Advice works in two ways: it teaches us to choose this and avoid that. So first let us say what the writer of history has to avoid, from what contaminations he must in particular be free; then what means he must use in order not to lose the right road that carries him straight ahead—I mean how to begin, how to arrange his material, the proper proportions for each part, what to leave out, what to develop, what it is better to handle cursorily, and how to put the facts into words and fit them together.
 These and kindred matters will come later. But


 

now let us mention the vices which follow on the heels of shoddy historians. To recount the faults of diction in single and combined words, of meaning and other marks of bad workmanship which are common to all literary genres would take a long time and not be peculiar to our present enquiry. But as to faults in historical writing, you will probably find by observation that they are of the same sort as I have noticed in many attendances at readings, especially if you open your ears to everyone. But it will not be out of place in the meantime to recall by way of example some of the histories already written in this faulty manner.
 To begin with, let us look at this for a serious fault: most of them neglect to record the events and spend their time lauding rulers and generals, extolling their own to the skies and slandering the enemy’s beyond all reserve; they do not realise that the dividing line and frontier between history and panegyric is not a narrow isthmus but rather a mighty wall; as musicians say, they are two diapasons apart, since the encomiast’s sole concern is to praise and please in any way he can the one he praises, and if he can achieve his aim by lying, little will he care; but history cannot admit a lie, even a tiny one, any more than the windpipe, as sons of doctors say, can tolerate anything entering it in swallowing.
 Again, such writers seem unaware that history has




 

aims and rules different from poetry and poems. In the case of the latter, liberty is absolute and there is one law—the will of the poet. Inspired and possessed by the Muses as he is, even if he wants to harness winged horses to a chariot, even if he sets others to run over water or the top of the corn,
 Homer, Il. xx, 226, f. 
 nobody gets annoyed; not even when their Zeus swings land and sea together suspended from a single cord
 Homer, Il. viii, 18, ff. 
 are they afraid it will break and everything fall and smash. If they want to praise Agamemnon there is no one to prevent his having a head and eyes like Zeus, a chest like Zeus’ brother Poseidon, and a belt like Ares,
 Homer, Il. ii, 478, f. 
 and in general the son of Atreus and Aerope must be a compound of all the gods for not Zeus nor Poseidon nor Ares alone is adequate to give the fullness of his beauty. But if history introduces flattery of that sort, what else does it become but a sort of prose-poetry, lacking indeed the high style of poetry, but showing the rest of poetry’s sorcery without metre, and for that reason in a more conspicuous way? So it is a great deal—all too great a fault—not to know how to keep the attributes of history and poetry separate, and to bring poetry’s embellishments into history—myth and eulogy and the exaggeration of both: it is as if you were to dress one of our tough, rugged athletes in a purple dress and the rest of the paraphernalia of a pretty light-o’-love and daub and paint his face. Heavens!




 

how ridiculous you would make him look, shaming him with all that decoration.
 I do not say that there is no room for occasional praise in history. But it must be given at the proper time and kept within reasonable limits to avoid displeasing future readers. In general such matters should be controlled with a view to what posterity demands; I shall treat of them a little later.
 Now some think they can make a satisfactory distinction in history between what gives pleasure and what is useful, and for this reason work eulogy into it as giving pleasure and enjoyment to its readers; but do you see how far they are from the truth? In the first place, the distinction they draw is false: history has one task and one end—what is useful—, and that comes from truth alone. As for what gives pleasure, it is certainly better if it is there incidentally—like good looks in an athlete; but if it isn’t there, there is still nothing to prevent Nicostratus, the son of Isidotus, a true blue and a stouter fellow than either of his rivals, from becoming “a successor of Heracles
 A title or quasi-title awarded for victory in both wrestling and the pancratium on the same day. Nicostratus was the seventh to do this (Pausanias, V, 21, 9–18). The young Quintilian saw him in his old age about A.D. 50 (Quint. II. 8, 14). 
 though he be ugly to look at, while his opponent is Alcaeus of Miletus, the handsome fellow who, they say, was loved by Nicostratus. So it is with history—if she were to make the mistake of dealing in pleasure as well she would attract a host of lovers, but as long as she keeps only what is hers alone in all its fullness—I mean the publication of the truth—she will give little thought to beauty.
 Moreover, this too is worth saying: in history


 

complete fiction and praise that is heavily biased on one side does not even give pleasure to an audience, if you leave out the common rabble and take note of those who will listen in the spirit of judges and indeed of fault-finders as well. Nothing will get past their scrutiny: their eyes are keener than Argus’s and all over their body; they test each expression like a money-changer, rejecting at once what is false but accepting current coin that is legal tender and correctly minted. These are the people to keep in mind when you write history; do not give the slightest thought to the rest even if they burst themselves with applauding. But if you neglect them and sweeten your history beyond reason with stories and eulogies and the other kinds of flattery, you will make it like Heracles in Lydia. You have probably seen pictures of him as slave to Omphale, dressed in a most outlandish way: Omphale is wearing his lion’s skin and carrying his club in her hand, as if she were Heracles for certain, while he has on a saffron and purple gown and is carding wool and getting rapped with Omphale’s sandal. It’s a shocking spectacle: the clothing hangs off his body and is ill–fitting, and his divine masculinity is disgracefully feminised.