The Historians' History of the World 01

And so the historical delver, when he finds himself in the midst of the literature on any period whatever—be it a mere historical mole-hill—finds himself surrounded by a heap of literary bricks which shuts out the very mountain ranges of history from his vision. At once he demands—feels that he must have—space for his magnified mole-hill; and it is only the predetermined editorial restrictions that keep him from filling entire volumes with fascinating stories about some petty kingdom which, from the world-historical standpoint, is entitled to pages only. It is a conservative estimate of the facts to assert that there is no period of our history for which ten times the amount of material has not been garnered than could possibly be used in extenso

. The chart of the architect has lain always open upon the editorial desk, and rule and compass have been ever ready to restrain and check the over-enthusiasm of the worker whose zeal would otherwise lead him to present megaliths where the specification called for, and the plan permitted, only tiny bricks.

As to whether the plans of the architect were intrinsically good; whether the specification called for bricks where bricks were logically needed, and for megaliths in their proper place—these are questions that will not be entered on here. But a word may be permitted as to the ruling motives which have dominated the conception, and which, it is hoped, have never been lost sight of. These ruling motives are two: first, the hope of attaining a high standard of historical accuracy in the most critical acceptance of the term; secondly, the desire to retain as much as possible of human interest in the broadest and best sense of the words. To attain the first of these ends it is necessary to be free from prejudice, to have unflagging zeal in collecting testimony, to have scientific and critical acumen in weighing evidence; to attain the second end it is essential that kindred faculties should be applied not to the facts of history but to the literary presentations of these facts, that the good and true story may not be spoiled in the telling.

The desire to be free from all prejudice in the judgment of historical facts is, then, the key-note of all our philosophy of historical criticism; and the desire to retain interest—human interest—is the key-note of our philosophy of historical composition.

To attain either end, what perhaps is most required is catholicity of sympathies. There must be no race prejudice, no national prejudice. There must be no attempt to blacken or whiten historical characters, in correspondence with the personal bias. There must be no special pleading for or against any form of government, any racial propensity, or any individual deed. In a word, there must be freedom from prejudice in every field,—except indeed that prejudice in favour of the broad principles of right, regarding which all civilised nations of every age have been in virtual agreement. But the deeds, the motives, the superstitions of all times and of all races must be viewed, so far as such a thing is possible, through the same clear atmosphere of impartiality. As between Egyptian, Assyrian, Hebrew, Hindoo, Persian, Mongul—he who would produce a world history of truly catholic scope should have no inherent prejudice or preconception.

Equally must there be freedom from prejudice regarding various classes of ideas. “Whatever concerns mankind is of interest to me,” must be the editorial motto. Some persons are interested only in military events, in battles, treaties, and the like; others care only for constitutional and governmental affairs; yet others think most of literature and of art, or of science. But the editorial spirit of a world history should show a catholicity of taste that is receptive of each and all of these. Xerxes at Thermopylæ, and Æschylus writing his tragedy “The Persians”; Alexander mourning for Hephæstion, and Phidias building the Parthenon; Augustus Cæsar disputing the mastery of the world with Antony, and Dionysius telling of the myths of early Rome; Richard of the lion heart prosecuting a crusade, and Dante vitalising the Italian language; each and all of these and kindred topics up and down the scroll of history should equally, each in proportion to its relative influence, excite the sympathetic attention of the historian. With the same zeal he should tell of the alleged iniquities of a Messalina or a Catherine de’ Medici and of the noble self-abnegation of a Cornelia; of the self-seeking of a Cæsar and of the self-abnegation of a Cincinnatus or a St. Louis. With sound common-sense for a guide, he should strive to avoid on the one hand the over-credulity of the untrained mind, and on the other the dogmatic scepticism that so often perverts the judgment of the specialist.