, which nobody could find fault with, nor
Momus himself turn into ridicule.
I say, therefore, that he who would write history well must be
possessed of these two principal qualifications, a fine
understanding and a good style: one is the gift of nature, and
cannot be taught; the other may be acquired by frequent exercise,
perpetual labour and an emulation of the ancients. To make men
sensible and sagacious, who were not born so, is more than I pretend
to; to create and new-model things in this manner would be a
glorious thing indeed; but one might as easily make gold out of
lead, silver out of tin, a Titornus out of a Conon, or a Milo out of
a Leotrophides. {50}
What then is in the power of art or instruction to perform? not to
create qualities and perfections already bestowed, but to teach the
proper use of them; for as Iccus, Herodicus, Theon, {51} or any
other famous wrestler, would not promise to make Antiochus a
conqueror in the Olympic games, or equal to a Theagenes, or
Polydamas; but only that where a man had natural abilities for this
exercise he could, by his instruction, render him a greater
proficient in it: far be it from me, also, to promise the invention
of an art so difficult as this, nor do I say that I can make anybody
an historian; but that I will point out to one of good
understanding, and who has been in some measure used to writing,
certain proper paths (if such they appear to him), which if any man
shall tread in, he may with greater ease and despatch do what he
ought to do, and attain the end which he is in pursuit of.
Neither can it be here asserted, be he ever so sensible or
sagacious, that he doth not stand in need of assistance with regard
to those things which he is ignorant of; otherwise he might play on
the flute or any other instrument, who had never learned, and
perform just as well; but without teaching, the hands will do
nothing; whereas, if there be a master, we quickly learn, and are
soon able to play by ourselves.
Give me a scholar, therefore, who is able to think and to write, to
look with an eye of discernment into things, and to do business
himself, if called upon, who hath both civil and military knowledge;
one, moreover, who has been in camps, and has seen armies in the
field and out of it; knows the use of arms, and machines, and
warlike engines of every kind; can tell what the front, and what the
horn is, how the ranks are to be disposed, how the horse is to be
directed, and from whence to advance or to retreat; one, in short,
who does not stay at home and trust to the reports of others: but,
above all, let him be of a noble and liberal mind; let him neither
fear nor hope for anything; otherwise he will only resemble those
unjust judges who determine from partiality or prejudice, and give
sentence for hire: but, whatever the man is, as such let him be
described. The historian must not care for Philip, when he loses
his eye by the arrow of Aster, {53a} at Olynthus, nor for Alexander,
when he so cruelly killed Clytus at the banquet: Cleon must not
terrify him, powerful as he was in the senate, and supreme at the
tribunal, nor prevent his recording him as a furious and pernicious
man; the whole city of Athens must not stop his relation of the
Sicilian slaughter, the seizure of Demosthenes, {53b} the death of
Nicias, their violent thirst, the water which they drank, and the
death of so many of them whilst they were drinking it. He will
imagine (which will certainly be the case) that no man in his senses
will blame him for recording things exactly as they fell out.
However some may have miscarried by imprudence, or others by ill
fortune, he is only the relator, not the author of them. If they
are beaten in a sea-fight, it is not he who sinks them; if they fly,
it is not he who pursues them; all he can do is to wish well to, and
offer up his vows for them; but by passing over or contradicting
facts, he cannot alter or amend them. It would have been very easy
indeed for Thucydides, with a stroke of his pen, to have thrown down
the walls of Epipolis, sunk the vessel of Hermocrates, or made an
end of the execrable Gylippus, who stopped up all the avenues with
his walls and ditches; to have thrown the Syracusans on the
Lautumiae, and have let the Athenians go round Sicily and Italy,
according to the early hopes of Alcibiades: but what is past and
done Clotho cannot weave again, nor Atropos recall.
The only business of the historian is to relate things exactly as
they are: this he can never do as long as he is afraid of
Artaxerxes, whose physician {55a} he is; as long as he looks for the
purple robe, the golden chain, or the Nisaean horse, {55b} as the
reward of his labours; but Xenophon, that just writer, will not do
this, nor Thucydides. The good historian, though he may have
private enmity against any man, will esteem the public welfare of
more consequence to him, and will prefer truth to resentment; and,
on the other hand, be he ever so fond of any man, will not spare him
when he is in the wrong; for this, as I before observed, is the most
essential thing in history, to sacrifice to truth alone, and cast
away all care for everything else. The great universal rule and
standard is, to have regard not to those who read now, but to those
who are to peruse our works hereafter.
To speak impartially, the historians of former times were too often
guilty of flattery, and their works were little better than games
and sports, the effects of art. Of Alexander, this memorable saying
is recorded: "I should be glad," said he, "Onesicritus, after my
death, to come to life again for a little time, only to hear what
the people then living will say of me; for I am not surprised that
they praise and caress me now, as every one hopes by baiting well to
catch my favour." Though Homer wrote a great many fabulous things
concerning Achilles, the world was induced to believe him, for this
only reason, because they were written long after his death, and no
cause could be assigned why he should tell lies about him.
The good historian, {56} then, must be thus described: he must be
fearless, uncorrupted, free, the friend of truth and of liberty; one
who, to use the words of the comic poet, calls a fig a fig, {57a}
and a skiff a skiff, neither giving nor withholding from any, from
favour or from enmity, not influenced by pity, by shame, or by
remorse; a just judge, so far benevolent to all as never to give
more than is due to any in his work; a stranger to all, of no
country, bound only by his own laws, acknowledging no sovereign,
never considering what this or that man may say of him, but relating
faithfully everything as it happened.
This rule therefore Thucydides observed, distinguishing properly the
faults and perfections of history: not unmindful of the great
reputation which Herodotus had acquired, insomuch that his books
were called by the names of the Muses. {57b} Thucydides tells us
that he "wrote for posterity, and not for present delight; that he
by no means approved of the fabulous, but was desirous of delivering
down the truth alone to future ages." It is the useful, he adds,
which must constitute the merit of history, that by the
retrospection of what is past, when similar events occur, men may
know how to act in present exigencies.
Such an historian would I wish to have under my care: with regard
to language and expression, I would not have it rough and vehement,
consisting of long periods, {58} or complex arguments; but soft,
quiet, smooth, and peaceable. The reflections, short and frequent,
the style clear and perspicuous; for as freedom and truth should be
the principal perfections of the writer's mind, so, with regard to
language, the great point is to make everything plain and
intelligible, not to use remote and far-fetched phrases or
expressions, at the same time avoiding such as are mean and vulgar:
let it be, in short, what the lowest may understand; and, at the
same time, the most learned cannot but approve. The whole may be
adorned with figure and metaphor, provided they are not turgid or
bombast, nor seem stiff and laboured, which, like meat too highly
seasoned, always give disgust.
History may sometimes assume a poetical form, and rise into a
magnificence of expression, when the subject demands it; and
especially when it is describing armies, battles, and sea-fights.
The Pierian spirit {59} is wanting then to swell the sails with a
propitious breeze, and carry the lofty ship over the tops of the
waves. In general, the diction should creep humbly on the ground,
and only be raised as the grand and beautiful occurring shall
require it; keeping, in the meantime, within proper bounds, and
never soaring into enthusiasm; for then it is in danger of ranging
beyond its limits, into poetic fury: we must then pull in the rein
and act with caution, well knowing that it is the worst vice of a
writer, as well as of a horse, to be wanton and unmanageable. The
best way therefore is, whilst the mind of the historian is on
horseback, for his style to walk on foot, and take hold of the rein,
that it may not be left behind.
With regard to composition, the words should not be so blended and
transposed as to appear harsh and uncouth; nor should you, as some
do, subject them entirely to the rhythmus; {60} one is always
faulty, and the other disagreeable to the reader.
Facts must not be carelessly put together, but with great labour and
attention. If possible, let the historian be an eye-witness of
everything he means to record; or, if that cannot be, rely on those
only who are incorrupt, and who have no bias from passion or
prejudice, to add or to diminish anything. And here much sagacity
will be requisite to find out the real truth. When he has collected
all or most of his materials, he will first make a kind of diary, a
body whose members are not yet distinct; he will then bring it into
order and beautify it, add the colouring of style and language,
adopt his expression to the subject, and harmonise the several parts
of it; then, like Homer's Jupiter, {61} who casts his eye sometimes
on the Thracian, and sometimes on the Mysian forces, he beholds now
the Roman, and now the Persian armies, now both, if they are
engaged, and relates what passes in them. Whilst they are
embattled, his eye is not fixed on any particular part, nor on any
one leader, unless, perhaps, a Brasidas {62a} steps forth to scale
the walls, or a Demosthenes to prevent him. To the generals he
gives his first attention, listens to their commands, their
counsels, and their determination; and, when they come to the
engagement, he weighs in equal scale the actions of both, and
closely attends the pursuer and the pursued, the conqueror and the
conquered. All this must be done with temper and moderation, so as
not to satiate or tire, not inartificially, not childishly, but with
ease and grace. When these things are properly taken care of, he
may turn aside to others, ever ready and prepared for the present
event, keeping time, {62b} as it were, with every circumstance and
event: flying from Armenia to Media, and from thence with
clattering wings to Italy, or to Iberia, that not a moment may
escape him.
The mind of the historian should resemble a looking-glass, shining
clear and exactly true, representing everything as it really is, and
nothing distorted, or of a different form or colour. He writes not
to the masters of eloquence, but simply relates what is done. It is
not his to consider what he shall say, but only how it is to be
said. He may be compared to Phidias, Praxiteles, Alcamenus, or
other eminent artists; for neither did they make the gold, the
silver, the ivory, or any of the materials which they worked upon.
These were supplied by the Elians, the Athenians, and Argives; their
only business was to cut and polish the ivory, to spread the gold
into various forms, and join them together; their art was properly
to dispose what was put into their hands; and such is the work of
the historians, to dispose and adorn the actions of men, and to make
them known with clearness and precision: to represent what he hath
heard, as if he had been himself an eye-witness of it. To perform
this well, and gain the praise resulting from it, is the business of
our historical Phidias.
When everything is thus prepared, he may begin if he pleases without
preface or exordium, unless the subject particularly demands it; he
may supply the place of one, by informing us what he intends to
write upon, in the beginning of the work itself: if, however, he
makes use of any preface, he need not divide it as our orators do,
into three parts, but confine it to two, leaving out his address to
the benevolence of his readers, and only soliciting their attention
and complacency: their attention he may be assured of, if he can
convince them that he is about to speak of things great, or
necessary, or interesting, or useful; nor need he fear their want of
complacency, if he clearly explains to them the causes of things,
and gives them the heads of what he intends to treat of.
Such are the exordiums which our best historians have made use of.
Herodotus tells us, "he wrote his history, lest in process of time
the memory should be lost of those things which in themselves were
great and wonderful, which showed forth the victories of Greece, and
the slaughter of the barbarians;" and Thucydides sets out with
saying, "he thought that war most worthy to be recorded, as greater
than any which had before happened; and that, moreover, some of the
greatest misfortunes had accompanied it." The exordium, in short,
may be lengthened or contracted according to the subject matter, and
the transition from thence to the narration easy and natural. The
body of the history is only a long narrative, and as such it must go
on with a soft and even motion, alike in every part, so that nothing
should stand too forward, or retreat too far behind. Above all, the
style should be clear and perspicuous, which can only arise, as I
before observed, from a harmony in the composition: one thing
perfected, the next which succeeds should be coherent with it; knit
together, as it were, by one common chain, which must never be
broken: they must not be so many separate and distinct narratives,
but each so closely united to what follows, as to appear one
continued series.
Brevity is always necessary, especially when you have a great deal
to say, and this must be proportioned to the facts and circumstances
which you have to relate. In general, you must slightly run through
little things, and dwell longer on great ones. When you treat your
friends, you give them boars, hares, and other dainties; you would
not offer them beans, saperda, {66a} or any other common food.
When you describe mountains, rivers, and bulwarks, avoid all pomp
and ostentation, as if you meant to show your own eloquence; pass
over these things as slightly as you can, and rather aim at being
useful and intelligible. Observe how the great and sublime Homer
acts on these occasions! as great a poet as he is, he says nothing
about Tantalus, Ixion, Tityus, and the rest of them. But if
Parthenius, Euphorion, or Callimachus, had treated this subject,
what a number of verses they would have spent in rolling Ixion's
wheel, and bringing the water up to the very lips of Tantalus!
Mark, also, how quickly Thucydides, who is very sparing {66b} of his
descriptions, breaks off when he gives an account of any military
machine, explains the manner of a siege, even though it be ever so
useful and necessary, or describes cities or the port of Syracuse.
Even in his narrative of the plague which seems so long, if you
consider the multiplicity of events, you will find he makes as much
haste as possible, and omits many circumstances, though he was
obliged to retain so many more.
When it is necessary to make any one speak, you must take care to
let him say nothing but what is suitable to the person, and to what
he speaks about, and let everything be clear and intelligible:
here, indeed, you may be permitted to play the orator, and show the
power of eloquence. With regard to praise, or dispraise, you cannot
be too modest and circumspect; they should be strictly just and
impartial, short and seasonable: your evidence otherwise will not
be considered as legal, and you will incur the same censure as
Theopompus {67} did, who finds fault with everybody from enmity and
ill-nature; and dwells so perpetually on this, that he seems rather
to be an accuser than an historian.
If anything occurs that is very extraordinary or incredible, you may
mention without vouching for the truth of it, leaving everybody to
judge for themselves concerning it: by taking no part yourself, you
will remain safe.
Remember, above all, and throughout your work, again and again, I
must repeat it, that you write not with a view to the present times
only, that the age you live in may applaud and esteem you, but with
an eye fixed on posterity; from future ages expect your reward, that
men may say of you, "that man was full of honest freedom, never
flattering or servile, but in all things the friend of truth." This
commendation, the wise man will prefer to all the vain hopes of this
life, which are but of short duration.
Recollect the story of the Cnidian architect, when he built the
tower in Pharos, where the fire is kindled to prevent mariners from
running on the dangerous rocks of Paraetonia, that most noble and
most beautiful of all works; he carved his own name on a part of the
rock on the inside, then covered it over with mortar, and inscribed
on it the name of the reigning sovereign: well knowing that, as it
afterwards happened, in a short space of time these letters would
drop off with the mortar, and discover under it this inscription:
"Sostratus the Cnidian, son of Dexiphanes, to those gods who
preserve the mariner." Thus had he regard not to the times he lived
in, not to his own short existence, but to the present period, and
to all future ages, even as long as his tower shall stand, and his
art remain upon earth.
Thus also should history be written, rather anxious to gain the
approbation of posterity by truth and merit, than to acquire present
applause by adulation and falsehood.
Such are the rules which I would prescribe to the historian, and
which will contribute to the perfection of his work, if he thinks
proper to observe them; if not, at least, I have rolled my tub. {69}
THE TRUE HISTORY.