Delphi Complete Works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics Book 79)

by Dionysius of Halicarnassus

  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: —

  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 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.

  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 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, 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 thediscourse 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.

  CHAPTER VII. GROUPING OF CLAUSES

  The foregoing, then, is one branch of the art of composition which requires consideration: namely, that which re
lates 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 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.

  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,

  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.

  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 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,

  “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.

  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, 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 h
as both these qualities; it is at once charming and beautiful.

  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 those specified, and I think 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 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.