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, that we may not be thought to assume off-hand the truth of a doubtful proposition.
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 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.
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 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 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.” 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.
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 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.
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 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. Hewrites, 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.
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 claimedto 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 awa
re, 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 Isought 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.
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?
Delphi Complete Works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics Book 79) Page 125
