Trips to the Moon - Lucian
The only business of the historian is to relate things exactly as
they are: this he can never do as long as he is afraid of
Artaxerxes, whose physician {55a} he is; as long as he looks for the
purple robe, the golden chain, or the Nisaean horse, {55b} as the
reward of his labours; but Xenophon, that just writer, will not do
this, nor Thucydides. The good historian, though he may have
private enmity against any man, will esteem the public welfare of
more consequence to him, and will prefer truth to resentment; and,
on the other hand, be he ever so fond of any man, will not spare him
when he is in the wrong; for this, as I before observed, is the most
essential thing in history, to sacrifice to truth alone, and cast
away all care for everything else. The great universal rule and
standard is, to have regard not to those who read now, but to those
who are to peruse our works hereafter.
To speak impartially, the historians of former times were too often
guilty of flattery, and their works were little better than games
and sports, the effects of art. Of Alexander, this memorable saying
is recorded: "I should be glad," said he, "Onesicritus, after my
death, to come to life again for a little time, only to hear what
the people then living will say of me; for I am not surprised that
they praise and caress me now, as every one hopes by baiting well to
catch my favour." Though Homer wrote a great many fabulous things
concerning Achilles, the world was induced to believe him, for this
only reason, because they were written long after his death, and no
cause could be assigned why he should tell lies about him.
The good historian, {56} then, must be thus described: he must be
fearless, uncorrupted, free, the friend of truth and of liberty; one
who, to use the words of the comic poet, calls a fig a fig, {57a}
and a skiff a skiff, neither giving nor withholding from any, from
favour or from enmity, not influenced by pity, by shame, or by
remorse; a just judge, so far benevolent to all as never to give
more than is due to any in his work; a stranger to all, of no
country, bound only by his own laws, acknowledging no sovereign,
never considering what this or that man may say of him, but relating
faithfully everything as it happened.
This rule therefore Thucydides observed, distinguishing properly the
faults and perfections of history: not unmindful of the great
reputation which Herodotus had acquired, insomuch that his books
were called by the names of the Muses. {57b} Thucydides tells us
that he "wrote for posterity, and not for present delight; that he
by no means approved of the fabulous, but was desirous of delivering
down the truth alone to future ages." It is the useful, he adds,
which must constitute the merit of history, that by the
retrospection of what is past, when similar events occur, men may
know how to act in present exigencies.
Such an historian would I wish to have under my care: with regard
to language and expression, I would not have it rough and vehement,
consisting of long periods, {58} or complex arguments; but soft,
quiet, smooth, and peaceable. The reflections, short and frequent,
the style clear and perspicuous; for as freedom and truth should be
the principal perfections of the writer's mind, so, with regard to
language, the great point is to make everything plain and
intelligible, not to use remote and far-fetched phrases or
expressions, at the same time avoiding such as are mean and vulgar:
let it be, in short, what the lowest may understand; and, at the
same time, the most learned cannot but approve. The whole may be
adorned with figure and metaphor, provided they are not turgid or
bombast, nor seem stiff and laboured, which, like meat too highly
seasoned, always give disgust.
History may sometimes assume a poetical form, and rise into a
magnificence of expression, when the subject demands it; and
especially when it is describing armies, battles, and sea-fights.
The Pierian spirit {59} is wanting then to swell the sails with a
propitious breeze, and carry the lofty ship over the tops of the
waves. In general, the diction should creep humbly on the ground,
and only be raised as the grand and beautiful occurring shall
require it; keeping, in the meantime, within proper bounds, and
never soaring into enthusiasm; for then it is in danger of ranging
beyond its limits, into poetic fury: we must then pull in the rein
and act with caution, well knowing that it is the worst vice of a
writer, as well as of a horse, to be wanton and unmanageable. The
best way therefore is, whilst the mind of the historian is on
horseback, for his style to walk on foot, and take hold of the rein,
that it may not be left behind.
With regard to composition, the words should not be so blended and
transposed as to appear harsh and uncouth; nor should you, as some
do, subject them entirely to the rhythmus; {60} one is always
faulty, and the other disagreeable to the reader.
Facts must not be carelessly put together, but with great labour and
attention. If possible, let the historian be an eye-witness of
everything he means to record; or, if that cannot be, rely on those
only who are incorrupt, and who have no bias from passion or
prejudice, to add or to diminish anything. And here much sagacity
will be requisite to find out the real truth. When he has collected
all or most of his materials, he will first make a kind of diary, a
body whose members are not yet distinct; he will then bring it into
order and beautify it, add the colouring of style and language,
adopt his expression to the subject, and harmonise the several parts
of it; then, like Homer's Jupiter, {61} who casts his eye sometimes
on the Thracian, and sometimes on the Mysian forces, he beholds now
the Roman, and now the Persian armies, now both, if they are
engaged, and relates what passes in them. Whilst they are
embattled, his eye is not fixed on any particular part, nor on any
one leader, unless, perhaps, a Brasidas {62a} steps forth to scale
the walls, or a Demosthenes to prevent him. To the generals he
gives his first attention, listens to their commands, their
counsels, and their determination; and, when they come to the
engagement, he weighs in equal scale the actions of both, and
closely attends the pursuer and the pursued, the conqueror and the
conquered. All this must be done with temper and moderation, so as
not to satiate or tire, not inartificially, not childishly, but with
ease and grace. When these things are properly taken care of, he
may turn aside to others, ever ready and prepared for the present
event, keeping time, {62b} as it were, with every circumstance and
event: flying from Armenia to Media, and from thence with
clattering wings to Italy, or to Iberia, that not a moment may
escape him.
The mind of the historian should resemble a looking-glass, shining
clear and exactly true, representing everything as it really is, and
nothing distorted, or of a different form or colour. He writes not
to the masters of eloquence, but simply relates what is done. It is
not his to consider what he shall say, but only how it is to be
said. He may be compared to Phidias, Praxiteles, Alcamenus, or
other eminent artists; for neither did they make the gold, the
silver, the ivory, or any of the materials which they worked upon.
These were supplied by the Elians, the Athenians, and Argives; their
only business was to cut and polish the ivory, to spread the gold
into various forms, and join them together; their art was properly
to dispose what was put into their hands; and such is the work of
the historians, to dispose and adorn the actions of men, and to make
them known with clearness and precision: to represent what he hath
heard, as if he had been himself an eye-witness of it. To perform
this well, and gain the praise resulting from it, is the business of
our historical Phidias.
When everything is thus prepared, he may begin if he pleases without
preface or exordium, unless the subject particularly demands it; he
may supply the place of one, by informing us what he intends to
write upon, in the beginning of the work itself: if, however, he
makes use of any preface, he need not divide it as our orators do,
into three parts, but confine it to two, leaving out his address to
the benevolence of his readers, and only soliciting their attention
and complacency: their attention he may be assured of, if he can
convince them that he is about to speak of things great, or
necessary, or interesting, or useful; nor need he fear their want of
complacency, if he clearly explains to them the causes of things,
and gives them the heads of what he intends to treat of.
Such are the exordiums which our best historians have made use of.
Herodotus tells us, "he wrote his history, lest in process of time
the memory should be lost of those things which in themselves were
great and wonderful, which showed forth the victories of Greece, and
the slaughter of the barbarians;" and Thucydides sets out with
saying, "he thought that war most worthy to be recorded, as greater
than any which had before happened; and that, moreover, some of the
greatest misfortunes had accompanied it." The exordium, in short,
may be lengthened or contracted according to the subject matter, and
the transition from thence to the narration easy and natural. The
body of the history is only a long narrative, and as such it must go
on with a soft and even motion, alike in every part, so that nothing
should stand too forward, or retreat too far behind. Above all, the
style should be clear and perspicuous, which can only arise, as I
before observed, from a harmony in the composition: one thing
perfected, the next which succeeds should be coherent with it; knit
together, as it were, by one common chain, which must never be
broken: they must not be so many separate and distinct narratives,
but each so closely united to what follows, as to appear one
continued series.
Brevity is always necessary, especially when you have a great deal
to say, and this must be proportioned to the facts and circumstances
which you have to relate. In general, you must slightly run through
little things, and dwell longer on great ones. When you treat your
friends, you give them boars, hares, and other dainties; you would
not offer them beans, saperda, {66a} or any other common food.
When you describe mountains, rivers, and bulwarks, avoid all pomp
and ostentation, as if you meant to show your own eloquence; pass
over these things as slightly as you can, and rather aim at being
useful and intelligible. Observe how the great and sublime Homer
acts on these occasions! as great a poet as he is, he says nothing
about Tantalus, Ixion, Tityus, and the rest of them. But if
Parthenius, Euphorion, or Callimachus, had treated this subject,
what a number of verses they would have spent in rolling Ixion's
wheel, and bringing the water up to the very lips of Tantalus!
Mark, also, how quickly Thucydides, who is very sparing {66b} of his
descriptions, breaks off when he gives an account of any military
machine, explains the manner of a siege, even though it be ever so
useful and necessary, or describes cities or the port of Syracuse.
Even in his narrative of the plague which seems so long, if you
consider the multiplicity of events, you will find he makes as much
haste as possible, and omits many circumstances, though he was
obliged to retain so many more.
When it is necessary to make any one speak, you must take care to
let him say nothing but what is suitable to the person, and to what
he speaks about, and let everything be clear and intelligible:
here, indeed, you may be permitted to play the orator, and show the
power of eloquence. With regard to praise, or dispraise, you cannot
be too modest and circumspect; they should be strictly just and
impartial, short and seasonable: your evidence otherwise will not
be considered as legal, and you will incur the same censure as
Theopompus {67} did, who finds fault with everybody from enmity and
ill-nature; and dwells so perpetually on this, that he seems rather
to be an accuser than an historian.
If anything occurs that is very extraordinary or incredible, you may
mention without vouching for the truth of it, leaving everybody to
judge for themselves concerning it: by taking no part yourself, you
will remain safe.
Remember, above all, and throughout your work, again and again, I
must repeat it, that you write not with a view to the present times
only, that the age you live in may applaud and esteem you, but with
an eye fixed on posterity; from future ages expect your reward, that
men may say of you, "that man was full of honest freedom, never
flattering or servile, but in all things the friend of truth." This
commendation, the wise man will prefer to all the vain hopes of this
life, which are but of short duration.
Recollect the story of the Cnidian architect, when he built the
tower in Pharos, where the fire is kindled to prevent mariners from
running on the dangerous rocks of Paraetonia, that most noble and
most beautiful of all works; he carved his own name on a part of the
rock on the inside, then covered it over with mortar, and inscribed
on it the name of the reigning sovereign: well knowing that, as it
afterwards happened, in a short space of time these letters would
drop off with the mortar, and discover under it this inscription:
"Sostratus the Cnidian, son of Dexiphanes, to those gods who
preserve the mariner." Thus had he regard not to the times he lived
in, not to his own short existence, but to the present period, and
to all future ages, even as long as his tower shall stand, and his
art remain upon earth.
Thus also should history be written, rather anxious to gain the
approbation of posterity by truth and merit, than to acquire present
applause by adulation and falsehood.
Such are the rules which I would prescribe to the historian, and
which will contribute to the perfection of his work, if he thinks
proper to observe them; if not, at least, I have rolled my tub. {69}
THE TRUE HISTORY.
BOOK I.
Lucian's True History is, as the author himself acknowledges in the
Preface to it, a collection of ingenious lies, calculated
principally to amuse the reader, not without several allusions, as
he informs us, to the works of ancient Poets, Historians, and
Philosophers, as well as, most probably, the performances of
contemporary writers, whose absurdities are either obliquely glanced
at, or openly ridiculed and exposed. We cannot but lament that the
humour of the greatest part of these allusions must be lost to us,
the works themselves being long since buried in oblivion. Lucian's
True History, therefore, like the Duke of Buckingham's Rehearsal,
cannot be half so agreeable as when it was first written; there is,
however, enough remaining to secure it from contempt. The vein of
rich fancy, and wildness of a luxuriant imagination, which run
through the whole, sufficiently point out the author as a man of
uncommon genius and invention. The reader will easily perceive that
Bergerac, Swift, and other writers have read this work of Lucian's,
and are much indebted to him for it.
PREFACE.
As athletics of all kinds hold it necessary, not only to prepare the
body by exercise and discipline, but sometimes to give it proper
relaxation, which they esteem no less requisite, so do I think it
highly necessary also for men of letters, after their severer
studies, to relax a little, that they may return to them with the
greater pleasure and alacrity; and for this purpose there is no
better repose than that which arises from the reading of such books
as not only by their humour and pleasantry may entertain them, but
convey at the same time some useful instruction, both which, I
flatter myself, the reader will meet with in the following history;
for he will not only be pleased with the novelty of the plan, and
the variety of lies, which I have told with an air of truth, but
with the tacit allusions so frequently made, not, I trust, without
some degree of humour, to our ancient poets, historians, and
philosophers, who have told us some most miraculous and incredible
stories, and which I should have pointed out to you, but that I
thought they would be sufficiently visible on the perusal.
Ctesias the Cnidian, son of Ctesiochus, wrote an account of India
and of things there, which he never saw himself, nor heard from
anybody else. Iambulus also has acquainted us with many wonders
which he met with in the great sea, and which everybody knew to be
absolute falsehoods: the work, however, was not unentertaining.
Besides these, many others have likewise presented us with their own
travels and peregrinations, where they tell us of wondrous large
beasts, savage men, and unheard-of ways of living. The great leader
and master of all this rhodomontade is Homer's "Ulysses," who talks
to Alcinous about the winds {75} pent up in bags, man-eaters, and
one-eyed Cyclops, wild men, creatures with many heads, several of
his companions turned into beasts by enchantment, and a thousand
things of this kind, which he related to the ignorant and credulous
Phaeacians.
These, notwithstanding, I cannot think much to blame for their
falsehoods, seeing that the custom has been sometimes authorised,
even by the pretenders to philosophy: I only wonder that they
should ever expect to be believed: being, however, myself incited,
by a ridiculous vanity, with the desire of transmitting something to
posterity, that I may not be the only man who doth not indulge
himself in the liberty of fiction, as I could not relate anything
true (for I know of nothing at present worthy to be recorded), I
turned my thoughts towards falsehood, a species of it, however, much
more excusable than that of others, as I shall at least say one
thing true, when I tell you that I lie, and shall hope to escape the
general censure, by acknowledging that I mean to speak not a word of
truth throughout. Know ye, therefore, that I am going to write
about what I never saw myself, nor experienced, nor so much as heard
from anybody else, and, what is more, of such things as neither are,
nor ever can be. I give my readers warning, therefore, not to
believe me.
* * * *
Once upon a time, {77} then, I set sail from the Pillars of
Hercules, and getting into the Western Ocean, set off with a
favourable wind; the cause of my peregrination was no more than a
certain impatience of mind and thirst after novelty, with a desire
of knowing where the sea ended, and what kind of men inhabited the
several shores of it; for this purpose I laid in a large stock of
provisions, and as much water as I thought necessary, taking along
with me fifty companions of the same mind as myself. I prepared
withal, a number of arms, with a skilful pilot, whom we hired at a
considerable expense, and made our ship (for it was a pinnace), as
tight as we could in case of a long and dangerous voyage.
We sailed on with a prosperous gale for a day and a night, but being
still in sight of land, did not make any great way; the next day,
however, at sun-rising, the wind springing up, the waves ran high,
it grew dark, and we could not unfurl a sail; we gave ourselves up
to the winds and waves, and were tossed about in a storm, which
raged with great fury for threescore and nineteen days, but on the
eightieth the sun shone bright, and we saw not far from us an
island, high and woody, with the sea round it quite calm and placid,
for the storm was over: we landed, got out, and happy to escape
from our troubles, laid ourselves down on the ground for some time,
after which we arose, and choosing out thirty of our company to take
care of the vessel, I remained on shore with the other twenty, in
order to take a view of the interior part of the island.
About three stadia from the sea, as we passed through a wood, we
found a pillar of brass, with a Greek inscription on it, the
characters almost effaced; we could make out however these words,
"thus far came Hercules and Bacchus:" near it were the marks of two
footsteps on a rock, one of them measured about an acre, the other
something less; the smaller one appeared to me to be that of
Bacchus, the larger that of Hercules; we paid our adorations to the
deities and proceeded. We had not got far before we met with a
river, which seemed exactly to resemble wine, particularly that of
Chios; {79} it was of a vast extent, and in many places navigable;
this circumstance induced us to give more credit to the inscription
on the pillar, when we perceived such visible marks of Bacchus's
presence here. As I had a mind to know whence this river sprung, I
went back to the place from which it seemed to arise, but could not
trace the spring; I found, however, several large vines full of
grapes, at the root of every one the wine flowed in great abundance,
and from them I suppose the river was collected. We saw a great
quantity of fish in it which were extremely like wine, both in taste
and colour, and after we had taken and eaten a good many of them we
found ourselves intoxicated; and when we cut them up, observed that
they were full of grape stones; it occurred to us afterwards that we
should have mixed them with some water fish, as by themselves they
tasted rather too strong of the wine.
We passed the river in a part of it which was fordable, and a little
farther on met with a most wonderful species of vine, the bottoms of
them that touched the earth were green and thick, and all the upper
part most beautiful women, with the limbs perfect from the waist,
only that from the tops of the fingers branches sprung out full of
grapes, just as Daphne is represented as turned into a tree when
Apollo laid hold on her; on the head, likewise, instead of hair they
had leaves and tendrils; when we came up to them they addressed us,
some in the Lydian tongue, some in the Indian, but most of them in
Greek; they would not suffer us to taste their grapes, but when
anybody attempted it, cried out as if they were hurt.
We left them and returned to our companions in the ship. We then
took our casks, filled some of them with water, and some with wine
from the river, slept one night on shore, and the next morning set
sail, the wind being very moderate. About noon, the island being
now out of sight, on a sudden a most violent whirlwind arose, and
carried the ship above three thousand stadia, lifting it up above
the water, from whence it did not let us down again into the seas
but kept us suspended {81a} in mid air, in this manner we hung for
seven days and nights, and on the eighth beheld a large tract of
land, like an island, {81b} round, shining, and remarkably full of
light; we got on shore, and found on examination that it was
cultivated and full of inhabitants, though we could not then see any
of them. As night came on other islands appeared, some large,
others small, and of a fiery colour; there was also below these
another land with seas, woods, mountains, and cities in it, and this
we took to be our native country: as we were advancing forwards, we
were seized on a sudden by the Hippogypi, {82a} for so it seems they
were called by the inhabitants; these Hippogypi are men carried upon
vultures, which they ride as we do horses. These vultures have each
three heads, and are immensely large; you may judge of their size
when I tell you that one of their feathers is bigger than the mast
of a ship. The Hippogypi have orders, it seems, to fly round the
kingdom, and if they find any stranger, to bring him to the king:
they took us therefore, and carried us before him. As soon as he
saw us, he guessed by our garb what we were. "You are Grecians,"
said he, "are you not?" We told him we were. "And how," added he,
"got ye hither through the air?" We told him everything that had
happened to us; and he, in return, related to us his own history,
and informed us, that he also was a man, that his name was Endymion,
{82b} that he had been taken away from our earth in his sleep, and
brought to this place where he reigned as sovereign. That spot,
{83a} he told us, which now looked like a moon to us, was the earth.
He desired us withal not to make ourselves uneasy, for that we
should soon have everything we wanted. "If I succeed," says he, "in
the war which I am now engaged in against the inhabitants of the
sun, you will be very happy here." We asked him then what enemies
he had, and what the quarrel was about? "Phaeton," he replied, "who
is king of the sun {83b} (for that is inhabited as well as the
moon), has been at war with us for some time past. The foundation
of it was this: I had formerly an intention of sending some of the
poorest of my subjects to establish a colony in Lucifer, which was
uninhabited: but Phaeton, out of envy, put a stop to it, by
opposing me in the mid-way with his Hippomyrmices; {84} we were
overcome and desisted, our forces at that time being unequal to
theirs. I have now, however, resolved to renew the war and fix my
colony; if you have a mind, you shall accompany us in the
expedition; I will furnish you everyone with a royal vulture and
other accoutrements; we shall set out to-morrow." "With all my
heart," said I, "whenever you please." We stayed, however, and
supped with him; and rising early the next day, proceeded with the
army, when the spies gave us notice that the enemy was approaching.
The army consisted of a hundred thousand, besides the scouts and
engineers, together with the auxiliaries, amongst whom were eighty
thousand Hippogypi, and twenty thousand who were mounted on the
Lachanopteri; {85a} these are very large birds, whose feathers are
of a kind of herb, and whose wings look like lettuces. Next to
these stood the Cinchroboli, {85b} and the Schorodomachi. {85c} Our
allies from the north were three thousand Psyllotoxotae {85d} and
five thousand Anemodromi; {85e} the former take their names from the
fleas which they ride upon, every flea being as big as twelve
elephants; the latter are foot-soldiers, and are carried about in
the air without wings, in this manner: they have large gowns
hanging down to their feet, these they tuck up and spread in a form
of a sail, and the wind drives them about like so many boats: in
the battle they generally wear targets. It was reported that
seventy thousand Strathobalani {86a} from the stars over Cappadocia
were to be there, together with five thousand Hippogerani; {86b}
these I did not see, for they never came: I shall not attempt,
therefore, to describe them; of these, however, most wonderful
things were related.