There is a story of a curious epidemic1 at Abdera, just after the accession of King Lysimachus. It began with the whole population’s exhibiting feverish2 symptoms, strongly marked and unintermittent from the very first attack. About the seventh day, the fever was relieved, in some cases by a violent flow of blood from the nose, in others by perspiration3 not less violent. The mental effects, however, were most ridiculous; they were all stage-struck, mouthing blank verse and ranting4 at the top of their voices. Their favourite recitation was the Andromeda of Euripides; one after another would go through the great speech of Perseus; the whole place was full of pale ghosts, who were our seventh-day tragedians vociferating,
O Love, who lord’st it over Gods and men,
and the rest of it. This continued for some time, till the coming of winter put an end to their madness with a sharp frost. I find the explanation of the form it took in this fact: Archelaus was then the great tragic6 actor, and in the middle of the summer, during some very hot weather, he had played the Andromeda there; most of them took the fever in the theatre, and convalescence7 was followed by a relapse — into tragedy, the Andromeda haunting their memories, and Perseus hovering9, Gorgon10’s head in hand, before the mind’s eye.
Well, to compare like with like, the majority of our educated class is now suffering from an Abderite epidemic. They are not stage-struck, indeed; that would have been a minor11 infatuation — to be possessed12 with other people’s verses, not bad ones either; no; but from the beginning of the present excitements — the barbarian13 war, the Armenian disaster, the succession of victories — you cannot find a man but is writing history; nay15, every one you meet is a Thucydides, a Herodotus, a Xenophon. The old saying must be true, and war be the father of all things 38, seeing what a litter of historians it has now teemed16 forth17 at a birth.
Such sights and sounds, my Philo, brought into my head that old anecdote18 about the Sinopean. A report that Philip was marching on the town had thrown all Corinth into a bustle19; one was furbishing his arms, another wheeling stones, a third patching the wall, a fourth strengthening a battlement, every one making himself useful somehow or other. Diogenes having nothing to do — of course no one thought of giving him a job — was moved by the sight to gird up his philosopher’s cloak and begin rolling his tub-dwelling20 energetically up and down the Craneum; an acquaintance asked, and got, the explanation: ‘I do not want to be thought the only idler in such a busy multitude; I am rolling my tub to be like the rest.’
I too am reluctant to be the only dumb man at so vociferous22 a season; I do not like walking across the stage, like a ‘super’, in gaping23 silence; so I decided24 to roll my cask as best I could. I do not intend to write a history, or attempt actual narrative25; I am not courageous26 enough for that; have no apprehensions27 on my account; I realize the danger of rolling the thing over the rocks, especially if it is only a poor little jar of brittle28 earthenware29 like mine; I should very soon knock against some pebble30 and find myself picking up the pieces. Come, I will tell you my idea for campaigning in safety, and keeping well out of range.
Give a wide berth31 to all that foam32 and spray, and to the anxieties which vex33 the historian — that I shall be wise enough to do; but I propose to give a little advice, and lay down a few principles for the benefit of those who do venture. I shall have a share in their building, if not in the dedicatory inscription36; my finger-tips will at least have touched their wet mortar37.
However, most of them see no need for advice here: there might as well be an art of talking, seeing, or eating; history-writing is perfectly38 easy, comes natural, is a universal gift; all that is necessary is the faculty39 of translating your thoughts into words. But the truth is — you know it without my telling, old friend — it is not a task to be lightly undertaken, or carried through without effort; no, it needs as much care as any sort of composition whatever, if one means to create ‘a possession for ever,’ as Thucydides calls it. Well, I know I shall not get a hearing from many of them, and some will be seriously offended — especially any who have finished and produced their work; in cases where its first reception was favourable40, it would be folly41 to expect the authors to recast or correct; has it not the stamp of finality? is it not almost a State document? Yet even they may profit by my words; we are not likely to be attacked again; we have disposed of all our enemies; but there might be a Celto–Gothic or an Indo–Bactrian war; then our friends’ composition might be improved by the application of my measuring-rod — always supposing that they recognize its correctness; failing that, let them do their own mensuration with the old foot-rule; the doctor will not particularly mind, though all Abdera insists on spouting42 the Andromeda.
Advice has two provinces — one of choice, the other of avoidance; let us first decide what the historian is to avoid — of what faults he must purge43 himself — and then proceed to the measures he must take for putting himself on the straight high road. This will include the manner of his beginning, the order in which he should marshal his facts, the questions of proportion, of discreet44 silence, of full or cursory45 narration46, of comment and connexion. Of all that, however, later on; for the present we deal with the vices47 to which bad writers are liable. As to those faults of diction, construction, meaning, and general amateurishness48, which are common to every kind of composition, to discuss them is neither compatible with my space nor relevant to my purpose.
But there are mistakes peculiar49 to history; your own observation will show you just those which a constant attendance at authors’ readings 39 has impressed on me; you have only to keep your ears open at every opportunity. It will be convenient, however, to refer by the way to a few illustrations in recent histories. Here is a serious fault to begin with. It is the fashion to neglect the examination of facts, and give the space gained to eulogies50 of generals and commanders; those of their own side they exalt51 to the skies, the other side they disparage52 intemperately53. They forget that between history and panegyric54 there is a great gulf55 fixed56, barring communication; in musical phrase, the two things are a couple of octaves apart. The panegyrist has only one concern — to commend and gratify his living theme some way or other; if misrepresentation will serve his purpose, he has no objection to that. History, on the other hand, abhors57 the intrusion of any least scruple58 of falsehood; it is like the windpipe, which the doctors tell us will not tolerate a morsel59 of stray food.
Another thing these gentlemen seem not to know is that poetry and history offer different wares60, and have their separate rules. Poetry enjoys unrestricted freedom; it has but one law — the poet’s fancy. He is inspired and possessed by the Muses61; if he chooses to horse his car with winged steeds, or set others a-galloping over the sea, or standing62 corn, none challenges his right; his Zeus, with a single cord, may haul up earth and sea, and hold them dangling63 together — there is no fear the cord may break, the load come tumbling down and be smashed to atoms. In a complimentary64 picture of Agamemnon, there is nothing against his having Zeus’s head and eyes, his brother Posidon’s chest, Ares’s belt — in fact, the son of Atreus and Aerope will naturally be an epitome65 of all Divinity; Zeus or Posidon or Ares could not singly or severally provide the requisite66 perfections. But, if history adopts such servile arts, it is nothing but poetry without the wings; the exalted67 tones are missing; and imposition of other kinds without the assistance of metre is only the more easily detected. It is surely a great, a superlative weakness, this inability to distinguish history from poetry; what, bedizen history, like her sister, with tale and eulogy68 and their attendant exaggerations? as well take some mighty69 athlete with muscles of steel, rig him up with purple drapery and meretricious70 ornament72, rouge73 and powder his cheeks; faugh, what an object would one make of him with such defilements!
I would not be understood to exclude eulogy from history altogether; it is to be kept to its place and used with moderation, is not to tax the reader’s patience; I shall presently show, indeed, that in all such matters an eye is to be had to posterity74. It is true, there is a school which makes a pretty division of history into the agreeable and the useful, and defends the introduction of panegyric on the ground that it is agreeable, and pleases the general reader. But nothing could be further from the truth. In the first place the division is quite a false one; history has only one concern and aim, and that is the useful; which again has one single source, and that is truth. The agreeable is no doubt an addition, if it is present; so is beauty to an athlete; but a Nicostratus, who is a fine fellow and proves himself a better man than either of his opponents, gets his recognition as a Heracles, however ugly his face may be; and if one opponent is the handsome Alcaeus himself — handsome enough to make Nicostratus in love with him, says the story — that does not affect the issue. History too, if it can deal incidentally in the agreeable, will attract a multitude of lovers; but so long as it does its proper business efficiently75 — and that is the establishment of truth — it may be indifferent to beauty.
It is further to be remarked, that in history sheer extravagance has not even the merit of being agreeable; and the extravagance of eulogy is doubly repulsive76, as extravagance, and as eulogy; at least it is only welcome to the vulgar majority, not to that critical, that perhaps hypercritical audience, whom no slip can escape, who are all eyes like Argus, but keener than he, who test every word as a moneychanger might his coins, rejecting the false on the spot, but accepting the good and heavy and true; it is they that we should have in mind as we write history, and never heed77 the others, though they applaud till they crack their voices. If you neglect the critics, and indulge in the cloying78 sweetness of tales and eulogies and such baits, you will soon find your history a ‘Heracles in Lydia.’ No doubt you have seen some picture of him: he is Omphale’s slave, dressed up in an absurd costume, his lion-skin and club transferred to her, as though she were the true Heracles, while he, in saffron robe and purple jacket, is combing wool and wincing79 under Omphale’s slipper80. A degrading spectacle it is — the dress loose and flapping open, and all that was man in him turned to woman.
The vulgar may very likely extend their favour to this; but the select (whose judgement you disregard) will get a good deal of entertainment out of your heterogeneous81, disjointed, fragmentary stuff. There is nothing which has not a beauty of its own; but take it out of its proper sphere, and the misuse82 turns its beauty to ugliness. Eulogy, I need hardly say, may possibly please one person, the eulogized, but will disgust every one else; this is particularly so with the monstrous83 exaggerations which are in fashion; the authors are so intent on the patron-hunt that they cannot relinquish84 it without a full exhibition of servility; they have no idea of finesse85, never mask their flattery, but blurt86 out their unconvincing bald tale anyhow.
The consequence is, they miss even their immediate87 end; the objects of their praise are more inclined (and quite right too) to dislike and discard them for toadies88 — if they are men of spirit, at any rate. Aristobulus inserted in his history an account of a single combat between Alexander and Porus, and selected this passage to read aloud to the former; he reckoned that his best chance of pleasing was to invent heroic deeds for the king, and heighten his achievements. Well, they were on board ship in the Hydaspes; Alexander took hold of the book, and tossed it overboard; ‘the author should have been treated the same way, by rights,’ he added, ‘for presuming to fight duels89 for me like that, and shoot down elephants single-handed.’ A very natural indignation in Alexander, of a piece with his treatment of the intrusive90 architect; this person offered to convert the whole of Mount Athos into a colossal91 statue of the king — who however decided that he was a toady92, and actually gave him less employment in ordinary than before.
The fact is, there is nothing agreeable in these things, except to any one who is fool enough to enjoy commendations which the slightest inquiry93 will prove to be unfounded; of course there are ugly persons — women more especially — who ask artists to paint them as beautiful as they can; they think they will be really better-looking if the painter heightens the rose a little and distributes a good deal of the lily. There you have the origin of the present crowd of historians, intent only upon the passing day, the selfish interest, the profit which they reckon to make out of their work; execration94 is their desert — in the present for their undisguised clumsy flattery, in the future for the stigma95 which their exaggerations bring upon history in general. If any one takes some admixture of the agreeable to be an absolute necessity, let him be content with the independent beauties of style; these are agreeable without being false; but they are usually neglected now, for the better foisting96 upon us of irrelevant97 substitutes.
Passing from that point, I wish to put on record some fresh recollections of Ionian histories — supported, now I think of it, by Greek analogies also of recent date — both concerned with the war already alluded98 to. You may trust my report, the Graces be my witness; I would take oath to its truth, if it were polite to swear on paper. One writer started with invoking99 the Muses to lend a hand. What a tasteful exordium! How suited to the historic spirit! How appropriate to the style! When he had got a little way on, he compared our ruler to Achilles, and the Parthian king to Thersites; he forgot that Achilles would have done better if he had had Hector instead of Thersites to beat, if there had been a man of might fleeing in front,
But at his heels a mightier100 far than he.
He next proceeded to say something handsome about himself, as a fit chronicler of such brilliant deeds. As he got near his point of departure, he threw in a word for his native town of Miletus, adding that he was thus improving on Homer, who never so much as mentioned his birthplace. And he concluded his preface with a plain express promise to advance our cause and personally wage war against the barbarians101, to the best of his ability. The actual history, and recital102 of the causes of hostilities103, began with these words:—‘The detestable Vologesus (whom Heaven confound!) commenced war on the following pretext104.’
Enough of him. Another is a keen emulator105 of Thucydides, and by way of close approximation to his model starts with his own name — most graceful106 of beginnings, redolent of Attic107 thyme! Look at it: ‘Crepereius Calpurnianus of Pompeiopolis wrote the history of the war between Parthia and Rome, how they warred one upon the other, beginning with the commencement of the war.’ After that exordium, what need to describe the rest — what harangues108 he delivers in Armenia, resuscitating109 our old friend the Corcyrean envoy110 — what a plague he inflicts111 on Nisibis (which would not espouse112 the Roman cause), lifting the whole thing bodily from Thucydides — except the Pelasgicum and the Long Walls, where the victims of the earlier plague found shelter; there the difference ends; like the other, ‘it began in Ethiopia, whence it descended113 to Egypt,’ and to most of the Parthian empire, where it very discreetly114 remained. I left him engaged in burying the poor Athenians in Nisibis, and knew quite well how he would continue after my exit. Indeed it is a pretty common belief at present that you are writing like Thucydides, if you just use his actual words, mutatis mutandis. 40 Ah, and I almost forgot to mention one thing: this same writer gives many names of weapons and military engines in Latin — phossa for trench115, pons for bridge, and so forth. Just think of the dignity of history, and the Thucydidean style — the Attic embroidered116 with these Latin words, like a toga relieved and picked out with the purple stripe — so harmonious117!
Another puts down a bald list of events, as prosy and commonplace as a private’s or a carpenter’s or a sutler’s diary. However, there is more sense in this poor man’s performance; he flies his true colours from the first; he has cleared the ground for some educated person who knows how to deal with history. The only fault I have to find with him is that he inscribes118 his volumes with a solemnity rather disproportioned to the rank of their contents —‘Parthian History, by Callimorphus, Surgeon of the 6th Pikemen, volume so-and-so.’ Ah, yes, and there is a lamentable119 preface, which closes with the remark that, since Asclepius is the son of Apollo, and Apollo director of the Muses and patron of all culture, it is very proper for a doctor to write history. Also, he starts in Ionic, but very soon, for no apparent reason, abandons it for every-day Greek, still keeping the Ionic es and ks and ous, but otherwise writing like ordinary people — rather too ordinary, indeed.
Perhaps I should balance him with a philosophic120 historian; this gentleman’s name I will conceal121, and merely indicate his attitude, as revealed in a recent publication at Corinth. Much had been expected of him, but not enough; starting straight off with the first sentence of the preface, he subjects his readers to a dialectic catechism, his thesis being the highly philosophic one, that no one but a philosopher should write history. Very shortly there follows a second logical process, itself followed by a third; in fact the whole preface is one mass of dialectic figures. There is flattery, indeed, ad nauseam, eulogy vulgar to the point of farce122; but never without the logical trimmings; always that dialectical catechism. I confess it strikes me as a vulgarity also, hardly worthy123 of a philosopher with so long and white a beard, when he gives it in his preface as our ruler’s special good fortune that philosophers should consent to record his actions; he had better have left us to reach that conclusion for ourselves — if at all.
Again, it would be a sinful neglect to omit the man who begins like this:—‘I devise to tell of Romans and Persians’; then a little later, ‘For ’twas Heaven’s decree that the Persians should suffer evils’; and again, ‘One Osroes there was, whom Hellenes name Oxyroes’— and much more in that style. He corresponds, you see, to one of my previous examples; only he is a second Herodotus, and the other a second Thucydides.
There is another distinguished124 artist in words — again rather more Thucydidean than Thucydides — who gives, according to his own idea, the clearest, most convincing descriptions of every town, mountain, plain, or river. I wish my bitterest foe125 no worse fate than the reading of them. Frigid126? Caspian snows, Celtic ice, are warm in comparison. A whole book hardly suffices him for the Emperor’s shield — the Gorgon on its boss, with eyes of blue and white and black, rainbow girdle, and snakes twined and knotted. Why, Vologesus’s breeches or his bridle127, God bless me, they take up several thousand lines apiece; the same for the look of Osroes’s hair as he swims the Tigris — or what the cave was like that sheltered him, ivy128 and myrtle and bay clustered all together to shut out every ray of light. You observe how indispensable it all is to the history; without the scene, how could we have comprehended the action?
It is helplessness about the real essentials, or ignorance of what should be given, that makes them take refuge in word-painting — landscapes, caves, and the like; and when they do come upon a series of important matters, they are just like a slave whose master has left him his money and made him a rich man; he does not know how to put on his clothes or take his food properly; partridges or sweetbreads or hare are served; but he rushes in, and fills himself up with pea soup or salt fish, till he is fit to burst. Well, the man I spoke129 of gives the most unconvincing wounds and singular deaths: some one has his big toe injured, and dies on the spot; the general Priscus calls out, and seven-and-twenty of the enemy fall dead at the sound. As to the numbers killed, he actually falsifies dispatches; at Europus he slaughters130 70,236 of the enemy, while the Romans lose two, and have seven wounded! How any man of sense can tolerate such stuff, I do not know.
Here is another point quite worth mention. This writer has such a passion for unadulterated Attic, and for refining speech to the last degree of purity, that he metamorphoses the Latin names and translates them into Greek; Saturninus figures as Cronius, Fronto must be Phrontis, Titianus Titanius, with queerer transmogrifications yet. Further, on the subject of Severian’s death, he accuses all other writers of a blunder in putting him to the sword; he is really to have starved himself to death, as the most painless method; the fact, however, is that it was all over in three days, whereas seven days is the regular time for starvation; are we perhaps to conceive an Osroes waiting about for Severian to complete the process, and putting off his assault till after the seventh day?
Then, Philo, how shall we class the historians who indulge in poetical131 phraseology? ‘The catapult rocked responsive,’ they say; ‘Loud thundered the breach’; or, somewhere else in this delectable133 history, ‘Thus Edessa was girdled with clash of arms, and all was din35 and turmoil,’ or, ‘The general pondered in his heart how to attack the wall.’ Only he fills up the interstices with such wretched common lower-class phrases as ‘The military prefect wrote His Majesty134,’ ‘The troops were procuring135 the needful,’ ‘They got a wash 41 and put in an appearance,’ and so on. It is like an actor with one foot raised on a high buskin, and the other in a slipper.
You will find others writing brilliant high-sounding prefaces of outrageous136 length, raising great expectations of the wonders to follow — and then comes a poor little appendix of a — history; it is like nothing in the world but a child — say the Eros you must have seen in a picture playing in an enormous mask of Heracles or a Titan; parturiunt montes, cries the audience, very naturally. That is not the way to do things; the whole should be homogeneous and uniform, and the body in proportion to the head — not a helmet of gold, a ridiculous breastplate patched up out of rags or rotten leather, shield of wicker, and pig-skin greaves. You will find plenty of historians prepared to set the Rhodian Colossus’s head on the body of a dwarf137; others on the contrary show us headless bodies, and plunge138 into the facts without exordium. These plead the example of Xenophon, who starts with ‘Darius and Parysatis had two children’; if they only knew it, there is such a thing as a virtual exordium, not realized as such by everybody; but of that hereafter.
However, any mistake in mere71 expression or arrangement is excusable; but when you come to fancy geography, differing from the other not by miles or leagues, but by whole days’ journeys, where is the classical model for that? One writer has taken so little trouble with his facts — never met a Syrian, I suppose, nor listened to the stray information you may pick up at the barber’s — that he thus locates Europus:—‘Europus lies in Mesopotamia, two days’ journey from the Euphrates, and is a colony from Edessa.’ Not content with that, this enterprising person has in the same book taken up my native Samosata and shifted it, citadel139, walls, and all, into Mesopotamia, giving it the two rivers for boundaries, and making them shave past it, all but touching140 the walls on either side. I suspect you would laugh at me, Philo, if I were to set about convincing you that I am neither Parthian nor Mesopotamian, as this whimsical colony-planter makes me.
By the way, he has also a very attractive tale of Severian, learnt, he assures us on oath, from one of the actual fugitives141. According to this, he would not die by the sword, the rope, or poison, but contrived142 a death which should be tragic and impressive. He was the owner of some large goblets143 of the most precious glass; having made up his mind to die, he broke the largest of these, and used a splinter of it for the purpose, cutting his throat with the glass. A dagger144 or a lancet, good enough instruments for a manly145 and heroic death, he could not come at, forsooth!
Then, as Thucydides composed a funeral oration146 over the first victims of that old war, our author feels it incumbent147 on him to do the same for Severian; they all challenge Thucydides, you see, little as he can be held responsible for the Armenian troubles. So he buries Severian, and then solemnly ushers148 up to the grave, as Pericles’s rival, one Afranius Silo, a centurion149; the flood of rhetoric150 which follows is so copious151 and remarkable152 that it drew tears from me — ye Graces! — tears of laughter; most of all where the eloquent153 Afranius, drawing to a close, makes mention, with weeping and distressful154 moans, of all those costly155 dinners and toasts. But he is a very Ajax in his conclusion. He draws his sword, gallantly156 as an Afranius should, and in sight of all cuts his throat over the grave — and God knows it was high time for an execution, if oratory157 can be felony. The historian states that all the spectators admired and lauded158 Afranius; as for me, I was inclined to condemn159 him on general grounds — he had all but given a catalogue of sauces and dishes, and shed tears over the memory of departed cakes — but his capital offence was that he had not cut the historian-tragedian’s throat before he left this life himself.
I assure you, my friend, I could largely increase my list of such offenders160; but one or two more will suffice, before proceeding161 to the second part of my undertaking162, the suggestions for improvement. There are some, then, who leave alone, or deal very cursorily163 with, all that is great and memorable164; amateurs and not artists, they have no selective faculty, and loiter over copious laboured descriptions of the veriest trifles; it is as if a visitor to Olympia, instead of examining, commending or describing to his stay-at-home friends the general greatness and beauty of the Zeus, were to be struck with the exact symmetry and polish of its footstool, or the proportions of its shoe, and give all his attention to these minor points.
For instance, I have known a man get through the battle of Europus in less than seven whole lines, and then spend twenty mortal hours on a dull and perfectly irrelevant tale about a Moorish166 trooper. The trooper’s name was Mausacas; he wandered up the hills in search of water, and came upon some Syrian yokels167 getting their lunch; at first they were afraid of him, but when they found he was on the right side, they invited him to share the meal; for one of them had travelled in the Moorish country, having a brother serving in the army. Then come long stories and descriptions of how he hunted there, and saw a great herd168 of elephants at pasture, and was nearly eaten up by a lion, and what huge fish he had bought at Caesarea. So this quaint21 historian leaves the terrible carnage to go on at Europus, and lets the pursuit, the forced armistice169, the settling of outposts, shift for themselves, while he lingers far into the evening watching Malchion the Syrian cheapen big mackarel at Caesarea; if night had not come all too soon, I dare say he would have dined with him when the fish was cooked. If all this had not been accurately170 set down in the history, what sad ignorance we should have been left in! The loss to the Romans would have been irreparable, if Mausacas the Moor165 had got nothing to quench171 his thirst, and come back fasting to camp. Yet I am wilfully172 omitting innumerable details of yet greater importance — the arrival of a flute173-girl from the next village, the exchange of gifts (Mausacas’s was a spear, Malchion’s a brooch), and other incidents most essential to the battle of Europus. It is no exaggeration to say that such writers never give the rose a glance, but devote all their curiosity to the thorns on its stem.
Another entertaining person, who has never set foot outside Corinth, nor travelled as far as its harbour — not to mention seeing Syria or Armenia — starts with words which impressed themselves on my memory:—‘Seeing is believing: I therefore write what I have seen, not what I have been told.’ His personal observation has been so close that he describes the Parthian ‘Dragons’ (they use this ensign as a numerical formula — a thousand men to the Dragon, I believe): they are huge live dragons, he says, breeding in Persian territory beyond Iberia; these are first fastened to great poles and hoisted174 up aloft, striking terror at a distance while the advance is going on; then, when the battle begins, they are released and set on the enemy; numbers of our men, it seems, were actually swallowed by them, and others strangled or crushed in their coils; of all this he was an eye-witness, taking his observations, however, from a safe perch175 up a tree. Thank goodness he did not come to close quarters with the brutes176! we should have lost a very remarkable historian, and one who did doughty177 deeds in this war with his own right hand; for he had many adventures, and was wounded at Sura (in the course of a stroll from the Craneum to Lerna, apparently). All this he used to read to a Corinthian audience, which was perfectly aware that he had never so much as seen a battle-picture. Why, he did not know one weapon or engine from another; the names of manoeuvres and formations had no meaning for him; flank or front, line or column, it was all one.
Then there is a splendid fellow, who has boiled down into the compass of five hundred lines (or less, to be accurate) the whole business from beginning to end — campaigns in Armenia, in Syria, in Mesopotamia, on the Tigris, and in Media; and having done it, he calls it a history. His title very narrowly misses being longer than his book: ‘An account of the late campaigns of the Romans in Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Media, by Antiochianus, victor at the festival of Apollo’; he had probably won some junior flat race.
I have known one writer compile a history of the future, including the capture of Vologesus, the execution of Osroes (he is to be thrown to the lions), and, crowning all, our long-deferred triumph. In this prophetic vein178, he sweeps hastily on to the end of his work; yet he finds time for the foundation in Mesopotamia of a city, greatest of the great, and fairest of the fair; he is still debating, however, whether the most appropriate name will be Victoria, Concord179, or Peacetown; that is yet unsettled; we must leave the fair city unnamed for the present; but it is already thickly populated — with empty dreams and literary drivellings. He has also pledged himself to an account of coming events in India, and a circumnavigation of the Atlantic; nay, the pledge is half redeemed180; the preface to the India is complete; the third legion, the Celtic contingent181, and a small Moorish division, have crossed the Indus in full force under Cassius; our most original historian will soon be posting us up in their doings — their method of ‘receiving elephants,’ for instance — in letters dated Muziris or Oxydracae.
These people’s uneducated antics are infinite; they have no eyes for the noteworthy, nor, if they had eyes, any adequate faculty of expression; invention and fiction provide their matter, and belief in the first word that comes their style; they pride themselves on the number of books they run to, and yet more on their titles; for these again are quite absurd:— So-and-so’s so many books of Parthian victories; The Parthis, book I; The Parthis, book II— quite a rival to the Atthis, eh? Another does it (I have read the book) still more neatly182 —‘The Parthonicy of Demetrius of Sagalassus.’ I do not wish to ridicule184 or make a jest of these pretty histories; I write for a practical purpose: any one who avoids these and similar errors is already well on the road to historical success; nay, he is almost there, if the logical axiom is correct, that, with incompatibles, denial of the one amounts to affirmation of the other.
Well, I may be told, you have now a clear field; the thorns and brambles have all been extirpated185, the debris186 of others’ buildings has been carted of, the rough places have been made smooth; come, do a little construction yourself, and show that you are not only good at destroying, but capable of yourself planning a model, in which criticism itself shall find nothing to criticize.
Well then, my perfect historian must start with two indispensable qualifications; the one is political insight, the other the faculty of expression; the first is a gift of nature, which can never be learnt; the second should have been acquired by long practice, unremitting toil187, and loving study of the classics. There is nothing technical here, and no room for any advice of mine; this essay does not profess188 to bestow189 insight and acumen190 on those who are not endowed with them by nature; valuable, or invaluable191 rather, would it have been, if it could recast and modify like that, transmute192 lead into gold, tin into silver, magnify a Conon or Leotrophides into Titormus or Milo.
But what is the function of professional advice? not the creation of qualities which should be already there, but the indication of their proper use. No trainer, of course — let him be Iccus, Herodicus, Theon, or who he may — will suggest that he can take a Perdiccas 42 and make an Olympic victor of him, fit to face Theagenes of Thasos or Polydamas of Scotussa; what he will tell you is that, given a constitution that will stand training, his system will considerably193 improve it. So with us — we are not to have every failure cast in our teeth, if we claim to have invented a system for so great and difficult a subject. We do not offer to take the first comer and make a historian of him — only to point out to any one who has natural insight and acquired literary skill certain straight roads (they may or may not be so in reality) which will bring him with less waste of time and effort to his goal.
I do not suppose you will object that the man with insight has no need of system and instruction upon the things he is ignorant of; in that case he might have played the harp5 or flute untaught, and in fact have been omniscient194. But, as things are at present, he cannot perform in these ways untaught, though with some assistance he will learn very easily, and soon be able to get along by himself.
You now know what sort of a pupil I (like the trainer) insist upon. He must not be weak either at understanding or at making himself understood, but a man of penetration195, a capable administrator196 — potentially, that is, — with a soldierly spirit (which does not however exclude the civil spirit), and some military experience; at the least he must have been in camp, seen troops drilled or manoeuvred, know a little about weapons and military engines, the differences between line and column, cavalry197 and infantry198 tactics (with the reasons for them), frontal and flank attacks; in a word, none of your armchair strategists relying wholly on hearsay199.
But first and foremost, let him be a man of independent spirit, with nothing to fear or hope from anybody; else he will be a corrupt200 judge open to undue201 influences. If Philip’s eye is knocked out at Olynthus by Aster14 the Amphipolite archer202, it is not his business to exclaim, but just to show him as he is; he is not to think whether Alexander will be annoyed by a circumstantial account of the cruel murder of Clitus at table. If a Cleon has the ear of the assembly, and a monopoly of the tribune, he will not shrink on that account from describing him as a pestilent madman; all Athens will not stop him from dwelling on the Sicilian disaster, the capture of Demosthenes, the death of Nicias, the thirst, the foul203 water, and the shooting down of the drinkers. He will consider very rightly that no man of sense will blame him for recounting the effects of misfortune or folly in their entirety; he is not the author, but only the reporter of them. If a fleet is destroyed, it is not he who sinks it; if there is a rout204, he is not in pursuit — unless perhaps he ought to have prayed for better things, and omitted to do so. Of course, if silence or contradiction would have put matters right, Thucydides might with a stroke of the pen have knocked down the counterwall on Epipolae, sent Hermocrates’s trireme to the bottom, let daylight through the accursed Gylippus before he had done blocking the roads with wall and trench, and, finally, have cast the Syracusans into their own quarries205 and sent the Athenians cruising round Sicily and Italy with Alcibiades’s first high hopes still on board. Alas183, not Fate itself may undo206 the work of Fate.
The historian’s one task is to tell the thing as it happened. This he cannot do, if he is Artaxerxes’s physician 43 trembling before him, or hoping to get a purple cloak, a golden chain, a horse of the Nisaean breed, in payment for his laudations. A fair historian, a Xenophon, a Thucydides, will not accept that position. He may nurse some private dislikes, but he will attach far more importance to the public good, and set the truth high above his hate; he may have his favourites, but he will not spare their errors. For history, I say again, has this and this only for its own; if a man will start upon it, he must sacrifice to no God but Truth; he must neglect all else; his sole rule and unerring guide is this — to think not of those who are listening to him now, but of the yet unborn who shall seek his converse207.
Any one who is intent only upon the immediate effect may reasonably be classed among the flatterers; and History has long ago realized that flattery is as little congenial to her as the arts of personal adornment208 to an athlete’s training. An anecdote of Alexander is to the point. ‘Ah, Onesicritus,’ said he, ‘how I should like to come to life again for a little while, and see how your stuff strikes people by that time; at present they have good enough reason to praise and welcome it; that is their way of angling for a share of my favour.’ On the same principle some people actually accept Homer’s history of Achilles, full of exaggerations as it is; the one great guarantee which they recognize of his truth is the fact that his subject was not living; that leaves him no motive209 for lying.
There stands my model, then: fearless, incorruptible, independent, a believer in frankness and veracity210; one that will call a spade a spade, make no concession211 to likes and dislikes, nor spare any man for pity or respect or propriety212; an impartial213 judge, kind to all, but too kind to none; a literary cosmopolite with neither suzerain nor king, never heeding214 what this or that man may think, but setting down the thing that befell.
Thucydides is our noble legislator; he marked the admiration215 that met Herodotus and gave the Muses’ names to his nine books; and thereupon he drew the line which parts a good historian from a bad: our work is to be a possession for ever, not a bid for present reputation; we are not to seize upon the sensational216, but bequeath the truth to them that come after; he applies the test of use, and defines the end which a wise historian will set before himself: it is that, should history ever repeat itself, the records of the past may give present guidance.
Such are to be my historian’s principles. As for diction and style, he is not to set about his work armed to the teeth from the rhetorician’s arsenal217 of impetuosity and incisiveness218, rolling periods, close-packed arguments, and the rest; for him a serener219 mood. His matter should be homogeneous and compact, his vocabulary fit to be understanded of the people, for the clearest possible setting forth of his subject.
For to those marks which we set up for the historic spirit — frankness and truth — corresponds one at which the historic style should first of all aim, namely, a lucidity221 which leaves nothing obscure, impartially222 avoiding abstruse223 out-of-the-way expressions, and the illiberal224 jargon225 of the market; we wish the vulgar to comprehend, the cultivated to commend us. Ornament should be unobtrusive, and never smack226 of elaboration, if it is not to remind us of over-seasoned dishes.
The historian’s spirit should not be without a touch of the poetical; it needs, like poetry, to employ impressive and exalted tones, especially when it finds itself in the midst of battle array and conflicts by land or sea; it is then that the poetic132 gale227 must blow to speed the vessel228 on, and help her ride the waves in majesty. But the diction is to be content with terra firma, rising a little to assimilate itself to the beauty and grandeur229 of the subject, but never startling the hearer, nor forgetting a due restraint; there is great risk at such times of its running wild and falling into poetic frenzy230; and then it is that writers should hold themselves in with bit and bridle; with them as with horses an uncontrollable temper means disaster. At these times it is best for the spirit to go a-horseback, and the expression to run beside on foot, holding on to the saddle so as not to be outstripped231.
As to the marshalling of your words, a moderate compromise is desirable between the harshness which results from separating what belongs together, and the jingling232 concatenations — one may almost call them — which are so common; one extreme is a definite vice34, and the other repellent.
Facts are not to be collected at haphazard233, but with careful, laborious234, repeated investigation235; when possible, a man should have been present and seen for himself; failing that, he should prefer the disinterested236 account, selecting the informants least likely to diminish or magnify from partiality. And here comes the occasion for exercising the judgement in weighing probabilities.
The material once complete, or nearly so, an abstract should be made of it, and a rough draught237 of the whole work put down, not yet distributed into its parts; the detailed238 arrangement should then be introduced, after which adornment may be added, the diction receive its colour, the phrasing and rhythm be perfected.
The historian’s position should now be precisely239 that of Zeus in Homer, surveying now the Mysians’, now the Thracian horsemen’s land. Even so he will survey now his own party (telling us what we looked like to him from his post of vantage), now the Persians, and yet again both at once, if they come to blows. And when they are face to face, his eyes are not to be on one division, nor yet on one man, mounted or afoot — unless it be a Brasidas leading the forlorn hope, or a Demosthenes repelling240 it; his attention should be for the generals first of all; their exhortations241 should be recorded, the dispositions242 they make, and the motives243 and plans that prompted them. When the engagement has begun, he should give us a bird’s-eye view of it, show the scales oscillating, and accompany pursuers and pursued alike.
All this, however, with moderation; a subject is not to be ridden to death; no neglect of proportion, no childish engrossment, but easy transitions. He should call a halt here, while he crosses over to another set of operations which demands attention; that settled up, he can return to the first set, now ripe for him; he must pass swiftly to each in turn, keeping his different lines of advance as nearly as possible level, fly from Armenia to Media, thence swoop244 straight upon Iberia, and then take wing for Italy, everywhere present at the nick of time.
He has to make of his brain a mirror, unclouded, bright, and true of surface; then he will reflect events as they presented themselves to him, neither distorted, discoloured, nor variable. Historians are not writing fancy school essays; what they have to say is before them, and will get itself said somehow, being solid fact; their task is to arrange and put it into words; they have not to consider what to say, but how to say it. The historian, we may say, should be like Phidias, Praxiteles, Alcamenes, or any great sculptor245. They similarly did not create the gold, silver, ivory, or other material they used; it was ready to their hands, provided by Athens, Elis, or Argos; they only made the model, sawed, polished, cemented, proportioned the ivory, and plated it with gold; that was what their art consisted in-the right arrangement of their material. The historian’s business is similar — to superinduce upon events the charm of order, and set them forth in the most lucid220 fashion he can manage. When subsequently a hearer feels as though he were looking at what is being told him, and expresses his approval, then our historical Phidias’s work has reached perfection, and received its appropriate reward.
When all is ready, a writer will sometimes start without formal preface, if there is no pressing occasion to clear away preliminaries by that means, though even then his explanation of what he is to say constitutes a virtual preface.
When a formal preface is used, one of the three objects to which a public speaker devotes his exordium may be neglected; the historian, that is, has not to bespeak246 goodwill247 — only attention and an open mind. The way to secure the reader’s attention is to show that the affairs to be narrated248 are great in themselves, throw light on Destiny, or come home to his business and bosom249; and as to the open mind, the lucidity in the body of the work, which is to secure that, will be facilitated by a preliminary view of the causes in operation and a precise summary of events.
Prefaces of this character have been employed by the best historians — by Herodotus, ‘to the end that what befell may not grow dim by lapse8 of time, seeing that it was great and wondrous250, and showed forth withal Greeks vanquishing251 and barbarians vanquished’; and by Thucydides, ‘believing that that war would be great and memorable beyond any previous one; for indeed great calamities252 took place during its course.’
After the preface, long or short in proportion to the subject, should come an easy natural transition to the narrative; for the body of the history which remains253 is nothing from beginning to end but a long narrative; it must therefore be graced with the narrative virtues254 — smooth, level, and consistent progress, neither soaring nor crawling, and the charm of lucidity — which is attained255, as I remarked above, partly by the diction, and partly by the treatment of connected events. For, though all parts must be independently perfected, when the first is complete the second will be brought into essential connexion with it, and attached like one link of a chain to another; there must be no possibility of separating them; no mere bundle of parallel threads; the first is not simply to be next to the second, but part of it, their extremities256 intermingling.
Brevity is always desirable, and especially where matter is abundant; and the problem is less a grammatical than a substantial one; the solution, I mean, is to deal summarily with all immaterial details, and give adequate treatment to the principal events; much, indeed, is better omitted altogether. Suppose yourself giving a dinner, and extremely well provided; there is pastry257, game, kickshaws without end, wild boar, hare, sweetbreads; well, you will not produce among these a pike, or a bowl of peasoup, just because they are there in the kitchen; you will dispense258 with such common things.
Restraint in descriptions of mountains, walls, rivers, and the like, is very important; you must not give the impression that you are making a tasteless display of word-painting, and expatiating259 independently while the history takes care of itself. Just a light touch — no more than meets the need of clearness — and you should pass on, evading260 the snare261, and denying yourself all such indulgences. You have the mighty Homer’s example in such a case; poet as he is, he yet hurries past Tantalus and Ixion, Tityus and the rest of them. If Parthenius, Euphorion, or Callimachus had been in his place, how many lines do you suppose it would have taken to get the water to Tantalus’s lip; how many more to set Ixion spinning? Better still, mark how Thucydides — a very sparing dealer262 in description — leaves the subject at once, as soon as he has given an idea (very necessary and useful, too) of an engine or a siege-operation, of the conformation of Epipolae, or the Syracusan harbour. It may occur to you that his account of the plague is long; but you must allow for the subject; then you will appreciate his brevity; he is hastening on; it is only that the weight of matter holds him back in spite of himself.
When it comes in your way to introduce a speech, the first requirement is that it should suit the character both of the speaker and of the occasion; the second is (once more) lucidity; but in these cases you have the counsel’s right of showing your eloquence263.
Not so with praise or censure264; these should be sparing, cautious, avoiding hypercriticism and producing proofs, always brief, and never intrusive; historical characters are not prisoners on trial. Without these precautions you will share the ill name of Theopompus, who delights in flinging accusations265 broadcast, makes a business of the thing in fact, and of himself rather a public prosecutor266 than a historian.
It may occasionally happen that some extraordinary story has to be introduced; it should be simply narrated, without guarantee of its truth, thrown down for any one to make what he can of it; the writer takes no risks and shows no preference.
But the general principle I would have remembered — it will ever be on my lips — is this: do not write merely with an eye to the present, that those now living may commend and honour you; aim at eternity267, compose for posterity, and from it ask your reward; and that reward? — that it be said of you, ‘This was a man indeed, free and free-spoken; flattery and servility were not in him; he was truth all through.’ It is a name which a man of judgement might well prefer to all the fleeting268 hopes of the present.
Do you know the story of the great Cnidian architect? He was the builder of that incomparable work, whether for size or beauty, the Pharus tower. Its light was to warn ships far out at sea, and save them from running on the Paraetonia, a spot so fatal to all who get among its reefs that escape is said to be hopeless. When the building was done, he inscribed269 on the actual masonry270 his own name, but covered this up with plaster, on which he then added the name of the reigning271 king. He knew that, as happened later, letters and plaster would fall off together, and reveal the words:
Sostratus Son of Dexiphanes of Cnidus on Behalf of All Mariners272 to the Saviour273 Gods
He looked not, it appears, to that time, nor to the space of his own little life, but to this time, and to all time, as long as his tower shall stand and his art abide274.
So too should the historian write, consorting275 with Truth and not with flattery, looking to the future hope, not to the gratification of the flattered.
There is your measuring-line for just history. If any one be found to use it, well; I have not written in vain: if none, yet have I rolled my tub on the Craneum.
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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gorgon
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| n.丑陋女人，蛇发女怪 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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aster
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| n.紫菀属植物 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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47
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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amateurishness
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| n.amateurish（业余的）的变形 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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51
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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intemperately
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| adv.过度地，无节制地，放纵地 | |
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panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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57
abhors
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| v.憎恶( abhor的第三人称单数 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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58
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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59
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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60
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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61
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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62
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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63
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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64
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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65
epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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66
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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67
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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68
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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69
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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70
meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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71
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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72
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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73
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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74
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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75
efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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76
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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77
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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78
cloying
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|
| adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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79
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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80
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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81
heterogeneous
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|
| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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82
misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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83
monstrous
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|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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84
relinquish
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|
| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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85
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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86
blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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87
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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88
toadies
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|
| n.谄媚者，马屁精( toady的名词复数 )v.拍马，谄媚( toady的第三人称单数 ) | |
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89
duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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90
intrusive
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|
| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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91
colossal
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|
| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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92
toady
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| v.奉承；n.谄媚者，马屁精 | |
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93
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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94
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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95
stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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96
foisting
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| 强迫接受，把…强加于( foist的现在分词 ) | |
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97
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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98
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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100
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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101
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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102
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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103
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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104
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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105
emulator
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| n.仿真器；仿真程序 | |
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106
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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107
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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108
harangues
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| n.高谈阔论的长篇演讲( harangue的名词复数 )v.高谈阔论( harangue的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
resuscitating
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| v.使（某人或某物）恢复知觉，苏醒( resuscitate的现在分词 ) | |
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110
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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111
inflicts
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的第三人称单数 ) | |
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112
espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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113
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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114
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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115
trench
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|
| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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116
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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117
harmonious
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|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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118
inscribes
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|
| v.写，刻( inscribe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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119
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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120
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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121
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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122
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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123
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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124
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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125
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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126
frigid
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|
| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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127
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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128
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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129
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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130
slaughters
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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131
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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132
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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133
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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134
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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135
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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136
outrageous
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|
| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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137
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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138
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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139
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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140
touching
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|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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141
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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142
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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143
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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144
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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145
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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146
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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147
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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148
ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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149
centurion
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| n.古罗马的百人队长 | |
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150
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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151
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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152
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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153
eloquent
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|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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154
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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155
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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156
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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157
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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158
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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160
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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161
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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162
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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163
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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164
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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165
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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166
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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167
yokels
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| n.乡下佬，土包子( yokel的名词复数 ) | |
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168
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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169
armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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170
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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171
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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172
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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173
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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174
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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176
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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177
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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178
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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179
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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180
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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181
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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182
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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183
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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184
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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185
extirpated
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 )；根除 | |
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186
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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187
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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188
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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189
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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190
acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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191
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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192
transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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193
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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194
omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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195
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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196
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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197
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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198
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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199
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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200
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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201
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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202
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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203
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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204
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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205
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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206
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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207
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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208
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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209
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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210
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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211
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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212
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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213
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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214
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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217
arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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218
incisiveness
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| n.敏锐，深刻 | |
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219
serener
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的比较级形式 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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221
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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222
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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223
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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224
illiberal
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| adj.气量狭小的，吝啬的 | |
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225
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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226
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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227
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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228
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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229
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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230
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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231
outstripped
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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232
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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233
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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234
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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235
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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236
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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237
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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238
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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239
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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240
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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241
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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242
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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243
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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244
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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245
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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246
bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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247
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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248
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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249
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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250
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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251
vanquishing
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| v.征服( vanquish的现在分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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252
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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253
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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254
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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255
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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256
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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257
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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258
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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259
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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260
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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261
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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262
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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263
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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264
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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265
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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266
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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267
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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268
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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269
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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270
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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271
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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272
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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273
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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274
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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275
consorting
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| v.结伴( consort的现在分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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