history (n.)
- account
- annals
- antiquity
- autobiography
- background
- biography
- catalog
- chronicle
- chronicles
- chronology
- correspondence
- depiction
- description
- diary
- documentation
- epic
- experience
- hagiography
- hagiology
- historiography
- information
- intelligence
- inventory
- journal
- legend
- letters
- life
- list
- memoir
- memorabilia
- memorial
- narration
- narrative
- necrology
- news
- obituary
- past
- portrayal
- profile
- recapitulation
- recital
- record
- recording
- register
- registry
- relation
- relic
- remains
- report
- representation
- resume
- retailing
- retelling
- roll
- rolls
- roster
- rota
- saga
- scroll
- story
- summary
- table
- tale
- telling
- token
- trace
- version
- vestige
- yesterday
- yesteryear
Anything but history, for history must be false.
Assassination has never changed the history of the world.
The history of nations, in the sense in which I use the word, is often best studied in works not professedly historical.
Those old credulities, to Nature dear,
Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock
Of history?
The dignity of history.
I shall cheerfully bear the reproach of having descended below the dignity of history.
For aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.
[History] hath triumphed over time, which besides it nothing but eternity hath triumphed over.
He [Voltaire] has invented history.
The applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes.
I have read somewhere or other,—in Dionysius of Halicarnassus, I think,—that history is philosophy teaching by examples.
Anything but history, for history must be false.
If the history of England be ever written by one who has the knowledge and the courage,—and both qualities are equally requisite for the undertaking,—the world will be more astonished than when reading the Roman annals by Niebuhr.
History is little else than a picture of human crimes and misfortunes.
Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it:
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach,
Of being taken by the insolent foe
And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence
And portance in my travels' history;
Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven,
It was my hint to speak,—such was the process;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline.
The reign of Antoninus is marked by the rare advantage of furnishing very few materials for history, which is indeed little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.
History repeats itself.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard;
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
So very difficult a matter is it to trace and find out the truth of anything by history.
Duke. And what's her history?
Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.
History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but one page.
