There is a tendency in the mind to relieve itself from the labour of thinking, by accepting, without inquiry, any sort of proof that offers itself to the senses—to the eye and to the touch. In this manner we may fall into the habit of forgetting, or of neglecting, the direct and proper evidence of written and authentic testimony, while we are occupied with that which seems, although it may not be so in reality, to be more convincing, or to be less precarious; as for example: after giving attention to the evidence that has been adduced in the preceding chapters, we may feel assured of the fact—that the Greeks and Persians did fight on the plains of Marathon. There is then shown to us a seal, which, on good evidence, we know to have been picked up upon the very spot that still bears that name in Greece: the device upon this gem is manifestly Persian;—the winged lions are almost a copy of the bas-reliefs still existing on several ruins in Persia: we conclude therefore that this relic of antiquity belonged to a chief of the Persian army, and we accept it as a palpable proof of the truth of the historian’s narrative: and though that narrative thus gains, in our view, a confirmation, it does so by losing something of its proper weight; and we are afterwards inclined to think, that if the tangible proof were withdrawn, the written proof would stand less firmly than it did before.
Then again, in relying upon the evidence of gems, inscriptions, or sculptures, not merely as illustrations of history, but as proofs of its truth, we may sometimes substitute the worse kind of evidence for the better.—The relics of ancient art, in very many instances, derive their meaning, and draw their historic value from the concurrent testimony of written history: the entire proof is a product of the two taken together. Then it must not be forgotten that the traditionary history of the relic is often of doubtful authenticity—resting perhaps upon the word of those who had a commodity of indefinite value to sell;—or the workmanship may be of a later age than the antiquary is willing to admit;—or the inscription may have been placed by authority out of the reach of that opinion to which an historian is always amenable. An arrogant republic, or a vain-glorious tyrant, might, without fear, stamp bold lies upon coins, or engrave impudent untruths upon the entablatures of temples; and the brazen or the marble record may receive from the modern antiquary a degree of respect which it never won from contemporaries. Herodotus mentions some instances of this kind. An intelligent inquirer into the truth of remote facts will usually give more confidence to the explicit assertions of one with whose character and qualifications he is in some measure acquainted, than he does to positive averments that come from a party altogether unknown. Now an historian is a person concerning whose veracity, discretion, and intentions we have the means of forming our own opinion; but in admitting the evidence of inscriptions and coins, we receive a testimony—knowing perhaps nothing of the witness.
CHAPTER XIX.
EXAMPLES OF IMPERFECT HISTORICAL EVIDENCE:—HERODOTUS.
The object of the preceding pages has been to display, in its several parts, that chain of evidence, by means of which a high degree of certainty in matters of antiquity is attainable. And it appears that there are cases in which the proof of remote facts rests, as it were, in our own hands, so that, irrespectively of the veracity, or accuracy, or impartiality of the witnesses, our assent is demanded on the ground of the constancy of the laws of the social system. In such cases, a consideration of distance of time does not enter into the argument; for the proof remains from age to age unimpaired; or rather, we are carried by this proof up to the times of the events in question, and are now as competent to judge of the validity of the evidence as we could have been if we had lived in that age.
The real difference between this absolute proof and every other sort of historical evidence, will be best exhibited by adducing some instances of a different kind; and in taking our examples from the same author—Herodotus, we place both kinds of evidence upon the same level, so far as the personal qualities and the merits of the historian are concerned in the argument.
The distinctive character of all such historical evidence as ought to be called imperfect, is this—that it comes to us through some medium, upon the trustworthiness of which we must more or less implicitly rely. Ordinarily, this medium is the veracity, or the accuracy—the learning, or the impartiality, of the historian. In such instances the immediate proof stands beyond our reach; and instead of being able to handle and inspect it for ourselves, we can only inspect it at a distance, and, by the best means in our power, estimate its probable value. This secondary evidence may indeed sometimes rise almost to absolute certainty; in other cases it may possess scarcely an atom of real weight. The first book of Herodotus will furnish examples of both sorts, and some in every degree between the two extremes.
In the introductory sections of his history, Herodotus refers to those mutual aggressions which were ordinarily assigned by the authors of his times as the origin of the animosity which had so long raged between the Greeks and the people of Asia: thus he mentions the abduction of Io from Argos by the Phœnicians—of Europa from Tyre—of Medea from Colchis, and of Helen from Sparta; which last act of violence produced, he says, the Trojan war, and which the Persians, as he affirms, were wont to allege as a perpetual justification of every enterprise they might attempt against the Greeks.
These events took place—if at all—from thirteen to eight hundred years before the time of Herodotus: the last of them, the Trojan war, may well be regarded as substantially true on the authority of the poems of Homer, which bear the character of history too strongly to be treated as mere fiction. As to the abductions above-mentioned, they are to be regarded as samples of the manners of the times:—such circumstances, and many others to which neither poets nor historians have given celebrity, no doubt took place on the shores of the Ægæan sea—favourable as these have ever been to piratical enterprises. Yet if we can believe that Herodotus actually examined for himself the writings of the “Persian historians” whom he quotes, and if he there found coincident narratives of the above-mentioned outrages, these vague traditions would then acquire something like the authority of history.
There is a fact affirmed by the historian in the outset of his history which deserves a passing notice:—he says, that “the Phœnicians, coming from the shores of the Red Sea (the Persian Gulf, or the Indian Ocean) settled upon the borders of this sea (the Mediterranean) in the country they now inhabit; whence they made distant voyages, carrying on the commerce of Egypt and Assyria, with the surrounding countries.” This emigration of the Phœnicians—which in itself is by no means improbable—the distance between the two seas being not great, and such emigrations being frequent in ancient times—is mentioned by several ancient authors, though denied by Strabo; nevertheless it provoked the ridicule of Voltaire, who asks, “What does the father of history mean in the commencement of his work, when he says that, ‘the Persian historians relate that the Phœnicians were the authors of all the wars; and that they came from the Red Sea to ours’? It seems then that they embarked on the Gulf of Suez—passed through the straits of Babel Mandel—coasted along the shores of Ethiopia—crossed the Line—doubled the Cape of Tempests, since called the Cape of Good Hope—ascended the sea between Africa and America, which is the only way in which they could come—re-crossed the Line, and entered the Mediterranean by the Pillars of Hercules, which would have been a voyage of more than four thousand marine leagues, at a time when navigation was in its infancy!”
This passage is a sample of this writer’s ignorance and audacity in dealing with history; and it is an instance of the ease with which a charge of absurdity or falsification may be made out against an historian by a writer who is at once destitute of learning and of candour. “M. Voltaire,” says Larches “would have spared himself this criticism, had he possessed even a moderate knowledge of the Greek language. If Herodotus had intended to intimate that the Phœnicians came by sea, he would have employed another Greek idiom. Besides, he would not have added, that ‘they then undertook long voyages;’ as, on the supposition of their having come by sea, they had already made a voyage much longer and more perilous than any they afterwards undertook. But if there remained any doubt as to the meaning of the passage, the author removes it in another place (Polymnia, 89): ‘These Phœnicians, as they themselves say, formerly inhabited the shores of the Red Sea, whence passing over, they now occupy the maritime part of Syria.’”