§ 1  CHAPTER I: OCCASION AND PURPOSE OF THE TREATISE [64]
To you, Rufus Metilius, whose worthy father is my most honoured friend, “I also offer this gift, dear child,” as Helen, in Homer, says while entertaining Telemachus. To-day you are keeping your first birthday after your arrival at man’s estate; and of all feasts this is to me the most welcome and most precious. I am not, however, sending you the work of my own hands (to quote Helen’s words when she offers the robe to her young guest), nor what is fitted only for the season of marriage and “meet to pleasure a bride withal.” No, it is the product and the child of my studies and my brain, and also something for you to keep and use in all the business of life which is effected through speech: an aid most necessary, if my estimate is of any account, to all alike who practise civil oratory, [66] whatever their age and temperament, but especially to youths like you who are just beginning to take up the study.
We may say that in practically all speaking two things must have unremitting attention: the ideas and the words. In the former case, the sphere of subject matter is chiefly concerned; in the latter, that of expression; and all who aim at becoming good speakers give equally earnest attention to both these aspects of discourse. But the science which guides us to selection of matter, and to judgment in handling it, is hampered with difficulties for the young; indeed, for beardless striplings, its difficulties are insurmountable. The perfect grasp of things in all their bearings belongs rather to a matured understanding, and to an age that is disciplined by grey hairs,—an age whose powers are developed by prolonged investigation of discourse and action, and by many experiences of its own and much sharing in the fortunes of others. But the love of literary beauty flourishes naturally in the days of youth as much as in later life. For elegance of expression has a fascination for all young minds, making them feel impulses that are instinctive and akin to [68] inspiration. Young people need, at the beginning, much prudent oversight and guidance, if they are not to utter
What word soe’er may have sprung
To the tip of an ill-timed tongue,
nor to form at random any chance combinations, but to select pure and noble words, and to place them in the beautiful setting of a composition that unites charm to dignity. So in this department, the first in which the young should exercise themselves, “for love’s service I lend you a strain,” in the shape of this treatise on literary composition. The subject has occurred to but few of all the ancients who have composed manuals of rhetoric or dialectic, and by none has it been, to the best of my belief, accurately or adequately treated up to the present time. If I find leisure, I will produce another book for you—one on the choice of words, in order that you may have the subject of expression exhaustively treated. You may expect that treatise next year at the same festive season, the gods guarding us from accident and disease, if it so be that our destiny has reserved for us the secure attainment of this blessing. But now accept the treatise which my good genius has suggested to me.
The chief heads under which I propose to treat the subject are the following: what is the nature of composition, and where its strength lies; what are its aims and how it attains them; what are its principal varieties, what is the distinctive [70] feature of each, and which of them I believe to be the most effective; and still further, what is that poetical element, so pleasant on the tongue and so sweet to the ear, which naturally accompanies composition in prose, and wherein lies the effectiveness of that poetical art which imitates plain prose and succeeds excellently in doing so, and by what method each of those two results may be attained. Such, in broad outline, are the topics with which I intend to deal, and on this programme my treatise is based.

§ 2  CHAPTER II: COMPOSITION DEFINED
Composition is, as the very name indicates, a certain arrangement of the parts of speech, or elements of diction, as some call them. These were reckoned as three only by Theodectes and Aristotle and the philosophers of those times, who regarded nouns, verbs and connectives as the primary parts of speech. Their successors, particularly the leaders of the Stoic school, raised the number to four, separating the articles from the connectives. Then the later inquirers divided the appellatives from the substantives, and represented the primary parts of speech as five. Others detached the pronouns from the nouns, and so introduced a sixth element. Others, again, divided the adverbs from the verbs, the prepositions [72] from the connectives and the participles from the appellatives; while others introduced still further subdivisions, and so multiplied the primary parts of speech. The subject would afford scope for quite a long discussion. Enough to say that the combination or juxtaposition of these primary parts, be they three, or four, or whatever may be their number, forms the so-called “members” (or clauses) of a sentence. Further, the fitting together of these clauses constitutes what are termed the “periods,” and these make up the complete discourse. The function of composition is to put words together in an appropriate order, to assign a suitable connexion to clauses, and to distribute the whole discourse properly into periods.
Although in logical order arrangement of words occupies the second place when the department of expression is under investigation, since the selection of them naturally takes precedence and is assumed to be already made; yet it is upon arrangement, far more than upon selection, that persuasion, charm, and literary power depend. And let no one deem it strange that, whereas many serious investigations have been made regarding the choice of words,—investigations which have given rise to much debate among philosophers and political orators,—composition, though it holds the second place in order, and has been the subject of far fewer discussions than the other, yet possesses so much solid strength, so much active energy, that it triumphantly outstrips all the other’s achievements. It must be remembered that, in the case of all the other arts which employ various materials and produce from them a composite result,—arts such as building, carpentry, embroidery, and the like,—the faculties of composition are second in order of time to those of selection, but are nevertheless of greater importance. Hence it must not be thought abnormal that the same principle obtains with respect to discourse. But we may as well submit proofs of this statement, [74] that we may not be thought to assume off-hand the truth of a doubtful proposition.

§ 3  CHAPTER III: THE MAGICAL EFFECT OF COMPOSITION, OR WORD-ORDER
Every utterance, then, by which we express our thoughts is either in metre or not in metre. Whichever it be, it can, when aided by beautiful arrangement, attain beauty whether of verse or prose. But speech, if flung out carelessly at random, at the same time spoils the value of the thought. Many poets, and prose-writers (philosophers and orators), have carefully chosen expressions that are distinctly beautiful and appropriate to the subject matter, but have reaped no benefit from their trouble because they have given them a rude and haphazard sort of arrangement: whereas others have invested their discourse with great beauty by taking humble, unpretending words, and arranging them with charm and distinction. It may well be thought that composition is to selection what words are to ideas. For just as a fine thought is of no avail unless it be clothed in beautiful language, so here too pure and elegant expression, is useless unless it be attired in the right vesture of arrangement.
But to guard myself against the appearance of making an unsupported assertion, I will try to show by an appeal to facts [76] the reasons which have convinced me that composition is a more important and effective art than mere selection of words. I will first examine a few specimen passages in prose and verse. Among poets let Homer be taken, among prose-writers Herodotus: from these may be formed an adequate notion of the rest.
Well, in Homer we find Odysseus tarrying in the swineherd’s hut and about to break his fast at dawn, as they used to do in ancient days. Telemachus then appears in sight, returning from his sojourn in the Peloponnese. Trifling incidents of everyday life as these are, they are inimitably portrayed. But wherein lies the excellence of expression? I shall quote the lines, and they will speak for themselves:—
As anigh came Telemachus’ feet, the king and the swineherd wight
Made ready the morning meat, and by this was the fire alight:—
They had sent the herdmen away with the pasturing swine at the dawning:—
Lo, the dogs have forgotten to bay, and around the prince are they fawning!
And Odysseus the godlike marked the leap and the whine of the hounds
That ever at strangers barked; and his ear caught footfall-sounds.
Straightway he spake, for beside him was sitting the master of swine:
“Of a surety, Eumaeus, hitherward cometh a comrade of thine,
Or some one the bandogs know, and not with barking greet,
But they fawn upon him; moreover I hear the treading of feet.”
Not yet were the words well done, when the porchway darkened: a face
Was there in the door,—his son! and Eumaeus sprang up in amaze.
[78] Dropped from his hands to the floor the bowls, wherein erst he began
The flame-flushed wine to pour, and to meet his lord he ran;
And he kissed that dear-loved head, and both his beautiful eyes;
And he kissed his hands, and he shed warm tears in his glad surprise.
Everybody would, I am sure, testify that these lines cast a spell of enchantment on the ear, and rank second to no poetry whatsoever, however exquisite it may be. But what is the secret of their fascination, and what causes them to be what they are? Is it the selection of words, or the composition? No one will say “the selection”: of that I am convinced. For the diction consists, warp and woof, of the most ordinary, the humblest words, such as might have been used off-hand by a farmer, a seaman, an artisan, or anybody else who takes no account of elegant speech. You have only to break up the metre, and these very same lines will seem commonplace and unworthy of admiration. For they contain neither noble metaphors nor hypallages nor catachreses nor any other figurative language; nor yet many unusual terms, nor foreign or new-coined words. What alternative, then, is left but to attribute the beauty of the style to the composition? There are countless [80] passages of this kind in Homer, as everybody of course is well aware. It is enough to quote this single instance by way of reminder.
Let us now pass on to the language of prose and see if the same principle holds good of it too—that great graces invest trifling and commonplace acts and words, when they are cast into the mould of beautiful composition. For instance, there is in Herodotus a certain Lydian king whom he calls Candaules, adding that he was called Myrsilus by the Greeks. Candaules is represented as infatuated with admiration of his wife, and then as insisting on one of his friends seeing the poor woman naked. The friend struggled hard against the constraint put upon him; but failing to shake the king’s resolve, he submitted, and viewed her. The incident, as an incident, is not only lacking in dignity and, for the purpose of embellishment, intractable, but is also vulgar and hazardous and more akin to the repulsive than to the beautiful. But it has been related with great dexterity: it has been made something far better to hear told than it was to see done. And, that no one may imagine that it is to the dialect that the charm of the story is due, I will change its distinctive forms into Attic, and without any further meddling with the language will give the conversation as it stands:—
“‘Of a truth, Gyges, I think that thou dost not believe what I say concerning the beauty of my wife; indeed, men trust their ears less fully than their eyes. Contrive, therefore, to see her [82] naked.’ But he cried out and said: ‘My lord, what is this foolish word thou sayest, bidding me look upon my lady naked? for a woman, when she puts off her dress, puts off her shamefastness also. Men of old time have found out excellent precepts, which it behoves us to learn and observe; and among them is this—“Let a man keep his eyes on his own.” As for me, I am fully persuaded that she is the fairest of all women, and I beseech thee not to require of me aught that is unlawful.’ Thus he spoke, and strove with him. But the other answered and said: ‘Be of good cheer, Gyges, and fear not that I say this to prove thee, or that harm will come to thee from my wife. For, in the first place, I will contrive after such a fashion that she shall not even know that she has been seen by thee. I will bring thee into the room where we sleep, and set thee behind the door that stands ajar; and after I have entered, my wife will come to bed. Now, near the entrance there is a seat; and on this she will place each of her garments as she puts them off, so that thou wilt have time enough to behold. But when she passes from the seat to the couch, and thou art behind her back, then take heed that she see thee not as thou goest away through the door.’ Forasmuch, then, as he could not escape, he consented to do after this manner.”naked.’ But he cried out and said: ‘My lord, what is this foolish word thou sayest, bidding me look upon my lady naked? for a woman, when she puts off her dress, puts off her shamefastness also. Men of old time have found out excellent precepts, which it behoves us to learn and observe; and among them is this—“Let a man keep his eyes on his own.” As for me, I am fully persuaded that she is the fairest of all women, and I beseech thee not to require of me aught that is unlawful.’ Thus he spoke, and strove with him. But the other answered and said: ‘Be of good cheer, Gyges, and fear not that I say this to prove thee, or that harm will come to thee from my wife. For, in the first place, I will contrive after such a fashion that she shall not even know that she has been seen by thee. I will bring thee into the room where we sleep, and set thee behind the door that stands ajar; and after I have entered, my wife will come to bed. Now, near the entrance there is a seat; and on this she will place each of her garments as she puts them off, so that thou wilt have time enough to behold. But when she passes from the seat to the couch, and thou art behind her back, then take heed that she see thee not as thou goest away through the door.’ Forasmuch, then, as he could not escape, he consented to do after this manner.”
[84] Here again no one can say that the grace of the style is due to the impressiveness and the dignity of the words. These have not been picked and chosen with studious care; they are simply the labels affixed to things by Nature. Indeed, it would perhaps have been out of place to use other and grander words. I take it, in fact, to be always necessary, whenever ideas are expressed in proper and appropriate language, that no word should be more dignified than the nature of the ideas. That there is no stately or grandiose word in the present passage, any one who likes may prove by simply changing the arrangement. There are many similar passages in this author, from which it can be seen that the fascination of his style does not after all lie in the beauty of the words but in their combination. We need not discuss this question further.

§ 4  CHAPTER IV: TO CHANGE ORDER IS TO DESTROY BEAUTY
To show yet more conclusively the great force wielded by the faculty of composition both in poetry and prose, I will quote some passages which are universally regarded as fine, and show what a different air is imparted to both verse and prose by a mere change in their arrangement. First let these lines be taken from the Homeric poems:—
But with them was it as with a toil-bowed woman righteous-souled—
In her scales be the weights and the wool, and the balance on high doth she hold
Poised level, that so may the hard-earned bread to her babes be doled.
This metre is the complete heroic metre of six feet, the basis [86] of which is the dactyl. I will change the order of the words, and will turn the same lines into tetrameters instead of hexameters, into prosodiacs instead of heroics. Thus:—
But it was with them as with a righteous-souled woman toil-bowed,
In her scales weights and wool lie, on high doth she hold the balance
Level-poised, so that bread hardly-earned may be doled to her babes.
Such are the following Priapean, or (as some call them) ithyphallic, lines:—
I am no profane one, O young Dionysus’ votaries;
By his favour come I too initiate as one of his.
Taking again other lines of Homer, and neither adding nor withdrawing anything, but simply varying the order, I will produce another kind of verse, the so-called Ionic tetrameter:—
So there outstretched was he lying, his steeds and his chariot before,
Groaning, convulsively clutching the dust that was red with his gore.
So there outstretched was he lying, his steeds and his chariot before,
At the dust that was red with his gore clutching convulsively, groaning.
[88] Such are the following Sotadean lines:—
There upon the summit of the burning pyres their corpses lay
In an alien land, the widowed walls forsaken far away,
Walls of sacred Hellas; and the hearths upon the homeland shore,
Winsome youth, the sun’s fair face—forsaken all for evermore!
I could, if I wished, adduce many more different types of measures all belonging to the class of the heroic line, and show that the same thing is true of almost all the other metres and rhythms, namely that, when the choice of words remains unaltered and only the arrangement is changed, the verses invariably lose their rhythm, while their formation is ruined, together with the complexion, the character, the feeling, and the whole effectiveness of the lines. But in so doing I should be obliged to touch on a number of speculations, with some of which very few are familiar. To many speculations, perhaps, and particularly to those bearing on the matter in hand, the lines of Euripides may fitly be applied:—
With subtleties meddle not thou, O soul of mine:
Wherefore be overwise, except in thy fellows’ eyes
Thou lookest to be revered as for wisdom divine?
So I think it wise to leave this ground unworked for the present. But anyone who cares may satisfy himself that the diction of prose can be affected in the same way as that of verse when the words are retained but the order is changed. I will take from the writings of Herodotus the opening of his History, since it is familiar to most people, simply changing the [90] nature of the dialect: “Croesus was a Lydian by birth and the son of Alyattes. He was lord over all the nations on this side of the river Halys, which flows from the south between Syria and Paphlagonia, and falls, towards the north, into the sea which is called the Euxine.” I change the order here, and the cast of the passage will become no longer that of a spacious narrative, but tense rather and forensic: “Croesus was the son of Alyattes, and by birth a Lydian. He was lord, on this side of the river Halys, over all nations; which river from the south flowing between Syria and Paphlagonia runs into the sea which is called the Euxine and debouches towards the north.” This style would seem not to differ widely from that of Thucydides in the words: “Epidamnus is a city on the right as you enter the Ionian Gulf: its next neighbours are barbarians, the Taulantii, an Illyrian race.” Once more I will recast the same passage and give a new form to it as follows: “Alyattes’ son was Croesus, by birth a Lydian. Lord over all nations he was, on this side of the river Halys; which river, from the south flowing between Syria and Paphlagonia, falls, with northward run, into the Euxine-called sea.” This affected, degenerate, emasculate way of arranging words resembles that of Hegesias, the high-priest of this kind of nonsense. He [92] writes, for instance, “After a goodly festival another goodly one keep we.” “Of Magnesia am I, the mighty land, a man of Sipylus I.” “No little drop into the Theban waters spewed Dionysus: Oh yea, sweet it is, but madness it engendereth.”
Enough of examples. I think I have I sufficiently proved my point that composition is more effective than selection. In fact, it seems to me that one might fairly compare the former to Athena in Homer. For she used to make the same Odysseus appear now in one form, now in another,—at one time puny and wrinkled and ugly,
In semblance like to a beggar wretched and eld-forlorn,
at another time, by a fresh touch of the selfsame wand,
She moulded him taller to see, and broader: his wavy hair
She caused o’er his shoulders to fall as the hyacinth’s purple rare.
So, too, composition takes the same words, and makes the ideas they convey appear at one time unlovely, beggarly and mean; at another, exalted, rich and beautiful. A main difference between poet and poet, orator and orator, really does lie in the aptness with which they arrange their words. Almost all the ancients made a special study of this; and consequently their poems, their lyrics, and their prose are things of beauty. But among their successors, with few exceptions, this was no longer so.
[94] At last, in later times, it was utterly neglected; no one thought it absolutely indispensable, or that it contributed anything to the beauty of discourse. Consequently they left behind them lucubrations that no one has the patience to read from beginning to end. I mean men like Phylarchus, Duris, Polybius, Psaon, Demetrius of Callatis, Hieronymus, Antigonus, Heracleides, Hegesianax, and countless others: a whole day would not be enough if I tried to repeat the bare names of them all. But why wonder at these, when even those who call themselves professors of philosophy and publish manuals of dialectic fail so wretchedly in the arrangement of their words that I shrink from even mentioning their names? It is quite enough to point, in proof of my statement, to Chrysippus the Stoic: for farther I will not go. Among writers who have achieved any name or distinction, none have written their treatises on dialectic with greater accuracy, and none have published discourses which are worse specimens of composition. And yet some of them claimed [96] to make a serious study of this department also, as being absolutely essential to good writing, and wrote some manuals on the grouping of the parts of speech. But they all went far astray from the truth and never even dreamt what it is that makes composition attractive and beautiful. At any rate, when I resolved to treat of this subject methodically, I tried to find out whether anything at all had been said about it by earlier writers, and particularly by the philosophers of the Porch, because I knew that these worthies were accustomed to pay no little attention to the department of discourse: one must give them their due. But in no single instance did I light upon any contribution, great or small, made by any author, of any reputation at all events, to the subject of my choice. As for the two treatises which Chrysippus has bequeathed to us, entitled “on the grouping of the parts of speech,” they contain, as those who have read the books are aware, not a rhetorical but a dialectical investigation, dealing with the grouping of propositions, true and false, possible and impossible, admissible and variable, ambiguous, and so forth. These contribute no assistance or benefit to civil oratory, so far at any rate as charm and beauty of style are concerned; and yet these qualities should be the chief aim of composition. So I desisted from this inquiry, and falling back upon my own resources proceeded to consider whether I could find some starting-point indicated by nature itself, since nature is generally accepted as the best first principle in every operation and every inquiry. So applying myself to certain lines of investigation, I was beginning to think that the plan was making fair progress, when I became aware that my path of progress was leading me in a quite different direction, and not towards the goal which I [98] sought and which I felt I must attain; and so I gave up the attempt. I may as well, perhaps, touch on that inquiry also, and state the reasons which led me to abandon it, so that I may not be open to the suspicion of having passed it by in ignorance, and not of deliberate choice.

§ 5  CHAPTER V: NO GRAMMATICAL ORDER PRESCRIBED BY NATURE
Well, my notion was that we ought to follow mother nature to the utmost, and to link together the parts of speech according to her promptings. For example, I thought I must place nouns before verbs: the former, you see, indicate the substance, the latter the accident, and in the nature of things the substance takes precedence of its accidents! Thus we find in Homer:—
The hero to me chant thou, Song-queen, the resourceful man;
and
The Wrath sing, Goddess, thou;
and
The sun leapt up, as he left;
and other lines of the same kind, where the nouns lead the way and the verbs follow. The principle is attractive, but I came to the conclusion that it was not sound. At any rate, a reader might confront me with other instances in the same poet where the arrangement is the opposite of this, and yet the lines are no less beautiful and attractive. What are the instances in point?
[100] Hear me, thou Child of the Aegis-bearer, unwearied Power;
and
Tell to me, Muses, now in Olympian halls that abide;
and
Remember thy father, Achilles, thou godlike glorious man.
In these lines the verbs are in the front rank, and the nouns stationed behind them. Yet no one would impugn the arrangement of the words as unpleasant.
Moreover, I imagined it was better to place verbs in front of adverbs, since in the nature of things what acts or is acted upon takes precedence of those auxiliaries, modal, local, temporal, and the like, which we call adverbs. I relied on the following as examples:—
Smote them on this side and on that, and arose the ghastly groan;
Fell she backward-reeling, and gasped her spirit away;
Reeled he backward: the cup from his hand-grasp fell to the floor.
In all these cases the adverbs are placed after the verbs. This principle, like the other, is attractive; but it is equally unsound. For here are passages in the same poet expressed in the opposite way:
Clusterwise hover they ever above the flowers of spring;
To-day shall Eileithyia the Queen of Travail bring
A man to the light.
Well, are the lines at all inferior because the verbs are placed after the adverbs? No one can say so.
Once more, I imagined that I ought always most scrupulously to observe the principle that things earlier in time should be inserted earlier in the sentence. The following are examples:—
[102] They drew back the beasts’ necks first, then severed the throats and flayed;
and
Clangeth the horn, loud singeth the sinew, and leapeth the shaft;
and
The ball by the princess was tossed thereafter to one of her girls;
But it missed the maid, and was lost in the river’s eddying swirls.
“Certainly,” a reader might reply,—“if it were not for the fact that there are plenty of other lines not arranged in this order of yours, and yet as fine as those you have quoted; as
And he smote it, upstrained to the stroke, with an oak-billet cloven apart.
Surely the arms must be raised before the blow is dealt! And further:—
He struck as he stood hard by, and the axe through the sinews shore
Of the neck.
Surely a man who is about to drive his axe into a bull’s sinews should take his stand near it first!”
Still further: I imagined it the correct thing to put my substantives before my adjectives, appellatives before substantives, pronouns before appellatives; and with verbs, to be very careful that primary should precede secondary forms, and indicatives infinitives,—and so on. But trial invariably wrecked these views and revealed their utter worthlessness. At one time charm and beauty of composition did result from these and similar collocations,—at other times from collocations not of this sort but the opposite. And so for these reasons I abandoned all such speculations as the above. Nor is it for any serious value it [104] possesses that I recall this mental process now. I have cited those manuals on dialectic not because I think it necessary to have them, but in order to prevent anyone from supposing that they contain anything of real service for the present inquiry, and from regarding it as important to study them. It is easy to be inveigled by their titles, which suggest some affinity with the subject; or by the reputation of their compilers.
I will now revert to the original proposition, from which I have strayed into these digressions. It was that the ancients (poets and historians, philosophers and rhetoricians) were greatly preoccupied with this branch of inquiry. They never thought that words, clauses, or periods should be combined at haphazard. They had rules and principles of their own; and it was by following these that they composed so well. What these principles were, I shall try to explain so far as I can; stating, not all, but just the most essential, of those that I have been able to investigate.

§ 6  CHAPTER VI: THREE PROCESSES IN THE ART OF COMPOSITION
My view is that the science of composition has three functions. The first is that of observing the combinations which are naturally adapted to produce a beautiful and agreeable united effect; the second is that of perceiving how to improve the harmonious appearance of the whole by fashioning properly the several parts which we intend to fit together; the third is that of perceiving what is required in the way of modification of the material—I mean abridgment, expansion and transformation—and of carrying out such changes in a manner appropriate to the end in view. The effect of each of these processes I will explain more clearly by means of illustrations drawn from industrial arts [106] familiar to all—house-building, ship-building, and the like. When a builder has provided himself with the material from which he intends to construct a house—stones, timbers, tiling, and all the rest—he then puts together the structure from these, studying the following three things: what stone, timber and brick can be united with what other stone, timber and brick; next, how each piece of the material that is being so united should be set, and on which of its faces; thirdly, if anything fits badly, how that particular thing can be chipped and trimmed and made to fit exactly. And the shipwright proceeds in just the same way. A like course should, I affirm, be followed by those who are to succeed in literary composition. They should first consider in what groupings with one another nouns, verbs, or other parts of speech, will be placed appropriately, and how not so well; for surely every possible combination cannot affect the ear in the same way—it is not in the nature of things that it should be so. Next they should decide the form in which the noun or verb, or whatever else it may be, will occupy its place most gracefully and most in harmony with the ground-scheme. I mean, in the case of nouns, whether they will offer a better combination if used in the singular or the plural; whether they should be put in the nominative or in one of the oblique cases; or which gender should be chosen if they admit of a feminine instead of a masculine form, [108] or a masculine instead of a feminine, or a neuter instead of either: and so on. With reference to verbs, again: which form it will be best to adopt, the active or the passive, and in what moods (or verbal cases, as some call them) they should be presented so as to receive the best setting, as also what differences of tense should be indicated; and so with all the other natural accidents of verbs. These same methods must be followed in regard to the other parts of speech also; there is no need to go into details. Further, with respect to the words thus selected, if any noun or verb requires a modification of its form, it must be decided how it can be brought into better harmony and symmetry with its neighbours. This principle can be applied more freely in poetry than in prose. Still, in prose also, it is applied, where opportunity offers. The speaker who says “εἰς τουτονὶ τὸν ἀγῶνα” has added a letter to the pronoun with an eye to the effect of the composition. The bare meaning would have been sufficiently conveyed by saying “εἰς τοῦτον τὸν ἀγῶνα”. So in the words “κατιδὼν Νεοπτόλεμον τὸν ὑποκριτήν” the addition of the preposition has merely expanded the word into κατιδών, since ἰδών alone would have conveyed the meaning. So, too, in the expression “μήτ’ ἰδίας ἔχθρας μηδεμιᾶς ἕνεχ’ ἥκειν” the writer has cut off some of the letters, and has condensed the [110] discourse through the elisions. So again by using “ἐποίησε” (without the ν) in place of ἐποίησεν, and “ἔγραψε” in place of ἔγραψεν, and “ἀφαιρήσομαι” in place of ἀφαιρεθήσομαι, and all instances of the kind; and by saying “ἐχωροφίλησε” for ἐφιλοχώρησε and “λελύσεται” for λυθήσεται, and things of that sort:—by such devices an author puts his words into a new shape, in order that he may fit them together more beautifully and appropriately.

§ 7  CHAPTER VII: GROUPING OF CLAUSES
The foregoing, then, is one branch of the art of composition which requires consideration: namely, that which relates to the primary parts and elements of speech. But there is another, as I said at the beginning, which is concerned with the so-called “members” (“clauses”), and this requires fuller and more elaborate treatment. My views on this topic I will try to express forthwith.
The clauses must be fitted to one another so as to present an aspect of harmony and concord; they must be given the best form which they admit of; they must further be remodelled if necessary by shortening, lengthening, and any other change of form which clauses admit. As to each of these details experience itself must be your teacher. It will often happen that the placing of one clause before or after another brings out a certain euphony and dignity, while a different grouping sounds unpleasing and undignified. My meaning will be clearer if illustrated by an example. There is a well-known passage of Thucydides in the speech of the Plataeans, a delightfully arranged sentence full of deep feeling, which is as follows: “And we fear, men of Sparta, lest you, our only hope, should [112] fail in steadfastness.” Now let this order be disturbed and the clauses be re-arranged as follows: “And we fear, men of Sparta, lest you should fail in steadfastness, that are our only hope.” When the clauses are arranged in this way, does the same fine charm remain, or the same deep feeling? Plainly not. Again, take this passage of Demosthenes, “So you admit as constitutional the acceptance of the offerings; you indict as unconstitutional the rendering of thanks for them.” Let the order be disturbed, and the clauses interchanged and presented in the following form: “So the acceptance of the offerings you admit as constitutional; the rendering of thanks for them you indict as unconstitutional.” Will the sentence be equally neat and effective? I, for my part, do not think so.

§ 8  CHAPTER VIII: SHAPING OF CLAUSES
The principles governing the arrangement of clauses have now been stated. What principles govern their shaping?
The complete utterance of our thoughts takes more than one form. We throw them at one time into the shape of an assertion, at another into that of an inquiry, or a prayer, or a command, or a doubt, or a supposition, or some other shape of the kind; and into conformity with these we try to mould the diction itself. There are, in fact, many figures of diction, just as there are of thought. It is not possible to classify them exhaustively; indeed, they are perhaps innumerable. Their treatment would require a long disquisition and profound investigation. But that the same clause is not equally telling in all its various modes of presentation, [114] I will show by an example. If Demosthenes had expressed himself thus in the following passage, “Having spoken thus, I moved a resolution; and having moved a resolution, I joined the embassy; and having joined the embassy, I convinced the Thebans,” would the sentence have been composed with the charm of its actual arrangement,—“I did not speak thus, and then fail to move a resolution; I did not move a resolution, and then fail to join the embassy; I did not join the embassy, and then fail to convince the Thebans”? It would take me a long time to deal with all the modes of expression which clauses admit. It is enough to say thus much by way of introduction.

§ 9  CHAPTER IX: LENGTHENING AND SHORTENING OF CLAUSES AND PERIODS
I think I can in a very few words show that some clauses admit changes which take the form now of additions not necessary to the sense, now of curtailments rendering the sense incomplete; and that these changes are introduced by poets and prose-writers simply in order to add charm and beauty to the rhythm. Thus the following expression used by Demosthenes indisputably contains a pleonastic addition made for the sake of the rhythm: “He who contrives and prepares means whereby I may be captured is at war with me, though not yet shooting javelins or arrows.” Here the reference to “arrows” is added not out of necessity, but in order that the last clause “though not yet shooting javelins,” being rougher than it ought to be and not pleasant to [116] the ear, may be made more attractive by this addition. Again, the famous period of Plato which that author inserts in the Funeral Speech has beyond dispute been extended by a supplement not necessary to the sense: “When deeds have been nobly done, then through speech finely uttered there come honour and remembrance to the doers from the hearers.” Here the words “from the hearers” are not at all necessary to the sense; they are added in order that the last clause, “to the doers,” may correspond with and balance what has preceded it. Again, take these words found in Aeschines, “you summon him against yourself; you summon him against the laws; you summon him against the democracy,” a sentence of great celebrity, formed of three clauses: does it not belong to the class we are considering? What could have been embraced in one clause as follows, “you summon him against yourself and the laws and the democracy,” has been divided into three, the same expression being repeated not from any necessity but in order to make the rhythm more agreeable.
In such ways, then, may clauses be expanded: how can they be abridged? This comes about when something necessary to the sense is likely to offend and jar on the ear, and when, consequently, its removal adds to the charm of the rhythm. An example, in verse, is afforded by the following lines of Sophocles:—
I close mine eyes, I open them, I rise—
Myself the warder rather than the warded.
Here the second line is composed of two imperfect clauses. The expression would have been complete if it had run thus, [118] “myself warding others rather than being warded by others.” But violence would have been done to the metre, and the line would not have acquired the charm which it actually has. In prose there are such instances as: “I will pass by the fact that it is a piece of injustice, simply because a man brings charges against some individuals, to attempt to withhold exemption from every one.” Here, too, each of the two first clauses is abbreviated. They would have been each complete in itself if worded thus: “I will pass by the fact that it is a piece of injustice, simply because a man brings charges against some individuals and declares them unfit for exemption, to attempt to withhold that privilege from every one—even those who are justly entitled to it.” But Demosthenes did not approve of paying more heed to the exactitude of the clauses than to the beauty of the rhythm.
I wish what I have just said to be understood as applying also to what are called “periods.” For, when it is fitting to express one’s meaning in periods, these too must be arranged so as to precede or follow each other appropriately. It must, of course, be understood that the periodic style is not suitable everywhere: and the question when periods should be used and to what extent, and when not, is precisely one of those with which the science of composition deals.

§ 10  CHAPTER X: AIMS AND METHODS OF GOOD COMPOSITION
Now that I have laid down these broad outlines, the next step will be to state what should be the aims kept in view by the man who wishes to compose well, and by what methods his object can be attained. It seems to me that the two essentials to be aimed at by those who compose in verse and prose are charm and beauty. The ear craves for both of these. It is affected in somewhat the same way as the sense of sight which, [120] when it looks upon moulded figures, pictures, carvings, or any other works of human hands, and finds both charm and beauty residing in them, is satisfied and longs for nothing more. And let not anyone be surprised at my assuming that there are two distinct objects in style, and at my separating beauty from charm; nor let him think it strange if I hold that a piece of composition may possess charm but not beauty, or beauty without charm. Such is the verdict of actual experience; I am introducing no novel axiom. The styles of Thucydides and of Antiphon of Rhamnus are surely examples of beautiful composition, if ever there were any, and are beyond all possible cavil from this point of view, but they are not remarkable for their charm. On the other hand, the style of the historian Ctesias of Cnidus, and that of Xenophon the disciple of Socrates, are charming in the highest possible degree, but not as beautiful as they should have been. I am speaking generally, not absolutely; I admit that in the former authors there are instances of charming, in the latter of beautiful arrangement. But the composition of Herodotus has both these qualities; it is at once charming and beautiful.

§ 11  CHAPTER XI: GENERAL DISCUSSION OF THE SOURCES OF CHARM AND BEAUTY IN COMPOSITION
Among the sources of charm and beauty in style there are, I conceive, four which are paramount and essential,—melody, rhythm, variety, and the appropriateness demanded by these three. Under “charm” I class freshness, grace, euphony, sweetness, persuasiveness, and all similar qualities; and under “beauty” grandeur, impressiveness, solemnity, dignity, mellowness, and the like. For these seem to me the most important—the main heads, so to speak, in either case. The aims set before themselves by all serious writers in epic, dramatic, or lyric poetry, or in the so-called “language of prose,” are those specified, and I think [122] these are all. There are many excellent authors who have been distinguished in one or both of these qualities. It is not possible at present to adduce examples from the writings of each one of them; I must not waste time over such details; and besides, if it seems incumbent on me to say something about some of them individually, and to quote from them anywhere in support of my views, I shall have a more suitable opportunity for doing so, when I sketch the various types of literary arrangement. For the present, what I have said of them is quite sufficient. So I will now return to the division I made of composition into charming and beautiful, in order that my discourse may “keep to the track,” as the saying is.
Well, I said that the ear delighted first of all in melody, then in rhythm, thirdly in variety, and finally in appropriateness as applied to these other qualities. As a witness to the truth of my words I will bring forward experience itself, for it cannot be challenged, confirmed as it is by the general sentiment of mankind. Who is there that is not enthralled by the spell of one melody while he remains unaffected in any such way by another,—that is not captivated by this rhythm while that does but jar upon him? Ere now I myself, even in the most popular theatres, thronged by a mixed and uncultured multitude, have seemed to observe that all of us have a sort of natural appreciation for correct melody and good rhythm. I have seen an accomplished harpist, of high repute, hissed by the public because he struck a single false note and so spoilt the melody. I have seen, too, a flute-player, who handled his instrument with the practised skill of a master, suffer the same fate because he blew thickly or, through [124] not compressing his lips, produced a harsh sound or so-called “broken note” as he played. Nevertheless, if the amateur critic were summoned to take up the instrument and himself to render any of the pieces with whose performance by professionals he was just now finding fault, he would be unable to do it. Why so? Because this is an affair of technical skill, in which we are not all partakers; the other of feeling, which is nature’s universal gift to man. I have noticed the same thing occur in the case of rhythms. Everybody is vexed and annoyed when a performer strikes an instrument, takes a step, or sings a note, out of time, and so destroys the rhythm.
Again, it must not be supposed that, while melody and rhythm excite pleasure, and we are all enchanted by them, variety and appropriateness have less freshness and grace, or less effect on any of their hearers. No, these too fairly enchant us all when they are really attained, just as their absence jars upon us intensely. This is surely beyond dispute. I may refer, in confirmation, to the case of instrumental music, whether it accompanies singing or dancing; if it attains grace perfectly and throughout, but fails to introduce variety in due season or deviates from what is appropriate, the effect is dull satiety and that disagreeable impression which is made by anything out of harmony with the subject. Nor is my illustration foreign to the matter in hand. The science of public oratory is, after all, a sort of musical science, differing from vocal and instrumental music in degree, not in kind. In oratory, too, the words involve melody, rhythm, variety, and appropriateness; so that, in this case also, the ear delights in the melodies, is fascinated by the rhythms, welcomes the variations, and craves always [126] what is in keeping with the occasion. The distinction between oratory and music is simply one of degree.
Now, the melody of spoken language is measured by a single interval, which is approximately that termed a fifth. When the voice rises towards the acute, it does not rise more than three tones and a semitone; and, when it falls towards the grave, it does not fall more than this interval. Further, the entire utterance during one word is not delivered at the same pitch of the voice throughout but one part of it at the acute pitch, another at the grave, another at both. Of the words that have both pitches, some have the grave fused with the acute on one and the same syllable—those which we call circumflexed; others have both pitches falling on separate syllables, each retaining its own quality. Now in disyllables there is no space intermediate between low pitch and high pitch; while in polysyllabic words, whatever their number of syllables, there is but one syllable that has the acute accent (high pitch) among the many remaining grave ones. On the other hand, instrumental and vocal music uses a great number of intervals, not the fifth only; beginning with the octave, it uses also the fifth, the fourth, the third, the tone, the semitone, and, as some think, even the quarter-tone in a distinctly perceptible way. Music, further, insists that the words should be subordinate to the tune, and not the tune to the words. Among many examples in proof of this, let me especially instance those lyrical lines which Euripides has represented Electra as addressing to the Chorus in the Orestes:—
[128] Hush ye, O hush ye! light be the tread
Of the sandal; no jar let there be!
Afar step ye thitherward, far from his bed.
In these lines the words σῖγα σῖγα λευκόν are sung to one note; and yet each of the three words has both low pitch and high pitch. And the word ἀρβύλης has its third syllable sung at the same pitch as its middle syllable, although it is impossible for a single word to take two acute accents. The first syllable of τίθετε is sung to a lower note, while the two that follow it are sung to the same high note. The circumflex accent of κτυπεῖτε has disappeared, for the two syllables are uttered at one and the same pitch. And the word ἀποπρόβατε does not receive the acute accent on the middle syllable; but the pitch of the third syllable has been transferred to the fourth.
The same thing happens in rhythm. Ordinary prose speech does not violate or interchange the quantities in any noun or verb. It keeps the syllables long or short as it has received them by nature. But the arts of rhythm and music alter them by shortening or lengthening, so that often they pass into their opposites: the time of production is not regulated by the [130] quantity of the syllables, but the quantity of the syllables is regulated by the time.
The difference between music and speech having thus been shown, some other points remain to be mentioned. If the melody of the voice—not the singing voice, I mean, but the ordinary voice—has a pleasant effect upon the ear, it will be called melodious rather than in melody. So also symmetry in the quantities of words, when it preserves a lyrical effect, is rhythmical rather than in rhythm. On the precise bearing of these distinctions I will speak at the proper time. For the present I will pass on to the next question, and try to show how a style of civil oratory can be attained which, simply by means of the composition, charms the ear with its melody of sound, its symmetry of rhythm, its elaborate variety, and its appropriateness to the subject. These are the headings which I have set before myself.

§ 12  CHAPTER XII: HOW TO RENDER COMPOSITION CHARMING
It is not in the nature of all the words in a sentence to affect the ear in the same way, any more than all visible objects produce the same impression on the sense of sight, things tasted on that of taste, or any other set of stimuli upon the sense to which they correspond. No, different sounds affect the ear with many different sensations of sweetness, harshness, roughness, smoothness, and so on. The reason is to be found partly in the many different qualities of the letters which make up speech, and partly in the extremely various forms in which syllables are put together. Now since words have these properties, and since it is impossible to change the fundamental nature of any single one of them, we can only mask the uncouthness which is inseparable from some of them, by means of [132] mingling and fusion and juxtaposition,—by mingling smooth with rough, soft with hard, cacophonous with melodious, easy to pronounce with hard to pronounce, long with short; and generally by happy combinations of the same kind. Many words of few syllables must not be used in succession (for this jars upon the ear), nor an excessive number of polysyllabic words; and we must avoid the monotony of setting side by side words similarly accented or agreeing in their quantities. We must quickly vary the cases of substantives (since, if continued unduly, they greatly offend the ear); and in order to guard against satiety, we must constantly break up the effect of sameness entailed by placing many nouns, or verbs, or other parts of speech, in close succession. We must not always adhere to the same figures, but change them frequently; we must not re-introduce the same metaphors, but vary them; we must not exceed due measure by beginning or ending with the same words too often.
Still, let no one think that I am proclaiming these as universal rules—that I suppose keeping them will always produce pleasure, or breaking them always produce annoyance. I am not so foolish. I know that pleasure often arises from both sources—from similarity at one time, from dissimilarity at another. In every case we must, I think, keep in view good taste, for this is the best criterion of charm and its opposite. But about good taste no rhetorician or philosopher has, so far, produced a definite treatise. The man who first undertook to write on the subject, Gorgias of Leontini, achieved nothing [134] worth mentioning. The nature of the subject, indeed, is not such that it can fall under any comprehensive and systematic treatment, nor can good taste in general be apprehended by science, but only by personal judgment. Those who have continually trained this latter faculty in many connexions are more successful than others in attaining good taste, while those who leave it untrained are rarely successful, and only by a sort of lucky stroke.
To proceed. I think the following rules should be observed in composition by a writer who looks to please the ear. Either he should link to one another melodious, rhythmical, euphonious words, by which the sense of hearing is touched with a feeling of sweetness and softness,—those which, to put it broadly, come home to it most; or he should intertwine and interweave those which have no such natural effect with those that can so bewitch the ear that the unattractiveness of the one set is overshadowed by the grace of the other. We may compare the practice of good tacticians when marshalling their armies: they mask the weak portions by means of the strong, and so no part of their force proves useless. In the same way I maintain we ought to relieve monotony by the tasteful introduction of variety, since variety is an element of pleasure in everything we do. And last, and certainly most important of all, the setting which is assigned to the subject matter must be appropriate and becoming to it. And, in my opinion, we ought not to feel shy of using any noun or verb, however hackneyed, unless it carries with it some shameful association; for I venture to assert that no part of speech which signifies a person or a thing will prove so mean, squalid, or otherwise offensive as to have no fitting place in discourse. My advice is that, trusting to the [136] effect of the composition, we should bring out such expressions with a bold and manly confidence, following the example of Homer, in whom the most commonplace words are found, and of Demosthenes and Herodotus and others, whom I will mention a little later so far as is suitable in each case. I think I have now spoken at sufficient length on charm of style. My treatment has been but a brief survey of a wide field, but will furnish the main heads of the study.

§ 13  CHAPTER XIII: HOW TO RENDER COMPOSITION BEAUTIFUL
So far, so good. But, if some one were to ask me in what way, and by attention to what principles, literary structure can be made beautiful, I should reply: In no other way, believe me, and by no other means, than those by which it is made charming, since the same elements contribute to both, namely noble melody, stately rhythm, imposing variety, and the appropriateness which all these need. For as there is a charming diction, so there is another that is noble; as there is a polished rhythm, so also is there another that is dignified; as variety in one passage adds grace, so in another it adds mellowness; and as for appropriateness, it will prove the chief source of beauty, or else the source of nothing at all. I repeat, the study of beauty in composition should follow the same lines throughout as the study of charm. The prime cause, here as before, is to be found in the nature of the letters and the phonetic effect of the syllables, which are the raw material out of which the fabric of words is woven. The time may perhaps now have come for redeeming my promise to discuss these.

§ 14  CHAPTER XIV: THE LETTERS: THEIR CLASSIFICATION, QUALITIES, AND MODE OF PRODUCTION
There are in human and articulate speech a number of first-beginnings [138] admitting no further division which we call elements and letters: “letters” (γράμματα) because they are denoted by certain lines (γραμμαί), and “elements” (στοιχεῖα) because every sound made by the voice originates in these, and is ultimately resolvable into them. The elements and letters are not all of the same nature. Of the differences between them, the first is, as Aristoxenus the musician makes clear, that some represent vocal sounds, while others represent noises: the former being represented by the so-called “vowels,” the latter by all the other letters. A second difference is that some of the non-vowels by their nature give rise to some noise or other,—a whizzing, a hissing, a murmur, or suggestions of some such sounds, whereas others are devoid of all voice or noise and cannot be sounded by themselves. Hence some writers have called the latter “voiceless” (“mutes”), the others “semi-voiced” (“semi-vowels”). Those writers who make a threefold division of the first or elemental powers of the voice give the name of voiced (vowels) to all letters which can be uttered, either by themselves or [140] together with others, and are self-sufficing; semi-vowels to all which are pronounced better in combination with vowels, worse and imperfectly when taken singly; mutes to all which by themselves admit of neither perfect nor half-perfect utterance, but are pronounced only in combination with others.
It is not easy to say exactly what the number of these elements is, and our predecessors also have felt much doubt upon the question. Some have held that there are only thirteen elements of speech all told, and that the rest are but combinations of these; others that there are more than even the twenty-four which we now recognize. The discussion of this point belongs more properly to grammar and prosody, or even, perhaps, to philosophy. It is enough for us to assume the elements of speech to be neither more nor less than twenty-four, and to specify the properties of each, beginning with the vowels.
These are seven in number: two short, viz. ε and ο; two long, viz. η and ω; and three common, viz. α, ι and υ. These last can be either long or short, and some call them “common,” as I have just done, others “variable.” All these sounds are produced from the windpipe, which resounds to the breath, while the mouth assumes a simple shape; the tongue takes no part [142] in the process but remains at rest. But the long vowels, and those common vowels that are pronounced long, have an extended and continuous passage of breath, while those that are short or pronounced as short are uttered abruptly, with one burst of breath, the movement of the windpipe being but brief. Of these the strongest, which also produce the most pleasing sound, are the long ones and those common ones which are lengthened in utterance, the reason being that they are sounded for a long time, and do not cut short the tension of the breath. The short ones, or those pronounced short, are inferior, because they lack sonorousness and curtail the sound. Again, of the long vowels themselves the most euphonious is α, when prolonged; for it is pronounced with the mouth open to the fullest extent, and with the breath forced upwards to the palate. η holds the second place, inasmuch as it drives the sound down against the base of the tongue and not upwards, and the mouth is fairly open. Third comes ω: in pronouncing this the mouth is rounded, the lips are contracted, and the impact of the breath is on the edge of the mouth. Still inferior to this is υ; for, through a marked contraction taking place right round the lips, the sound is strangled and comes out thin. Last of [144] all stands ι: for the impact of the breath is on the teeth as the mouth is slightly open and the lips do not clarify the sound. Of the short vowels none has beauty, but ο is less ugly than ε: for the former parts the lips better than the latter, and receives the impact more in the region of the windpipe.
So much for the nature of the vowels. The semi-vowels are as follows. They are eight in number, and five of them are simple, viz. λ, μ, ν, ρ, and σ, while three are double, viz. ζ, ξ, ψ. They are called double either because they are composite, receiving a distinctive sound through the coalescence respectively of σ and δ into ζ, of κ and σ into ξ, and of π and σ into ψ; or because they each occupy the room of two letters in the syllables where they are found. Of these semi-vowels, the double are superior to the single, since they are ampler than the others and seem to approximate more to perfect letters. The simple ones are inferior because their sounds are confined within smaller spaces. They are severally pronounced somewhat as follows: λ by the tongue rising to the palate, and by the windpipe helping the sound; μ by the mouth being closed tight by means of the lips, while the breath is divided and passes through the nostrils; ν by the tongue intercepting the current of the breath, and diverting the sound towards the nostrils; ρ by the tip of the tongue sending forth the breath in puffs and rising to the palate [146] near the teeth; and σ by the entire tongue being carried up to the palate and by the breath passing between tongue and palate, and emitting, round about the teeth, a light, thin hissing. The sound of the three remaining semi-voiced letters is of a mixed character, being formed of one of the semi-voiced letters (σ) and three of the voiceless letters (δ, κ and π).
Such are the formations of the semi-vowels. They cannot all affect the sense of hearing in the same way. λ falls pleasurably on it, and is the sweetest of the semi-vowels; while ρ has a rough quality, and is the noblest of its class. The ear is affected in a sort of intermediate way by μ and ν, which are pronounced with nasal resonance, and produce sounds similar to those of a horn. σ is an unattractive, disagreeable letter, positively offensive when used to excess. A hiss seems a sound more suited to a brute beast than to a rational being. At all events, some of the ancients used it sparingly and guardedly.
[148] There are writers who used actually to compose entire odes without a sigma. Pindar shows the same feeling when he writes:—
Ere then crept in the long-drawn dithyrambic song,
And san that rang false on the speaker’s tongue.
Of the three other letters which are called “double,” ζ falls more pleasurably on the ear than the others. For ξ and ψ give the hiss in combination with κ and π respectively, both of which letters are smooth, whereas ζ is softly rippled by the breath and is the noblest of its class. So much with regard to the semi-vowels.
Of the so-called “voiceless letters,” which are nine in number, three are smooth, three rough, and three between these. The smooth are κ, π, τ; the rough θ, φ, χ; the intermediate, β, γ, δ. They are severally pronounced as follows: three of them (π, θ, β) from the edge of the lips, when the mouth is compressed and the breath, being driven forward from the windpipe, breaks through the obstruction. Among these π is smooth, φ rough, and β comes between the two, being smoother than the latter and rougher than the former. This is one set of three mutes, all three spoken with a like configuration of our organs, but differing in smoothness and roughness. The next three are pronounced by the tongue being pressed hard against the extremity of the mouth near the upper teeth, then being blown [150] back by the breath, and affording it an outlet downwards round the teeth. These differ in roughness and smoothness, τ being the smoothest of them, θ the roughest, and δ medial or common. This is the second set of three mutes. The three remaining mutes are spoken with the tongue rising to the palate near the throat, and the windpipe echoing to the breath. These, again, differ in no way from one another as regards formation; but κ is pronounced smoothly, χ roughly, γ moderately and between the two. Of these the best are those which are uttered with a full breath; next those with moderate breath; worst those with smooth breath, since they have their own force alone, while the rough letters have the breath also added, so that they are somewhere nearer perfection than the others.

§ 15  CHAPTER XV: SYLLABLES AND THEIR QUALITIES
Such is the number of the letters, and such are their properties. From them are formed the so-called syllables. Of these syllables, those are long which contain long vowels or variable vowels when pronounced long, and those which end in a long letter or a letter pronounced long, or in one of the semi-vowels and one of the mutes. Those are short which contain a short vowel or one taken as short, and those which end in such vowels. There is [152] more than one kind of length and shortness of syllables: some are longer than the long and some shorter than the short. And this will be made clear by consideration of the examples which I am about to adduce.
It will be admitted that a syllable is short which is formed by the short vowel ο, as, for example, in the word ὁδός. To this let the semi-vowel ρ be prefixed and Ῥόδος be formed. The syllable still remains short; but not equally so, for it will show some slight difference when compared with the former. Further, let one of the mutes, τ, be prefixed and τρόπος be formed. This again will be longer than the former syllables; yet it still remains short. Let still a third letter, σ, be prefixed to the same syllable and στρόφος be formed. This will have become longer than the shortest syllable by three audible prefixes; and yet it still remains short. So, then, here are four grades of short syllables, with only our instinctive feeling for quantity as a measure of the difference. The same principle applies to the long syllable. The syllable formed from η, though long by nature, yet when augmented by the addition of four letters, three prefixed and one suffixed, as in the word σπλήν, would surely be said to be ampler than that syllable, in its original form, that consisted of a single letter. At all events, if it were in turn deprived, one by one, of the added letters, it would show perceptible changes in the way of diminution. As to the reason why long syllables do not transcend their natural quality when lengthened to five letters, nor short syllables drop from their shortness when reduced from many letters to one, the former being still regarded as double the shorts, and the latter as half the longs,—this does not at present demand examination. It is sufficient to say what is really germane to the present subject, namely, that one short syllable [154] may differ from another short, and one long from another long, and that every short and every long syllable has not the same quality either in prose, or in poems, or in songs, whether these be metrically or rhythmically constructed.
The foregoing is the first aspect under which we view the different qualities of syllables. The next is as follows. As letters have many points of difference, not only in length and shortness, but also in sound—points of which I have spoken a little while ago—it must necessarily follow that the syllables, which are combinations or interweavings of letters, preserve at once both the individual properties of each component, and the joint properties of all, which spring from their fusion and juxtaposition. The sounds thus formed are soft or hard, smooth or rough, sweet to the ear or harsh to it; they make us pull a wry face, or cause our mouths to water, or bring about any of the countless other physical conditions that are possible.
These facts the greatest poets and prose-writers have carefully noted, and not only do they deliberately arrange their words and weave them into appropriate patterns, but often, with curious and loving skill, they adapt the very syllables and letters to the emotions which they wish to represent. This is Homer’s way when he is describing a wind-swept beach and wishes to express the ceaseless reverberation by the prolongation of syllables:—
Echo the cliffs, as bursteth the sea-surge down on the strand.
[156] Or again when, after the Cyclops has been blinded, Homer desires to express the greatness of his anguish, and his hands’ slow search for the door of the cavern:—
The Cyclops, with groan on groan and throes of anguish sore,
With hands slow-groping.
And when in another place he wishes to indicate a long impassioned prayer:—
Not though in an agony Phoebus the Smiter from Far should entreat
Low-grovelling at Father Zeus the Aegis-bearer’s feet.
Such lines are to be found without number in Homer, representing length of time, hugeness of body, stress of emotion, immobility of position, or similar effects, simply by the manipulation of the syllables. Conversely, others are framed to give the impression of abruptness, speed, hurry, and the like. For instance,
Wailing with broken sobs amidst of her handmaids she cried,
and
And scared were the charioteers, that tireless flame to behold.
In the first passage the stoppage of Andromache’s breath is indicated, and the tremor of her voice; in the second, the startled dismay of the charioteers, and the unexpectedness of the terror. The effect in both cases is due to the docking of syllables and letters.

§ 16  CHAPTER XVI
POETIC SKILL IN THE CHOICE AND IN THE COMBINATION OF WORDS [158]
The poets and prose-writers themselves, then, with their eye on each object in turn, frame—as I said—words which seem made for, and are pictures of, the things they connote. But they also borrow many words from earlier writers, in the very form in which those writers fashioned them—when such words are imitative of things, as in the following instances:—
For the vast sea-swell on the beach crashed down with a thunder-shock.
And adown the blasts of the wind he darted with one wild scream.
Even as when the surge of the seething sea falls dashing
(On a league-long strand, with the roar of the rollers thunderous-crashing).
And his eyes for the hiss of the arrows, the hurtling of lances, were keen.
The great originator and teacher in these matters is Nature, who prompts us to imitate and to assign words by which things are pictured, in virtue of certain resemblances which are founded in reason and appeal to our intelligence. It is by her that we have been taught to speak of the bellowing of bulls, the whinnying of horses, the snorting of goats, the roar of fire, the [160] rushing of winds, the creaking of hawsers, and numerous other similar imitations of sound, form, action, emotion, movement, stillness, and anything else whatsoever. On these points much has been said by our predecessors, the most important contributions being by the first of them to introduce the subject of etymology, Plato the disciple of Socrates, in his Cratylus especially, but in many other places as well.
What is the sum and substance of my argument? It is that it is due to the interweaving of letters that the quality of syllables is so multifarious; to the combination of syllables that the nature of words has such wide diversity; to the arrangement of words that discourse takes on so many forms. The conclusion is inevitable—that style is beautiful when it contains beautiful words,—that beauty of words is due to beautiful syllables and letters,—that language is rendered charming by the things that charm the ear in virtue of affinities in words, syllables, and letters; and that the differences in detail between these, through which are indicated the characters, emotions, dispositions, actions and so forth of the persons described, are made what they are through the original grouping of the letters.
To set the matter in a clearer light, I will illustrate my argument by a few examples. Other instances—and there are plenty of them—you will find for yourself in the course of your own investigations. When Homer, the poet above all others [162] many-voiced, wishes to depict the young bloom of a lovely countenance and a beauty that brings delight, he will use the finest of the vowels and the softest of the semi-vowels; he will not pack his syllables with mute letters, nor impede the utterance by putting next to one another words hard to pronounce. He will make the harmony of the letters strike softly and pleasingly upon the ear, as in the following lines:—
Now forth of her bower hath gone Penelope passing-wise
Lovely as Artemis, or as Aphrodite the Golden.
Only once by the Sun-god’s altar in Delos I chanced to espy
So stately a shaft of a palm that gracefully grew thereby.
Rose Chloris, fair beyond word, whom Nereus wedded of old,
For her beauty his heart had stirred, and he wooed her with gifts untold.
But when he introduces a sight that is pitiable, or terrifying, or august, he will not employ the finest of the vowels. He will take the hardest to utter of the fricatives or of the mutes, and will pack his syllables with these. For instance:—
But dreadful he burst on their sight, with the sea-scum all fouled o’er.
And thereon was embossed the Gorgon-demon, with stony gaze
Grim-glaring, and Terror and Panic encompassed the Fearful Face.
When he wishes to reproduce in his language the rush of meeting torrents and the roar of confluent waters, he will not employ smooth syllables, but strong and resounding ones:—
[164] And even as Wintertide torrents down-rushing from steep hill-sides
Hurl their wild waters in one where a cleft of the mountain divides.
When he depicts a hero, though heavy with his harness, putting forth all his energies against an opposing stream, and now holding his own, now being carried off his feet, he will contrive counter-buffetings of syllables, arresting pauses, and letters that block the way:—
Round Achilles the terrible surge towered seething on every side,
And a cataract dashed and crashed on his shield: all vainly he sought
Firm ground for his feet.
When men are being dashed against rocks, and he is portraying the noise and their pitiable fate, he will linger on the harshest and most ill-sounding letters, altogether avoiding smoothness or prettiness in the structure:—
And together laid hold on twain, and dashed them against the ground
Like whelps: down gushed the brain, and bespattered the rock-floor round.
It would be a long task to attempt to adduce specimens of all the artistic touches of which examples might be demanded in this one field. So, contenting myself with what has been said, I will pass to the next point.
I hold that those who wish to fashion a style which is beautiful in the collocation of sounds must combine in it words which all carry the impression of elegance, grandeur, or dignity. Something has been said about these matters, in a general way, by the philosopher Theophrastus in his work on Style, where he [166] distinguishes two classes of words—those which are naturally beautiful (whose collocation, for example, in composition will, he thinks, make the phrasing beautiful and grand), and those, again, which are paltry and ignoble, of which he says neither good poetry can be constructed nor good prose. And, really and truly, our author is not far from the mark in saying this. If, then, it were possible that all the parts of speech by which a given subject is to be expressed should be euphonious and elegant, it would be madness to seek out the inferior ones. But if this be out of the question, as in many cases it is, then we must endeavour to mask the natural defects of the inferior letters by interweaving and mingling and juxtaposition, and this is just what Homer is accustomed to do in many passages. For instance, if any poet or rhetorician whatsoever were to be asked what grandeur or elegance there is in the names which have been given to the Boeotian towns,—Hyria, Mycalessus, Graia, Eteonus, Scolus, Thisbe, Onchestus, Eutresis, and the rest of the series which the poet enumerates,—no one would be able to point to any trace of such qualities. But Homer has interwoven and interspersed them with pleasant-sounding supplementary words into so beautiful a texture that they appear the most magnificent of all names:—
Lords of Boeotia’s host came Leitus, Peneleos,
Prothoenor and Arcesilaus and Clonius for battle uprose,
With the folk that in Hyrie dwelt, and by Aulis’s crag-fringed steep,
And in Schoinus and Scolus, and midst Eteonus’ hill-clefts deep,
In Thespeia and Graia, and green Mycalessus the land broad-meadowed,
And in Harma and Eilesius, and Erythrae the mountain-shadowed,
And they that in Eleon abode, and in Hyle and Peteon withal,
And in Ocalee and in Medeon, burg of the stately wall.
As I am addressing men who know their Homer, I do not [168] think there is need to multiply examples. All his Catalogue of the towns is on the same high level, and so are many other passages in which, being compelled to take words not naturally beautiful, he places them in a setting of beautiful ones, and neutralizes their offensiveness by the shapeliness of the others. On this branch of my subject I have now said enough.

§ 17  CHAPTER XVII: ON RHYTHMS, OR FEET
I have mentioned that rhythm contributes in no small degree to dignified and impressive composition; and I will treat of this point also. Let no one suppose that rhythm and metre belong to the science of song only; that ordinary speech is neither rhythmical nor metrical; and that I am going astray in introducing those subjects here.
In point of fact, every noun, verb, or other part of speech, which does not consist of a single syllable only, is uttered in some sort of rhythm. (I am here using “rhythm” and “foot” as convertible terms.) A disyllabic word may take three different forms. It may have both syllables short, or both long, or one short and the other long. Of this third rhythm there are two forms: one beginning in a short and ending in a long, the other beginning in a long and ending in a short. The one which consists of two shorts is called hegemon or pyrrhich, and is neither impressive nor solemn. Its character is as follows:—
Pick up the limbs at thy feet newly-scattered.
[170] That which has both its syllables long is called a spondee, and possesses great dignity and much stateliness. Here is an example of it:—
Ah, which way must I haste?—had I best flee
By this path? or by that path shall it be?
That which is composed of a short and a long is called iambus if it has the first syllable short; it is not ignoble. If it begins with the long syllable, it is called a trochee, and is less manly than the other and more ignoble. The following is an example of the former:—
My leisure serves me now, Menoetius’ son.
Of the other:—
Heart of mine, O heart in turmoil with a throng of crushing cares!
These are all the varieties, rhythms, and forms of disyllabic words. Those of the trisyllabic are distinct; they are more numerous than those mentioned, and the study of them is more complicated. First comes that which consists entirely of short syllables, and is called by some choree (or tribrach), of which the following is an example:—
Bromius, wielder of spears,
Lord of war and the onset-cheers.
This foot is mean and wanting in dignity and nobility, and [172] nothing noble can be made out of it. But that which consists entirely of long syllables—molossus, as the metrists call it—is elevated and dignified, and has a mighty stride. The following is an example of it:—
O glorious saviours, Zeus’ and Leda’s sons.
That which consists of a long and two shorts, with the long in the middle, bears the name of amphibrachys, and has no strong claim to rank with the graceful rhythms, but is enervated and has about it much that is feminine and ignoble, e.g.—
Triumphant Iacchus that leadest this chorus.
That which commences with two shorts is called an anapaest, and possesses much dignity. Where it is necessary to invest a subject with grandeur or pathos, this foot may be appropriately used. Its form may be illustrated by—
Ah, the coif on mine head all too heavily weighs.
That which begins with the long and ends with the shorts is called a dactyl; it is decidedly impressive, and remarkable for its power to produce beauty of style. It is to this that the heroic line is mainly indebted for its grace. Here is an example:—
Sped me from Ilium the breeze, and anigh the Ciconians brought me.
The rhythmists, however, say that the long syllable in this foot [174] is shorter than the perfect long. Not being able to say by how much, they call it “irrational.” There is another foot having a rhythm corresponding to this, which starts with the short syllables and ends with the “irrational” one. This they distinguish from the anapaest and call it “cyclic,” adducing the following line as an example of it:—
On the earth is the high-gated city laid low.
This question cannot be discussed here; but both rhythms are of the distinctly beautiful sort. One class of trisyllabic rhythms still remains, which is composed of two longs and a short. It takes three shapes. When the short is in the middle and the longs at the ends, it is called a cretic and has no lack of nobility. A sample of it is:—
On they sped, borne on sea-wains with prows brazen-beaked.
But if the two long syllables occupy the beginning, and the short one the end, as in the line
Phoebus, to thee and the Muses worshipped with thee,
the structure is exceptionally virile, and is appropriate for solemn language. The effect will be the same if the short be placed before the longs; for this foot also has dignity and grandeur. Here is an example of it:—
To what shore, to what grove shall I flee for refuge?
To the former of these two feet the name of bacchius is assigned by the metrists, to the other that of hypobacchius. These are the twelve fundamental rhythms and feet which measure all [176] language, metrical or unmetrical, and from them are formed lines and clauses. All other feet and rhythms are but combinations of these. A simple rhythm, or foot, will not be less than two syllables, nor will it exceed three. I do not know that more need be said on this subject.

§ 18  CHAPTER XVIII: EFFECT OF VARIOUS RHYTHMS
The reason why I have been led to make these preliminary remarks (for certainly it was no part of my design to touch without due cause on metrical and rhythmical questions, but only so far as it was really necessary) is this, that it is through rhythms which are noble and dignified, and contain an element of greatness, that composition becomes dignified, noble, and splendid, while it is made a paltry and unimpressive sort of thing by the use of those rhythms that are ignoble and mean, whether they are taken severally by themselves, or are woven together according to their mutual affinities. If, then, it is within human capacity to frame the style entirely from the finest rhythms, our aspirations will be realized; but if it should prove necessary to blend the worse with the better, as happens in many cases (for names have been attached to things in a haphazard way), we must manage our material artistically. We must disguise our compulsion by the gracefulness of the composition: the more so that we have full liberty of action, since no rhythm is banished from non-metrical language, as some are from metrical.
It remains for me to produce proofs of my statements, in order that my argument may carry conviction. Wide as the field is, a few proofs will suffice. Thus it is surely beyond dispute [178] that the following passage in the Funeral Speech of Thucydides is composed with dignity and grandeur: “Former speakers on these occasions have usually commended the statesman who caused an oration to form part of this funeral ceremony: they have felt it a fitting tribute to men who were brought home for burial from the fields of battle where they fell.” What has made the composition here so impressive? The fact that the clauses are composed of impressive rhythms. For the three feet which usher in the first clause are spondees, the fourth is an anapaest, the next a spondee once more, then a cretic,—all stately feet. Hence the dignity of the first clause. The next clause, “have usually commended the statesman who caused an oration to form part of this funeral ceremony,” has two hypobacchii as its first feet, a cretic as its third, then again two hypobacchii, and a syllable by which the clause is completed; so that this clause too is naturally dignified, formed as it is of the noblest and most beautiful rhythms.
The third clause, “they have felt it a fitting tribute to men who were brought home for burial from the fields of battle where they fell,” begins with the cretic foot, has an anapaest in the second place, a spondee in the third, in the fourth an anapaest again, then two dactyls in succession, closing with two spondees and the terminal syllable. So this passage also owes its noble ring to its rhythmical structure; and most of the [180] passages in Thucydides are of this stamp; indeed, there are few that are not so framed. So he thoroughly deserves his reputation for loftiness and beauty of language, since he habitually introduces noble rhythms.
Again, take the following passage of Plato. What can be the device that produces its perfect dignity and beauty, if it is not the beautiful and striking rhythms that compose it? The passage is one of the best known and most often quoted, and it is found near the beginning of our author’s Funeral Speech: “In very truth these men are receiving at our hands their fitting tribute: and when they have gained this guerdon, they journey on, along the path of destiny.” Here there are two clauses which constitute the period, and the feet into which the clauses fall are as follows:—The first is a bacchius, for certainly I should not think it correct to scan this clause as an iambic line, bearing in mind that not swift, tripping movements, but retarded and slow times are appropriate to those over whom we make mourning. The second is a spondee; the next is a dactyl, the vowels which might coalesce being kept distinct; after that, a spondee; next, what I should call a cretic rather than an anapaest; then, according to my view, a spondee; in the last place a hypobacchius or, if you prefer to take it so, an anapaest; then the terminal syllable. Of these rhythms none is mean nor ignoble. In the next clause, “when they have gained this guerdon, they journey on, along the path of destiny,” the two first feet are cretics, and next after them two spondees; after which once more a cretic, then lastly a hypobacchius. Thus the discourse is composed entirely of beautiful rhythms, and it necessarily follows that it is itself [182] beautiful. Countless instances of this kind are to be found in Plato as well as in Thucydides. For this author has a perfect genius for discovering true melody and fine rhythm, and if he had only been as able in the choice of words as he is unrivalled in the art of combining them, he “had even outstript” Demosthenes, so far as beauty of style is concerned, or “had left the issue in doubt.” As it is, he is sometimes quite at fault in his choice of words; most of all when he is aiming at a lofty, unusual, elaborate style of expression. With respect to this I explain myself more explicitly elsewhere. But he does most assuredly put his words together with beauty as well as charm; and from this point of view no one could find any fault with him.
I will cite a passage of one other writer,—the one to whom I assign the palm for oratorical mastery. Demosthenes most certainly forms a sort of standard alike for choice of words and for beauty in their arrangement. In the Speech on the Crown there are three clauses which constitute the first period; and the rhythms by which they are measured are as follows: “first of all, men of Athens, I pray to all the gods and goddesses.” A bacchius begins this first clause; then follows a spondee; next an anapaest, and after this another spondee; then three cretics in succession, and a spondee as the last foot. In the second clause, “that all the loyal affection I bear my whole life through to the [184] city and all of you,” first comes a hypobacchius; then a bacchius or, if you prefer to take it so, a dactyl; then a cretic; after which there are two composite feet called paeons. Next follows a molossus or a bacchius, for it can be scanned either way. Last comes the spondee. The third clause, “may as fully be accorded by you to support me in this trial,”[167b] is opened by two hypobacchii. A cretic follows, to which a spondee is attached. Then again a bacchius or a cretic; last a cretic once more; then the terminal syllable. Is not a beautiful cadence inevitable in a passage which contains neither a pyrrhic, nor an iamb, nor an amphibrachys, nor a single choree or trochee? Still, I do not affirm that none of those writers ever uses the more ignoble rhythms also. They do use them; but they have artistically masked them, and have only introduced them at intervals, interweaving the inferior with the superior.
Those authors who have not given heed to this branch of their art have published writings which are either mean, or flabby, or have some other blemish or deformity. Among them the first and midmost and the last is the Magnesian, the sophist Hegesias. Concerning him, I swear by Zeus and all the other gods, I do not know what to say. Was he so dense, and so devoid of artistic feeling, as not to see which the ignoble or noble rhythms are? or was he smitten with such soul-destroying lunacy, that though he knew the better, he nevertheless invariably chose the worse? It is to this latter view that I incline. Ignorance often blunders into the right path: only wilfulness [186] never does. At all events, in the host of writings which the man has left behind him, you will not find one single page successfully put together. He seems, indeed, to have regarded his own methods as better than those of his predecessors, and to have followed them with enthusiasm; and yet anybody else, if he were to be driven into such errors in an impromptu speech, would blush for them, were he a man of any self-respect. Well, I will quote a passage from him also, taken from his History, in order to make clear to you, by means of a comparison, how splendid noble rhythms are, and how disgraceful are their opposites. The following is the subject treated by the sophist. Alexander when besieging Gaza, an unusually strong position in Syria, is wounded during the assault and takes the position after some delay. In a transport of anger he massacres all the prisoners, permitting the Macedonians to slay all who fall in their way. Having captured their commandant, a man of distinction for his high station and good looks, he gives orders that he should be bound alive to a war-chariot and that the horses should be driven at full speed before the eyes of all; and in this way he kills him. No one could have a story of more awful suffering to narrate, nor one suggesting a more horrible picture. It is worth while to observe in what style our sophist has represented this scene—whether with gravity and elevation or with vulgarity and absurdity:—
“The King advanced, at the head of his division. It seems [188] that the leaders of the enemy had formed the design of meeting him as he approached. For they had come to the conclusion that, if they overcame him personally, they would be able to drive out all his host in a body. Now this hope ran with them on the path of daring, so that never before had Alexander been in such danger. One of the enemy fell on his knees, and seemed to Alexander to have done so in order to ask for mercy. Having allowed him to approach, he eluded (not without difficulty) the thrust of a sword which he had brought under the skirts of his corselet, so that the thrust was not mortal. Alexander himself slew his assailant with a blow of his sabre upon the head, while the king’s followers were inflamed with a sudden fury. So utterly was pity, in the breasts of those who saw and those who heard of the attempt, banished by the desperate daring of the man, that six thousand of the barbarians were cut down at the trumpet-call which forthwith rang out. Baetis himself, however, was brought before the king alive by Leonatus and Philotas. And Alexander seeing that he was corpulent and huge and most grim (for he was black in colour too), was seized with loathing for his very looks as well as for his design upon his life, and ordered that a ring of bronze should be passed through his feet and that he should be dragged round a circular course, naked. Harrowed by pain, as his body passed over many a rough piece of ground, he began to scream. And it was just this detail which I now mention that brought people together. The torment racked him, [190] and he kept uttering outlandish yells, asking mercy of Alexander as ‘my lord’; and his jargon made them laugh. His fat and his bulging corpulence suggested to them another creature, a huge-bodied Babylonian animal. So the multitude scoffed at him, mocking with the coarse mockery of the camp an enemy who was so repulsive of feature and so uncouth in his ways.”
Is this description, I ask, comparable with those lines of Homer in which Achilles is represented as maltreating Hector after his death? And yet the suffering in the latter case is less, for it is on a mere senseless body that the outrage is inflicted. But it is worth while, nevertheless, to note the vast difference between the poet and the sophist:—
He spake, and a shameful mishandling devised he for Hector slain;
For behind each foot did he sunder therefrom the sinews twain
From the ankle-joint to the heel: hide-bands through the gashes he thrust;
To his chariot he bound them, and left the head to trail in the dust.
He hath mounted his car, and the glorious armour thereon hath he cast,
And he lashed the horses, and they with eager speed flew fast.
And a dust from the haling of Hector arose, and tossed wide-spread
His dark locks: wholly in dust his head lay low—that head
Once comely: ah then was the hero delivered over of Zeus
In his very fatherland for his foes to despitefully use.
So dust-besprent was his head; but his mother was rending her hair
The while, and she flung therefrom her head-veil glistering-fair
Afar, and with wild loud shriek as she looked on her son she cried;
And in piteous wise did his father wail, and on every side [192] Through the city the folk brake forth into shriek and wail at the sight.
It was like unto this above all things, as though, from her topmost height
To the ground, all beetling Troy in flame and in smoke were rolled.
That is the way in which a noble corpse and terrible sufferings should be described by men of feeling and understanding. But after the fashion of this Magnesian they could be described by women only or effeminate men, and even by them not in earnest, but in a spirit of derision and mockery. To what, then, is due the nobility of these lines, as compared with the miserable absurdities of the other passage? Chiefly, if not entirely, to the difference in the rhythms. In the quotation from Homer there is not one unimpressive or unworthy verse, while in that from Hegesias every single sentence will prove offensive.
Having now discussed the importance of rhythm, I will pass on to the topics that remain.

§ 19  CHAPTER XIX: ON VARIETY
The third cause of beautiful arrangement that was to be examined is variety. I do not mean the change from the better to the worse (that would be too foolish), nor yet that from the worse to the better, but variety among things that are similar. For satiety can be caused by all beautiful things, just as by things sweet to the taste, when there is an unvarying sameness about them; but if diversified by changes, they always remain new. Now writers in metre and in lyric measures cannot introduce [194] change everywhere; or rather, I should say, cannot all introduce change, and none as much as they wish. For instance, epic writers cannot vary their metre, for all the lines must necessarily be hexameters; nor yet the rhythm, for they must use those feet that begin with a long syllable, and not all even of these. The writers of lyric verse cannot vary the melodies of strophe and antistrophe, but whether they adopt enharmonic melodies, or chromatic, or diatonic, in all the strophes and antistrophes the same sequences must be observed. Nor, again, must the rhythms be changed in which the entire strophes and antistrophes are written, but these too must remain unaltered. But in the so-called epodes both the tune and the rhythm may be changed. Great freedom, too, is allowed to an author in varying and elaborating the clauses of which each period is composed by giving them different lengths and forms in different instances, until they complete a strophe; but after that, similar metres and clauses must be composed for the antistrophe. Now the ancient writers of lyric poetry—I refer to Alcaeus and Sappho—made their strophes short, so that they did not introduce many variations in the clauses, which were few in number, while the use they made of the epode was very slight. Stesichorus and Pindar and their schools framed their periods on a larger scale, and divided them into many measures and clauses, simply from the love of variety. The dithyrambic poets used to change the modes also, [196] introducing Dorian and Phrygian and Lydian modes in the same song; and they varied the melodies, making them now enharmonic, now chromatic, now diatonic; and in the rhythms they continually showed the boldest independence,—I mean Philoxenus, Timotheus, Telestes, and men of their stamp,—since among the ancients even the dithyramb had been subject to strict metrical laws.
Prose-writing has full liberty and permission to diversify composition by whatever changes it pleases. A style is finest of all when it has the most frequent rests and changes of harmony; when one thing is said within a period, another without it; when one period is formed by the interweaving of a larger number of clauses, another by that of a smaller; when among the clauses themselves one is short, another longer, one roughly wrought, another more finished; when the rhythms take now one form, now another, and the figures are of all kinds, and the voice-pitches—the so-called “accents”—are various, and skilfully avoid satiety by their diversity. There is considerable charm, among efforts of this kind, in what is so composed that it does not seem to be artificially composed at all. I do not think that many words are needed on this point. Everybody, I believe, is aware that, in prose, variety is full of charm and beauty. And as examples of it I reckon all the writings of Herodotus, all those of Plato, and all those of Demosthenes. It is impossible to find other writers who have introduced more episodes than these, or better-timed variations, or more multiform figures: the first in the narrative form, the second in graceful dialogue, [198] the third in the practical work of forensic oratory. As for the methods of Isocrates and his followers, they are not to be compared with the styles of those writers. The Isocratic authors have composed much with charm and distinction; but in regard to change and diversity they are anything but happy. We find in them one continually recurring period, a monotonous order of figures, the invariable observance of vowel-blending, and many other similar things which fatigue the ear. I cannot approve that school on this side. In Isocrates himself, it may be conceded, many charms were displayed which helped to hide this blemish. But among his successors, by reason of their fewer redeeming excellences, the fault mentioned stands out more glaringly.

§ 20  CHAPTER XX: ON APPROPRIATENESS
It still remains for me to speak about appropriateness. All the other ornaments of speech must be associated with what is appropriate; indeed, if any other quality whatever fails to attain this, it fails to attain the main essential,—perhaps fails altogether. Into the question as a whole this is not the right time to go; it is a profound study, and would need a long treatise. But let me say what bears on the special department which I am actually discussing; or if not all that bears on it, nor even the largest part, at all events as much as is possible.
It is admitted among all critics that appropriateness is that treatment which suits the actors and actions concerned. Just as the choice of words may be either appropriate or inappropriate to the subject matter, so also surely must the composition be. This statement I had best illustrate from actual life. I refer to [200] the fact that we do not put our words together in the same way when angry as when glad, nor when mourning as when afraid, nor when under the influence of any other emotion or calamity as when conscious that there is nothing at all to agitate or annoy us.
These few words on a wide subject are merely examples of the countless other things which could be added if one wished to treat fully all the aspects of appropriateness. But I have one obvious remark to make of a general nature. When the same men in the same state of mind report occurrences which they have actually witnessed, they do not use a similar style in describing all of them, but in their very way of putting their words together imitate the things they report, not purposely, but carried away by a natural impulse. Keeping an eye on this principle, the good poet and orator should be ready to imitate the things of which he is giving a verbal description, and to imitate them not only in the choice of words but also in the composition. This is the practice of Homer, that surpassing genius, although he has but one metre and few rhythms. Within these limits, nevertheless, he is continually producing new effects and artistic refinements, so that actually to see the incidents taking place would give no advantage over our having them thus described. I will give a few instances, which the reader may take as representative of many. When Odysseus is telling the Phaeacians the story of his wanderings and of his descent into Hades, he brings the miseries of the place before our eyes. Among them, he describes the torments of Sisyphus, for whom they say that the gods of the nether world have made it a condition of release from his awful sufferings to have rolled a stone over a certain hill, and that this is impossible, as the stone invariably falls down again just as it reaches the top. Now it is [202] worth while to observe how Homer will express this by a mimicry which the very arrangement of his words produces:—
There Sisyphus saw I receiving his guerdon of mighty pain:
A monster rock upheaving with both hands aye did he strain;
With feet firm-fixed, palms pressed, with gasps, with toil most sore,
That rock to a high hill’s crest heaved he.
Here it is the composition that brings out each of the details—the weight of the stone, the laborious movement of it from the ground, the straining of the man’s limbs, his slow ascent towards the ridge, the difficulty of thrusting the rock upwards. No one will deny the effect produced. And on what does the execution of each detail depend? Certainly the results do not come by chance or of themselves. To begin with: in the two lines in which Sisyphus rolls up the rock, with the exception of two verbs all the component words of the passage are either disyllables or monosyllables. Next, the long syllables are half as numerous again as the short ones in each of the two lines. Then, all the words are so arranged as to advance, as it were, with giant strides, and the gaps between them are distinctly perceptible, in consequence of the concurrence of vowels or the juxtaposition of semi-vowels and mutes; and the dactylic and spondaic rhythms of which the lines are composed are the longest possible and take the longest possible stride. Now, what is the effect of these several details? The monosyllabic and disyllabic words, leaving many intervals between each other, suggest the duration of the action; while the long syllables, which require a kind of pause and prolongation, reproduce the resistance, the heaviness, the difficulty. The inhalation between the words and the juxtaposition [204] of rough letters indicate the pauses in his efforts, the delays, the vastness of the toil. The rhythms, when it is observed how long-drawn-out they are, betoken the straining of his limbs, the struggle of the man as he rolls his burden, and the upheaving of the stone. And that this is not the work of Nature improvising, but of art attempting to reproduce a scene, is proved by the words that follow these. For the poet has represented the return of the rock from the summit and its rolling downward in quite another fashion; he quickens and abbreviates his composition. Having first said, in the same form as the foregoing,
but a little more,
And atop of the ridge would it rest—
he adds to this,
some Power back turned it again:
Rushing the pitiless boulder went rolling adown to the plain.
Do not the words thus arranged roll downhill together with the impetus of the rock? Indeed, does not the speed of the narration outstrip the rush of the stone? I certainly think so. And what is the reason here again? It is worth noticing. The line which described the downrush of the stone has no monosyllabic words, and only two disyllabic. Now this, in the first place, does not break up the phrases but hurries them on. In the second place, of the seventeen syllables in the line ten are short, seven long, and not even these seven are perfect. So [206] the line has to go tumbling down-hill in a heap, dragged forward by the shortness of the syllables. Moreover, one word is not divided from another by any appreciable interval, for vowel does not meet vowel, nor semi-vowel or mute meet semi-vowel—conjunctions the natural effect of which is to make the connexions harsher and less close-fitting. There is, in fact, no perceptible division if the words are not forced asunder, but they slip into one another and are swept along, and a sort of great single word is formed out of all owing to the closeness of the junctures. And what is most surprising of all, not one of the long feet which naturally fit into the heroic metre—whether spondee or bacchius—has been introduced into the line, except at the end. All the rest are dactyls, and these with their irrational syllables hurried along, so that some of the feet do not differ much from trochees. Accordingly nothing hinders the line from being rapid, rounded and swift-flowing, welded together as it is from such rhythms as this. Many such passages could be pointed out in Homer. But I think the foregoing lines amply sufficient, and I must leave myself time to discuss the remaining points.
The aims, then, which should be steadily kept in view by those who mean to form a charming and noble style, alike in poetry and in prose, are in my opinion those already mentioned. These, at all events, are the most essential and effective. But those which I have been unable to mention, as being more minute and more obscure than these, and, owing to their number, hard to embrace in a single treatise, I will bring before you in our daily lessons, and I will draw illustrations in support of my views from many good poets, historians, and orators. But now I will go on to add to this work, before concluding it, the remainder of the points which I promised to treat of, and the discussion of which is as indispensable as any: viz. what [208] are the different styles of composition and what the usual distinguishing mark of each is. I will include some mention of those who have been eminent in them, and will also add examples from each author. When the treatment of these points is completed, I must proceed to dispose of certain difficulties very generally felt: what it can be that makes prose appear like a poem though retaining the form of prose, and verse like prose though maintaining the loftiness of poetry; for almost all the best writers of prose or poetry have these excellences in their style. I must do my best, then, to set forth my views on these matters also. I will begin with the first.

§ 21  CHAPTER XXI: THREE MODES, OR STYLES, OF COMPOSITION
I assert without any hesitation that there are many specific differences of composition, and that they cannot be brought into a comprehensive view or within a precise enumeration; I think too that, as in personal appearance, so also in literary composition, each of us has an individual character. I find not a bad illustration in painting. As in that art all painters from life take the same pigments but mix them in the most diverse ways, so in poetry and in prose, though we all use the same words, we do not put them together in the same manner. I hold, however, that the essentially different varieties of composition are the three following only, to which any one who likes may assign the appropriate names, when he has heard their characteristics and their differences. For my own part, since I cannot find recognized names for them, inasmuch as none exist, I call them by metaphorical terms—the first austere, the second smooth (or florid), the third [210] harmoniously blended. How I am to say the third is formed I am at a loss to know—“my mind is too divided to utter truth”: I cannot see whether it is formed by eliminating the two extremes or by fusing them—it is not easy to hit on any clear answer. Perhaps, then, it is better to say that it is by relaxation and tension of the extremes that the means, which are very numerous, arise. The case is not as in music, where the middle note is equally removed from the lowest and the highest. The middle style in writing does not in the same way stand at an equal distance from each of the two extremes; “middle” is here a vague general term, like “herd,” “heap,” and many others. But the present is not the right time for the investigation of this particular point. I must say what I undertook to say with regard to the several styles—not all that I could (I should need a very long treatise to do that), but just the most salient points.

§ 22  CHAPTER XXII: AUSTERE COMPOSITION
The characteristic feature of the austere arrangement is this:—It requires that the words should be like columns firmly planted and placed in strong positions, so that each word should be seen on every side, and that the parts should be at appreciable distances from one another, being separated by perceptible intervals. It does not in the least shrink from using frequently harsh sound-clashings which jar on the ear; like blocks of building stone that are laid together unworked, blocks that are not square and smooth, but preserve their natural roughness and irregularity. [212] It is prone for the most part to expansion by means of great spacious words. It objects to being confined to short syllables, except under occasional stress of necessity.
In respect of the words, then, these are the aims which it strives to attain, and to these it adheres. In its clauses it pursues not only these objects but also impressive and stately rhythms, and tries to make its clauses not parallel in structure or sound, nor slaves to a rigid sequence, but noble, brilliant, free. It wishes them to suggest nature rather than art, and to stir emotion rather than to reflect character. And as to periods, it does not, as a rule, even attempt to compose them in such a way that the sense of each is complete in itself: if it ever drifts into this accidentally, it seeks to emphasize its own unstudied and simple character, neither using any supplementary words which in no way aid the sense, merely in order that the period may be fully rounded off, nor being anxious that the periods should move smoothly or showily, nor nicely calculating them so as to be just sufficient (if you please) for the speaker’s breath, nor taking pains about any other such trifles. Further, the arrangement in question is marked by flexibility in its use of the cases, variety in the employment of figures, few connectives; it lacks articles, it often disregards natural sequence; it is anything rather than florid, it is aristocratic, plain-spoken, unvarnished; an old-world mellowness constitutes its beauty.
This mode of composition was once zealously practised by [214] many authors in poetry, history, and civil oratory; pre-eminently in epic poetry by Antimachus of Colophon and Empedocles the natural philosopher, in lyric poetry by Pindar, in tragedy by Aeschylus, in history by Thucydides, and in civil oratory by Antiphon. At this point the subject would naturally call for the presentation of numerous examples of each author cited, and possibly the discourse would have been rendered not unattractive if bedecked with many such flowers of spring. But then the treatise would probably be felt to be excessively long—more like a course of lectures than a manual. On the other hand, it would not be fitting to leave the statements unsubstantiated, as though they were obvious and not in need of proof. The right thing, no doubt, is after all to take a sort of middle course, neither to exceed all measure, nor yet to fall short of carrying conviction. I will endeavour to do so by selecting a few samples from the most distinguished authors. Among poets it will be enough to cite Pindar, among prose-writers Thucydides; for these are the best writers in the austere style of composition. Let Pindar come first, and from him I take a dithyramb which begins—(PINDAR FRG. 75)
1 Hither to the chorus, Olympians!
bestow on it glorious grace, you gods
who are coming to the city’s crowded, incense-rich navel
in holy Athens
5 and to the glorious, richly adorned agora.
Receive wreaths of plaited violets and songs plucked in springtime,
and look upon me with favor as I proceed from Zeus
with splendor of songs secondly
to that ivy-knowing god,
10 whom we mortals call Bromius and Eriboas
as we sing of the offspring of the highest of fathers
and of Cadmeian women.
Like a seer, I do not fail to notice the clear signs,
when, as the chamber of the purple-robed Horae is opened,
15 the nectar-bearing flowers bring on the sweetsmelling spring.
Then, then, upon the immortal earth are cast
the lovely tresses of violets, and roses are fitted to hair
and voices of songs echo to the accompaniment of pipes
and choruses come to Semele of the circling headband. [tr. W. Race, A. Kavoulaki, adapted]
That these lines are vigorous, weighty and dignified, and possess much austerity; that, though rugged, they are not unpleasantly so, and though harsh to the ear, are but so in due measure; that they are slow in their time-movement, and present broad effects of harmony; and that they exhibit not the showy and decorative prettiness of our day, but the austere beauty of a distant past: this will, I am sure, be attested by all readers [218] whose literary sense has been tolerably developed. I will attempt to show by what method such results have been achieved, since it is not by spontaneous accident, but by some kind of artistic design, that this passage has acquired its characteristic form.
The first clause consists of four words—a verb, a connective, and two appellatives. Now the mingling and the amalgamation of the verb and the connective have produced a rhythm which is not without its charm; but the combination of the connective with the appellative has resulted in a junction of considerable roughness. For the words ἐν χορόν are jarring and uneuphonious, since the connective ends with the semivowel ν, while the appellative begins with one of the mutes, χ. These letters by their very nature cannot be blended and compacted, since it is unnatural for the combination νχ to form part of a single syllable; and so, when ν and χ are the boundaries of adjacent syllables, the voice cannot be continuous, but there must necessarily be a pause separating the letters if each of them is uttered with its proper sound. So, then, the first clause is roughened thus by the arrangement of its words. (You must understand me to mean by “clauses” not those into which Aristophanes or any of the other metrists has arranged the odes, but those into which Nature insists on dividing the discourse and into which the disciples of the rhetoricians divide their periods.)
The next clause to this—ἐπί τε κλυτὰν πέμπετε χάριν θεοί—is separated from the former by a considerable interval and includes within itself many dissonant collocations. It begins with one of the vowels, ε, in close proximity to which is another vowel, ι—the letter which came at the end of the preceding [220] clause. These letters, again, do not coalesce with one another, nor can ι stand before ε in the same syllable. There is a certain silence between the two letters, which thrusts apart the two elements and gives each a firm position. In the detailed arrangement of the clause the postposition of the appellative part of speech κλυτάν to the connectives ἐπί τε with which the phrase opens (though perhaps the first of these connectives should rather be called a preposition) has made the composition dissonant and harsh. For what reason? Because the first syllable of κλυτάν is ostensibly short, but actually longer than the ordinary short, since it is composed of a mute, a semi-vowel, and a vowel. It is the want of unalloyed brevity in it, combined with the difficulty of pronunciation involved in the combination of the letters, that causes retardation and interruption in the harmony. At all events, if you were to remove the κ from the syllable and to make it ἐπί τε λυτάν, there would be an end to both the slowness and the roughness of the arrangement. Further: the verbal form πέμπετε, subjoined to the appellative κλυτάν, does not produce a harmonious or well-tempered sound. The ν must be firmly planted and the π be heard only when the lips have been quite pressed together, for the π cannot be tacked on to the ν. The reason of this is the configuration of the mouth, which does not produce the two letters either at the same spot or in the same way. ν is sounded on the arch of the palate, with the tongue rising towards the edge of the teeth and with the breath passing in separate currents through the nostrils; π with the lips closed, the tongue [222] doing none of the work, and the breath forming a concentrated noise when the lips are opened, as I have said before. While the mouth is taking one after another shapes that are neither akin nor alike, some time is consumed, during which the smoothness and euphony of the arrangement is interrupted. Moreover, the first syllable of πέμπετε has not a soft sound either, but is rather rough to the ear, as it begins with a mute and ends with a semi-vowel. θεοί coming next to χάριν pulls the sound up short and makes an appreciable interval between the words, the one ending with the semi-vowel ν, the other beginning with the mute θ. And it is unnatural for a semi-vowel to stand before any mute.
Next follows this third clause, πολύβατον οἵ τ’ ἄστεος ὀμφαλὸν θυόεντα ἐν ταῖς ἱεραῖς Ἀθάναις οἰχνεῖτε. Here θυόεντα which begins with θ, being placed next to ὀμφαλὸν which ends in ν, produces a dissonance similar to that previously mentioned; and ἐν ταῖς ἱεραῖς which opens with the vowel ε, being linked to θυόεντα which ends with the vowel α, interrupts the voice by the considerable interval of time there is between them. Following these come the words πανδαίδαλόν τ’ εὐκλέ’ ἀγοράν. Here, too, the combination is rough and dissonant. For the mute τ is joined to the semi-vowel ν; and the interval between the appellative πανδαίδαλον and the elided syllable which follows it is quite an appreciable gap; for both syllables are long, but the syllable which unites the two letters ε and υ, consisting as it does of a mute and two vowels, is considerably longer than the average. At any rate, if the τ in the syllable [224] be removed and πανδαίδαλον εὐκλέ’ ἀγοράν be read, the syllable, falling into the normal measure, will make the composition more euphonious.
The words ἰοδέτων λάχετε στεφάνων are open to the same criticism as those already mentioned. For here two semi-vowels, ν and λ, come together, although they do not naturally admit of amalgamation owing to the fact that they are not pronounced ‹at the same regions nor› with the same configurations of the mouth. The words that follow these have their syllables lengthened and are widely divided from one another in arrangement: στεφάνων τᾶν τ’ ἐαριδρόπων. For here also there is a concurrence of long syllables which exceed the normal measure,—the final syllable of the word στεφάνων which embraces between two semi-vowels a vowel naturally long, and the syllable linked with it, which is lengthened by means of three letters, a mute, a vowel pronounced long, and a semi-vowel. Separation is produced by the lengths of the syllables, and dissonance by the juxtaposition of the letters, since the sound of τ does not accord with that of ν, as I have said before. Next to ἀοιδᾶν, which ends in ν, comes Διόθεν τε, which begins with the mute δ, and next to σὺν ἀγλαΐᾳ, which ends in ι, comes ἴδετε πορευθέντ’ ἀοιδᾶν, which begins with ι. Many such features may be found on a critical examination of the whole ode.
But in order to leave myself time for dealing with what remains, no more of Pindar. From Thucydides let us take this passage of the Introduction:—
“Thucydides, an Athenian, composed this history of the war [226] which the Peloponnesians and the Athenians waged against one another. He began as soon as the war broke out, in the expectation that it would be great and memorable above all previous wars. This he inferred from the fact that both parties were entering upon it at the height of their military power, and from noticing that the rest of the Greek races were ranging themselves on this side or on that, or were intending to do so before long. No commotion ever troubled the Greeks so greatly: it affected also a considerable section of the barbarians, and one may even say the greater part of mankind. Events previous to this, and events still more remote, could not be clearly ascertained owing to lapse of time. But from such evidence as I find I can trust however far back I go, I conclude that they were not of great importance either from a military or from any other point of view. It is clear that the country now called Hellas was not securely settled in ancient times, but that there were migrations in former days, various peoples without hesitation leaving their own land when hard pressed by superior numbers of successive invaders. Commerce did not exist, nor did men mix freely with one another on land or by sea. Each tribe aimed at getting a bare living out of the lands it occupied. They had no reserve of capital, nor did they plant the ground with fruit-trees, since it was uncertain, especially as they had [228] no fortifications, when some invader would come and rob them of their property. They also thought that they could command the bare necessities of daily life anywhere; and so, for all these reasons, they made no difficulty about giving up their land.”
There is no need for me to say, when all educated people know it as well as I, that this passage is not smooth or nicely finished in its verbal arrangement, and is not euphonious and soft, and does not glide imperceptibly through the ear, but shows many features that are discordant and rough and harsh; that it does not make the slightest approach to attaining the grace appropriate to an oration delivered at a public festival or to a speech on the stage, but is marked by a sort of antique and self-willed beauty. Indeed, the historian himself admits that his narrative is but little calculated to give pleasure when heard: “it has been composed as a possession for all time rather than as an essay to be recited at some particular competition.” I will briefly point out to you the principles by following which the author has made the arrangement so rugged and austere. Small things will readily serve you as samples of great: you can easily go on noting resemblances and making comparisons for yourself.
[230] At the very beginning the verb ξυνέγραψε, being appended to the appellative Ἀθηναῖος, makes an appreciable break in the verbal structure, since σ is never placed before ξ with a view to being pronounced in the same syllable with it. The sound of σ must be sharply arrested by an interval of silence before the ξ is heard; and this circumstance causes roughness and dissonance. Moreover, the interruptions of the voice in what follows, in consequence of the four successive juxtapositions νπ, ντ, νπ, νκ, grate violently upon the ear, and cause a remarkable succession of jolts when he says τὸν πόλεμον τῶν Πελοποννησίων καὶ Ἀθηναίων. Of these words there is not one that must not first be checked by the mouth with a stress on the last letter, in order that the next letter to it may be uttered clearly and purely with its own proper quality. Furthermore, the juxtaposition of vowels which is found at the end of this clause in the words καὶ Ἀθηναίων has broken and made a gap in the continuity of the arrangement, by demanding quite an appreciable interval, since the sounds of ι and α are unmingled and there is an interruption of the voice between them: whereas euphony is caused by sounds which are continuous and smoothly blended.
Again, in the second period the first clause ἀρξάμενος εὐθὺς καθισταμένου has been pretty successfully arranged by the author in the way in which it would produce the most smooth and euphonious effect. But he roughens and dislocates the very next clause by sundering its joints: καὶ ἐλπίσας μέγαν τε ἔσεσθαι καὶ ἀξιολογώτατον τῶν προγεγενημένων. For thrice in close succession vowels are juxtaposed which cause clashings and obstructed utterance, and make it impossible for the ear to take in the impression of one continuous clause; and the period which he ends with the words τῶν προγεγενημένων has no well-defined and rounded close, but seems to be without beginning or [232] conclusion, as if it were part of the second period and not its termination.
The third period has the same characteristics. There is a lack of roundness and stability in its foundation, since it has for its concluding portion τὸ δὲ καὶ διανοούμενον. Further, it too contains many clashings of vowel against vowel and of semi-vowels against semi-vowels and mutes—discords produced by things in their very nature inharmonious. To sum up, here are some twelve periods adduced by me—if the breathing-space be taken as the criterion for the division of period from period; and they contain no fewer than thirty clauses. Yet of these not six or seven clauses in all will be found to be euphoniously composed and finished in their structure; while of hiatus between vowels in the twelve periods there are almost thirty instances, together with meetings of semi-vowels and mutes which are dissonant, harsh, and hard to pronounce. It is to this that the stoppages and the many retardations in the passage are due; and so numerous are these concurrences that there is one of the kind in almost every single section of it. There is a great lack of symmetry in the clauses, great unevenness in the periods, much innovation in the figures, disregard of sequence, and all the other marks which I have already noted as characteristic of the unadorned and austere style. I do not consider it necessary to waste our time by going over the whole ground once more with the illustrative passages.

§ 23  CHAPTER XXIII: SMOOTH COMPOSITION
The smooth (or florid) mode of composition, which I regarded [234] as second in order, has the following features. It does not intend that each word should be seen on every side, nor that all its parts should stand on broad, firm bases, nor that the time-intervals between them should be long; nor in general is this slow and deliberate movement congenial to it. It demands free movement in its diction; it requires words to come sweeping along one on top of another, each supported by that which follows, like the onflow of a never-resting stream. It tries to combine and interweave its component parts, and thus give, as far as possible, the effect of one continuous utterance. This result is produced by so nicely adjusting the junctures that they admit no appreciable time-interval between the words. From this point of view the style resembles finely woven stuffs, or pictures in which the lights melt insensibly into the shadows. It requires that all its words shall be melodious, smooth, soft as a maiden’s face; and it shrinks from harsh, clashing syllables, and carefully avoids everything rash and hazardous.
It requires not only that its words should be properly dove-tailed and fitted together, but also that the clauses should be carefully inwoven with one another and all issue in a period. It limits the length of a clause so that it is neither shorter nor longer than the right mean, and the compass of the period so that a man’s full breath will be able to cover it. It could not endure to construct a passage without periods, nor a period [236] without clauses, nor a clause without symmetry. The rhythms it uses are not the longest, but the intermediate, or shorter than these. It requires its periods to march as with steps regulated by line and rule, and to close with a rhythmical fall. Thus, in fitting together its periods and its words respectively, it employs two different methods. The latter it runs together; the former it keeps apart, wishing that they may be seen as it were from every side. As for figures, it is wont to employ not the most time-honoured sort, nor those marked by stateliness, gravity, or mellowness, but rather for the most part those which are dainty and alluring, and contain much that is seductive and fanciful. To speak generally: its attitude is directly opposed to that of the former variety in the principal and most essential points. I need not go over these points again.
Our next step will be to enumerate those who have attained eminence in this style. Well, among epic poets Hesiod, I think, has best developed the type; among lyric poets, Sappho, and, after her, Anacreon and Simonides; of tragedians, Euripides alone; of historians, none exactly, but Ephorus and Theopompus more than most; of orators, Isocrates. I will quote examples of this style also, selecting among poets Sappho, and among orators Isocrates. And I will begin with the lyric poetess:—
[238] Rainbow-throned immortal one, Aphrodite,
Child of Zeus, spell-weaver, I bow before thee—
Harrow not my spirit with anguish, mighty
Queen, I implore thee!
Nay, come hither, even as once thou, bending
Down from far to hearken my cry, didst hear me,
From thy Father’s palace of gold descending
Drewest anear me
Chariot-wafted: far over midnight-sleeping
Earth, thy fair fleet sparrows, through cloudland riven
Wide by multitudinous wings, came sweeping
Down from thine heaven,
Swiftly came: thou, smiling with those undying
Lips and star-eyes, Blessed One, smiling me-ward,
Said’st, “What ails thee?—wherefore uprose thy crying
Calling me thee-ward?
Say for what boon most with a frenzied longing
Yearns thy soul—say whom shall my glamour chaining
Hale thy love’s thrall, Sappho—and who is wronging
Thee with disdaining?
Who avoids thee soon shall be thy pursuer:
Aye, the gift-rejecter the giver shall now be:
Aye, the loveless now shall become the wooer,
Scornful shalt thou be!”
[240] Once again come! Come, and my chains dissever,
Chains of heart-ache! Passionate longings rend me—
Oh fulfil them! Thou in the strife be ever
Near, to defend me.[SAPPHO FRAGM. I. ]
Here the euphonious effect and the grace of the language arise from the coherence and smoothness of the junctures. The words nestle close to one another and are woven together according to certain affinities and natural attractions of the letters. Almost throughout the entire ode vowels are joined to mutes and semi-vowels, all those in fact which are naturally prefixed or affixed to one another when pronounced together in one syllable. There are very few clashings of semi-vowels with semi-vowels or mutes, and of mutes and vowels with one another, such as cause the sound to oscillate. When I review the entire ode, I find, in all those nouns and verbs and other kinds of words, only five or perhaps six unions of semi-vowels and mutes which do not naturally blend with one another, and even they do not disturb the smoothness of the language to any great extent. As for juxtaposition of vowels, I find that those which occur in the clauses themselves are still fewer, while those which join the clauses to one another are only a little more numerous. As a natural consequence the language has a certain easy flow and softness; the arrangement of the words in no way ruffles the smooth waves of sound.
I would go on to mention the remaining characteristics of this kind of composition, and would show as before by means of appropriate illustrations that they are such as I say, were it not that my treatise would become too long and would create an impression of needless repetition. It will be open to you, as to [242] any one else, at your full leisure and convenience, to take each single point enumerated by me in describing the type, and to examine and review them with illustrations. But I really have no time to do this. It is quite enough simply to give an adequate indication of my views to all who will be able to follow in my steps.
I will quote a passage of one more writer who has fashioned himself into the same mould—Isocrates the orator. Of all prose-writers he is, I think, the most finished master of this style of composition. The passage is from the Areopagiticus, as follows:—
“Many of you, I imagine, are wondering what can be my view in coming before you to speak on the question of the public safety, as though the State were actually in danger, or its interests imperilled, and as though it did not as a matter of fact possess more than two hundred warships, and were not at peace throughout its borders and supreme at sea, and had not many allies ready to help us in case of need, and many more who regularly pay their contributions and perform their obligation. Under these circumstances it might be said that we have every reason for confidence on the ground that all danger is remote; and that it is our enemies who have reason to be afraid and to form plans for self-preservation. Now you, I know, are inclined on this account [244] to make light of my appeal; you expect to maintain supremacy over the whole of Greece by means of your existing forces. But it is precisely on these grounds that I really am alarmed. I observe that it is those States which think they are at the height of prosperity that adopt the worst policy, and that it is the most confident that incur the greatest danger. The reason is that no good or evil fortune comes to men entirely by itself: folly and its mate intemperance have been appointed to wait on wealth and power, self-restraint and great moderation to attend on poverty and low estate. So that it is hard to decide which of these two lots a man would desire to bequeath to his children, since we can see that from what is popularly regarded as the inferior condition men’s fortunes commonly improve, while from that which is apparently the better they usually decline and fall.”[ISOCRATES AREOPAGITICUS §§ 1-5]
The instinctive perception of the ear testifies that these words are run and blended together; that they do not individually stand on a broad foundation which gives an all-round view of each; and that they are not separated by long time-intervals and planted far apart from one another, but are plainly in a state of motion, being borne onwards in an unbroken stream, while the links which bind the passage together are gentle and soft and flowing. And it is easy to see that the sole cause lies in the character of this style as I have previously described it. For no dissonance of vowels will be found, at any rate in the harmonious clauses which I have quoted, nor any, I think, in the entire speech, unless some instance has escaped my notice. There are also few dissonances of semi-vowels and mutes, and those not very glaring or [246] continuous. The euphonious flow of the passage is due to these circumstances, combined with the balance of the clauses and the cycle of the periods which has about it something rounded and well-defined and perfectly regulated in respect of symmetrical adjustment. Above all there are the rhetorical figures, full of youthful exuberance: antithesis, parallelism in sound, parallelism in structure, and others like these, by which the language of panegyric is brought to its highest perfection. I do not think it necessary to lengthen the book by dealing with the points that are still untouched. This kind of composition also has now received adequate treatment on all points where it was appropriate.

§ 24  CHAPTER XXIV: HARMONIOUSLY-BLENDED, OR INTERMEDIATE, COMPOSITION
The third kind of composition is the mean between the two already mentioned. I call it harmoniously blended for lack of a proper and better name. It has no form peculiar to itself, but is a sort of judicious blend of the two others and a selection from the most effective features of each. This kind, it seems to me, deserves to win the first prize; for it is a sort of mean, and excellence in life and conduct [and the arts] is a mean, according to Aristotle and the other philosophers of his school. As I said before, it is to be viewed not narrowly but broadly. It has many specific varieties. Those who have adopted it have not all had the same [248] aims nor the same methods; some have made more use of this method, others of that; while the same methods have been pursued with less or greater vigour by different writers, who have yet all achieved eminence in the various walks of literature. Now he who towers conspicuous above them all,
Out of whose fulness all rivers, and every sea, have birth,
And all upleaping fountains,[HOMER ILIAD XXI. 196-7]
is, we must admit, Homer. For whatever passage you like to take in him has had its manifold charms brought to perfection by a union of the severe and the polished forms of arrangement. Of the other writers who have cultivated the same golden mean, all will be found to be far inferior to Homer when measured by his standard, but still men of eminence when regarded in themselves: among lyric poets Stesichorus and Alcaeus, among tragedians Sophocles, among historians Herodotus, among orators Demosthenes, and among philosophers (in my opinion) Democritus, Plato, and Aristotle. It is impossible to find authors who have succeeded better in blending their writings into harmonious wholes. As regards types of composition the foregoing remarks will suffice. I do not think it necessary to quote specimen passages from the authors just mentioned, since they are known to all and need no illustration.
Now if any one thinks that these things are worth much toil [250] and great effort, he is, according to Demosthenes, decidedly in the right. Nay, if he considers the credit which attends success in them and the sweetness of the fruit they yield, he will count the toil a pleasure. I beg pardon of the Epicurean choir who care nothing for these things. The doctrine that “writing,” as Epicurus himself says, “is no trouble to those who do not aim at the ever-varying standard”[EPICURUS FRAGM. 230] was meant to forestall the charge of gross laziness and stupidity.

§ 25  CHAPTER XXV: HOW PROSE CAN RESEMBLE VERSE
Now that I have finished this part of the subject, I think you must be eager for information on the next point—how unmetrical language is made to resemble a beautiful poem or lyric, and how a poem or lyric is brought into close likeness to beautiful prose. I will begin with the language of prose, choosing by preference an author who has, I think, in a pre-eminent degree taken the impress of poetical style. I could wish to mention a larger number, but have not time for all. Who, then, will not admit that the speeches of Demosthenes [252] are like the finest poems and lyrics: particularly his harangues against Philip and his pleadings in public law-suits? It will be enough to take the following exordium from one of these:—
“Let none of you, O ye Athenians, think that I have come forward to accuse the defendant Aristocrates with intent to indulge personal hate of my own, or that it is because I have got my eye on some small and petty error that I am thrusting myself with a light heart in the path of his enmity. No, if my calculations and point of view be right, my one aim and object is that you should securely hold the Chersonese, and should not again be deprived of it by political chicanery.”
I must endeavour, here again, to state my views. But the subject we have now reached is like the Mysteries: it cannot be divulged to people in masses. I shall not, therefore, be discourteous in inviting those only “for whom it is lawful” to approach the rites of style, while bidding the “profane” to “close the gates of their ears.” There are some who, through ignorance, turn the most serious things into ridicule, and no doubt their attitude is natural enough. Well, my views are in effect as follows:—
No passage which is composed absolutely without metre can be invested with the melody of poetry or lyric grace, at any rate from the point of view of the word-arrangement considered in itself. No doubt, the choice of words goes a long way, and there is a poetical vocabulary consisting of rare, foreign, figurative and coined words in which poetry takes delight. These are sometimes mingled with prose-writing to excess: many writers do so, Plato particularly. But I am not speaking of the choice of words: let the consideration of that subject be set aside for the present. Let our inquiry deal exclusively with word-arrangement, which can reveal possibilities of poetic grace in common everyday [254] words that are by no means reserved for the poets’ vocabulary. Well, as I said, simple prose cannot become like metrical and lyrical writing, unless it contains metres and rhythms unobtrusively introduced into it. It does not, however, do for it to be manifestly in metre or in rhythm (for in that case it will be a poem or a lyric piece, and will absolutely desert its own specific character); it is enough that it should simply appear rhythmical and metrical. In this way it may be poetical, although not a poem; lyrical, although not a lyric.
The difference between the two things is easy enough to see. That which embraces within its compass similar metres and preserves definite rhythms, and is produced by a repetition of the same forms, line for line, period for period, or strophe for strophe, and then again employs the same rhythms and metres for the succeeding lines, periods or strophes, and does this at any considerable length, is in rhythm and in metre, and the names of “verse” and “song” are applied to such writing. On the other hand, that which contains casual metres and irregular rhythms, and in these shows neither sequence nor connexion nor correspondence of stanza with stanza, is rhythmical, since it is diversified by rhythms of a sort, but not in rhythm, since they are not the same nor in corresponding positions. This is the character I attribute to all language which, though destitute of metre, yet shows markedly the poetical or lyrical element; and this is what I mean that Demosthenes among others has adopted. That this is true, that I am advancing no new theory, any one can convince himself from the testimony of Aristotle; for in the third book of his Rhetoric the philosopher, speaking of the various requisites of style in civil oratory, has described the good rhythm which should contribute to it. He [256] names the most suitable rhythms, shows where each of them is clearly serviceable, and adduces some passages by which he endeavours to establish his statement. But apart from the testimony of Aristotle, experience itself will show that some rhythms must be included in prose-writing if there is to be upon it the bloom of poetical beauty.
For example, the speech against Aristocrates which I mentioned a moment ago begins with a comic tetrameter line (set there with its anapaestic rhythms), but it is a foot short of completion and in consequence escapes detection: μηδεὶς ὑμῶν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, νομίσῃ με. If this line had an additional foot either at the beginning, in the middle, or at the end, it would be a perfect anapaestic tetrameter, to which some give the name “Aristophanic.”
Let none of you, O ye Athenians, think that I am standing before you,
corresponds to the line
Now then shall be told what in days of old was the fashion of boys’ education.
It will perhaps be said in reply that this has happened not from design, but accidentally, since a natural tendency in us often improvises metrical fragments. Let the truth of this be granted. Yet the next clause as well, if you resolve the second elision, which has obscured its true character by linking it on to the third clause, will be a complete elegiac pentameter as follows:—
Come with intent to indulge personal hate of my own,
similar to these words:—
Maidens whose feet in the dance lightly were lifted on high.
[258] Let us suppose that this, too, has happened once more in the same spontaneous way without design. Still, after one intermediate clause arranged in a prose order, viz. ἥκειν Ἀριστοκράτους κατηγορήσοντα τουτουί, the clause which is joined to this consists of two metrical lines, viz. μήτε μικρὸν ὁρῶντά τι καὶ φαῦλον ἁμάρτημα ἑτοίμως οὕτως ἐπὶ τούτῳ. For if we were to take this line from Sappho’s Bridal Song—
For never another maiden there was, O son-in-law, like unto
this one,
and were also to take the last three feet and the termination of the following comic tetrameter, the so-called “Aristophanic”
When of righteousness I was the popular preacher, and temperance
was in fashion,
and then were to unite them thus—
οὐ γὰρ ἦν ἀτέρα πάις, ὦ γαμβρέ, τοιαύτα ‹ποτα› καὶ σωφροσύνη
’νενόμιστο,
it will precisely correspond to μήτε μικρὸν ὁρῶντά τι καὶ φαῦλον ἁμάρτημα, ἑτοίμως οὕτως ἐπὶ τούτῳ. What follows is like an iambic trimeter docked of its final foot, προάγειν ἐμαυτὸν εἰς ἀπέχθειαν. It will be complete if a foot is added and it takes this shape:—
προάγειν ἐμαυτὸν εἰς ἀπέχθειάν τινα.
Are we once more to neglect these facts as if they were brought about not on purpose but by accident? What, then, is the significance of the next clause to this? For this too is a correct iambic trimeter line—
ἀλλ’ εἴπερ ἆρ’ ὀρθῶς ἐγὸ λογίζομαι,
if the connective ἄρα has its first syllable made long, and if further—by your leave!—the words καὶ σκοπῶ are regarded as [260] an intermediate excrescence by means of which the metre is obscured and vanishes from sight. The clause placed next to this is composed of anapaestic feet, and extends to eight feet, still keeping the same form:—
πρὸ τοῦ Χερόνησον ἔχειν ἀσφαλῶς ὑμᾶς καὶ μὴ παρακρουσθέντας,
like to this in Euripides—
O King of the country with harvests teeming,
O Cisseus, the plain with a fire is gleaming.
And the part of the same clause which comes next to it—ἀποστερηθῆναι πάλιν αὐτῆς—is an iambic trimeter short of a foot and a half. It would have been complete in this form—
ἀποστερηθῆναι πάλιν αὐτῆς ἐν μέρει.
Are we to say that these effects too are spontaneous and unstudied, many and various as they are? I cannot think so; for it is easy to see that the clauses which follow are similarly full of many metres and rhythms of all kinds.
But lest it be thought that he has constructed this speech alone in this way, I will touch on another where the style is admitted to show astonishing genius, that on behalf of Ctesiphon, which I pronounce to be the finest of all speeches. In this, too, immediately after the address to the Athenians, I notice that the cretic foot, or the paeon if you like to call it so (for it will make no difference),—the one which consists of five time-units,—is interwoven, not fortuitously (save the mark!) but with the utmost deliberation right through the clause—
τοῖς θεοῖς εὔχομαι πᾶσι καὶ πάσαις.[DE COR]
Is not the following rhythm of the same kind—
[262] Cretan strains practising, Zeus’s son sing we?[UNK]
In my judgment, at all events, it is; for with the exception of the final foot there is complete correspondence. But suppose this too, if you will have it so, to be accidental. Well, the adjacent clause is a correct iambic line, falling one syllable short of completion, with the object (here again) of obscuring the metre. With the addition of a single syllable the line will be complete—
ὅσην εὔνοιαν ἔχων ἐγὼ διατελῶ.
Further, that paeon or cretic rhythm of five beats will appear in the words which follow: τῇ πόλει καὶ πᾶσιν ὑμῖν τοσαύτην ὑπάρξαι μοι παρ’ ὑμῶν εἰς τουτονὶ τὸν ἀγῶνα. This, except that it has two broken feet at the beginnings, resembles in all respects the passage in Bacchylides:—
This is no time to sit still nor wait:
Unto yon ornamented temple let us go,
Even gold-aegis’d Itonia’s shrine,
And the rich vesture there show.[BACCHYL FRG 11]
I have a presentiment that an onslaught will be made on these statements by people who are destitute of general culture and practise the mechanical parts of rhetoric unmethodically and unscientifically. Against these I am bound to defend my position, lest I should seem to let the case go by default. Their argument will doubtless be: “Was Demosthenes, then, so poor a creature [264] that, whenever he was writing his speeches, he would work in metres and rhythms after the fashion of clay-modellers, and would try to fit his clauses into these moulds, shifting the words to and fro, keeping an anxious eye on his longs and shorts, and fretting himself about cases of nouns, moods of verbs, and all the accidents of the parts of speech? So great a man would be a fool indeed were he to stoop to all this niggling and peddling.” If they scoff and jeer in these or similar terms, they may easily be countered by the following reply: First, it is not surprising after all that a man who is held to deserve a greater reputation than any of his predecessors who were distinguished for eloquence was anxious, when composing eternal works and submitting himself to the scrutiny of all-testing envy and time, not to admit either subject or word at random, and to attend carefully to both arrangement of ideas and beauty of words: particularly as the authors of that day were producing discourses which suggested not writing but carving and chasing—those, I mean, of the sophists Isocrates and Plato. For the former spent ten years over the composition of his Panegyric, according to the lowest recorded estimate of the time; while Plato did not cease, when eighty years old, to comb and curl his dialogues and reshape them in every way. Surely every scholar is acquainted with the stories of Plato’s passion for taking pains, especially that of the tablet which they say was found after his [266] death, with the beginning of the Republic (“I went down yesterday to the Piraeus together with Glaucon the son of Ariston”) arranged in elaborately varying orders. What wonder, then, if Demosthenes also was careful to secure euphony and melody and to employ no random or untested word or thought? For it appears to me far more reasonable for a man who is composing public speeches, eternal memorials of his own powers, to attend even to the slightest details, than it is for the disciples of painters and workers in relief, who display the dexterity and industry of their hands in a perishable medium, to expend the finished resources of their art on veins and down and bloom and similar minutiae.
These arguments seem to me to make no unreasonable claim; and we may further add that though when Demosthenes was a lad, and had but recently taken up the study of rhetoric, he naturally had to ask himself consciously what the effects attainable [268] by human skill were, yet when long training had issued in perfect mastery, and had graven on his mind forms and impressions of all that he had practised, he henceforth produced his effects with the utmost ease from sheer force of habit. Something similar occurs in the other arts whose end is activity or production. For example, when accomplished players on the lyre, the harp, or the flute hear an unfamiliar tune, they no sooner grasp it than with little trouble they run over it on the instrument themselves. They have mastered the values of the notes after much toiling and moiling, and so can reproduce them. Their hands were not at the outset in condition to do what was bidden them; they attained command of this accomplishment only after much time, when ample training had converted custom into second nature.
Why pursue the subject? A fact familiar to all of us is enough to silence these quibblers. What may this be? When we are taught to read, first we learn off the names of the letters, then their forms and their values, then in due course syllables and their modifications, and finally words and their properties, viz. lengthenings and shortenings, accents, and the like. After acquiring the knowledge of these things, we begin to write and read, syllable by syllable and slowly at first. And when the lapse of a considerable time has implanted the forms of words firmly in our minds, then we deal with them without the least difficulty, and whenever any book is placed in our hands we go through it without stumbling, and with incredible facility and speed. We must suppose that something of this kind happens in the case of the trained exponent of the literary profession as regards the arrangement of words and the euphony of clauses. And it is not unnatural that those who [270] are ignorant of this or unversed in any profession whatsoever should be surprised and incredulous when they hear that anything is executed with such mastery by another as a result of artistic training. This may suffice as a rejoinder to those who are accustomed to scoff at the rules of the rhetorical manuals.

§ 26  CHAPTER XXVI: HOW VERSE CAN RESEMBLE PROSE
Concerning melodious metrical composition which bears a close affinity to prose, my views are of the following kind. The prime factor here too, just as in the case of poetical prose, is the collocation of the words themselves; next, the composition of the clauses; third, the arrangement of the periods. He who wishes to succeed in this department must change the words about and connect them with each other in manifold ways, and make the clauses begin and end at various places within the lines, not allowing their sense to be self-contained in separate verses, but breaking up the measure. He must make the clauses vary in length and form, and will often also reduce them to phrases which are shorter than clauses, and will make the periods—those at any rate which adjoin one another—neither equal in size nor alike in construction; for an elastic treatment of rhythms and metres seems to bring verse quite near to prose. Now those authors who compose in epic or iambic verse, or use the other regular metres, cannot diversify their poetical works with many metres or rhythms, but must always adhere to the same metrical form. But the lyric poets can include many metres and rhythms in a single period. So that when the writers of monometers break up [272] the lines by distributing them into clauses now one way now another, they dissolve and efface the regularity of the metre; and when they diversify the periods in size and form, they make us forget the metre. On the other hand, the lyric poets compose their strophes in many metres; and again, from the fact that the clauses vary from time to time in length and form, they make the divisions unlike in form and size. From both these causes they hinder our apprehension of any uniform rhythm, and so they produce, as by design, in lyric poems a great likeness to prose. It is quite possible, moreover, for the poems to retain many figurative, unfamiliar, exceptional, and otherwise poetical words, and none the less to show a close resemblance to prose.
And let no one think me ignorant of the fact that the so-called “pedestrian character” is commonly regarded as a vice in poetry, or impute to me, of all persons, the folly of ranking any bad quality among the virtues of poetry or prose. Let my critic rather pay attention and learn how here once more I claim to distinguish what merits serious consideration from what is worthless. I observe that, among prose styles, there is on the one side the uncultivated style, by which I mean the prevailing frivolous gabble, and on the other side the language of public life which is, in the main, studied and artistic; and so, whenever I find any poetry which resembles the frivolous gabble I have referred to, I regard it as beneath criticism. I think that alone to be fit for serious imitation which resembles the studied and artistic kind. Now, if each sort of prose had a different appellation, it would have been only consistent to call the corresponding sorts of poetry also by different names. But since both the good and the worthless are called “prose,” it may not be wrong to regard as noble and bad “poetry” that which [274] resembles noble and contemptible prose respectively, and not to be in any way disturbed by mere identity of terms. The application of similar names to different things will not prevent us from discerning the true nature of the things in either case.
As I have gone so far as to deal with this subject, I will end by subjoining a few examples of the features in question. From epic poetry it will be enough to quote the following lines:—
But he from the haven went where the rugged pathway led.[HOMER OD XIV. 1-7.]
Here we have one clause. Observe the next—
Up the wooded land.
It is shorter than the other, and cuts the line in two. The third is—
through the hills:
a segment still shorter than a clause. The fourth—
unto where Athene had said
That he should light on the goodly swineherd—
consists of two half-lines and is in no way like the former. Then the conclusion—
the man who best
Gave heed to the goods of his lord, of the thralls that Odysseus
possessed,
which leaves the third line unfinished, while by the addition of the fourth it loses all undue uniformity. Then again—
By the house-front sitting he found him,
where once more the words do not run out the full course of the line.
there where the courtyard wall
Was builded tall.
[276] This, too, does not balance the former. Further, the order of ideas in the continuation of the passage is unperiodic, though the words are cast into the form of clauses and sections. For, after adding
In a place with a clear view round about,
we shall find him subjoining:
Massy and fair to behold,
which is a segment shorter than a clause. Next we find
Free on every side,
where the one Greek word (περίδρομος) by itself carries a certain meaning. And so on: we shall find him elaborating everything that follows in the same way. Why go into unnecessary detail?
From iambic poetry may be taken these lines of Euripides:—
Fatherland, ta’en by Pelops in possession,
Hail!
Thus far the first clause extends.
And thou, Pan, who haunt’st the stormy steeps
Of Arcady.
So far the second extends.
Whereof I boast my birth.
That is the third. The former are longer than a line; the last is shorter.
Me Auge, Aleus’ daughter, not of wedlock
Bare to Tirynthian Heracles.
And afterwards—
This knows
Yon hill Parthenion.[EURIPIDES TELEPHUS; NAUCK T.G.F., EURIP. FRAGM. 696]
Not one of these corresponds exactly to a line. Then once more we find another clause which is from one point of view less than a line and from the other longer—
[278] where the Travail-queen
From birth-pangs set my mother free. [EURIPIDES TELEPHUS; NAUCK T.G.F., EURIP. FRAGM. 696]
And similarly with the lines which follow these.
From lyric poetry the subjoined lines of Simonides may be taken. They are written according to divisions: not into those clauses for which Aristophanes or some other metrist laid down his canons, but into those which are required by prose. Please read the piece carefully by divisions: you may rest assured that the rhythmical arrangement of the ode will escape you, and you will be unable to guess which is the strophe or which the antistrophe or which the epode, but you will think it all one continuous piece of prose. The subject is Danae, borne across the sea lamenting her fate:—
And when, in the carved ark lying,
She felt it through darkness drifting
Before the drear wind’s sighing
And the great sea-ridges lifting,
She shuddered with terror, she brake into weeping,
And she folded her arms round Perseus sleeping; [280 And “Oh my baby,” she moaned, “for my lot
Of anguish!—but thou, thou carest not:
Adown sleep’s flood is thy child-soul sweeping,
Though beams brass-welded on every side
Make a darkness, even had the day not died
When they launched thee forth at gloaming-tide.
And the surf-crests fly o’er thy sunny hair
As the waves roll past—thou dost not care:
Neither carest thou for the wind’s shrill cry,
As lapped in my crimson cloak thou dost lie
On my breast, little face so fair—so fair!
Ah, were these sights, these sounds of fear
Fearsome to thee, that dainty ear
Would hearken my words—nay, nay, my dear,
Hear them not thou! Sleep, little one, sleep;
And slumber thou, O unrestful deep!
Sleep, measureless wrongs; let the past suffice:
And oh, may a new day’s dawn arise
On thy counsels, Zeus! O change them now!
But if aught be presumptuous in this my prayer,
If aught, O Father, of sin be there,
Forgive it thou.”[ SIMONIDES FRG 37]
Such are the verses and lyrics which resemble beautiful prose; and they owe this resemblance to the causes which I have already set forth to you.
Here, then, Rufus, is my gift to you, which you will find “outweigh a multitude of others,” if only you will keep it in [282] your hands constantly like any other really useful thing, and exercise yourself in its lessons daily. No rules contained in rhetorical manuals can suffice to make experts of those who are determined to dispense with study and practice. They who are ready to undergo toil and hardship can alone decide whether such rules are trivial and useless, or worthy of serious consideration.