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