The Story of Mankind [179]
stating certain things that were not
so.
Then there were other critics, who accused me of direct
unfairness. Why did I leave out such countries as Ireland
and Bulgaria and Siam while I dragged in such other countries
as Holland and Iceland and Switzerland? My answer
was that I did not drag in any countries. They pushed themselves
in by main force of circumstances, and I simply could
not keep them out. And in order that my point may be understood,
let me state the basis upon which active membership to
this book of history was considered.
There was but one rule. ``Did the country or the person
in question produce a new idea or perform an original act
without which the history of the entire human race would have
been different?'' It was not a question of personal taste. It
was a matter of cool, almost mathematical judgment. No race
ever played a more picturesque role in history than the Mongolians,
and no race, from the point of view of achievement or
intelligent progress, was of less value to the rest of mankind.
The career of Tiglath-Pileser, the Assyrian, is full of
dramatic episodes. But as far as we are concerned, he might just
as well never have existed at all. In the same way, the history
of the Dutch Republic is not interesting because once upon a
time the sailors of de Ruyter went fishing in the river Thames,
but rather because of the fact that this small mud-bank along
the shores of the North Sea offered a hospitable asylum to all
sorts of strange people who had all sorts of queer ideas upon
all sorts of very unpopular subjects.
It is quite true that Athens or Florence, during the hey-day
of their glory, had only one tenth of the population of Kansas
City. But our present civilisation would be very different
had neither of these two little cities of the Mediterranean basin
existed. And the same (with due apologies to the good people
of Wyandotte County) can hardly be said of this busy metropolis
on the Missouri River.
And since I am being very personal, allow me to state one
other fact.
When we visit a doctor, we find out before hand whether
he is a surgeon or a diagnostician or a homeopath or a faith
healer, for we want to know from what angle he will look at
our complaint. We ought to be as careful in the choice of our
historians as we are in the selection of our physicians. We
think, ``Oh well, history is history,'' and let it go at that. But
the writer who was educated in a strictly Presbyterian household
somewhere in the backwoods of Scotland will look differ-
ently upon every question of human relationships from his
neighbour who as a child, was dragged to listen to the brilliant
exhortations of Robert Ingersoll, the enemy of all revealed
Devils. In due course of time, both men may forget their
early training and never again visit either church or lecture
hall. But the influence of these impressionable years stays
with them and they cannot escape showing it in whatever they
write or say or do.
In the preface to this book, I told you that I should not be
an infallible guide and now that we have almost reached the
end, I repeat the warning. I was born and educated in an
atmosphere of the old-fashioned liberalism which had followed
the discoveries of Darwin and the other pioneers of the nineteenth
century. As a child, I happened to spend most of my
waking hours with an uncle who was a great collector of the
books written by Montaigne, the great French essayist of the
sixteenth century. Because I was born in Rotterdam and
educated in the city of Gouda, I ran continually across
Erasmus and for some unknown reason this great exponent
of tolerance took hold of my intolerant self. Later I discovered
Anatole France and my first experience with the English
language came about through an accidental encounter with
Thackeray's ``Henry Esmond,'' a story which made more impression
upon me than any
so.
Then there were other critics, who accused me of direct
unfairness. Why did I leave out such countries as Ireland
and Bulgaria and Siam while I dragged in such other countries
as Holland and Iceland and Switzerland? My answer
was that I did not drag in any countries. They pushed themselves
in by main force of circumstances, and I simply could
not keep them out. And in order that my point may be understood,
let me state the basis upon which active membership to
this book of history was considered.
There was but one rule. ``Did the country or the person
in question produce a new idea or perform an original act
without which the history of the entire human race would have
been different?'' It was not a question of personal taste. It
was a matter of cool, almost mathematical judgment. No race
ever played a more picturesque role in history than the Mongolians,
and no race, from the point of view of achievement or
intelligent progress, was of less value to the rest of mankind.
The career of Tiglath-Pileser, the Assyrian, is full of
dramatic episodes. But as far as we are concerned, he might just
as well never have existed at all. In the same way, the history
of the Dutch Republic is not interesting because once upon a
time the sailors of de Ruyter went fishing in the river Thames,
but rather because of the fact that this small mud-bank along
the shores of the North Sea offered a hospitable asylum to all
sorts of strange people who had all sorts of queer ideas upon
all sorts of very unpopular subjects.
It is quite true that Athens or Florence, during the hey-day
of their glory, had only one tenth of the population of Kansas
City. But our present civilisation would be very different
had neither of these two little cities of the Mediterranean basin
existed. And the same (with due apologies to the good people
of Wyandotte County) can hardly be said of this busy metropolis
on the Missouri River.
And since I am being very personal, allow me to state one
other fact.
When we visit a doctor, we find out before hand whether
he is a surgeon or a diagnostician or a homeopath or a faith
healer, for we want to know from what angle he will look at
our complaint. We ought to be as careful in the choice of our
historians as we are in the selection of our physicians. We
think, ``Oh well, history is history,'' and let it go at that. But
the writer who was educated in a strictly Presbyterian household
somewhere in the backwoods of Scotland will look differ-
ently upon every question of human relationships from his
neighbour who as a child, was dragged to listen to the brilliant
exhortations of Robert Ingersoll, the enemy of all revealed
Devils. In due course of time, both men may forget their
early training and never again visit either church or lecture
hall. But the influence of these impressionable years stays
with them and they cannot escape showing it in whatever they
write or say or do.
In the preface to this book, I told you that I should not be
an infallible guide and now that we have almost reached the
end, I repeat the warning. I was born and educated in an
atmosphere of the old-fashioned liberalism which had followed
the discoveries of Darwin and the other pioneers of the nineteenth
century. As a child, I happened to spend most of my
waking hours with an uncle who was a great collector of the
books written by Montaigne, the great French essayist of the
sixteenth century. Because I was born in Rotterdam and
educated in the city of Gouda, I ran continually across
Erasmus and for some unknown reason this great exponent
of tolerance took hold of my intolerant self. Later I discovered
Anatole France and my first experience with the English
language came about through an accidental encounter with
Thackeray's ``Henry Esmond,'' a story which made more impression
upon me than any