Trips to the Moon, by Lucian

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Title: Trips to the Moon

Author: Lucian

Release Date: December 10, 2003 [eBook #10430]

Language: English

Character set encoding: US-ASCII

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MOON***
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TRIPS TO THE MOON

by Lucian.

Translated from the Greek by Thomas Francklin, D.D.

CONTENTS.
Introduction by Professor Henry Morley.
Instructions for Writing History.
The True History.
Preface.
Book 1.
Book 2.
Icaro-Menippus—A Dialogue.

INTRODUCTION.

Lucian, in Greek Loukianos, was a Syrian, born about the year 120 at Samosata,
where a bend of the Euphrates brings that river nearest to the borders of Cilicia in
Asia Minor. He had in him by nature a quick flow of wit, with a bent towards
Greek literature. It was thought at home that he showed as a boy the artist nature
by his skill in making little waxen images. An uncle on his mother’s side happened
to be a sculptor. The home was poor, Lucian would have his bread to earn, and
when he was fourteen he was apprenticed to his uncle that he might learn to
become a sculptor. Before long, while polishing a marble tablet he pressed on it
too heavily and broke it. His uncle thrashed him. Lucian’s spirit rebelled, and he
went home giving the comic reason that his uncle beat him because jealous of the
extraordinary power he showed in his art.
After some debate Lucian abandoned training as a sculptor, studied literature and
rhetoric, and qualified himself for the career of an advocate and teacher at a time
when rhetoric had still a chief place in the schools. He practised for a short time
unsuccessfully at Antioch, and then travelled for the cultivation of his mind in
Greece, Italy, and Gaul, making his way by use of his wits, as Goldsmith did long
afterwards when he started, at the outset also of his career as a writer, on a grand
tour of the continent with nothing in his pocket. Lucian earned as he went by
public use of his skill as a rhetorician. His travel was not unlike the modern
American lecturing tour, made also for the money it may bring and for the new
experience acquired by it.
Lucian stayed long enough in Athens to acquire a mastery of Attic Greek, and his
public discourses could not have been without full seasoning of Attic salt. In Italy
and Gaul his success brought him money beyond his present needs, and he went
back to Samosata, when about forty years old, able to choose and follow his own
course in life.
He then ceased to be a professional talker, and became a writer, bold and witty,
against everything that seemed to him to want foundation for the honour that it
claimed. He attacked the gods of Greece, and the whole system of mythology,
when, in its second century, the Christian Church was ready to replace the forms of
heathen worship. He laughed at the philosophers, confounding together in one
censure deep conviction with shallow convention. His vigorous winnowing sent
chaff to the winds, but not without some scattering of wheat. Delight in the power
of satire leads always to some excess in its use. But if the power be used honestly
—and even if it be used recklessly—no truth can be destroyed. Only the reckless
use of it breeds in minds of the feebler sort mere pleasure in ridicule, that weakens
them as helpers in the real work of the world, and in that way tends to retard the
forward movement. But on the whole, ridicule adds more vigour to the strong than
it takes from the weak, and has its use even when levelled against what is good and
true. In its own way it is a test of truth, and may be fearlessly applied to it as
jewellers use nitric acid to try gold. If it be uttered for gold and is not gold, let it
perish; but if it be true, it will stand trial.
The best translation of the works of Lucian into English was that by Dr. Thomas
Francklin, sometime Greek Professor in the University of Cambridge, which was
published in two large quarto volumes in the year 1780, and reprinted in four
volumes in 1781. Lucian had been translated before in successive volumes by
Ferrand Spence and others, an edition, completed in 1711, for which Dryden had
written the author’s Life. Dr. Francklin, who produced also the best eighteenth
century translation of Sophocles, joined to his translation of Lucian a little
apparatus of introductions and notes by which the English reader is often assisted,
and he has skilfully avoided the translation of indecencies which never were of any
use, and being no longer sources of enjoyment, serve only to exclude good wit,
with which, under different conditions of life, they were associated, from the
welcome due to it in all our homes. There is a just and scholarly, as well as a
meddlesome and feeble way of clearing an old writer from uncleannesses that
cause him now to be a name only where he should be a power. Dr. Francklin has
understood his work in that way better than Dr. Bowdler did. He does not
Bowdlerise who uses pumice to a blot, but he who rubs the copy into holes
wherever he can find an honest letter with a downstroke thicker than becomes a
fine-nibbed pen. A trivial play of fancy in one of the pieces in this volume, easily
removed, would have been as a dead fly in the pot of ointment, and would have
deprived one of Lucian’s best works of the currency to which it is entitled.
Lucian’s works are numerous, and they have been translated into nearly all the
languages of Europe.
The “Instructions for Writing History” was probably one of the earliest pieces
written by him after Lucian had settled down at Samosata to the free use of his pen,
and it has been usually regarded as his best critical work. With ridicule of the
affectations of historians whose names and whose books have passed into oblivion,
he joins sound doctrine upon sincerity of style. “Nothing is lasting that is feigned,”
said Ben Jonson; “it will have another face ere long.” Long after Lucian’s day an
artificial dignity, accorded specially to work of the historian, bound him by its
conventions to an artificial style. He used, as Johnson said of Dr. Robertson, “too
big words and too many of them.” But that was said by Johnson in his latter days,
with admission of like fault in the convention to which he had once conformed: “If
Robertson’s style is bad, that is to say, too big words and too many of them, I am
afraid he caught it of me.” Lucian would have dealt as mercilessly with that later
style as Archibald Campbell, ship’s purser and son of an Edinburgh Professor, who
used the form of one of Lucian’s dialogues, “Lexiphanes,” for an assault of ridicule
upon pretentious sentence-making, and helped a little to get rid of it. Lucian
laughed in his day at small imitators of the manner of Thucydides, as he would
laugh now at the small imitators of the manner of Macaulay. He bade the historian
first get sure facts, then tell them in due order, simply and without exaggeration or
toil after fine writing; though he should aim not the less at an enduring grace given
by Nature to the Art that does not stray from her, and simply speaks the highest
truth it knows.
The endeavour of small Greek historians to add interest to their work by
magnifying the exploits of their countrymen, and piling wonder upon wonder,
Lucian first condemned in his “Instructions for Writing History,” and then
caricatured in his “True History,” wherein is contained the account of a trip to the
moon, a piece which must have been enjoyed by Rabelais, which suggested to
Cyrano de Bergerac his Voyages to the Moon and to the Sun, and insensibly
contributed, perhaps, directly or through Bergerac, to the conception of “Gulliver’s
Travels.” I have added the Icaro-Menippus, because that Dialogue describes
another trip to the moon, though its satire is more especially directed against the
philosophers.
Menippus was born at Gadara in Coele-Syria, and from a slave he grew to be a
Cynic philosopher, chiefly occupied with scornful jests on his neighbours, and a
money-lender, who made large gains and killed himself when he was cheated of
them all. He is said to have written thirteen pieces which are lost, but he has left
his name in literature, preserved by important pieces that have taken the name of
“Menippean Satire.”
Lucian married in middle life, and had a son. He was about fifty years old when he
went to Paphlagonia, and visited a false oracle to detect the tricks of an Alexander
who made profit out of it, and who professed to have a daughter by the Moon.
When the impostor offered Lucian his hand to kiss, Lucian bit his thumb; he also
intervened to the destruction of a profitable marriage for the daughter of the
Moon. Alexander lent Lucian a vessel of his own for the voyage onward, and gave
instructions to the sailors that they were to find a convenient time and place for
throwing their passenger into the sea; but when the convenient time had come the
goodwill of the master of the vessel saved Lucian’s life. He was landed, therefore,
at Ægialos, where he found some ambassadors to Eupator, King of Bithynia, who
took him onward upon his way.
It is believed that Lucian lived to be ninety, and it is assumed, since he wrote a
burlesque drama on gout, that the cause of his death was not simply old age. Gout
may have been the immediate cause of death. Lucian must have spent much time
at Athens, and he held office at one time in his later years as Procurator of a part of
Egypt.
The works of Lucian consist largely of dialogues, in which he battled against what
he considered to be false opinions by bringing the satire of Aristophanes and the
sarcasm of Menippus into disputations that sought chiefly to throw down false
idols before setting up the true. He made many enemies by bold attacks upon the
ancient faiths. His earlier “Dialogues of the Gods” only brought out their stories in
a way that made them sound ridiculous. Afterwards he proceeded to direct attack
on the belief in them. In one Dialogue Timocles a Stoic argues for belief in the old
gods against Damis an Epicurean, and the gods, in order of dignity determined by
the worth of the material out of which they are made, assemble to hear the
argument. Damis confutes the Stoic, and laughs him into fury. Zeus is unhappy at
all this, but Hermes consoles him with the reflection that although the Epicurean
may speak for a few, the mass of Greeks, and all the barbarians, remain true to the
ancient opinions. Suidas, who detested such teaching, wrote a Life of him, in
which he said that Lucian was at last torn to pieces by dogs.
Dr. Francklin prefaced his edition with a Life, written by a friend in the form of a
Dialogue of the Dead in the Elysian Fields between Lord Lyttelton—who had
been, in his Dialogues of the Dead, an imitator of the Dialogues so called in Lucian
—and Lucian himself. “By that shambling gait and length of carcase,” says
Lucian, “it must be Lord Lyttelton coming this way.” “And by that arch look and
sarcastic smile,” says Lyttelton, “you are my old friend Lucian, whom I have not
seen this many a day. Fontenelle and I have just now been talking of you, and the
obligations we both had to our old master: I assure you that there was not a man in
all antiquity for whom, whilst on earth, I had a greater regard than yourself.” After
Lucian has told Lyttelton something about his life, his lordship thanks Lucian for
the little history, and says, “I wish with all my heart I could convey it to a friend of
mine in the other world”—meaning Dr. Francklin—“to whom, at this juncture, it
would be of particular service: I mean a bold adventurer who has lately undertaken
to give a new and complete translation of all your works. It is a noble design, but
an arduous one; I own I tremble for him.” Lucian replies, “I heard of it the other
day from Goldsmith, who knew the man. I think he may easily succeed in it better
than any of his countrymen, who hitherto have made but miserable work with me;
nor do I make a much better appearance in my French habit, though that I know
has been admired. D’Ablancourt has made me say a great many things, some
good, some bad, which I never thought of, and, upon the whole, what he has done
is more a paraphrase than a translation.” Then, says Lord Lyttelton, “All the
attempts to represent you, at least in our language, which I have yet seen, have
failed, and all from the same cause, by the translator’s departing from the original,
and substituting his own manners, phraseology, expression, wit, and humour
instead of yours. Nothing, as it has been observed by one of our best critics, is so
grave as true humour, and every line of Lucian is a proof of it; it never laughs
itself, whilst it sets the table in a roar; a circumstance which these gentlemen seem
all to have forgotten: instead of the set features and serious aspect which you
always wear when most entertaining, they present us for ever with a broad grin,
and if you have the least smile upon your countenance make you burst into a
vulgar horse-laugh: they are generally, indeed, such bad painters, that the daubing
would never be taken for you if they had not written ‘Lucian’ under the picture. I
heartily wish the Doctor better luck.” Upon which the Doctor’s friend makes
Lucian reply: “And there is some reason to hope it, for I hear he has taken pains
about me, has studied my features well before he sat down to trace them on the
canvas, and done it con amore: if he brings out a good resemblance, I shall excuse
the want of grace and beauty in his piece. I assure you I am not without pleasing
expectation; especially as my friend Sophocles, who, you know, sat to him some
time ago, tells me, though he is no Praxiteles, he does not take a bad likeness. But
I must be gone, for yonder come Swift and Rabelais, whom I have made a little
party with this morning: so, my good lord, fare you well.”
Lucian had another translator in 1820, who in no way superseded Dr. Francklin.
The reader of this volume is reminded that the notes are Dr. Francklin’s, and that
any allusion in them to a current topic, has to be read as if this present year of
grace were 1780.
H. M.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR WRITING HISTORY.

Lucian, in this letter to his friend Philo, after having, with infinite humour, exposed
the absurdities of some contemporary historians, whose works, being consigned to
oblivion, have never reached us, proceeds, in the latter part of it, to lay down most
excellent rules and directions for writing history. My readers will find the one to
the last degree pleasant and entertaining; and the other no less useful, sensible,
and instructive. This is, indeed, one of Lucian’s best pieces.
My Dear Philo,—In the reign of Lysimachus, {17} we are told that the people of
Abdera were seized with a violent epidemical fever, which raged through the
whole city, continuing for seven days, at the expiration of which a copious
discharge of blood from the nostrils in some, and in others a profuse sweat, carried
it off. It was attended, however, with a very ridiculous circumstance: every one of
the persons affected by it being suddenly taken with a fit of tragedising, spouting
iambics, and roaring out most furiously, particularly the Andromeda {18a} of
Euripides, and the speech of Perseus, which they recited in most lamentable
accents. The city swarmed with these pale seventh-day patients, who, with loud
voices, were perpetually bawling out—
“O tyrant love, o’er gods and men supreme,” etc.
And this they continued every day for a long time, till winter and the cold weather
coming on put an end to their delirium. For this disorder they seem, in my opinion,
indebted to Archelaus, a tragedian at that time in high estimation, who, in the
middle of summer, at the very hottest season {18b} of the year, exhibited the
Andromeda, which had such an effect on the spectators that several of them, as
soon as they rose up from it, fell insensibly into the tragedising vein; the
Andromeda naturally occurring to their memories, and Perseus, with his Medusa,
still hovering round them.
Now if, as they say, one may compare great things with small, this Abderian
disorder seems to have seized on many of our literati of the present age; not that it
sets them on acting tragedies (for the folly would not be so great in repeating other
people’s verses, especially if they were good ones), but ever since the war was
begun against the barbarians, the defeat in Armenia, {19a} and the victories
consequent on it, not one is there amongst us who does not write a history; or
rather, I may say, we are all Thucydideses, Herodotuses, and Xenophons. Well
may they say war is the parent of all things, {19b} when one action can make so
many historians. This puts me in mind of what happened at Sinope. {20a} When
the Corinthians heard that Philip was going to attack them, they were all alarmed,
and fell to work, some brushing up their arms, others bringing stones to prop up
their walls and defend their bulwarks, every one, in short, lending a hand.
Diogenes observing this, and having nothing to do (for nobody employed him),
tucked up his robe, and, with all his might, fell a rolling his tub which he lived in
up and down the Cranium. {20b} “What are you about?” said one of his friends.
“Rolling my tub,” replied he, “that whilst everybody is busy around me, I may not
be the only idle person in the kingdom.” In like manner, I, my dear Philo, being
very loath in this noisy age to make no noise at all, or to act the part of a mute in
the comedy, think it highly proper that I should roll my tub also; not that I mean to
write history myself, or be a narrator of facts; you need not fear me, I am not so
rash, knowing the danger too well if I roll it amongst the stones, especially such a
tub as mine, which is not over-strong, so that the least pebble I strike against would
dash it in pieces. I will tell you, however, what my design is—how I mean to be
present at the battle and yet keep out of the reach of danger. I intend to shelter
myself from the waves and the smoke, {21} and the cares that writers are liable to,
and only give them a little good advice and a few precepts; to have, in short, some
little hand in the building, though I do not expect my name will be inscribed on it,
as I shall but just touch the mortar with the tip of my finger.
There are many, I know, who think there is no necessity for instruction at all with
regard to this business, any more than there is for walking, seeing, or eating, and
that it is the easiest thing in the world for a man to write history if he can but say
what comes uppermost. But you, my friend, are convinced that it is no such easy
matter, nor should it be negligently and carelessly performed; but that, on the other
hand, if there be anything in the whole circle of literature that requires more than
ordinary care and attention, it is undoubtedly this. At least, if a man would wish,
as Thucydides says, to labour for posterity. I very well know that I cannot attack
so many without rendering myself obnoxious to some, especially those whose
histories are already finished and made public; even if what I say should be
approved by them, it would be madness to expect that they should retract anything
or alter that which had been once established and, as it were, laid up in royal
repositories. It may not be amiss, however, to give them these instructions, that in
case of another war, the Getæ against the Gauls, or the Indians, perhaps, against the
barbarians (for with regard to ourselves there is no danger, our enemies being all
subdued), by applying these rules if they like them, they may know better how to
write for the future. If they do not choose this, they may even go on by their old
measure; the physician will not break his heart if all the people of Abdera follow
their own inclination and continue to act the Andromeda. {23}
Criticism is twofold: that which teaches us what we are to choose, and that which
teaches us what to avoid. We will begin with the last, and consider what those
faults are which a writer of history should be free from; next, what it is that will
lead him into the right path, how he should begin, what order and method he
should observe, what he should pass over in silence, and what he should dwell
upon, how things may be best illustrated and connected. Of these, and such as
these, we will speak hereafter; in the meantime let us point out the faults which bad
writers are most generally guilty of, the blunders which they commit in language,
composition, and sentiment, with many other marks of ignorance, which it would
be tedious to enumerate, and belong not to our present argument. The principal
faults, as I observed to you, are in the language and composition.
You will find on examination, that history in general has a great many of this kind,
which, if you listen to them all, you will be sufficiently convinced of; and for this
purpose it may not be unseasonable to recollect some of them by way of example.
And the first that I shall mention is that intolerable custom which most of them
have of omitting facts, and dwelling for ever on the praises of their generals and
commanders, extolling to the skies their own leaders, and degrading beyond
measure those of their enemies, not knowing how much history differs from
panegyric, that there is a great wall between them, or that, to use a musical phrase,
they are a double octave {24a} distant from each other; the sole business of the
panegyrist is, at all events and by every means, to extol and delight the object of
his praise, and it little concerns him whether it be true or not. But history will not
admit the least degree of falsehood any more than, as physicians say, the wind-pipe
{24b} can receive into it any kind of food.
These men seem not to know that poetry has its particular rules and precepts; and
that history is governed by others directly opposite. That with regard to the former,
the licence is immoderate, and there is scarce any law but what the poet prescribes
to himself. When he is full of the Deity, and possessed, as it were, by the Muses, if
he has a mind to put winged horses {25a} to his chariot, and drive some through
the waters, and others over the tops of unbending corn, there is no offence taken.
Neither, if his Jupiter {25b} hangs the earth and sea at the end of a chain, are we
afraid that it should break and destroy us all. If he wants to extol Agamemnon,
who shall forbid his bestowing on him the head and eyes of Jupiter, the breast of
his brother Neptune, and the belt of Mars? The son of Atreus and Ærope must be a
composition of all the gods; nor are Jupiter, Mars, and Neptune sufficient, perhaps,
of themselves to give us an idea of his perfection. But if history admits any
adulation of this kind, it becomes a sort of prosaic poetry, without its numbers or
magnificence; a heap of monstrous stories, only more conspicuous by their
incredibility. He is unpardonable, therefore, who cannot distinguish one from the
other; but lays on history the paint of poetry, its flattery, fable, and hyperbole: it is
just as ridiculous as it would be to clothe one of our robust wrestlers, who is as
hard as an oak, in fine purple, or some such meretricious garb, and put paint {26}
on his cheeks; how would such ornaments debase and degrade him! I do not mean
by this, that in history we are not to praise sometimes, but it must be done at proper
seasons, and in a proper degree, that it may not offend the readers of future ages;
for future ages must be considered in this affair, as I shall endeavour to prove
hereafter.
Those, I must here observe, are greatly mistaken who divide history into two parts,
the useful and the agreeable; and in consequence of it, would introduce panegyric
as always delectable and entertaining to the reader. But the division itself is false
and delusive; for the great end and design of history is to be useful: a species of
merit which can only arise from its truth. If the agreeable follows, so much the
better, as there may be beauty in a wrestler. And yet Hercules would esteem the
brave though ugly Nicostratus as much as the beautiful Alcæus. And thus history,
when she adds pleasure to utility, may attract more admirers; though as long as she
is possessed of that greatest of perfections, truth, she need not be anxious
concerning beauty.
In history, nothing fabulous can be agreeable; and flattery is disgusting to all
readers, except the very dregs of the people; good judges look with the eyes of
Argus on every part, reject everything that is false and adulterated, and will admit
nothing but what is true, clear, and well expressed. These are the men you are to
have a regard to when you write, rather than the vulgar, though your flattery should
delight them ever so much. If you stuff history with fulsome encomiums and idle
tales, you will make her like Hercules in Lydia, as you may have seen him painted,
waiting upon Omphale, who is dressed in the lion’s skin, with his club in her hand;
whilst he is represented clothed in yellow and purple, and spinning, and Omphale
beating him with her slipper; a ridiculous spectacle, wherein everything manly and
godlike is sunk and degraded to effeminacy.
The multitude perhaps, indeed, may admire such things; but the judicious few
whose opinion you despise will always laugh at what is absurd, incongruous, and
inconsistent. Everything has a beauty peculiar to itself; but if you put one instead
of another, the most beautiful becomes ugly, because it is not in its proper place. I
need not add, that praise is agreeable only to the person praised, and disgustful to
everybody else, especially when it is lavishly bestowed; as is the practice of most
writers, who are so extremely desirous of recommending themselves by flattery,
and dwell so much upon it as to convince the reader it is mere adulation, which
they have not art enough to conceal, but heap up together, naked, uncovered, and
totally incredible, so that they seldom gain what they expected from it; for the
person flattered, if he has anything noble or manly in him, only abhors and
despises them for it as mean parasites. Aristobulus, after he had written an account
of the single combat between Alexander and Porus, showed that monarch a
particular part of it, wherein, the better to get into his good graces, he had inserted
a great deal more than was true; when Alexander seized the book and threw it (for
they happened at that time to be sailing on the Hydaspes) directly into the river:
“Thus,” said he, “ought you to have been served yourself for pretending to describe
my battles, and killing half a dozen elephants for me with a single spear.” This
anger was worthy of Alexander, of him who could not bear the adulation of that
architect {29} who promised to transform Mount Athos into a statue of him; but he
looked upon the man from that time as a base flatterer, and never employed him
afterwards.
What is there in this custom, therefore, that can be agreeable, unless to the proud
and vain; to deformed men or ugly women, who insist on being painted handsome,
and think they shall look better if the artist gives them a little more red and white!
Such, for the most part, are the historians of our times, who sacrifice everything to
the present moment and their own interest and advantage; who can only be
despised as ignorant flatterers of the age they live in; and as men, who, at the same
time, by their extravagant stories, make everything which they relate liable to
suspicion. If notwithstanding any are still of opinion, that the agreeable should be
admitted in history, let them join that which is pleasant with that which is true, by
the beauties of style and diction, instead of foisting in, as is commonly done, what
is nothing to the purpose.
I will now acquaint you with some things I lately picked up in Ionia and Achaia,
from several historians, who gave accounts of this war. By the graces I beseech
you to give me credit for what I am going to tell you, as I could swear to the truth
of it, if it were polite to swear in a dissertation. One of these gentlemen begins by
invoking the Muses, and entreats the goddesses to assist him in the performance.
What an excellent setting out and how properly is this form of speech adapted to
history! A little farther on, he compares our emperor to Achilles, and the Persian
king to Thersites; not considering that his Achilles would have been a much greater
man if he had killed Hector rather than Thersites; if the brave should fly, he who
pursues must be braver. Then follows an encomium on himself, showing how
worthy he is to recite such noble actions; and when he is got on a little, he extols
his own country, Miletus, adding that in this he had acted better than Homer, who
never tells us where he was born. He informs us, moreover, at the end of his
preface, in the most plain and positive terms, that he shall take care to make the
best he can of our own affairs, and, as far as lies in his power, to get the upper hand
of our enemies the barbarians. After investigating the cause of the war, he begins
thus: “That vilest of all wretches, Vologesus, entered upon the war for these
reasons.” Such is this historian’s manner. Another, a close imitator of Thucydides,
that he may set out as his master does, gives us an exordium that smells of the true
Attic honey, and begins thus: “Creperius Calpurnianus, a citizen of Pompeia, hath
written the history of the war between the Parthians and the Romans, showing how
they fought with one another, commencing at the time when it first broke out.”
After this, need I inform you how he harangued in Armenia, by another Corcyræan
orator? or how, to be revenged of the Nisibæans for not taking part with the
Romans, he sent the plague amongst them, taking the whole from Thucydides,
excepting the long walls of Athens. He had begun from Æthiopia, descended into
Egypt, and passed over great part of the royal territory. Well it was that he stopped
there. When I left him, he was burying the miserable Athenians at Nisibis; but as I
knew what he was going to tell us, I took my leave of him.
Another thing very common with these historians is, by way of imitating
Thucydides, to make use of his phrases, perhaps with a little alteration, to adopt his
manner, in little modes and expressions, such as, “you must yourself
acknowledge,” “for the same reason,” “a little more, and I had forgot,” and the
like. This same writer, when he has occasion to mention bridges, fosses, or any of
the machines used in war, gives them Roman names; but how does it suit the
dignity of history, or resemble Thucydides, to mix the Attic and Italian thus, as if it
was ornamental and becoming?
Another of them gives us a plain simple journal of everything that was done, such
as a common soldier might have written, or a sutler who followed the camp. This,
however, was tolerable, because it pretended to nothing more; and might be useful
by supplying materials for some better historian. I only blame him for his
pompous introduction: “Callimorphus, physician to the sixth legion of spearmen,
his history of the Parthian war.” Then his books are all carefully numbered, and he
entertains us with a most frigid preface, which he concludes with saying that “a
physician must be the fittest of all men to write history, because Æsculapius was
the son of Apollo, and Apollo is the leader of the Muses, and the great prince of
literature.”
Besides this, after setting out in delicate Ionic, he drops, I know not how, into the
most vulgar style and expressions, used only by the very dregs of the people.
And here I must not pass over a certain wise man, whose name, however, I shall
not mention; his work is lately published at Corinth, and is beyond everything one
could have conceived. In the very first sentence of his preface he takes his readers
to task, and convinces them by the most sagacious method of reasoning that “none
but a wise man should ever attempt to write history.” Then comes syllogism upon
syllogism; every kind of argument is by turns made use of, to introduce the
meanest and most fulsome adulation; and even this is brought in by syllogism and
interrogation. What appeared to me the most intolerable and unbecoming the long
beard of a philosopher, was his saying in the preface that our emperor was above
all men most happy, whose actions even philosophers did not disdain to celebrate;
surely this, if it ought to be said at all, should have been left for us to say rather
than himself.
Neither must we here forget that historian who begins thus: “I come to speak of the
Romans and Persians;” and a little after he says, “for the Persians ought to suffer;”
and in another place, “there was one Osroes, whom the Greeks call Oxyrrhoes,”
with many things of this kind. This man is just such a one as him I mentioned
before, only that one is like Thucydides, and the other the exact resemblance of
Herodotus.
But there is yet another writer, renowned for eloquence, another Thucydides, or
rather superior to him, who most elaborately describes every city, mountain, field,
and river, and cries out with all his might, “May the great averter of evil turn it all
on our enemies!” This is colder than Caspian snow, or Celtic ice. The emperor’s
shield takes up a whole book to describe. The Gorgon’s {35} eyes are blue, and
black, and white; the serpents twine about his hair, and his belt has all the colours
of the rainbow. How many thousand lines does it cost him to describe Vologesus’s
breeches and his horse’s bridle, and how Osroes’ hair looked when he swam over
the Tigris, what sort of a cave he fled into, and how it was shaded all over with ivy,
and myrtle, and laurel, twined together. You plainly see how necessary this was to
the history, and that we could not possibly have understood what was going
forward without it.
From inability, and ignorance of everything useful, these men are driven to
descriptions of countries and caverns, and when they come into a multiplicity of
great and momentous affairs, are utterly at a loss. Like a servant enriched on a
sudden by coming into his master’s estate, who does not know how to put on his
clothes, or to eat as he should do; but when fine birds, fat sows, and hares are
placed before him, falls to and eats till he bursts, of salt meat and pottage. The
writer I just now mentioned describes the strangest wounds, and the most
extraordinary deaths you ever heard of; tells us of a man’s being wounded in the
great toe, and expiring immediately; and how on Priscus, the general, bawling out
loud, seven-and-twenty of the enemy fell down dead upon the spot. He has told
lies, moreover, about the number of the slain, in contradiction to the account given
in by the leaders. He will have it that seventy thousand two hundred and thirty-six
of the enemy died at Europus, and of the Romans only two, and nine wounded.
Surely nobody in their senses can bear this.
Another thing should be mentioned here also, which is no little fault. From the
affectation of Atticism, and a more than ordinary attention to purity of diction, he
has taken the liberty to turn the Roman names into Greek, to call Saturninus,
Κρονιος , Chronius; Fronto, Φροντις, Frontis; Titianus, Τιτανιος , Titanius, and
others still more ridiculous. With regard to the death of Severian, he informs us
that everybody else was mistaken when they imagined that he perished by the
sword, for that the man starved himself to death, as he thought that the easiest way
of dying; not knowing (which was the case) that he could only have fasted three
days, whereas many have lived without food for seven; unless we are to suppose
that Osroes stood waiting till Severian had starved himself completely, and for that
reason he would not live out the whole week.
But in what class, my dear Philo, shall we rank those historians who are
perpetually making use of poetical expressions, such as “the engine crushed, the
wall thundered,” and in another place, “Edessa resounded with the shock of arms,
and all was noise and tumult around;” and again, “often the leader in his mind
revolved how best he might approach the wall.” At the same time amongst these
were interspersed some of the meanest and most beggarly phrases, such as “the
leader of the army epistolised his master,” “the soldiers bought utensils,” “they
washed and waited on them,” with many other things of the same kind, like a
tragedian with a high cothurnus on one foot and a slipper on the other. You will
meet with many of these writers, who will give you a fine heroic long preface, that
makes you hope for something extraordinary to follow, when after all, the body of
the history shall be idle, weak, and trifling, such as puts you in mind of a sporting
Cupid, who covers his head with the mask of a Hercules or Titan. The reader
immediately cries out, “The mountain {39} has brought forth!” Certainly it ought
not to be so; everything should be alike and of the same colour; the body fitted to
the head, not a golden helmet, with a ridiculous breast-plate made of stinking
skins, shreds, and patches, a basket shield, and hog-skin boots; and yet numbers of
them put the head of a Rhodian Colossus on the body of a dwarf, whilst others
show you a body without a head, and step directly into the midst of things,
bringing in Xenophon for their authority, who begins with “Darius and Parysatis
had two sons;” so likewise have other ancient writers; not considering that the
narration itself may sometimes supply the place of preface, or exordium, though it
does not appear to the vulgar eye, as we shall show hereafter.
All this, however, with regard to style and composition, may be borne with, but
when they misinform us about places, and make mistakes, not of a few leagues, but
whole day’s journeys, what shall we say to such historians? One of them, who
never, we may suppose, so much as conversed with a Syrian, or picked up anything
concerning them in the barbers’ {40} shop, when he speaks of Europus, tells us, “it
is situated in Mesopotamia, two days’ journey from Euphrates, and was built by the
Edessenes.” Not content with this, the same noble writer has taken away my poor
country, Samosata, and carried it off, tower, bulwarks, and all, to Mesopotamia,
where he says it is shut up between two rivers, which at least run close to, if they
do not wash the walls of it. After this, it would be to no purpose, my dear Philo,
for me to assure you that I am not from Parthia, nor do I belong to Mesopotamia,
of which this admirable historian has thought fit to make me an inhabitant.
What he tells us of Severian, and which he swears he heard from those who were
eye-witnesses of it, is no doubt extremely probable; that he did not choose to drink
poison, or to hang himself, but was resolved to find out some new and tragical way
of dying; that accordingly, having some large cups of very fine glass, as soon as he
had taken the resolution to finish himself, he broke one of them in pieces, and with
a fragment of it cut his throat; he would not make use of sword or spear, that his
death might be more noble and heroic.
To complete all, because Thucydides {41} made a funeral oration on the heroes
who fell at the beginning of the Peloponnesian war, he also thought something
should be said of Severian. These historians, you must know, will always have a
little struggle with Thucydides, though he had nothing to do with the war in
Armenia; our writer, therefore, after burying Severian most magnificently, places at
his sepulchre one Afranius Silo, a centurion, the rival of Pericles, who spoke so
fine a declamation upon him as, by heaven, made me laugh till I cried again,
particularly when the orator seemed deeply afflicted, and with tears in his eyes,
lamented the sumptuous entertainments and drinking bouts which he should no
more partake of. To crown all with an imitation of Ajax, {42} the orator draws his
sword, and, as it became the noble Afranius, before all the assembly, kills himself
at the tomb. So Mars defend me! but he deserved to die much sooner for making
such a declamation. When those, says he, who were present beheld this, they were
filled with admiration, and beyond measure extolled Afranius. For my own part, I
pitied him for the loss of the cakes and dishes which he so lamented, and only
blamed him for not destroying the writer of the history before he made an end of
himself.
Others there are who, from ignorance and want of skill, not knowing what should
be mentioned, and what passed over in silence, entirely omit or slightly run
through things of the greatest consequence, and most worthy of attention, whilst
they most copiously describe and dwell upon trifles; which is just as absurd as it
would be not to take notice of or admire the wonderful beauty of the Olympian
Jupiter, {43} and at the same time to be lavish in our praises of the fine polish,
workmanship, and proportion of the base and pedestal.
I remember one of these who despatches the battle at Europus in seven lines, and
spends some hundreds in a long frigid narration, that is nothing to the purpose,
showing how “a certain Moorish cavalier, wandering on the mountains in search of
water, lit on some Syrian rustics, who helped him to a dinner; how they were afraid
of him at first, but afterwards became intimately acquainted with him, and received
him with hospitality; for one of them, it seems, had been in Mauritania, where his
brother bore arms.” Then follows a long tale, “how he hunted in Mauritania, and
saw several elephants feeding together; how he had like to have been devoured by
a lion; and how many fish he bought at Cæsarea.” This admirable historian takes
no notice of the battle, the attacks or defences, the truces, the guards on each side,
or anything else; but stands from morning to night looking upon Malchion, the
Syrian, who buys cheap fish at Cæsarea: if night had not come on, I suppose he
would have supped there, as the chars {44} were ready. If these things had not
been carefully recorded in the history we should have been sadly in the dark, and
the Romans would have had an insufferable loss, if Mausacas, the thirsty Moor,
could have found nothing to drink, or returned to the camp without his supper; not
to mention here, what is still more ridiculous, as how “a piper came up to them out
of the neighbouring village, and how they made presents to each other, Mausacas
giving Malchion a spear, and Malchion presenting Mausacas with a buckle.” Such
are the principal occurrences in the history of the battle of Europus. One may truly
say of such writers that they never saw the roses on the tree, but took care to gather
the prickles that grew at the bottom of it.
Another of them, who had never set a foot out of Corinth, or seen Syria or
Armenia, begins thus: “It is better to trust our eyes than our ears; I write, therefore,
what I have seen, and not what I have heard;” he saw everything so extremely well
that he tells us, “the Parthian dragons (which amongst them signifies no more than
a great number, {45} for one dragon brings a thousand) are live serpents of a
prodigious size, that breed in Persia, a little above Iberia; that these are lifted up on
long poles, and spread terror to a great distance; and that when the battle begins,
they let them loose on the enemy.” Many of our soldiers, he tells us, were
devoured by them, and a vast number pressed to death by being locked in their
embraces: this he beheld himself from the top of a high tree, to which he had
retired for safety. Well it was for us that he so prudently determined not to come
nigh them; we might otherwise have lost this excellent writer, who with his own
brave hand performed such feats in this battle; for he went through many dangers,
and was wounded somewhere about Susa, I suppose, in his journey from Cranium
to Lerna. All this he recited to the Corinthians, who very well knew that he had
never so much as seen a view of this battle painted on a wall; neither did he know
anything of arms, or military machines, the method of disposing troops, or even the
proper names of them. {46}
Another famous writer has given an account of everything that passed, from
beginning to end, in Armenia, Syria, Mesopotamia, upon the Tigris, and in Media,
and all in less than five hundred lines; and when he had done this, tells us, he has
written a history. The title, which is almost as long as the work, runs thus: “A
narrative of everything done by the Romans in Armenia, Media, and Mesopotamia,
by Antiochianus, who gained a prize in the sacred games of Apollo.” I suppose,
when he was a boy, he had conquered in a running match.
I have heard of another likewise, who wrote a history of what was to happen
hereafter, {47} and describes the taking of Vologesus prisoner, the murder of
Osroes, and how he was to be given to a lion; and above all, our own much-to-be-
wished-for triumph, as things that must come to pass. Thus prophesying away, he
soon got to the end of the story. He has built, moreover, a new city in
Mesopotamia, most magnificently magnificent, and most beautifully beautiful, and
is considering with himself whether he shall call it Victoria, from victory, or the
City of Concord, or Peace, which of them, however, is not yet determined, and this
fine city must remain without a name, filled as it is with nothing but this writer’s
folly and nonsense. He is now going about a long voyage, and to give us a
description of what is to be done in India; and this is more than a promise, for the
preface is already made, and the third legion, the Gauls, and a small part of the
Mauritanian forces under Cassius, have already passed the river; what they will do
afterwards, or how they will succeed against the elephants, it will be some time
before our wonderful writer can be able to learn, either from Mazuris or the
Oxydraci.
Thus do these foolish fellows trifle with us, neither knowing what is fit to be done,
nor if they did, able to execute it, at the same time determined to say anything that
comes into their ridiculous heads; affecting to be grand and pompous, even in their
titles: of “the Parthian victories so many books;” Parthias, says another, like Atthis;
another more elegantly calls his book the Parthonicica of Demetrius.
I could mention many more of equal merit with these, but shall now proceed to
make my promise good, and give some instructions how to write better. I have not
produced these examples merely to laugh at and ridicule these noble histories; but
with the view of real advantages, that he who avoids their errors, may himself learn
to write well—if it be true, as the logicians assert, that of two opposites, between
which there is no medium, the one being taken away, the other must remain. {49}
Somebody, perhaps, will tell me that the field is now cleansed and weeded, that the
briars and brambles are cut up, the rubbish cleared off, and the rough path made
smooth; that I ought therefore to build something myself, to show that I not only
can pull down the structures of others, but am able to raise up and invent a work
truly great and excellent, which nobody could find fault with, nor Momus himself
turn into ridicule.
I say, therefore, that he who would write history well must be possessed of these
two principal qualifications, a fine understanding and a good style: one is the gift
of nature, and cannot be taught; the other may be acquired by frequent exercise,
perpetual labour and an emulation of the ancients. To make men sensible and
sagacious, who were not born so, is more than I pretend to; to create and new-
model things in this manner would be a glorious thing indeed; but one might as
easily make gold out of lead, silver out of tin, a Titornus out of a Conon, or a Milo
out of a Leotrophides. {50}
What then is in the power of art or instruction to perform? not to create qualities
and perfections already bestowed, but to teach the proper use of them; for as Iccus,
Herodicus, Theon, {51} or any other famous wrestler, would not promise to make
Antiochus a conqueror in the Olympic games, or equal to a Theagenes, or
Polydamas; but only that where a man had natural abilities for this exercise he
could, by his instruction, render him a greater proficient in it: far be it from me,
also, to promise the invention of an art so difficult as this, nor do I say that I can
make anybody an historian; but that I will point out to one of good understanding,
and who has been in some measure used to writing, certain proper paths (if such
they appear to him), which if any man shall tread in, he may with greater ease and
despatch do what he ought to do, and attain the end which he is in pursuit of.
Neither can it be here asserted, be he ever so sensible or sagacious, that he doth not
stand in need of assistance with regard to those things which he is ignorant of;
otherwise he might play on the flute or any other instrument, who had never
learned, and perform just as well; but without teaching, the hands will do nothing;
whereas, if there be a master, we quickly learn, and are soon able to play by
ourselves.
Give me a scholar, therefore, who is able to think and to write, to look with an eye
of discernment into things, and to do business himself, if called upon, who hath
both civil and military knowledge; one, moreover, who has been in camps, and has
seen armies in the field and out of it; knows the use of arms, and machines, and
warlike engines of every kind; can tell what the front, and what the horn is, how
the ranks are to be disposed, how the horse is to be directed, and from whence to
advance or to retreat; one, in short, who does not stay at home and trust to the
reports of others: but, above all, let him be of a noble and liberal mind; let him
neither fear nor hope for anything; otherwise he will only resemble those unjust
judges who determine from partiality or prejudice, and give sentence for hire: but,
whatever the man is, as such let him be described. The historian must not care for
Philip, when he loses his eye by the arrow of Aster, {53a} at Olynthus, nor for
Alexander, when he so cruelly killed Clytus at the banquet: Cleon must not terrify
him, powerful as he was in the senate, and supreme at the tribunal, nor prevent his
recording him as a furious and pernicious man; the whole city of Athens must not
stop his relation of the Sicilian slaughter, the seizure of Demosthenes, {53b} the
death of Nicias, their violent thirst, the water which they drank, and the death of so
many of them whilst they were drinking it. He will imagine (which will certainly
be the case) that no man in his senses will blame him for recording things exactly
as they fell out. However some may have miscarried by imprudence, or others by
ill fortune, he is only the relator, not the author of them. If they are beaten in a sea-
fight, it is not he who sinks them; if they fly, it is not he who pursues them; all he
can do is to wish well to, and offer up his vows for them; but by passing over or
contradicting facts, he cannot alter or amend them. It would have been very easy
indeed for Thucydides, with a stroke of his pen, to have thrown down the walls of
Epipolis, sunk the vessel of Hermocrates, or made an end of the execrable
Gylippus, who stopped up all the avenues with his walls and ditches; to have
thrown the Syracusans on the Lautumiæ, and have let the Athenians go round
Sicily and Italy, according to the early hopes of Alcibiades: but what is past and
done Clotho cannot weave again, nor Atropos recall.
The only business of the historian is to relate things exactly as they are: this he can
never do as long as he is afraid of Artaxerxes, whose physician {55a} he is; as long
as he looks for the purple robe, the golden chain, or the Nisæan 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 Parætonia, 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
Phæacians.
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? “Phaëton,” 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 Phaëton, 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 Psyllotoxotæ {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.
Such were the forces of Endymion; their arms were all alike; their helmets were
made of beans, for they have beans there of a prodigious size and strength, and
their scaly breast-plates of lupines sewed together, for the skins of their lupines are
like a horn, and impenetrable; their shields and swords the same as our own.
The army ranged themselves in this manner: the right wing was formed by the
Hippogypi, with the king, and round him his chosen band to protect him, amongst
which we were admitted; on the left were the Lachanopteri; the auxiliaries in the
middle, the foot were in all about sixty thousand myriads. They have spiders, you
must know, in this country, in infinite numbers, and of pretty large dimensions,
each of them being as big as one of the islands of the Cyclades; these were ordered
to cover the air from the moon quite to the morning star; this being immediately
done, and the field of battle prepared, the infantry was drawn up under the
command of Nycterion, the son of Eudianax.
The left wing of the enemy, which was commanded by Phaëton himself, consisted
of the Hippomyrmices; these are large birds, and resemble our ants, except with
regard to size, the largest of them covering two acres; these fight with their horns
and were in number about fifty thousand. In the right wing were the Aeroconopes,
{87a} about five thousand, all archers, and riding upon large gnats. To these
succeeded the Aerocoraces, {87b} light infantry, but remarkably brave and useful
warriors, for they threw out of slings exceeding large radishes, which whoever was
struck by, died immediately, a most horrid stench exhaling from the wound; they
are said, indeed, to dip their arrows in a poisonous kind of mallow. Behind these
stood ten thousand Caulomycetes, {88a} heavy-armed soldiers, who fight hand to
hand; so called because they use shields made of mushrooms, and spears of the
stalks of asparagus. Near them were placed the Cynobalani, {88b} about five
thousand, who were sent by the inhabitants of Sirius; these were men with dog’s
heads, and mounted upon winged acorns: some of their forces did not arrive in
time; amongst whom there were to have been some slingers from the Milky-way,
together with the Nephelocentauri; {88c} they indeed came when the first battle
was over, and I wish {88d} they had never come at all: the slingers did not appear,
which, they say, so enraged Phaëton that he set their city on fire.
Thus prepared, the enemy began the attack: the signal being given, and the asses
braying on each side, for such are the trumpeters they make use of on these
occasions, the left wing of the Heliots, unable to sustain the onset of our
Hippogypi, soon gave way, and we pursued them with great slaughter: their right
wing, however, overcame our left. The Aeroconopes falling upon us with
astonishing force, and advancing even to our infantry, by their assistance we
recovered; and they now began to retreat, when they found the left wing had been
beaten. The defeat then becoming general, many of them were taken prisoners and
many slain; the blood flowed in such abundance that the clouds were tinged with it
and looked red, just as they appear to us at sunset; from thence it distilled through
upon the earth. Some such thing, I suppose, happened formerly amongst the gods,
which made Homer believe that Jove {89} rained blood at the death of Sarpedon.
When we returned from our pursuit of the enemy we set up two trophies; one, on
account of the infantry engagement in the spider’s web, and another in the clouds,
for our battle in the air. Thus prosperously everything went on, when our spies
informed us that the Nephelocentaurs, who should have been with Phaëton before
the battle, were just arrived: they made, indeed, as they approached towards us, a
most formidable appearance, being half winged horses and half men; the men from
the waist upwards, about as big as the Rhodian Colossus, and the horses of the size
of a common ship of burthen. I have not mentioned the number of them, which
was really so great, that it would appear incredible: they were commanded by
Sagittarius, {90a} from the Zodiac. As soon as they learned that their friends had
been defeated they sent a message to Phaëton to call him back, whilst they put their
forces into order of battle, and immediately fell upon the Selenites, {90b} who
were unprepared to resist them, being all employed in the division of the spoil;
they soon put them to flight, pursued the king quite to his own city, and slew the
greatest part of his birds; they then tore down the trophies, ran over all the field
woven by the spiders, and seized me and two of my companions. Phaëton at
length coming up, they raised other trophies for themselves; as for us, we were
carried that very day to the palace of the Sun, our hands bound behind us by a cord
of the spider’s web.
The conquerors determined not to besiege the city of the Moon, but when they
returned home, resolved to build a wall between them and the Sun, that his rays
might not shine upon it; this wall was double and made of thick clouds, so that the
moon was always eclipsed, and in perpetual darkness. Endymion, sorely distressed
at these calamities, sent an embassy, humbly beseeching them to pull down the
wall, and not to leave him in utter darkness, promising to pay them tribute, to assist
them with his forces, and never more to rebel; he sent hostages withal. Phaëton
called two councils on the affair, at the first of which they were all inexorable, but
at the second changed their opinion; a treaty at length was agreed to on these
conditions:—
The Heliots {92} and their allies on one part, make the following agreement with
the Selenites and their allies on the other:—“That the Heliots shall demolish the
wall now erected between them, that they shall make no irruptions into the
territories of the Moon; and restore the prisoners according to certain articles of
ransom to be stipulated concerning them; that the Selenites shall permit all the
other stars to enjoy their rights and privileges; that they shall never wage war with
the Heliots, but assist them whenever they shall be invaded; that the king of the
Selenites shall pay to the king of the Heliots an annual tribute of ten thousand
casks of dew, for the insurance of which, he shall send ten thousand hostages; that
they shall mutually send out a colony to the Morning-star, in which, whoever of
either nation shall think proper, may become a member; that the treaty shall be
inscribed on a column of amber, in the midst of the air, and on the borders of the
two kingdoms. This treaty was sworn to on the part of the Heliots, by Pyronides,
{93} and Therites, and Phlogius; and on the part of the Selenites, by Nyctor, and
Menarus, and Polylampus.”
Such was the peace made between them; the wall was immediately pulled down,
and we were set at liberty. When we returned to the Moon, our companions met
and embraced us, shedding tears of joy, as did Endymion also. He intreated us to
remain there, or to go along with the new colony; this I could by no means be
persuaded to, but begged he would let us down into the sea. As he found I could
not be prevailed on to stay, after feasting us most nobly for seven days, he
dismissed us.
I will now tell you every thing which I met with in the Moon that was new and
extraordinary. Amongst them, when a man grows old he does not die, but
dissolves into smoke and turns to air. They all eat the same food, which is frogs
roasted on the ashes from a large fire; of these they have plenty which fly about in
the air, they get together over the coals, snuff up the scent of them, and this serves
them for victuals. Their drink is air squeezed into a cup, which produces a kind of
dew.
He who is quite bald is esteemed a beauty amongst them, for they abominate long
hair; whereas, in the comets, it is looked upon as a perfection at least; so we heard
from some strangers who were speaking of them; they have, notwithstanding,
small beards a little above the knee; no nails to their feet, and only one great toe.
They have honey here which is extremely sharp, and when they exercise
themselves, wash their bodies with milk; this, mixed with a little of their honey,
makes excellent cheese. {94} Their oil is extracted from onions, is very rich, and
smells like ointment. Their wines, which are in great abundance, yield water, and
the grape stones are like hail; I imagine, indeed, that whenever the wind shakes
their vines and bursts the grape, then comes down amongst us what we call hail.
They make use of their belly, which they can open and shut as they please, as a
kind of bag, or pouch, to put anything in they want; it has no liver or intestines, but
is hairy and warm within, insomuch, that new-born children, when they are cold,
frequently creep into it. The garments of the rich amongst them are made of glass,
but very soft: the poor have woven brass, which they have here in great abundance,
and by pouring a little water over it, so manage as to card it like wool. I am afraid
to mention their eyes, lest, from the incredibility of the thing, you should not
believe me. I must, however, inform you that they have eyes which they take in
and out whenever they please: so that they can preserve them anywhere till
occasion serves, and then make use of them; many who have lost their own,
borrow from others; and there are several rich men who keep a stock of eyes by
them. Their ears are made of the leaves of plane-trees, except of those who spring,
as I observed to you, from acorns, these alone have wooden ones. I saw likewise
another very extraordinary thing in the king’s palace, which was a looking-glass
that is placed in a well not very deep; whoever goes down into the well hears
everything that is said upon earth, and if he looks into the glass, beholds all the
cities and nations of the world as plain as if he was close to them. I myself saw
several of my friends there, and my whole native country; whether they saw me
also I will not pretend to affirm. He who does not believe these things, whenever
he goes there will know that I have said nothing but what is true.
To return to our voyage. We took our leave of the king and his friends, got on
board our ship, and set sail. Endymion made me a present of two glass robes, two
brass ones, and a whole coat of armour made of lupines, all which I left in the
whale’s belly. {96} He likewise sent with us a thousand Hippogypi, who escorted
us five hundred stadia.
We sailed by several places, and at length reached the new colony of the Morning-
star, where we landed and took in water; from thence we steered into the Zodiac;
leaving the Sun on our left, we passed close by his territory, and would have gone
ashore, many of our companions being very desirous of it, but the wind would not
permit us; we had a view, however, of that region, and perceived that it was green,
fertile, and well-watered, and abounding in everything necessary and agreeable.
The Nephelocentaurs, who are mercenaries in the service of Phaëton, saw us and
flew aboard our ship, but, recollecting that we were included into the treaty, soon
departed; the Hippogypi likewise took their leave of us.
All the next night and day we continued our course downwards, and towards
evening came upon Lycnopolis: {97} this city lies between the Pleiades and the
Hyades, and a little below the Zodiac: we landed, but saw no men, only a number
of lamps running to and fro in the market-place and round the port: some little
ones, the poor, I suppose, of the place; others the rich and great among them, very
large, light, and splendid: every one had its habitation or candlestick to itself, and
its own proper name, as men have. We heard them speak: they offered us no
injury, but invited us in the most hospitable manner; we were afraid,
notwithstanding: neither would any of us venture to take any food or sleep. The
king’s court is in the middle of the city; here he sits all night, calls every one by
name, and if they do not appear, condemns them to death for deserting their post;
their death is, to be put out; we stood by and heard several of them plead their
excuses for non-attendance. Here I found my own lamp, talked to him, and asked
him how things went on at home; he told me everything that had happened. We
stayed there one night, and next day loosing our anchor, sailed off very near the
clouds; where we saw, and greatly admired the city of Nephelo-coccygia, {98a}
but the wind would not permit us to land. Coronus, the son of Cottiphion, is king
there. I remember Aristophanes, {98b} the poet, speaks of him, a man of wisdom
and veracity, the truth of whose writings nobody can call in question. About three
days after this, we saw the ocean very plainly, but no land, except those regions
which hang in the air, and which appeared to us all bright and fiery. The fourth day
about noon, the wind subsiding, we got safe down into the sea. No sooner did we
touch the water, but we were beyond measure rejoiced. We immediately gave
every man his supper, as much as we could afford, and afterwards jumped into the
sea and swam, for it was quite calm and serene.
It often happens, that prosperity is the forerunner of the greatest misfortunes. We
had sailed but two days in the sea, when early in the morning of the third, at sun-
rise, we beheld on a sudden several whales, and one amongst them, of a most
enormous size, being not less than fifteen hundred stadia in length, he came up to
us with his mouth wide open, disturbing the sea for a long way before him, the
waves dashing round on every side; he whetted his teeth, which looked like so
many long spears, and were white as ivory; we embraced and took leave of one
another, expecting him every moment; he came near, and swallowed us up at once,
ship and all; he did not, however, crush us with his teeth, for the vessel luckily
slipped through one of the interstices; when we were got in, for some time it was
dark, and we could see nothing; but the whale happening to gape, we beheld a
large space big enough to hold a city with ten thousand men in it; in the middle
were a great number of small fish, several animals cut in pieces, sails and anchors
of ships, men’s bones, and all kinds of merchandise; there was likewise a good
quantity of land and hills, which seemed to have been formed of the mud which he
had swallowed; there was also a wood, with all sorts of trees in it, herbs of every
kind; everything, in short, seemed to vegetate; the extent of this might be about
two hundred and forty stadia. We saw also several sea-birds, gulls, and
kingfishers, making their nests in the branches. At our first arrival in these regions,
we could not help shedding tears; in a little time, however, I roused my
companions, and we repaired our vessel; after which, we sat down to supper on
what the place afforded. Fish of all kinds we had here in plenty, and the remainder
of the water which we brought with us from the Morning-star. When we got up the
next day, as often as the whale gaped, we could see mountains and islands,
sometimes only the sky, and plainly perceived by our motion that he travelled
through the sea at a great rate, and seemed to visit every part of it. At length, when
our abode become familiar to us, I took with me seven of my companions, and
advanced into the wood in order to see everything I could possibly; we had not
gone above five stadia, before we met with a temple dedicated to Neptune, as we
learned by the inscription on it, and a little farther on, several sepulchres,
monumental stones, and a fountain of clear water; we heard the barking of a dog,
and seeing smoke at some distance from us, concluded there must be some
habitation not far off; we got on as fast as we could, and saw an old man and a boy
very busy in cultivating a little garden, and watering it from a fountain; we were
both pleased and terrified at the sight, and they, as you may suppose, on their part
not less affected, stood fixed in astonishment and could not speak: after some time,
however, “Who are you?” said the old man; “and whence come ye? are you
daemons of the sea, or unfortunate men, like ourselves? for such we are, born and
bred on land, though now inhabitants of another element; swimming along with
this great creature, who carries us about with him, not knowing what is to become
of us, or whether we are alive or dead.” To which I replied, “We, father, are men as
you are, and but just arrived here, being swallowed up, together with our ship, but
three days ago; we came this way to see what the wood produced, for it seemed
large and full of trees; some good genius led us towards you, and we have the
happiness to find we are not the only poor creatures shut up in this great monster;
but give us an account of your adventures, let us know who you are, and how you
came here.” He would not however, tell us anything himself, or ask us any
questions, till he had performed the rites of hospitality; he took us into his house,
therefore, where he had got beds, and made everything very commodious; here he
presented us with herbs, fruit, fish, and wine: and when we were satisfied, began to
inquire into our history; when I acquainted him with everything that had happened
to us; the storm we met with; our adventures in the island; our sailing through the
air, the war, etc., from our first setting out, even to our descent into the whale’s
belly.
He expressed his astonishment at what had befallen us, and then told us his own
story, which was as follows:—“Strangers,” said he, “I am a Cyprian by birth, and
left my country to merchandise with this youth, who is my son, and several
servants. We sailed to Italy with goods of various kinds, some of which you may,
perhaps, have seen in the mouth of the whale; we came as far as Sicily with a
prosperous gale, when a violent tempest arose, and we were tossed about in the
ocean for three days, where we were swallowed up, men, ship and all, by the
whale, only we two remaining alive; after burying our companions we built a
temple to Neptune, and here we have lived ever since, cultivating our little garden,
raising herbs, and eating fish or fruit. The wood, as you see, is very large, and
produces many vines, from which we have excellent wine; there is likewise a
fountain, which perhaps you have observed, of fresh and very cold water. We
make our bed of leaves, have fuel sufficient, and catch a great many birds and live
fish. Getting out upon the gills of the whale, there we wash ourselves when we
please. There is a salt lake, about twenty stadia round, which produces fish of all
kinds, and where we row about in a little boat which we built on purpose. It is now
seven-and-twenty years since we were swallowed up. Everything here, indeed, is
very tolerable, except our neighbours, who are disagreeable, troublesome, savage,
and unsociable.” “And are there more,” replied I, “besides ourselves in the
whale?” “A great many,” said he, “and those very unhospitable, and of a most
horrible appearance: towards the tail, on the western parts of the wood, live the
Tarichanes, {104a} a people with eel’s eyes, and faces like crabs, bold, warlike,
and that live upon raw flesh. On the other side, at the right hand wall, are the
Tritonomendetes, {104b} in their upper parts men, and in the lower resembling
weasels. On the left are the Carcinochires, {104c} and the Thynnocephali, {104d}
who have entered into a league offensive and defensive with each other. The
middle part is occupied by the Paguradæ, {105a} and the Psittopodes, {105b} a
warlike nation, and remarkably swift-footed. The eastern parts, near the whale’s
mouth, being washed by the sea, are most of them uninhabited. I have some of
these, however, on condition of paying an annual tribute to the Psittopodes of five
hundred oysters. Such is the situation of this country; our difficulty is how to
oppose so many people, and find sustenance for ourselves.” “How many may
there be?” said I. “More than a thousand,” said he. “And what are their arms?”
“Nothing,” replied he, “but fish-bones.” “Then,” said I, “we had best go to war
with them, for we have arms and they none; if we conquer them we shall live
without fear for the future.” This was immediately agreed upon, and, as soon as
we returned to our ship, we began to prepare. The cause of the war was to be the
non-payment of the tribute, which was just now becoming due: they sent to
demand it; he returned a contemptuous answer to the messengers: the Psittopodes
and Paguradæ were both highly enraged, and immediately fell upon Scintharus (for
that was the old man’s name), in a most violent manner.
We, expecting to be attacked, sent out a detachment of five-and-twenty men, with
orders to lie concealed till the enemy was past, and then to rise upon them, which
they did, and cut off their rear. We, in the meantime, being likewise five-and-
twenty in number, with the old man and his son, waited their coming up, met, and
engaged them with no little danger, till at length they fled, and we pursued them
even into their trenches. Of the enemy there fell an hundred and twenty; we lost
only one, our pilot, who was run through by the rib of a mullet. That day, and the
night after it, we remained on the field of battle, and erected the dried backbone of
a dolphin as a trophy. Next day some other forces, who had heard of the
engagement, arrived, and made head against us; the Tarichanes; under the
command of Pelamus, in the right wing, the Thynnocephali on the left, and the
Carcinochires in the middle; the Tritonomendetes remained neutral, not choosing
to assist either party: we came round upon all the rest by the temple of Neptune,
and with a hideous cry, rushed upon them. As they were unarmed, we soon put
them to flight, pursued them into the wood, and took possession of their territory.
They sent ambassadors a little while after to take away their dead, and propose
terms of peace; but we would hear of no treaty, and attacking them the next day,
obtained a complete victory, and cut them all off, except the Tritonomendetes, who,
informed of what had passed, ran away up to the whale’s gills, and from thence
threw themselves into the sea. The country being now cleared of all enemies, we
rambled through it, and from that time remained without fear, used what exercise
we pleased, went a-hunting, pruned our vines, gathered our fruit, and lived, in
short, in every respect like men put together in a large prison, which there was no
escaping from, but where they enjoy everything they can wish for in ease and
freedom; such was our way of life for a year and eight months.
On the fifteenth day of the ninth month, about the second opening of the whale’s
mouth (for this he did once every hour, and by that we calculated our time), we
were surprised by a sudden noise, like the clash of oars; being greatly alarmed, we
crept up into the whale’s mouth, where, standing between his teeth, we beheld one
of the most astonishing spectacles that was ever seen; men of an immense size,
each of them not less than half a stadium in length, sailing on islands like boats. I
know what I am saying is incredible, I shall proceed, notwithstanding: these
islands were long, but not very high, and about a hundred stadia in circumference;
there were about eight-and-twenty of these men in each of them, besides the
rowers on the sides, who rowed with large cypresses, with their branches and
leaves on; in the stern stood a pilot raised on an eminence and guiding a brazen
helm; on the forecastle were forty immense creatures resembling men, except in
their hair, which was all a flame of fire, so that they had no occasion for helmets;
these were armed, and fought most furiously; the wind rushing in upon the wood,
which was in every one of them, swelled it like a sail and drove them on, according
to the pilot’s direction; and thus, like so many long ships, the islands, by the
assistance of the oars, also moved with great velocity. At first we saw only two or
three, but afterwards there appeared above six hundred of them, which
immediately engaged; many were knocked to pieces by running against each other,
and many sunk; others were wedged in close together and, not able to get asunder,
fought desperately; those who were near the prows showed the greatest alacrity,
boarding each other’s ships, and making terrible havoc; none, however, were taken
prisoners. For grappling-irons they made use of large sharks chained together, who
laid hold of the wood and kept the island from moving: they threw oysters at one
another, one of which would have filled a waggon, and sponges of an acre long.
Æolocentaurus was admiral of one of the fleets, and Thalassopotes {109} of the
other: they had quarrelled, it seems, about some booty; Thalassopotes, as it was
reported, having driven away a large tribe of dolphins belonging to Æolocentaurus:
this we picked up from their own discourse, when we heard them mention the
names of their commanders. At length the forces of Æolocentaurus prevailed, and
sunk about a hundred and fifty of the islands of the enemy, and taking three more
with the men in them: the rest took to their oars and fled. The conquerors pursued
them a little way, and in the evening returned to the wreck, seizing the remainder
of the enemy’s vessels, and getting back some of their own, for they had
themselves lost no less than fourscore islands in the engagement. They erected a
trophy for this victory, hanging one of the conquered islands on the head of the
whale, which they fastened their hawsers to, and casting anchor close to him, for
they had anchors immensely large and strong, spent the night there: in the morning,
after they had returned thanks, and sacrificed on the back of the whale, they buried
their dead, sung their Io Pæans, and sailed off. Such was the battle of the islands.

BOOK II.

From this time our abode in the whale growing rather tedious and disagreeable, not
able to bear it any longer, I began to think within myself how we might make our
escape. My first scheme was to undermine the right-hand wall and get out there;
and accordingly we began to cut away, but after getting through about five stadia,
and finding it was to no purpose, we left off digging, and determined to set fire to
the wood, which we imagined would destroy the whale, and secure us a safe
retreat. We began, therefore, by burning the parts near his tail; for seven days and
nights he never felt the heat, but on the eighth we perceived he grew sick, for he
opened his mouth very seldom, and when he did, shut it again immediately; on the
tenth and the eleventh he declined visibly, and began to stink a little; on the twelfth
it occurred to us, which we had never thought of before, that unless, whilst he was
gaping, somebody could prop up his jaws, to prevent his closing them, we were in
danger of being shut up in the carcase, and perishing there: we placed some large
beams, therefore, in his mouth, got our ship ready, and took in water, and
everything necessary: Scintharus was to be our pilot: the next day the whale died;
we drew our vessel through the interstices of his teeth, and let her down from
thence into the sea: then, getting on the whale’s back, sacrificed to Neptune, near
the spot where the trophy was erected. Here we stayed three days, it being a dead
calm, and on the fourth set sail; we struck upon several bodies of the giants that
had been slain in the sea-fight, and measured them with the greatest astonishment:
for some days we had very mild and temperate weather, but the north-wind arising,
it grew so extremely cold, that the whole sea was froze up, not on the surface only,
but three or four hundred feet deep, so that we got out and walked on the ice. The
frost being so intense that we could not bear it, we put in practice the following
scheme, which Scintharus put us in the head of: we dug a cave in the ice, where we
remained for thirty days, lighting a fire, and living upon the fish which we found in
it; but, our provisions failing, we were obliged to loosen our ship which was stuck
fast in, and hoisting a sail, slid along through the ice with an easy pleasant motion;
on the fifth day from that time, it grew warm, the ice broke, and it was all water
again.
After sailing about three hundred stadia, we fell in upon a little deserted island:
here we took in water, for ours was almost gone, killed with our arrows two wild
oxen, and departed. These oxen had horns, not on their heads, but, as Momus
seemed to wish, under their eyes. A little beyond this, we got into a sea, not of
water, but of milk; and upon it we saw an island full of vines; this whole island was
one compact well-made cheese, as we afterwards experienced by many a good
meal, which we made upon it, and is in length five-and-twenty stadia. The vines
have grapes upon them, which yield not wine, but milk. In the middle of the island
was a temple to the Nereid {113} Galatæa, as appeared by an inscription on it: as
long as we stayed there, the land afforded us victuals to eat, and the vines supplied
us with milk to drink. Tyro, {114a} the daughter of Salmoneus, we were told, was
queen of it, Neptune having, after her death, conferred that dignity upon her.
We stopped five days on this island, and on the sixth set sail with a small breeze,
which gently agitated the waves, and on the eighth, changed our milky sea for a
green and briny one, where we saw a great number of men running backwards and
forwards, resembling ourselves in every part, except the feet, which were all of
cork, whence, I suppose, they are called Phellopodes. {114b} We were surprised
to see them not sinking, but rising high above the waves, and making their way
without the least fear or apprehension; they came up to, and addressed us in the
Greek tongue, telling us they were going to Phello, their native country; they
accompanied us a good way, and then taking their leave, wished us a good voyage.
A little after we saw several islands, amongst which, to the left of us, stood Phello,
to which these men were going, a city built in the middle of a large round cork;
towards the right hand, and at a considerable distance, were many others, very
large and high, on which we saw a prodigious large fire: fronting the prow of our
ship, we had a view of one very broad and flat, and which seemed to be about five
hundred stadia off; as we approached near to it, a sweet and odoriferous air came
round us, such as Herodotus tells us blows from Arabia Felix; from the rose, the
narcissus, the hyacinth, the lily, the violet, the myrtle, the laurel, and the vine.
Refreshed with these delightful odours, and in hopes of being at last rewarded for
our long sufferings, we came close up to the island; here we beheld several safe
and spacious harbours, with clear transparent rivers rolling placidly into the sea;
meadows, woods, and birds of all kinds, chanting melodiously on the shore; and,
on the trees, the soft and sweet air fanning the branches on every side, which sent
forth a soft, harmonious sound, like the playing on a flute; at the same time we
heard a noise, not of riot or tumult, but a kind of joyful and convivial sound, as of
some playing on the lute or harp, with others joining in the chorus, and applauding
them.
We cast anchor and landed, leaving our ship in the harbour with Scintharus and
two more of our companions. As we were walking through a meadow full of
flowers, we met the guardians of the isle, who, immediately chaining us with
manacles of roses, for these are their only fetters, conducted us to their king. From
these we learned, on our journey, that this place was called the Island of the
Blessed, {116a} and was governed by Rhadamanthus. We were carried before
him, and he was sitting that day as judge to try some causes; ours was the fourth in
order. The first was that of Ajax Telamonius, {116b} to determine whether he was
to rank with the heroes or not. The accusation ran that he was mad, and had made
an end of himself. Much was said on both sides. At length Rhadamanthus
pronounced that he should be consigned to the care of Hippocrates, and go through
a course of hellebore, after which he might be admitted to the Symposium. The
second was a love affair, to decide whether Theseus or Menelaus should possess
Helen in these regions; and the decree of Rhadamanthus was, that she should live
with Menelaus, who had undergone so many difficulties and dangers for her;
besides, that Theseus had other women, the Amazonian lady and the daughters of
Minos. The third cause was a point of precedency between Alexander the son of
Philip, and Hannibal the Carthaginian, which was given in favour of Alexander,
who was placed on a throne next to the elder Cyrus, the Persian. Our cause came
on the last. The king asked us how we dared to enter, alone as we were, into that
sacred abode. We told him everything that had happened; he commanded us to
retire, and consulted with the assessors concerning us. There were many in council
with him, and amongst them Aristides, the just Athenian, and pursuant to his
opinion it was determined that we should suffer the punishment of our bold
curiosity after our deaths, but at present might remain in the island for a certain
limited time, associate with the heroes, and then depart; this indulgence was not to
exceed seven months.
At this instant our chains, if so they might be called, dropped off, and we were left
at liberty to range over the city, and to partake of the feast of the blessed. The
whole city was of gold, {118} and the walls of emerald; the seven gates were all
made out of one trunk of the cinnamon-tree; the pavement, within the walls, of
ivory; the temples of the gods were of beryl, and the great altars, on which they
offered the hecatombs, all of one large amethyst. Round the city flowed a river of
the most precious ointment, a hundred cubits in breadth, and deep enough to swim
in; the baths are large houses of glass perfumed with cinnamon, and instead of
water filled with warm dew. For clothes they wear spider’s webs, very fine, and of
a purple colour. They have no bodies, but only the appearance of them, insensible
to the touch, and without flesh, yet they stand, taste, move, and speak. Their souls
seem to be naked, and separated from them, with only the external similitude of a
body, and unless you attempt to touch, you can scarce believe but they have one;
they are a kind of upright shadows, {119} only not black. In this place nobody
ever grows old: at whatever age they enter here, at that they always remain. They
have no night nor bright day, but a perpetual twilight; one equal season reigns
throughout the year; it is always spring with them, and no wind blows but
Zephyrus. The whole region abounds in sweet flowers and shrubs of every kind;
their vines bear twelve times in the year, yielding fruit every month, their apples,
pomegranates, and the rest of our autumnal produce, thirteen times, bearing twice
in the month of Minos. Instead of corn the fields bring forth loaves of ready-made
bread, like mushrooms. There are three hundred and sixty-five fountains of water
round the city, as many of honey, and five hundred rather smaller of sweet-scented
oil, besides seven rivers of milk and eight of wine.
Their symposia are held in a place without the city, which they call the Elysian
Field. This is a most beautiful meadow, skirted by a large and thick wood,
affording an agreeable shade to the guests, who repose on couches of flowers; the
winds attend upon and bring them everything necessary, except wine, which is
otherwise provided, for there are large trees on every side made of the finest glass,
the fruit of which are cups of various shapes and sizes. Whoever comes to the
entertainment gathers one or more of these cups, which immediately, becomes full
of wine, and so they drink of it, whilst the nightingales and other birds of song,
with their bills peck the flowers out of the neighbouring fields, and drop them on
their heads; thus are they crowned with perpetual garlands. Their manner of
perfuming them is this. The clouds suck up the scented oils from the fountains and
rivers, and the winds gently fanning them, distil it like soft dew on those who are
assembled there. At supper they have music also, and singing, particularly the
verses of Homer, who is himself generally at the feast, and sits next above Ulysses,
with a chorus of youths and virgins. He is led in accompanied by Eunomus the
Locrian, {121a} Arion of Lesbos, Anacreon, and Stesichorus, {121b} whom I saw
there along with them, and who at length is reconciled to Helen. When they have
finished their songs, another chorus begins of swans, {122a} swallows, and
nightingales, and to these succeeds the sweet rustling of the zephyrs, that whistle
through the woods and close the concert. What most contributes to their happiness
is, that near the symposium are two fountains, the one of milk, the other of
pleasure; from the first they drink at the beginning of the feast; there is nothing
afterwards but joy and festivity.
I will now tell you what men of renown I met with there. And first there were all
the demigods, and all the heroes that fought at Troy except Ajax the Locrian,
{122b} who alone, it seems, was condemned to suffer for his crimes in the
habitations of the wicked. Then there were of the barbarians both the Cyruses,
Anacharsis the Scythian, Zamolxis of Thrace, {123a} and Numa the Italian;
{123b} besides these I met with Lycurgus the Spartan, Phocion and Tellus of
Athens, and all the wise men except Periander. {123c} I saw also Socrates, the son
of Sophroniscus, prating with Nestor and Palamedes; near him were Hyacinthus of
Sparta, Narcissus the Thespian, Hylas, and several other beauties: he seemed very
fond of Hyacinthus. Some things were laid to his charge: it was even reported that
Rhadamanthus was very angry with him, and threatened to turn him out of the
island if he continued to play the fool, and would not leave off his irony and
sarcasm. Of all the philosophers, Plato {123d} alone was not to be found there,
but it seems he lived in a republic of his own building, and which was governed by
laws framed by himself. Aristippus and Epicurus were in the highest esteem here
as the most polite, benevolent, and convivial of men. Even Æsop the Phrygian was
here, whom they made use of by way of buffoon. Diogenes of Sinope had so
wonderfully changed his manners in this place, that he married Lais the harlot,
danced and sang, got drunk, and played a thousand freaks. Not one Stoic did I see
amongst them; they, it seems, were not yet got up to the top of the high hill {124a}
of virtue; and as to Chrysippus, we were told that he was not to enter the island till
he had taken a fourth dose of hellebore. The Academicians, we heard, were very
desirous of coming here, but they stood doubting and deliberating about it, neither
were they quite certain whether there was such a place as Elysium or not; perhaps
they were afraid of Rhadamanthus’s judgment {124b} on them, as decisive
judgments are what they would never allow. Many of them, it is reported,
followed those who were coming to the island, but being too lazy to proceed,
turned back when they were got half way.
Such were the principal persons whom I met with here. Achilles is had in the
greatest honour among them, and next to him Theseus.
Two or three days after my arrival I met with the poet Homer, and both of us being
quite at leisure, asked him several questions, and amongst the rest where he was
born, that, as I informed him, having been long a matter of dispute amongst us. We
were very ignorant indeed, he said, for some had made him a Chian, others a native
of Smyrna, others of Colophon, but that after all he was a Babylonian, and amongst
them was called Tigranes, though, after being a hostage in Greece, they had
changed his name to Homer. I then asked him about those of his verses which are
rejected as spurious, and whether they were his or not. He said they were all his
own, which made me laugh at the nonsense of Zenodotus and Aristarchus the
grammarians. I then asked him how he came to begin his “Iliad” with the wrath of
Achilles; he said it was all by chance. I desired likewise to know whether, as it
was generally reported, he wrote the “Odyssey” before the “Iliad.” He said, no. It
is commonly said he was blind, but I soon found he was not so; for he made use of
his eyes and looked at me, so that I had no reason to ask him that question.
Whenever I found him disengaged, I took the opportunity of conversing with him,
and he very readily entered into discourse with me, especially after the victory
which he obtained over Thersites, who had accused him of turning him into
ridicule in some of his verses. The cause was heard before Rhadamanthus, and
Homer came off victorious. Ulysses pleaded for him.
I met also Pythagoras the Samian, who arrived in these regions after his soul had
gone a long round in the bodies of several animals, having been changed seven
times. All his right side was of gold, and there was some dispute whether he
should be called Pythagoras or Euphorbus. Empedocles came likewise, who
looked sodden and roasted all over. He desired admittance, but though he begged
hard for it, was rejected.
A little time after the games came on, which they call here Thanatusia. {126}
Achilles presided for the fifth time, and Theseus for the seventh. A narrative of the
whole would be tedious; I shall only, therefore, recount a few of the principal
circumstances in the wrestling match. Carus, a descendant of Hercules, conquered
Ulysses at the boxing match; Areus the Egyptian, who was buried at Corinth, and
Epeus contended, but neither got the victory. The Pancratia was not proposed
amongst them. In the race I do not remember who had the superiority. In poetry
Homer was far beyond them all; Hesiod, however, got a prize. The reward to all
was a garland of peacock’s feathers.
When the games were over word was brought that the prisoners in Tartarus had
broken loose, overcome the guard, and were proceeding to take possession of the
island under the command of Phalaris the Agrigentine, {127a} Busiris of Egypt,
{127b} Diomede the Thracian, {128a} Scyron, {128b} and Pityocamptes. As soon
as Rhadamanthus heard of it he despatched the heroes to the shore, conducted by
Theseus, Achilles, and Ajax Telamonius, who was now returned to his senses. A
battle ensued, wherein the heroes were victorious, owing principally to the valour
of Achilles. Socrates, who was placed in the right wing, behaved much better than
he had done at Delius {128c} in his life-time, for when the enemy approached he
never fled, nor so much as turned his face about. He had a very extraordinary
present made him as the reward of his courage, no less than a fine spacious garden
near the city; here he summoned his friends and disputed, calling the place by the
name of the Academy of the Dead. They then bound the prisoners and sent them
back to Tartarus, to suffer double punishment. Homer wrote an account of this
battle, and gave it me to show it to our people when I went back, but I lost it
afterwards, together with a great many other things. It began thus—
“Sing, Muse, the battles of the heroes dead—”
The campaign thus happily finished, they made an entertainment to celebrate the
victory, which, as is usual amongst them, was a bean-feast. Pythagoras alone
absented himself on that day, and fasted, holding in abomination the wicked
custom of eating beans.
Six months had now elapsed, when a new and extraordinary affair happened.
Cinyrus, the son of Scintharus, a tall, well-made, handsome youth, fell in love with
Helen, and she no less desperately with him. They were often nodding and
drinking to one another at the public feasts, and would frequently rise up and walk
out together alone into the wood. The violence of his passion, joined to the
impossibility of possessing her any other way, put Cinyrus on the resolution of
running away with her. She imagined that they might easily get off to some of the
adjacent islands, either to Phellus or Tyroessa. He selected three of the bravest of
our crew to accompany them; never mentioning the design to his father, who he
knew would never consent to it, but the first favourable opportunity, put it in
execution; and one night when I was not with them (for it happened that I stayed
late at the feast, and slept there) carried her off.
Menelaus, rising in the middle of the night, and perceiving that his wife was gone,
made a dreadful noise about it, and, taking his brother along with him, proceeded
immediately to the king’s palace. At break of day the guards informed him that
they had seen a vessel a good distance from land. He immediately put fifty heroes
on board a ship made out of one large piece of the asphodelus, with orders to
pursue them. They made all the sail they possibly could, and about noon came up
with and seized on them, just as they were entering into the Milky Sea, close to
Tyroessa; so near were they to making their escape. The pursuers threw a rosy
chain over the vessel and brought her home again. Helen began to weep, blushed,
and hid her face. Rhadamanthus asked Cinyrus and the rest of them if they had
any more accomplices: they told him they had none. He then ordered them to be
chained, whipped with mallows, and sent to Tartarus.
It was now determined that we should stay no longer on the island than the time
limited, and the very next day was fixed for our departure. This gave me no little
concern, and I wept to think I must leave so many good things, and be once more a
wanderer. They endeavoured to administer consolation to me by assuring me that
in a few years I should return to them again; they even pointed out the seat that
should be allotted to me, and which was near the best and worthiest inhabitants of
these delightful mansions. I addressed myself to Rhadamanthus, and humbly
entreated him to inform me of my future fate, and let me know beforehand whether
I should travel. He told me that, after many toils and dangers, I should at last
return in safety to my native country, but would not point out the time when. He
then showed me the neighbouring islands, five of which appeared near to me, and a
sixth at a distance. “Those next to you,” said he, “where you see a great fire
burning, are the habitations of the wicked; the sixth is the city of dreams; behind
that lies the island of Calypso, which you cannot see yet. When you get beyond
these you will come to a large tract of land inhabited by those who live on the side
of the earth directly opposite to you, {132} there you will suffer many things,
wander through several nations, and meet with some very savage and unsociable
people, and at length get into another region.”
Having said thus, he took a root of mallow out of the earth, and putting it into my
hand, bade me remember, when I was in any danger, to call upon that; and added,
moreover, that if, when I came to the Antipodes, I took care “never to stir the fire
with a sword, and never to eat lupines,” I might have hopes of returning to the
Island of the Blessed.
I then got everything ready for the voyage, supped with, and took my leave of
them. Next day, meeting Homer, I begged him to make me a couple of verses for
an inscription, which he did, and I fixed them on a little column of beryl, at the
mouth of the harbour; the inscription was as follows:
“Dear to the gods, and favourite of heaven,
Here Lucian lived: to him alone ’twas given,
Well pleased these happy regions to explore,
And back returning, seek his native shore.”
I stayed that day, and the next set sail; the heroes attending to take their leave of us;
when Ulysses, unknown to Penelope, slipped a letter into my hand for Calypso, at
the island of Ogygia. Rhadamanthus was so obliging as to send with us Nauplius
the pilot, that, if we stopped at the neighbouring islands, and they should lay hold
on us, he might acquaint them that we were only on our passage to another place.
As soon as we got out of the sweet-scented air, we came into another that smelt of
asphaltus, pitch, and sulphur burning together, with a most intolerable stench, as of
burned carcases: the whole element above us was dark and dismal, distilling a kind
of pitchy dew upon our heads; we heard the sound of stripes, and the yellings of
men in torment.
We saw but one of these islands; that which we landed on I will give you some
description of. Every part of it was steep and filthy, abounding in rocks and rough
mountains. We crept along, over precipices full of thorns and briers, and, passing
through a most horrid country, came to the dungeon, and place of punishment,
which we beheld with an admiration full of horror: the ground was strewed with
swords and prongs, and close to us were three rivers, one of mire, another of blood,
and another of fire, immense and impassable, that flowed in torrents, and rolled
like waves in the sea; it had many fish in it, some like torches, others resembling
live coals; which they called lychnisci. There is but one entrance into the three
rivers, and at the mouth of them stood, as porter, Timon of Athens. By the
assistance, however, of our guide, Nauplius, we proceeded, and saw several
punished, {135a} as well kings as private persons, and amongst these some of our
old acquaintance; we saw Cinyrus, {135b} hung up and roasting there. Our guides
gave us the history of several of them, and told us what they were punished for;
those, we observed, suffered most severely who in their lifetimes had told lies, or
written what was not true, amongst whom were Ctesias the Cnidian, Herodotus,
and many others. When I saw these I began to conceive good hopes of hereafter,
as I am not conscious of ever having told a story.
Not able to bear any longer such melancholy spectacles, we took our leave of
Nauplius, and returned to our ship. In a short time after we had a view, but
confused and indistinct, of the Island of Dreams, which itself was not unlike a
dream, for as we approached towards it, it seemed as it were to retire and fly from
us. At last, however, we got up to it, and entered the harbour, which is called
Hypnus, {136a} near the ivory gates, where there is a harbour dedicated to the
cock. {136b} We landed late in the evening, and saw several dreams of various
kinds. I propose, however, at present, to give you an account of the place itself,
which nobody has ever written about, except Homer, whose description is very
imperfect.
Round the island is a very thick wood; the trees are all tall poppies, or
mandragoræ, {136c} in which are a great number of bats; for these are the only
birds they have here; there is likewise a river which they call Nyctiporus, {136d}
and round the gates two fountains: the name of one is Negretos, {137a} and of the
other Pannychia. {137b} The city has a high wall, of all the colours of the
rainbow. It has not two gates, as Homer {137c} tells us, but four; two of which
look upon the plain of Indolence, one made of iron, the other of brick; through
these are said to pass all the dreams that are frightful, bloody, and melancholy; the
other two, fronting the sea and harbour, one of horn, the other, which we came
through, of ivory; on the right hand, as you enter the city, is the temple of Night,
who, together with the cock, is the principal object of worship amongst them. This
is near the harbour; on the left is the palace of Somnus, for he is their sovereign,
and under him are two viceroys, Taraxion, {138a} the son of Matæogenes, and
Plutocles, {138b} the son of Phantasion. In the middle of the market-place stands
a fountain, which they call Careotis, {138c} and two temples of Truth and
Falsehood; there is an oracle here, at which Antiphon presides as high-priest; he is
inventor of the dreams, an honourable employment, which Somnus bestowed upon
him.
The dreams themselves are of different kinds, some long, beautiful, and pleasant,
others little and ugly; there are likewise some golden ones, others poor and mean;
some winged and of an immense size, others tricked out as it were for pomps and
ceremonies, for gods and kings; some we met with that we had seen at home; these
came up to and saluted us as their old acquaintance, whilst others putting us first to
sleep, treated us most magnificently, and promised that they would make us kings
and noblemen: some carried us into our own country, showed us our friends and
relations, and brought us back again the same day. Thirty days and nights we
remained in this place, being most luxuriously feasted, and fast asleep all the time,
when we were suddenly awaked by a violent clap of thunder, and immediately ran
to our ship, put in our stores, and set sail. In three days we reached the island of
Ogygia. Before we landed, I broke open the letter, and read the contents, which
were as follows:
ULYSSES TO CALYPSO.
“This comes to inform you, that after my departure from your coasts in the vessel
which you were so kind as to provide me with, I was shipwrecked, and saved with
the greatest difficulty by Leucothea, who conveyed me to the country of the
Phæacians, and from thence I got home; where I found a number of suitors about
my wife, revelling there at my expense. I destroyed every one of them, and was
afterwards slain myself by Telegonus, a son whom I had by Circe. I still lament
the pleasures which I left behind at Ogygia, and the immortality which you
promised me; if I can ever find an opportunity, I will certainly make my escape
from hence, and come to you.”
This was the whole of the epistle except, that at the end of it he recommended us to
her protection.
On our landing, at a little distance from the sea, I found the cave, as described by
Homer, and in it Calypso, spinning; she took the letter, put it in her bosom, and
wept; then invited us to sit down, and treated us magnificently. She then asked us
several questions about Ulysses, and inquired whether Penelope was handsome and
as chaste as Ulysses had reported her to be. We answered her in such a manner as
we thought would please her best; and then returning to our ship, slept on board
close to the shore.
In the morning, a brisk gale springing up, we set sail. For two days we were tossed
about in a storm; the third drove us on the pirates of Colocynthos. These are a kind
of savages from the neighbouring islands, who commit depredations on all that sail
that way. They have large ships made out of gourds, six cubits long; when the fruit
is dry, they hollow and work it into this shape, using reeds for masts, and making
their sails out of the leaves of the plant. They joined the crews of two ships and
attacked us, wounding many of us with cucumber seeds, which they threw instead
of stones. After fighting some time without any material advantage on either side,
about noon we saw just behind them some of the Caryonautæ, {141a} whom we
found to be avowed enemies to the Colocynthites, {141b} who, on their coming
up, immediately quitted us, and fell upon them. We hoisted our sail, and got off,
leaving them to fight it out by themselves; the Caryonautæ were most probably the
conquerors, as they were more in number, for they had five ships, which besides
were stronger and better built than those of the enemy, being made of the shells of
nuts cut in two, and hollowed, every half-nut being fifty paces long. As soon as we
got out of their sight, we took care of our wounded men, and from that time were
obliged to be always armed and prepared in case of sudden attack. We had too
much reason to fear, for scarce was the sun set when we saw about twenty men
from a desert island advancing towards us, each on the back of a large dolphin.
These were pirates also: the dolphins carried them very safely, and seemed pleased
with their burden, neighing like horses. When they came up, they stood at a little
distance, and threw dried cuttle-fish and crabs’-eyes at us; but we, in return,
attacking them with our darts and arrows, many of them were wounded; and,
unable to stand it any longer, they retreated to the island.
In the middle of the night, the sea being quite calm, we unfortunately struck upon a
halcyon’s nest, of an immense size, being about sixty stadia in circumference; the
halcyon was sitting upon it, and was herself not much less; as she flew off, she was
very near oversetting our ship with the wind of her wings, and, as she went, made a
most hideous groaning. As soon as it was day we took a view of the nest, which
was like a great ship, and built of trees; in it were five hundred eggs, each of them
longer than a hogshead of Chios. We could hear the young ones croaking within;
so, with a hatchet we broke one of the eggs, and took the chicken out unfledged; it
was bigger than twenty vultures put together.
When we were got about two hundred stadia from the nest, we met with some
surprising prodigies. A cheniscus came, and sitting on the prow of our ship,
clapped his wings and made a noise. Our pilot Scintharus had been bald for many
years, when on a sudden his hair came again. But what was still more wonderful,
the mast of our ship sprouted out, sent forth several branches, and bore fruit at the
top of it, large figs, and grapes not quite ripe. We were greatly astonished, as you
may suppose, and prayed most devoutly to the gods to avert the evil which was
portended.
We had not gone above five hundred stadia farther before we saw an immensely
large and thick wood of pines and cypresses; we took it for a tract of land, but it
was all a deep sea, planted with trees that had no root, which stood, however,
unmoved, upright, and, as it were, swimming in it. Approaching near to it, we
began to consider what we could do best. There was no sailing between the trees,
which were close together, nor did we know how to get back. I got upon one of the
highest of them, to see how far they reached, and perceived that they continued for
about fifty stadia or more, and beyond that it was all sea again; we resolved
therefore to drag the ship up to the top boughs, which were very thick, and so
convey it along, which, by fixing a great rope to it, with no little toil and difficulty,
we performed; got it up, spread our sails, and were driven on by the wind. It put
me in mind of that verse of Antimachus the poet, where he says—
“The ship sailed smoothly through the sylvan sea.”
We at length got over the wood, and, letting our ship down in the same manner, fell
into smooth clear water, till we came to a horrid precipice, hollow and deep,
resembling the cavity made by an earthquake. We furled our sails, or should soon
have been swallowed up in it. Stooping forward, and looking down, we beheld a
gulf of at least a thousand stadia deep, a most dreadful and amazing sight, for the
sea as it were was split in two. Looking towards our right hand, however, we saw
a small bridge of water that joined the two seas, and flowed from one into the
other; we got the ship in here, and with great labour rowed her over, which we
never expected.
From thence we passed into a smooth and calm sea, wherein was a small island
with a good landing place, and which was inhabited by the Bucephali: a savage
race of men, with bulls’ heads and horns, as they paint the minotaur. As soon as we
got on shore we went in search of water and provision, for we had none left; water
we found soon, but nothing else; we heard, indeed, a kind of lowing at a distance,
and expected to find a herd of oxen, but, advancing a little farther, perceived that it
came from the men. As soon as they saw us, they ran after and took two of our
companions; the rest of us got back to the ship as fast as we could. We then got
our arms, and, determined to revenge our friends, attacked them as they were
dividing the flesh of our poor companions: they were soon thrown into confusion
and totally routed; we slew about fifty of them, and took two prisoners, whom we
returned with. All this time we could get no provision. Some were for putting the
captives to death, but not approving of this, I kept them bound till the enemy
should send ambassadors to redeem them, which they did; for we soon heard them
lowing in a melancholy tone, and most humbly beseeching us to release their
friends. The ransom agreed on was a quantity of cheeses, dried fish, and onions,
together with four stags, each having three feet, two behind and one before. In
consideration of this, we released the prisoners, stayed one day there, and set sail.
We soon observed the fish swimming and the birds flying round about us, with
other signs of our being near the land; and in a very little time after saw some men
in the sea, who made use of a very uncommon method of sailing, being themselves
both ships and passengers. I will tell you how they did it; they laid themselves all
along in the water, they fastened to their middle a sail, and holding the lower part
of the rope in their hands, were carried along by the wind. Others we saw, sitting
on large casks, driving two dolphins who were yoked together, and drew the
carriage after them: these did not run away from, nor attempt to do us any injury;
but rode round about us without fear, observing our vessel with great attention, and
seeming greatly astonished at it.
It was now almost dark, when we came in sight of a small island inhabited by
women, as we imagined, for such they appeared to us, being all young and
handsome, with long garments reaching to their feet. The island was called
Cabalusa, and the city Hydamardia. {147a} I stopped a little, for my mind
misgave me, and looking round, saw several bones and skulls of men on the
ground; to make a noise, call my companions together, and take up arms, I thought
would be imprudent. I pulled out my mallow, {147b} therefore, and prayed most
devoutly that I might escape the present evil; and a little time afterwards, as one of
the strangers was helping us to something, I perceived, instead of a woman’s foot,
the hoof of an ass. Upon this I drew my sword, seized on and bound her, and
insisted on her telling me the truth with regard to everything about them. She
informed me, much against her will, that she and the rest of the inhabitants were
women belonging to the sea, that they were called Onoscileas, {148} and that they
lived upon travellers who came that way. “We make them drunk,” said she, “and
when they are asleep, make an end of them.” As soon as she had told me this, I left
her bound there, and getting upon the house, called out to my companions, brought
them together, showed them the bones, and led them in to her; when on a sudden
she dissolved away into water, and disappeared. I dipped my sword into it by way
of experiment, and the water turned into blood.
We proceeded immediately to our vessel and departed. At break of day we had a
view of that continent which we suppose lies directly opposite to our own. Here,
after performing our religious rites, and putting up our prayers, we consulted
together about what was to be done next. Some were of opinion that, after making
a little descent on the coast, we should turn back again; others were for leaving the
ship there, and marching up into the heart of the country, to explore the
inhabitants. Whilst we were thus disputing a violent storm arose, and driving our
ship towards the land, split it in pieces. We picked up our arms, and what little
things we could lay hold on, and with difficulty swam ashore.
Such were the adventures which befell us during our voyage, at sea, in the islands,
in the air, in the whale, amongst the heroes, in the land of dreams, and lastly,
amongst the Bucephali, and the Onoscileæ. What we met with on the other side of
the world, shall be related in the ensuing books. {149}

ICARO-MENIPPUS. A DIALOGUE.

This Dialogue, which is also called by the commentators ‘Υπερνεφελος, or,

“Above the Clouds,” has a great deal of easy wit and humour in it, without the
least degree of stiffness or obscurity; it is equally severe on the gods and
philosophers; and paints, in the warmest colours, the glaring absurdity of the
whole pagan system.

MENIPPUS AND A FRIEND.

MENIPPUS.
Three thousand stadia {153} from the earth to the moon, my first resting-place;
from thence up to the sun about five hundred parasangas; and from the sun to the
highest heaven, and the palace of Jupiter, as far as a swift eagle could fly in a day.
FRIEND.
What are you muttering to yourself, Menippus, talking about the stars, and
pretending to measure distances? As I walk behind you, I hear of nothing but suns
and moons, parasangas, stations, and I know not what.
MENIPPUS.
Marvel not, my friend, if I utter things aërial and sublime; for I am recounting the
wonders of my late journey.
FRIEND.
What! tracing your road by the stars, as the Phœnicians {154} do!
MENIPPUS.
Not so, by Jove! I have been amongst the stars themselves.
FRIEND.
You must have had a long dream, indeed, to travel so many leagues in it.
MENIPPUS.
It is no dream, I assure you; I am just arrived from Jupiter.
FRIEND.
How say you? Menippus let down from heaven?
MENIPPUS.
Even so: this moment come from thence, where I have seen and heard things most
strange and miraculous. If you doubt the truth of them, the happier shall I be to
have seen what is past belief.
FRIEND.
How is it possible, most heavenly and divine Menippus, that a mere mortal, like
me, should dispute the veracity of one who has been carried above the clouds: one,
to speak in the language of Homer, of the inhabitants {155} of heaven? But inform
me, I beseech you, which way you got up, and how you procured so many ladders;
for, by your appearance, I should not take you for another Phrygian boy, {156} to
be carried up by an eagle, and made a cup-bearer of.
MENIPPUS.
You are an old scoffer, I know, and therefore I am not surprised that an account of
things above the comprehensions of the vulgar should appear like a fable to you;
but, let me tell you, I wanted no ladders, nor an eagle’s beak, to transport me
thither, for I had wings of my own.
FRIEND.
This was beyond Dædalus himself, to be metamorphosed thus into a hawk, or jay,
and we know nothing of it.
MENIPPUS.
You are not far from the mark, my friend; for my wings were a kind of Dædalian
contrivance.
FRIEND.
Thou art a bold rogue indeed, and meant no doubt, if you had chanced to fall into
any part of the ocean, to have called it, as Icarus {157a} did, by your own name,
and styled it the Menippean Sea.
MENIPPUS.
Not so; his wings were glued on with wax, and when the sun melted it, could not
escape falling; but mine had no wax in them.
FRIEND.
Indeed! now shall I quickly know the truth of this affair.
MENIPPUS.
You shall: I took, you must know, a very large eagle {157b} and a vulture also, one
of the strongest I could get, and cut off their wings; but, if you have leisure, I will
tell you the whole expedition from beginning to end.
FRIEND.
Pray do, for I long to hear it: by Jove the Friendly, I entreat thee, keep me no
longer in suspense, for I am hung by the ears.
MENIPPUS.
Listen, then, for I would by no means baulk an inquisitive friend, especially one
who is nailed by the ears, as you are. Finding, on a close examination, that
everything here below, such as riches, honours, empire, and dominion, were all
ridiculous and absurd, of no real value or estimation, considering them, withal, as
so many obstacles to the study of things more worthy of contemplation, I looked
up towards nobler objects, and meditated on the great universe before me; doubts
immediately arose concerning what philosophers call the world; nor could I
discover how it came into existence, its creator, the beginning or the end of it.
When I descended to its several parts, I was still more in the dark: I beheld the
stars, scattered as it were by the hand of chance, over the heavens; I saw the sun,
and wished to know what it was; above all, the nature of the Moon appeared to me
most wonderful and extraordinary; the diversity of its forms pointed out some
hidden cause which I could not account for; the lightning also, which pierces
through everything, the impetuous thunder, the rain, hail, and snow, {159} all
raised my admiration, and seemed inexplicable to human reason. In this situation
of mind, the best thing I thought which I could possibly do was to consult the
philosophers; they, I made no doubt, were acquainted with the truth, and could
impart it to me. Selecting, therefore, the best of them, as well as I could judge
from the paleness and severity of their countenances, and the length of their beards
(for they seemed all to be high-speaking and heavenly-minded men), into the hands
of these I entirely resigned myself, and partly by ready money, partly by the
promise of more, when they had made me completely wise, I engaged them to
teach me the perfect knowledge of the universe, and how to talk on sublime
subjects; but so far were they from removing my ignorance, that they only threw
me into greater doubt and uncertainty, by puzzling me with atoms, vacuums,
beginnings, ends, ideas, forms, and so forth: and the worst of all was, that though
none agreed with the rest in what they advanced, but were all of contrary opinions,
yet did every one of them expect that I should implicitly embrace his tenets, and
subscribe to his doctrine.
FRIEND.
It is astonishing that such wise men should disagree, and, with regard to the same
things, should not all be of the same opinion.
MENIPPUS.
You will laugh, my friend, when I shall tell you of their pride and impudence in the
relation of extraordinary events; to think that men, who creep upon this earth, and
are not a whit wiser, or can see farther than ourselves, some of them old, blind, and
lazy, should pretend to know the limits and extent of heaven, measure the sun’s
circuit, and walk above the moon; that they should tell us the size and form of the
stars, as if they were just come down from them; that those who scarcely know
how many furlongs it is from Athens to Megara, should inform you exactly how
many cubits distance the sun is from the moon, should mark out the height of the
air, and the depth of the sea, describe circles, from squares upon triangles, make
spheres, and determine the length and breadth of heaven itself: is it not to the last
degree impudent and audacious? When they talk of things thus obscure and
unintelligible, not merely to offer their opinions as conjectures, but boldly to urge
and insist upon them: to do everything but swear, that the sun {161} is a mass of
liquid fire, that the moon is inhabited, that the stars drink water, and that the sun
draws up the moisture from the sea, as with a well-rope, and distributes his draught
over the whole creation? How little they agree upon any one thing, and what a
variety of tenets they embrace, is but too evident; for first, with regard to the
world, their opinions are totally different; some affirm that it hath neither
beginning nor end; some, whom I cannot but admire, point out to us the manner of
its construction, and the maker of it, a supreme deity, whom they worship as
creator of the universe; but they have not told us whence he came, nor where he
exists; neither, before the formation of this world, can we have any idea of time or
place.
FRIEND.
These are, indeed, bold and presumptuous diviners.
MENIPPUS.
But what would you say, my dear friend, were you to hear them disputing,
concerning ideal {162} and incorporeal substances, and talking about finite and
infinite? for this is a principal matter of contention between them; some confining
all things within certain limits, others prescribing none. Some assert that there are
many worlds, {163a} and laugh at those who affirm there is but one; whilst
another, {163b} no man of peace, gravely assures us that war is the original parent
of all things. Need I mention to you their strange opinions concerning the deities?
One says, that number {163c} is a god; others swear by dogs, {164} geese, and
plane-trees. Some give the rule of everything to one god alone, and take away all
power from the rest, a scarcity of deities which I could not well brook; others more
liberal, increased the number of gods, and gave to each his separate province and
employment, calling one the first, and allotting to others the second or third rank of
divinity. Some held that gods were incorporeal, and without form; others supposed
them to have bodies. It was by no means universally acknowledged that the gods
took cognisance of human affairs; some there were who exempted them from all
care and solicitude, as we exonerate our old men from business and trouble;
bringing them in like so many mute attendants on the stage. There are some too,
who go beyond all this, and deny that there are any gods at all, but assert that the
world is left without any guide or master.
I could not tell how to refuse my assent to these high-sounding and long-bearded
gentlemen, and yet could find no argument amongst them all, that had not been
refuted by some or other of them; often was I on the point of giving credit to one,
when, as Homer says,
“To other thoughts,
My heart inclined.” {165a}
The only way, therefore, to put an end to all my doubts, was, I thought, to make a
bird of myself, and fly up to heaven. This my own eager desires represented as
probable, and the fable-writer Æsop {165b} confirmed it, who carries up, not only
his eagles, but his beetles, and camels thither. To make wings for myself was
impossible, but to fit those of a vulture and an eagle to my body, might, I imagined,
answer the same purpose. I resolved, therefore, to try the experiment, and cut off
the right wing of one, and the left of the other; bound them on with thongs, and at
the extremities made loops for my hands; then, raising myself by degrees, just
skimmed above the ground, like the geese. When, finding my project succeed, I
made a bold push, got upon the Acropolis {166a} and from thence slid down to the
theatre. Having got so far without danger or difficulty, I began to meditate greater
things, and setting off from Parnethes or Hymettus {166b} flew to Geranea,
{166c} and from thence to the top of the tower at Corinth; from thence over Pholoe
{166d} and Erymanthus quite to Taygetus. And now, resolving to strike a bold
stroke, as I was already become a high flyer, and perfect in my art, I no longer
confined myself to chicken flights, but getting upon Olympus, and taking a little
light provision with me, I made the best of my way directly towards heaven. The
extreme height which I soared to brought on a giddiness at first, but this soon went
off; and when I got as far the Moon, having left a number of clouds behind me, I
found a weariness, particularly in my vulture wing. I halted, therefore, to rest
myself a little, and looking down from thence upon the earth, like Homer’s Jupiter,
beheld the places—
 “Where the brave Mycians prove their martial force,
And hardy Thracians tame the savage horse;
Then India, Persia, and all-conquering Greece.” {167}
which gave me wonderful pleasure and satisfaction.
FRIEND.
Let me have an exact account of all your travels, I beseech you, omit not the least
particular, but give me your observations upon everything; I expect to hear a great
deal about the form and figure of the earth, and how it all appeared to you from
such an eminence.
MENIPPUS.
And so you shall; ascend, therefore, in imagination with me to the Moon, and
consider the situation and appearance of the earth from thence: suppose it to seem,
as it did to me, much less than the moon, insomuch, that when I first looked down,
I could not find the high mountains, and the great sea; and, if it had not been for
the Rhodian Colossus, {168} and the tower of Pharos, should not have known
where the earth stood. At length, however, by the reflection of the sunbeams, the
ocean appeared, and showed me the land, when, keeping my eyes fixed upon it, I
beheld clearly and distinctly everything that was doing upon earth, not only whole
nations and cities, but all the inhabitants of them, whether waging war, cultivating
their fields, trying causes, or anything else; their women, animals, everything, in
short, was before me.
FRIEND.
Most improbable, all this, and contradictory; you told me but just before, that the
earth was so little by its great distance, that you could scarce find it, and, if it had
not been for the Colossus, it would not have appeared at all; and now, on a sudden,
like another Lynceus, you can spy out men, trees, animals, nay, I suppose, even a
flea’s nest, if you chose it.
MENIPPUS.
I thank you for putting me in mind of what I had forgot to mention. When I beheld
the earth, but could not distinguish the objects upon it, on account of the immense
distance, I was horribly vexed at it, and ready to cry, when, on a sudden,
Empedocles {169} the philosopher stood behind me, all over ashes, as black as a
coal, and dreadfully scorched: when I saw him, I must own I was frightened, and
took him for some demon of the moon; but he came up to me, and cried out,
“Menippus, don’t be afraid,
“I am no god, why call’st thou me divine?” {170}
I am Empedocles, the naturalist: after I had leaped into the furnace, a vapour from
Ætna carried me up hither, and here I live in the moon and feed upon dew: I am
come to free you from your present distress.” “You are very kind,” said I, “most
noble Empedocles, and when I fly back to Greece, I shall not forget to pay my
devotions to you in the tunnel of my chimney every new moon.” “Think not,”
replied he, “that I do this for the sake of any reward I might expect for it; by
Endymion, {171} that is not the case, but I was really grieved to see you so
uneasy: and now, how shall we contrive to make you see clear?” “That, by Jove,”
said I, “I cannot guess, unless you can take off this mist from my eyes, for they are
horribly dim at present.” “You have brought the remedy along with you.” “How
so?” “Have you not got an eagle’s wing?” “True, but what has that to do with an
eye?” “An eagle, you know, is more sharp-sighted than any other creature, and the
only one that can look against the sun: your true royal bird is known by never
winking at the rays, be they ever so strong.” “So I have heard, and I am sorry I did
not, before I came up, take out my own eyes and put in the eagle’s; thus imperfect,
to be sure, I am not royally furnished, but a kind of bastard bird.” “You may have
one royal eye, for all that, if you please; it is only when you rise up to fly, holding
the vulture’s wing still, and moving the eagle’s only; by which means, you will see
clearly with one, though not at all with the other.” “That will do, and is sufficient
for me; I have often seen smiths, and other artists, look with one eye only, to make
their work the truer.” This conversation ended, Empedocles vanished into smoke,
and I saw no more of him. I acted as he advised me, and no sooner moved my
eagle’s wing, than a great light came all around me, and I saw everything as clear
as possible: looking down to earth, I beheld distinctly cities and men, and
everything that passed amongst them; not only what they did openly, but whatever
was going on at home, and in their own houses, where they thought to conceal it. I
saw Lysimachus betrayed by his son; {172a} Antiochus intriguing with his mother-
in-law; {172b} Alexander the Thessalian slain by his wife; and Attalus poisoned by
his son: in another place I saw Arsaces killing his wife, and the eunuch Arbaces
drawing his sword upon Arsaces; Spartim, the Mede, dragged by the heels from the
banquet by his guards, and knocked on the head with a cup. In the palaces of
Scythia and Thrace the same wickedness was going forward; and nothing could I
see but murderers, adulterers, conspirators, false swearers, men in perpetual terrors,
and betrayed by their dearest friends and acquaintance.
Such was the employment of kings and great men: in private houses there was
something more ridiculous; there I saw Hermodorus the Epicurean forswearing
himself for a thousand drachmas; Agathocles the Stoic quarrelling with his
disciples about the salary for tuition; Clinias the orator stealing a phial out of the
temple; not to mention a thousand others, who were undermining walls, litigating
in the forum, extorting money, or lending it upon usury; a sight, upon the whole, of
wonderful variety.
FRIEND.
It must have been very entertaining; let us have it all, I desire.
MENIPPUS.
I had much ado to see, to relate it to you is impossible; it was like Homer’s shield,
{173} on one side were feasting and nuptials, on the other haranguing and decrees;
here a sacrifice, and there a burial; the Getæ at war, the Scythians travelling in their
caravans, the Egyptians tilling their fields, the Phœnicians merchandising, the
Cilicians robbing and plundering, the Spartans flogging their children, and the
Athenians perpetually quarrelling and going to law with one another.
When all this was doing, at the same time, you may conceive what a strange
medley this appeared to me; it was just as if a number of dancers, or rather singers,
were met together, and every one was ordered to leave the chorus, and sing his own
song, each striving to drown the other’s voice, by bawling as loud as he could; you
may imagine what kind of a concert this would make.
FRIEND.
Truly ridiculous and confused, no doubt.
MENIPPUS.
And yet such, my friend, are all the poor performers upon earth, and of such is
composed the discordant music of human life; the voices not only dissonant and
inharmonious, but the forms and habits all differing from each other, moving in
various directions, and agreeing in nothing; till at length the great master {175a} of
the choir drives everyone of them from the stage, and tells him he is no longer
wanted there; then all are silent, and no longer disturb each other with their harsh
and jarring discord. But in this wide and extensive theatre, full of various shapes
and forms, everything was matter of laughter and ridicule. Above all, I could not
help smiling at those who quarrel about the boundaries of their little territory, and
fancy themselves great because they occupy a Sicyonian {175b} field, or possess
that part of Marathon which borders on Oenoe, or are masters of a thousand acres
in Acharnæ; when after all, to me, who looked from above, Greece was but four
fingers in breadth, and Attica a very small portion of it indeed. I could not but
think how little these rich men had to be proud of; he who was lord of the most
extensive country owned a spot that appeared to me about as large as one of
Epicurus’s atoms. When I looked down upon Peloponnesus, and beheld Cynuria,
{176a} I reflected with astonishment on the number of Argives and
Lacedemonians who fell in one day, fighting for a piece of land no bigger than an
Egyptian lentil; and when I saw a man brooding over his gold, and boasting that he
had got four cups or eight rings, I laughed most heartily at him: whilst the whole
Pangæus, {176b} with all its mines, seemed no larger than a grain of millet.
FRIEND.
A fine sight you must have had; but how did the cities and the men look?
MENIPPUS.
You have often seen a crowd of ants running to and fro in and out of their city,
some turning up a bit of dung, others dragging a bean-shell, or running away with
half a grain of wheat. I make no doubt but they have architects, demagogues,
senators, musicians, and philosophers amongst them. Men, my friend, are exactly
like these: if you approve not of the comparison, recollect, if you please, the
ancient Thessalian fables, and you will find that the Myrmidons, {177} a most
warlike nation, sprung originally from pismires.
When I had thus seen and diverted myself with everything, I shook my wings and
flew off,
“To join the sacred senate of the skies.” {178a}
Scarce had I gone a furlong, when the Moon, in a soft female voice, cried out to
me, “Menippus, will you carry something for me to Jupiter, so may your journey
be prosperous?” “With all my heart,” said I, “if it is nothing very heavy.” “Only a
message,” replied she, “a small petition to him: my patience is absolutely worn out
by the philosophers, who are perpetually disputing about me, who I am, of what
size, how it happens that I am sometimes round and full, at others cut in half; some
say I am inhabited, others that I am only a looking-glass hanging over the sea, and
a hundred conjectures of this kind; even my light, {178b} they say, is none of my
own, but stolen from the Sun; thus endeavouring to set me and my brother together
by the ears, not content with abusing him, and calling him a hot stone, and a mass
of fire. In the meantime, I am no stranger to what these men, who look so grave
and sour all day, are doing o’ nights; but I see and say nothing, not thinking it
decent to lay open their vile and abominable lives to the public; for when I catch
them thieving, or practising any of their nocturnal tricks, I wrap myself up in a
cloud, that I may not expose to the world a parcel of old fellows, who, in spite of
their long beards, and professions of virtue, are guilty of every vice, and yet they
are always railing at and abusing me. I swear by night I have often resolved to
move farther off to get out of reach of their busy tongues; and I beg you would tell
Jupiter that I cannot possibly stay here any longer, unless he will destroy these
naturalists, stop the mouths of the logicians, throw down the Portico, burn the
Academy, and make an end of the inhabitants of Peripatus; so may I enjoy at last a
little rest, which these fellows are perpetually disturbing.” “It shall be done,” said
I, and away I set out for heaven, where
“No tracks of beasts or signs of men are found.” {179}
In a little time the earth was invisible, and the moon appeared very small; and now,
leaving the sun on my right hand, I flew amongst the stars, and on the third day
reached my journey’s end. At first I intended to fly in just as I was, thinking that,
being half an eagle, I should not be discovered, as that bird was an old
acquaintance of Jupiter’s, but then it occurred to me that I might be found out by
my vulture’s wing, and laid hold on: deeming it, therefore, most prudent not to run
the hazard, I went up, and knocked at the door: Mercury heard me, and asking my
name, went off immediately, and carried it to his master; soon after I was let in,
and, trembling and quaking with fear, found all the gods sitting together, and
seemingly not a little alarmed at my appearance there, expecting probably that they
should soon have a number of winged mortals travelling up to them in the same
manner: when Jupiter, looking at me with a most severe and Titanic {180a}
countenance, cried out,
“Say who thou art, and whence thy country, name
Thy parents—” {180b}
At this I thought I should have died with fear; I stood motionless, and astonished at
the awfulness and majesty of his voice; but recovering myself in a short time, I
related to him everything from the beginning, how desirous I was of knowing
sublime truths, how I went to the philosophers, and hearing them contradict one
another, and driven to despair, thought on the scheme of making me wings, with all
that had happened in my journey quite up to heaven. I then delivered the message
to him from the Moon, at which, softening his contracted brow, he smiled at me,
and cried, “What were Otus and Ephialtes {181} in comparison of Menippus, who
has thus dared to fly up to heaven; but come, we now invite you to supper with us;
to-morrow we will attend to your business, and dismiss you.” At these words he
rose up and went to that part of heaven where everything from below could be
heard most distinctly; for this, it seems, was the time appointed to hear petitions.
As we went along, he asked me several questions about earthly matters, such as,
“How much corn is there at present in Greece? had you a hard winter last year?
and did your cabbages want rain? is any of Phidias’s {182} family alive now? what
is the reason that the Athenians have left off sacrificing to me for so many years?
do they think of building up the Olympian temple again? are the thieves taken that
robbed the Dodonæan?” When I had answered all these, “Pray, Menippus,” said
he, “what does mankind really think of me?” “How should they think of you,” said
I, “but with the utmost veneration, that you are the great sovereign of the gods.”
“There you jest,” said he, “I am sure; I know well enough how fond they are of
novelty, though you will not own it. There was a time, indeed, when I was held in
some estimation, when I was the great physician, when I was everything, in short
—
“When streets, and lanes, and all was full of Jove.” {183a}
Pisa {183b} and Dodona {183c} were distinguished above every place, and I could
not see for the smoke of sacrifices; but, since Apollo has set up his oracle at
Delphi, and Æsculapius practises physic at Pergamus; since temples have been
erected to Bendis {183d} at Thrace, to Anubis in Egypt, and to Diana at Ephesus,
everybody runs after them; with them they feast, to them they offer up their
hecatombs, and think it honour enough for a worn-out god, as I am, if they
sacrifice once in six years at Olympia; whilst my altars are as cold and neglected as
Plato’s laws, {184} or the syllogisms of Chrysippus.”
With this and such-like chat we passed away the time, till we came to the place
where the petitions were to be heard. Here we found several holes, with covers to
them, and close to every one was placed a golden chair. Jupiter sat down in the
first he came to, and lifting up the lid, listened to the prayers, which, as you may
suppose, were of various kinds. I stooped down and heard several of them myself,
such as, “O Jupiter, grant me a large empire!” “O Jupiter, may my leeks and
onions flourish and increase!” “Grant Jupiter, that my father may die soon!”
“Grant I may survive my wife!” “Grant I may not be discovered, whilst I lay wait
for my brother!” “Grant that I may get my cause!” “Grant that I may be crowned
at Olympia!” One sailor asked for a north wind, another for a south; the
husbandman prayed for rain, and the fuller for sunshine. Jupiter heard them all,
but did not promise everybody—
“—some the just request,
He heard propitious, and denied the rest.” {185a}
Those prayers which he thought right and proper he let up through the hole, and
blew the wicked and foolish ones back, that they might not rise to heaven. One
petition, indeed, puzzled him a little; two men asking favours of him directly
contrary to each other, at the same time, and promising the same sacrifice; he was
at a loss which to oblige; he became immediately a perfect Academic, and like
Pyrrho, {185b} was held in suspense between them. When he had done with the
prayers, he sat down upon the next chair, over another hole, and listened to those
who were swearing and making vows. When he had finished this business, and
destroyed Hermodorus, the Epicurean, for perjury, he removed to the next seat, and
gave audience to the auguries, oracles, and divinations; which having despatched,
he proceeded to the hole that brought up the fume of the victims, together with the
name of the sacrificer. Then he gave out his orders to the winds and storms: “Let
there be rain to-day in Scythia, lightning in Africa, and snow in Greece; do you,
Boreas, blow in Lydia, and whilst Notus lies still, let the north wind raise the
waves of the Adriatic, and about a thousand measures of hail be sprinkled over
Cappadocia.”
When Jupiter had done all his business we repaired to the feast, for it was now
supper-time, and Mercury bade me sit down by Pan, the Corybantes, Attis, and
Sabazius, a kind of demi-gods who are admitted as visitors there. Ceres served us
with bread, and Bacchus with wine; Hercules handed about the flesh, Venus
scattered myrtles, and Neptune brought us fish; not to mention that I got slyly a
little nectar and ambrosia, for my friend Ganymede, out of good-nature, if he saw
Jove looking another way, would frequently throw me in a cup or two. The greater
gods, as Homer tells us {187a} (who, I suppose, had seen them as well as myself,)
never taste meat or wine, but feed upon ambrosia and get drunk with nectar, at the
same time their greatest luxury is, instead of victuals, to suck in the fumes that rise
from the victims, and the blood of the sacrifices that are offered up to them. Whilst
we were at supper, Apollo played on the harp, Silenus danced a cordax, and the
Muses repeated Hesiod’s Theogony, and the first Ode of Pindar. When these
recreations were over we all retired tolerably well soaked, {187b} to bed,
“Now pleasing rest had sealed each mortal eye,
And even immortal gods in slumber lie,
All but myself—” {187c}
I could not help thinking of a thousand things, and particularly how it came to pass
that, during so long a time Apollo {188a} should never have got him a beard, and
how there came to be night in heaven, though the sun is always present there and
feasting with them. I slept a little, and early in the morning Jupiter ordered the
crier to summon a council of the gods, and when they were all assembled, thus
addressed himself to them.
“The stranger who came here yesterday, is the chief cause of my convening you
this day. I have long wanted to talk with you concerning the philosophers, and the
complaints now sent to us from the Moon make it immediately necessary to take
the affair into consideration. There is lately sprung up a race of men, slothful,
quarrelsome, vain-glorious, foolish, petulant, gluttonous, proud, abusive, in short
what Homer calls,
“An idle burthen to the ground.” {188b}
These, dividing themselves into sects, run through all the labyrinths of disputation,
calling themselves Stoics, Academics, Epicureans, Peripatetics, and a hundred
other names still more ridiculous; then wrapping themselves up in the sacred veil
of virtue, they contract their brows and let down their beards, under a specious
appearance hiding the most abandoned profligacy; like one of the players on the
stage, if you strip him of his fine habits wrought with gold, all that remains behind
is a ridiculous spectacle of a little contemptible fellow, hired to appear there for
seven drachmas. And yet these men despise everybody, talk absurdly of the gods,
and drawing in a number of credulous boys, roar to them in a tragical style about
virtue, and enter into disputations that are endless and unprofitable. To their
disciples they cry up fortitude and temperance, a contempt of riches and pleasures,
and, when alone, indulge in riot and debauchery. The most intolerable of all is,
that though they contribute nothing towards the good and welfare of the
community, though they are
“Unknown alike in council and in field;” {189}
yet are they perpetually finding fault with, abusing, and reviling others, and he is
counted the greatest amongst them who is most impudent, noisy, and malevolent; if
one should say to one of these fellows who speak ill of everybody, ‘What service
are you of to the commonwealth?’ he would reply, if he spoke fairly and honestly,
‘To be a sailor or a soldier, or a husbandman, or a mechanic, I think beneath me;
but I can make a noise and look dirty, wash myself in cold water, go barefoot all
winter, and then, like Momus, find fault with everybody else; if any rich man sups
luxuriously, I rail at, and abuse him; but if any of my friends or acquaintance fall
sick, and want my assistance, I take no notice of them.’
“Such, my brother gods, are the cattle {190} which I complain of; and of all these
the Epicureans are the worst, who assert that the gods take no care of human
affairs, or look at all into them: it is high time, my brethren, that we should take
this matter into consideration, for if once they can persuade the people to believe
these things, you must all starve; for who will sacrifice to you, when they can get
nothing by it? What the Moon accuses you of, you all heard yesterday from the
stranger; consult, therefore, amongst yourselves, and determine what may best
promote the happiness of mankind, and our own security.” When Jupiter had thus
spoken, the assembly rung with repeated cries, of “thunder, and lightning! burn,
consume, destroy! down with them into the pit, to Tartarus, and the giants!” Jove,
however, once more commanding silence, cried out, “It shall be done as you
desire; they and their philosophy shall perish together: but at present, no
punishments must be inflicted; for these four months to come, as you all know, it is
a solemn feast, and I have declared a truce: next year, in the beginning of the
spring, my lightning shall destroy them.
“As to Menippus, first cutting off his wings that he may not come here again, let
Mercury carry him down to the earth.”
Saying this, he broke up the assembly, and Mercury taking me up by my right ear,
brought me down, and left me yesterday evening in the Ceramicus. And now, my
friend, you have heard everything I had to tell you from heaven; I must take my
leave, and carry this good news to the philosophers, who are walking in the Pœcile.

NOTES.
{17} One of Alexander’s generals, to whose share, on the division of the empire,
after that monarch’s death, fell the kingdom of Thrace, in which was situated the
city of Abdera.
{18a} A small fragment of this tragedy, which has in it the very line here quoted by
Lucian, is yet extant in Barnes’s edition of Euripides.
{18b} This story may afford no useless admonition to the managers of the
Haymarket and other summer theatres, who, it is to be hoped, will not run the
hazard of inflaming their audiences with too much tragedy in the dog days.
{19a} This alludes to the Parthian War, in the time of Severian; the particulars of
which, except the few here occasionally glanced at, we are strangers to. Lucian,
most probably, by this tract totally knocked up some of the historians who had
given an account of it, and prevented many others, who were intimidated by the
severity of his strictures, attempting to transmit the history of it to posterity.
{19b} This saying is attributed to Empedocles.
{20a} The most famous of the Pontic cities, and well known as the residence of the
renowned Cynic philosopher. It is still called by the same name, and is a port town
of Asiatic Turkey, on the Euxine.
{20b} A kind of school or gymnasium where the young men performed their
exercises. The choice of such a place by a philosopher to roll a tub in heightens the
ridicule.
{21} See Homer’s “Odyssey,” M 1. 219.
{23} Alluding to the story he set out with.
{24a} διοδιαπασων. Gr. The Latin translation renders it “octava duplici.” See
Burney’s “Dissertation on Music,” Sect. 1.
{24b} Gr. Την αρτηριαν τραχειαν, aspera arteria, or the wind-pipe. The
comparison is strictly just and remarkably true, as we may all recollect how
dreadful the sensation is when any part of our food slips down what is generally
called “the wrong way.”
{25a} See Homer’s “Iliad,” Υ 1. 227, and Virgil’s “Camilla,” in the 7th book of the
“Æneid.”
{25b} See Homer’s “Iliad,” υ 1. 18. One of the blind bard’s speciosa miracula,
which Lucian is perpetually laughing at.
{26} ψιμμυδιον, or cerussa. Painting, we see, both amongst men and women, was
practised long ago, and has at least the plea of antiquity in its favour. According to
Lucian, the men laid on white; for the ψιμμυδιον was probably ceruse, or white
lead; the ladies, we may suppose, as at present, preferred the rouge.
{29} Dinocrates. The same story is told of him, with some little alteration, by
Vitruvius. Mention is made of it likewise by Pliny and Strabo.
{35} “His buckler’s mighty orb was next displayed;
Tremendous Gorgon frowned upon its field,
And circling terrors filled the expressive shield.
Within its concave hung a silver thong,
On which a mimic serpent creeps along,
His azure length in easy waves extends,
Till, in three heads, th’ embroidered monster ends.”
See Pope’s “Homer’s Iliad,” book xi., 1. 43.
Lucian here means to ridicule, not Homer, but the historian’s absurd imitation of
him.
{39} The Greek expression was proverbial. Horace has adopted it: “Parturiunt
montes, nascetur ridiculus mus.”
{40} Lucian adds, το λεγομενον, ut est in proverbio, by which it appears that
barbers and their shops were as remarkable for gossiping and tittle-tattle in ancient
as they are in modern times. Aristophanes mentions them in his “Plutus,” they are
recorded also by Plutarch, and Theophrastus styles them αοινα συμποσια.
{41} See Thucydides, book ii., cap. 34.
{42} Who fell upon his sword. See the “Ajax” of Sophocles.
{43} For a description of this famous statue, see Pausanias.
{44} The σκαρος, or scarus, is mentioned by several ancient authors, as a fish of
the most delicate flavour, and is supposed to be of the same nature with our chars
in Cumberland, and some other parts of this kingdom. I have ventured, therefore,
to call it by this name, till some modern Apicius can furnish me with a better.
{45} Dragons, or fiery serpents, were used by the Parthians, and Suidas tells us, by
the Scythians also, as standards, in the same manner as the Romans made use of
the eagle, and under every one of these standards were a thousand men. See Lips.
de Mil. Rom., cap. 4.
{46} See Arrian.
{47} The idea here so deservedly laughed at, of a history of what was to come, if
treated, not seriously, as this absurd writer treated it, but ludicrously, as Lucian
would probably have treated it himself, might open a fine field for wit and
humour. Something of this kind appeared in a newspaper a few years ago, which, I
think, was called “News for a Hundred Years Hence;” and though but a rough
sketch, was well executed. A larger work, on the same ground, and by a good
hand, might afford much entertainment.
{49} This kind of scholastic jargon was much in vogue in the time of Lucian, and
it is no wonder he should take every opportunity of laughing at it, as nothing can
be more opposite to true genius, wit, and humour, than such pedantry.
{50} Milo, the Crotonian wrestler, is reported to have been a man of most
wonderful bodily strength, concerning which a number of lies are told, for which
the reader, if he pleases, may consult his dictionary. He lost his life, we are
informed, by trying to rend with his hands an old oak, which wedged him in, and
pressed him to death; the poet says—
“—he met his end,
Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.”
Titornus was a rival of Milo’s, and, according to Ælian, who is not always to be
credited, rolled a large stone with ease, which Milo with all his force could not
stir. Conon was some slim Macaroni of that age, remarkable only for his debility,
as was Leotrophides also, of crazy memory, recorded by Aristophanes, in his
comedy called The Birds.
{51} The Broughtons of antiquity; men, we may suppose, renowned in their time
for teaching the young nobility of Greece to bruise one another secundum artem.
{53a} See Diodorus Siculus, lib. vii., and Plutarch.
{53b} Concerning some of these facts, even recent as they were then with regard to
us, historians are divided. Thucydides and Plutarch tell the story one way,
Diodorus and Justin another. Well might our author, therefore, find fault with their
uncertainty.
{55a} Lucian alludes, it is supposed, to Ctesias, the physician to Artaxerxes, whose
history is stuffed with encomiums on his royal patron. See Plutarch’s
“Artaxerxes.”
{55b} The Campus Nisæus, a large plain in Media, near the Caspian mountains,
was famous for breeding the finest horses, which were allotted to the use of kings
only; or, according to Xenophon, those favourites on whom the sovereign thought
proper to bestow them. See the “Cyropæd.,” book viii.
{56} This fine picture of a good historian has been copied by Tully, Strabo,
Polybius, and other writers; it is a standard of perfection, however, which few
writers, ancient or modern, have been able to reach. Thuanus has prefixed to his
history these lines of Lucian; but whether he, or any other historian, hath answered
in every point to the description here given, is, I believe, yet undetermined.
{57a} The saying is attributed to Aristophanes, though I cannot find it there. It is
observable that this proverbial kind of expression, for freedom of words and
sentiments, has been adopted into almost every language, though the image
conveying it is different. Thus the Greeks call a fig a fig, etc. We say, an honest
man calls a spade a spade; and the French call “un chat un chat.” Boileau says,
“J’appelle un chat un chat, et Rolet un fripon.”
{57b} Herodotus’s history is comprehended in nine books, to each of which is
prefixed the name of a Muse; the first is called Clio, the second Euterpe, and so
on. A modern poet, I have been told, the ingenious Mr. Aaron Hill, improved upon
this thought, and christened (if we may properly so call it), not his books, but his
daughters by the same poetical names of Miss Cli, Miss Melp-y, Miss Terps-y,
Miss Urania, etc.
{58} Both Thucydides and Livy are reprehensible in this particular; and the same
objection may be made to Thuanus, Clarendon, Burnet, and many other modern
historians.
{59} How just is this observation of Lucian’s, and at the same time how truly
poetical is the image which he makes use of to express it! It puts us in mind of his
rival critic Longinus, who, as Pope has observed, is himself the great sublime he
draws.
{60} By this very just observation, Lucian means to censure all those writers—and
we have many such now amongst us—who take so much pains to smooth and
round their periods, as to disgust their readers by the frequent repetition of it, as it
naturally produces a tiresome sameness in the sound of them; and at the same time
discovers too much that laborious art and care, which it is always the author’s
business as much as possible to conceal.
{61} See Homer’s “Iliad,” bk. xiii., 1. 4.
{62a} The famous Lacedæmonian general. The circumstance alluded to is in
Thucydides, bk. iv.
{62b} Gr. ομοχρονειτω, a technical term, borrowed from music, and signifying
that tone of the voice which exactly corresponds with the instrument
accompanying it.
{66a} A coarse fish that came from Pontus, or the Black Sea.—Saperdas advehe
Ponto. See Pers. Sat. v. 1. 134.
{66b} Here doctors differ. Several of Thucydides’s descriptions are certainly very
long, many of them, perhaps, rather tedious.
{67} Lucian is rather severe on this writer. Cicero only says, De omnibus omnia
libere palam dixit; he spoke freely of everybody. Other writers, however, are of the
same opinion with our satirist with regard to him. See Dions. Plutarch. Cornelius
Nepos, etc.
{69} Alluding to the story of Diogenes, as related in the beginning.
{75} See Homer’s “Odyssey.”—The strange stories which Lucian here mentions
may certainly be numbered, with all due deference to so great a name, amongst the
nugæ canoræ of old Homer. Juvenal certainly considers them in this light when he
says:—
Tam vacui capitis populum Phæaca putavit.
Some modern critics, however, have endeavoured to defend them.
{77} Here the history begins, what goes before may be considered as the author’s
preface, and should have been marked as such in the original.
{79} Among the Greek wines, so much admired by ancient Epicures, those of the
islands of the Archipelago were the most celebrated, and of these the Chian wine,
the product of Chios, bore away the palm from every other, and particularly that
which was made from vines growing on the mountain called Arevisia, in testimony
of which it were easy, if necessary, to produce an amphora full of classical
quotations.
The present inhabitants of that island make a small quantity of excellent wine for
their own use and are liberal of it to strangers who travel that way, but dare not,
being under Turkish government, cultivate the vines well, or export the product of
them.
{81a} In the same manner as Gulliver’s island of Laputa.—From this passage it is
not improbable but that Swift borrowed the idea.
{81b} The account which Lucian here gives us of his visit to the moon, perhaps
suggested to Bergerac the idea of his ingenious work, called “A Voyage to the
Moon.”
{82a} Equi vultures, horse vultures; from ιππος, a horse: and γυψ, a vulture.
{82b} Lucian, we see, has founded his history on matter of fact. Endymion, we all
know, was a king of Elis, though some call him a shepherd. Shepherd or king,
however, he was so handsome, that the moon, who saw him sleeping on Mount
Latmos, fell in love with him. This no orthodox heathen ever doubted: Lucian,
who was a freethinker, laughs indeed at the tale; but has made him ample amends
in this history by creating him emperor of the moon.
{83a} Modern astronomers are, I, think, agreed, that we are to the moon just the
same as the moon is to us. Though Lucian’s history may be false, therefore his
philosophy, we see, was true (1780). (The moon is not habitable, 1887.)
{83b} This I am afraid, is not so agreeable to the modern system; our philosophers
all asserting that the sun is not habitable. As it is a place, however, which we are
very little acquainted with, they may be mistaken, and Lucian may guess as well as
ourselves, for aught we can prove to the contrary.
{84} Horse ants, from ιππος, a horse; and μυρμηξ, an ant.
{85a} From λαχανον, olus, any kind of herb; and πτεπον, penna, a wing.
{85b} Millii jaculatores, darters of millet; millet is a kind of small grain.—A
strange species of warriors!
{85c} Alliis pugnantes, garlic fighters: these we are to suppose threw garlic at the
enemy, and served as a kind of stinkpots.
{85d} Pulici sagittarii, flea-archers.
{85e} Venti cursores, wind courser.
{86a} Passeres glandium, acorn sparrows.
{86b} Equi grues, horse-cranes.
{87a} Air-flies.
{87b} Gr. ’Λεροκορακες, air-crows; but as all crows fly through the air, I would
rather read ’Λερκορδακες, which may be translated air-dancers, from κορδαξ,
cordax, a lascivious kind of dance, so called.
{88a} Gr. Καυλομυκητες, Caulo fungi, stalk and mushroom men.
{88b} Gr. Κυνοβαλανοι, cani glandacii, acorn-dogs.
{88c} Gr. Νεφελοκενταυροι, nubicentauri, cloud-centaurs.
{88d} The reason for this wish is given a little farther on in the History.
{89} See Hom. Il. II.. 1, 459.
{90a} Some authors tell us that Sagittarius was the same as Chiron the centaur;
others, that he was Crocus, a famous hunter, the son of Euphemia, who nursed the
Muses, at whose intercession, he was, after his death, promoted to the ninth place
in the Zodiac, under the name of Sagittarius.
{90b} The inhabitants of the moon.
{92} A good burlesque on the usual form and style of treaties.
{93} Gr. Πυρωνιδης, ignens, fiery, Φλογιος, flaming, Νυκτωρ, nocturnus, nightly,
Μηναιος, menstruus, monthly, Πολυλαμπης, multi lucius, many lights. These all
make good proper names in Greek, and sound magnificently, but do not answer so
well in English. I have therefore preserved the original words in the translation.
{94} Here Lucian, like other story-tellers, is a little deficient in point of memory.
If they eat, as he tells us, nothing but frogs, what use could they have for cheese?
{96} Of which we shall see an account in the next adventure.
{97} The city of Lamps.
{98a} The cloud cuckoo.
{98b} See his comedy of the Birds.
{104a} Salsamentarii: Salt-fish-men.
{104b} Triton-weasels.
{104c} Greek, καρκινορειχες, cancri-mani, crab’s hands.
{104d} Thynno-cipites, tunny-heads, i.e., men with heads like those of the tunny-
fish.
{105a} Greek, παγουραδοι, crab-men.
{105b} ψηττοποδες, sparrow-footed, from ψηττα, passer marinus.
{109} Maris potor, the drinker up of the sea. Æolocentaurus and Thalassopotes
were, I suppose, two Leviathans.
{113} One of the fifty Nereids, or Sea-Nymphs; so called, on account of the
fairness of her skin: from γαλα, gala, milk; of the milky island, therefore, she was
naturally the presiding deity.
{114a} Tyro, according to Homer, fell in love with the famous river Enipeus, and
was always wandering on its banks, where Neptune found her, covered her with his
waves, and throwing her into a deep sleep, supplied the place of Enipeus. Lucian
has made her amends, by bestowing one of his imaginary kingdoms upon her. His
part of the story, however, is full as probable as the rest.
{114b} Suberipedes, cork-footed.
{116a} This description of the Pagan Elysium, or Island of the Blessed, is well
drawn, and abounds in fanciful and picturesque imagery, interspersed with strokes
of humour and satire. The second book is, indeed, throughout, more entertaining
and better written than the first.
{116b} See the Ajax Flagellifer of Sophocles. Lucian humorously degrades him
from the character of a hero, and gives him hellebore as a madman.
{118} It is not improbable but that Voltaire’s El Dorado in his “Candide,” might
have been suggested to him by this passage.
{119} I.e. Their appearance is exactly like that of shadows made by the sun at
noonday, with this only difference, that one lies flat on the ground, the other is
erect, and one is dark, the other light or diaphanous. Our vulgar idea of ghosts,
especially with regard to their not being tangible, corresponds with this of
Lucian’s.
{121a} A famous musician. Clemens Alexandrinus gives us a full account of him,
to whom I refer the curious reader.
{121b} This poet, we are told, wrote some severe verses on Helen, for which he
was punished by Castor and Pollux with loss of sight, but on making his
recantation in a palinodia, his eyes were graciously restored to him. Lucian has
affronted her still more grossly by making her run away with Cinyrus; but he, we
are to suppose, being not over superstitious, defied the power of Castor and Pollux.
{122a} Nothing appears more ridiculous to a modern reader than the perpetual
encomiums on the musical merit of swans and swallows, which we meet with in all
the writers of antiquity. A proper account and explanation of this is, I think,
amongst the desiderata of literature. There is an entertaining tract on this subject in
the “Hist. de l’Acad.” tom. v., by M. Morin.
{122b} Who ravished Cassandra, the daughter of Priam and priestess of Minerva,
who sent a tempest, dispersed the Grecian navy in their return home, and sunk
Ajax with a thunder-bolt.
{123a} A scholar of Pythagoras.
{123b} The second king of Rome.
{123c} One of the seven sages, but excepted against by Lucian, because he was
king of Corinth and a tyrant.
{123d} See his Treatise “de Republica.” His quitting Elysium, to live in his own
republic, is a stroke of true humour.
{124a} Alluding to a passage in Hesiod already quoted.
{124b} Lucian laughs at the sceptics, though he was himself one of them.
{126} Death-games, or games after death, in imitation of wedding-games, funeral-
games, etc.
{127a} The famous tyrant of Agrigentum, renowned for his ingenious contrivance
of roasting his enemies in a brazen bull, and not less memorable for some excellent
epistles, which set a wit and scholar together by the ears concerning the
genuineness of them. See the famous contest between Bentley and Boyle.
{127b} Who sacrificed to Jupiter all the strangers that came into his kingdom.
“Hospites violabat,” says Seneca, “ut eorum sanguine pluviam eliceret, cujus
penuria Ægyptus novem annis laboraverat.” A most ingenious contrivance.
{128a} A king of Thrace who fed his horses with human flesh.
{128b} Scyron and Pityocamptes were two famous robbers, who used to seize on
travellers and commit the most horrid cruelties upon them. They were slain by
Theseus. See Plutarch’s “Life of Theseus.”
{128c} Where he ran away, but, as we are told, in very good company. See Diog.
Laert. Strabo, etc.
{132} The Antipodes. We never heard whether Lucian performed this voyage.
D’Ablancourt, however, his French translator, in his continuation of the “True
History,” has done it for him, not without some humour, though it is by no means
equal to the original.
{135a} Voltaire has improved on this passage, and given us a very humorous
account of “les Habitans de l’Enfer,” in his wicked “Pucelle.”
{135b} Who, the reader will remember, had just before run off with Helen.
{136a} Greek, υπνος, sleep.
{136b} As herald of the morn.
{136c} A root which, infused, is supposed to promote sleep, consequently very
proper for the Island of Dreams.
“Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the East,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou ow’dst yesterday.”
See Shakespeare’s “Othello.”
{136d} Night wanderer.
{137a} Gr. νεγρητος, inexperrectus, unwaked or wakeful.
{137b} Gr. παννυχια, pernox, all night.
{137c} “Two portals firm the various phantoms keep;
Of ev’ry one; whence flit, to mock the brain,
Of wingéd lies a light fantastic train;
The gate opposed pellucid valves adorn,
And columns fair, encased with polished horn;
Where images of truth for passage wait.”
See Pope’s Homer’s “Odyssey,” bk. xix., 1. 637.
See also Virgil, who has pretty closely imitated his master.
{138a} Gr. ταραξιωνα τον ματαιογενους, terriculum vanipori: fright, the son of
vain hope, or disappointment.
{138b} Gr. πλουτοκλεα τον φαντασιωνος, divitiglorium, the pride of riches—i.e.,
arising from riches; son of phantasy, or deceit.
{138c} Gr. καρεωτιν, gravi-somnem, heavy sleep.
{141a} Nut sailors; or, sailors in a nut-shell.
{141b} Those who sailed in the gourds.
{147a} Cabalusa and Hydamardia are hard words, which the commentators
confess they can make nothing of. Various, however, are the derivations, and
numerous the guesses made about them. The English reader may, if he pleases,
call them not improperly, especially the first, Cabalistic.
{147b} Which the reader will remember was given him by way of charm, on his
departure from the Happy Island.
{148} Gr. ονοσκελεας, asini-eruras, ass-legged.
{149} The ensuing books never appeared. The “True History,” like
—“the bear and fiddle,
Begins, but breaks off in the middle.”
D’Ablancourt, as I observed above, has carried it on a little farther. There is still
room for any ingenious modern to take the plan from Lucian, and improve upon it.
{153} The ancient Greek stadium is supposed to have contained a hundred and
twenty-five geometrical paces, or six hundred and twenty-five Roman feet,
corresponding to our furlong. Eight stadia make a geometrical, or Italian mile; and
twenty, according to Dacier, a French league. It is observed, notwithstanding, by
Guilletiere, a famous French writer, that the stadium was only six hundred
Athenian feet, six hundred and four English feet, or a hundred and three
geometrical paces.
The Greeks measured all their distances by stadia, which, after all we can discover
concerning them, are different in different times and places.
{154} The Phœnicians, it is supposed, were the first sailors, and steered their
course according to the appearance of the stars.
{155} Greek, ουρανιων, cœlicolœ, Homer’s general name for the gods.
{156} Ganymede, whom Jupiter fell in love with, as he was hunting on Mount Ida,
and turning himself into an eagle, carried up with him to heaven. “I am sure,” says
Menippus’s friend, archly enough, “you were not carried up there, like Ganymede,
for your beauty.”
{157a} “Icarus Icariis nomina fecit aquis.” The story is too well known to stand in
need of any illustration. This accounts for the title of Icaro-Menippus.
{157b} See Bishop Wilkins’s “Art of Flying,” where this ingenious contrivance of
Menippus’s is greatly improved upon. For a humorous detail of the many
advantages attending this noble art, I refer my readers to the Spectator.
{159} Even Lucian’s Menippus, we see, could not reflect on the works of God
without admiration; but with how much more dignity are they considered by the
holy Psalmist!—
“O praise the Lord of heaven, praise Him in the height. Praise Him, sun and moon;
praise Him, all ye stars; praise the Lord upon earth, ye dragons and all deeps; fire
and hail, snow and vapours, wind and storm fulfilling His word.”—Psalm cxlviii.
{161} This was the opinion of Anaxagoras, one of the Ionic philosophers, born at
Clazomene, in the first year of the seventieth Olympiad. See Plutarch and
Diogenes Laert.
{162} Alluding to the doctrines of Plato and Aristotle.
{163a} This was the opinion of Democritus, who held that there were infinite
worlds in infinite space, according to all circumstances, some of which are not only
like to one another, but every way so perfectly and absolutely equal, that there is no
difference betwixt them. See Plutarch, and Tully, Quest. Acad.
{163b} Empedocles, of Agrigentum, a Pythagorean; he held that there are two
principal powers in nature, amity and discord, and that
“Sometimes by friendship, all are knit in one,
Sometimes by discord, severed and undone.”
See Stanley’s “Lives of the Philosophers.”
{163c} Alluding to the doctrine of Pythagoras, according to whom, number is the
principle most providential of all heaven and earth, the root of divine beings, of
gods and demons, the fountain and root of all things; that which, before all things,
exists in the divine mind, from which, and out of which, all things are digested into
order, and remain numbered by an indissoluble series. The whole system of the
Pythagoreans is at large explained and illustrated by Stanley. See his “Lives of
Philosophers.”
{164} See our author’s “Auction of Lives,” where Socrates swears by the dog and
the plane-tree.
This was called the ορκος Ραδαμανθιος, or oath of Rhadamanthus, who, as
Porphyry informs us, made a law that men should swear, if they needs must swear,
by geese, dogs, etc. υπερ που μη τους θεους επι πασιν ονομαζω, that they might
not, on every trifling occasion, call in the name of the gods. This is a kind of
religious reason, the custom was therefore, Porphyry tells us, adopted by the wise
and pious Socrates. Lucian, however, who laughs at everything here (as well as the
place above quoted), ridicules him for it.
{165a} See Homer’s “Odyssey,” book ix. 1. 302. Pope translates it badly,
“Wisdom held my hand.”
Homer says nothing but—my mind changed.
{165b} One of the fables here alluded to is yet extant amongst those ascribed to
Æsop, but that concerning the camel I never met with.
{166a} That part of Athens which was called the upper city, in opposition to the
lower city. The Acropolis was on the top of a high rock.
{166b} Mountains near Athens.
{166c} A mountain between Geranea and Corinth.
{166d} A high mountain in Arcadia, to the west of Elis. Erymanthus another,
bordering upon Achaia. Taygetus another, reaching northwards, to the foot of the
mountains of Arcadia.
{167} See Homer’s “Iliad,” book xiii. 1. 4
{168} See note on this in a former dialogue.
{169} It is reported of Empedocles, that he went to Ætna, where he leaped into the
fire, that he might leave behind him an opinion that he was a god, and that it was
afterwards discovered by one of his sandals, which the fire cast up again, for his
sandals were of brass. See Stanley’s “Lives of the Philosophers.” The manner of
his death is related differently by different authors. This was, however, the
generally received fable. Lucian, with an equal degree of probability, carries him
up to the moon.
{170} See Homer’s Odyssey, b. xvi. 1. 187. The speech of Ulysses to his son, on
the discovery.
{171} When Empedocles is got into the moon, Lucian makes him swear by
Endymion in compliment to his sovereign lady.
{172a} Agathocles.
{172b} Stratonice.
{173} Of Achilles. See the 18th book of the “Iliad.”
{175a} Greek, ο χορηγος.
{175b} Sicyon was a city near Corinth, famous for the richness and felicity of its
soil.
{176a} The famous Ager Cynurius, a little district of Laconia, on the confines of
Argolis; the Argives and Spartans, whom it laid between, agreed to decide the
property of it by three hundred men of a side in the field: the battle was bloody and
desperate, only one man remaining alive, Othryades, the Lacedæmonian, who
immediately, though covered with wounds, raised a trophy, which he inscribed
with his own blood, to Jupiter Tropæus. This victory the Spartans, who from that
time had quiet possession of the field, yearly celebrated with a festival, to
commemorate the event.
{176b} A mountain of Thrace. Dion Cassius places it near Philippi. It was
supposed to have abounded in golden mines in some parts of it.
{177} When Æacus was king of Thessaly, his kingdom was almost depopulated by
a dreadful pestilence; he prayed to Jupiter to avert the distemper, and dreamed that
he saw an innumerable quantity of ants creep out of an old oak, which were
immediately turned into men; when he awoke the dream was fulfilled, and he
found his kingdom more populous than ever; from that time the people were called
Myrmidons. Such is the fable, which owed its rise merely to the name of
Myrmidons, which it was supposed must come from μυρμηξ, an ant. To some such
trifling circumstances as these we are indebted for half the fables of antiquity.
{178a} See Homer’s “Iliad,” book i. 1. 294.
{178b} This was the opinion of Anaxagoras, and is confirmed by the more
accurate observations of modern philosophy.
{179} See Pope’s Homer’s “Odyssey,” book x. 1. 113.
{180a} I.e. Such a countenance as he put on when he slew the rebellious Titans.
{180b} See Homer’s “Odyssey,” A. v. 170
{181} Otus and Ephialtes were two giants of an enormous size; some of the
ancients, who, no doubt, were exact in their measurement, assure us that, at nine
years old, they were nine cubits round, and thirty-six high, and grew in proportion,
till they thought proper to attack and endeavour to dethrone Jupiter; for which
purpose they piled mount Ossa and Pelion upon Olympus, made Mars prisoner,
and played several tricks of this kind, till Diana, by artifice, subdued them,
contriving, some way or other, to make them shoot their arrows against, and
destroy each other, after which Jupiter sent them down to Tartarus. Some attribute
to Apollo the honour of conquering them. This story has been explained, and
allegorised, and tortured so many different ways, that it is not easy to unravel the
foundation of it.
{182} Jupiter thought himself, we may suppose, much obliged to Phidias for the
famous statue which he had made of him, and therefore, in return, complaisantly
inquires after his family.
{183a} From Aratus.
{183b} A city of Elis, where there was a temple dedicated to Olympian Jupiter, and
public games celebrated every fifth year.
{183c} A city of Thessaly, where there was a temple to Jove; this was likewise the
seat of the famous oracle.
{183d} A goddess worshipped in Thrace. Hesychius says this was only another
name for Diana. See Strabo.
{184} Alluding to his Republic, which probably was considered by Lucian and
others as a kind of Utopian system.
{185a} See Homer’s “Iliad,” book xvi. 1. 250.
{185b} Of Elis, founder of the Sceptic sect, who doubted of everything. He
flourished about the hundred and tenth Olympiad.
{187a} ’Ου γαρ σιτον εδουα’, ου πινουσ’ αιθοπα οινον.
“—Not the bread of man their life sustains,
Nor wine’s inflaming juice supplies their veins.”
See Pope’s Homer’s “Iliad,” book v. 1. 425.
{187b} Greek, υποβεβρεγμενοι.
{187c} See the beginning of the second book of the “Iliad.”
{188a} Apollo is always represented as imberbis, or without a beard, probably
from a notion that Phoebus, or the sun, must be always young.
{188b} See Homer’s “Iliad,” book xviii. 1. 134.
{189} See Homer’s “Iliad,” book ii. 1. 238.
{190} Greek, θρεμματα, what Virgil calls, ignavum pecus.

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