Λογγῖνος · Πεϱì ὕψους — Longinus: On the Sublime

Τὸ μὲν τοῦ Κεϰιλίου συγγϱαμμάτιον, ὃ πεϱὶ ὕψους συνετάξατο, ἀνασϰοπουμένοις ἡμῖν ὡς οἶσϑα ϰοινῇ, Ποστούμιε Φλωϱεντιανὲ [Τεϱεντιανὲ] φίλτατε, ταπεινότεϱον ἐφάνη τῆς ὅλης ὑποϑέσεως ϰαὶ ἥϰιστα τῶν ϰαιϱίων ἐφαπτόμενον, οὐ πολλήν τε ὠφέλειαν, ἧς μάλιστα δεῖ στοχάζεσϑαι τὸν γϱάφοντα, πεϱιποιοῦν τοῖς ἐντυγχάνουσιν, εἴγ̓ ἐπὶ πάσης τεχνολογίας δυεῖν ἀπαιτουμένων, πϱοτέϱου μὲν τοῦ δεῖξαι, τί τὸ ὑποϰείμενον, δευτέϱου δὲ τῇ τάξει, τῇ δυνάμει δὲ ϰυϱιωτέϱου, πῶς ἂν ἡμῖν αὐτὸ τοῦτο ϰαὶ δἰ ὧν τινων μεϑόδων ϰτητὸν γένοιτο, ὅμως ὁ Κεϰίλιος, ποῖον μέν τι ὑπάϱχει τὸ ὑψηλόν, διὰ μυϱίων ὅσων ὡς ἀγνοοῦσι πειϱᾶται δειϰνύναι, τὸ δὲ δἰ ὅτου τϱόπου τὰς ἑαυτῶν φύσεις πϱοάγειν ἰσχύοιμεν ἂν εἰς ποσὴν μεγέϑους ἐπίδοσιν, οὐϰ οἶδ̓ ὅπως ὡς οὐϰ ἀναγϰαῖον παϱέλιπεν: [2] πλὴν ἴσως τουτονὶ μὲν τὸν ἄνδϱα οὐχ οὕτως αἰτιᾶσϑαι τῶν ἐϰλελειμμένων, ὡς αὐτῆς τῆς ἐπινοίας ϰαὶ σπουδῆς ἄξιον ἐπαινεῖν. ἐπεὶ δ̓ ἐνεϰελεύσω ϰαὶ ἡμᾶς τι πεϱὶ ὕψους πάντως εἰς σὴν ὑπομνηματίσασϑαι χάϱιν, φέϱε, εἴ τι δὴ δοϰοῦμεν ἀνδϱάσι πολιτιϰοῖς τεϑεωϱηϰέναι χϱήσιμον, ἐπισϰεψώμεϑα. αὐτὸς δ̓ ἡμῖν, ἑταῖϱε, τὰ ἐπὶ μέϱους, ὡς πέφυϰας ϰαὶ ϰαϑήϰει, συνεπιϰϱινεῖς ἀληϑέστατα: εὖ γὰϱ δὴ ὁ ἀποφηνάμενος τί ϑεοῖς ὅμοιον ἔχομεν, ῾εὐεϱγεσίαν̓ εἴπας ῾ϰαὶ ἀλήϑειαν.᾿ [3] γϱάφων δὲ πϱὸς δέ, φίλτατε, τὸν παιδείας ἐπιστήμονα, σχεδὸν ἀπήλλαγμαι ϰαὶ τοῦ διὰ πλειόνων πϱοϋποτίϑεσϑαι, ὡς ἀϰϱότης ϰαὶ ἐξοχή τις λόγων ἐστὶ τὰ ὕψη, ϰαὶ ποιητῶν τε οἱ μέγιστοι ϰαὶ συγγϱαφέων οὐϰ ἄλλοϑεν ἢ ἐνϑένδε ποϑὲν ἐπϱώτευσαν ϰαὶ ταῖς ἑαυτῶν πεϱιέβαλον εὐϰλείαις τὸν αἰῶνα. [4] οὐ γὰϱ εἰς πειϑὼ τοὺς ἀϰϱοωμένους ἀλλ̓ εἰς ἔϰστασιν ἄγει τὰ ὑπεϱφυᾶ: πάντη δέ γε σὺν ἐϰπλήξει τοῦ πιϑανοῦ ϰαὶ τοῦ πϱὸς χάϱιν ἀεὶ ϰϱατεῖ τὸ ϑαυμάσιον, εἴγε τὸ μὲν πιϑανὸν ὡς τὰ πολλὰ ἐφ̓ ἡμῖν, ταῦτα δὲ δυναστείαν ϰαὶ βίαν ἄμαχον πϱοσφέϱοντα παντὸς ἐπάνω τοῦ ἀϰϱοωμένου ϰαϑίσταται. ϰαὶ τὴν μὲν ἐμπειϱίαν τῆς εὑϱέσεως ϰαὶ τὴν τῶν πϱαγμάτων τάξιν ϰαὶ οἰϰονομίαν οὐϰ ἐξ ἑνὸς οὐδ̓ ἐϰ δυεῖν, ἐϰ δὲ τοῦ ὅλου τῶν λόγων ὕφους μόλις ἐϰφαινομένην ὁϱῶμεν, ὕψος δέ που ϰαιϱίως ἐξενεχϑὲν τά τε πϱάγματα δίϰην σϰηπτοῦ πάντα διεφόϱησεν ϰαὶ τὴν τοῦ ῥήτοϱος εὐϑὺς ἀϑϱόαν ἐνεδείξατο δύναμιν. ταῦτα γὰϱ οἶμαι ϰαὶ τὰ παϱαπλήσια, Τεϱεντιανὲ ἥδιστε, ϰἂν αὐτὸς ἐϰ πείϱας ὑφηγήσαιο.

The treatise of Caecilius on the Sublime, when, as you remember, my dear Terentian, we examined it together, seemed to us to be beneath the dignity of the whole subject, to fail entirely in seizing the salient points, and to offer little profit (which should be the principal aim of every writer) for the trouble of its perusal. There are two things essential to a technical treatise: the first is to define the subject; the second (I mean second in order, as it is by much the first in importance) to point out how and by what methods we may become masters of it ourselves. And yet Caecilius, while wasting his efforts in a thousand illustrations of the nature of the Sublime, as though here we were quite in the dark, somehow passes by as immaterial the question how we might be able to exalt our own genius to a certain degree of progress in sublimity. However, perhaps it would be fairer to commend this writer’s intelligence and zeal in themselves, instead of blaming him for his omissions. And since you have bidden me also to put together, if only for your entertainment, a few notes on the subject of the Sublime, let me see if there is anything in my speculations which promises advantage to men of affairs. In you, dear friend — such is my confidence in your abilities, and such the part which becomes you—I look for a sympathising and discerning1 critic of the several parts of my treatise. For that was a just remark of his who pronounced that the points in which we resemble the divine nature are benevolence and love of truth.

As I am addressing a person so accomplished in literature, I need only state, without enlarging further on the matter, that the Sublime, wherever it occurs, consists in a certain loftiness and excellence of language, and that it is by this, and this only, that the greatest poets and prose-writers have gained eminence, and won themselves a lasting place in the Temple of Fame. A lofty passage does not convince the reason of the reader, but takes him out of himself. That which is admirable ever confounds our judgment, and eclipses that which is merely reasonable or agreeable. To believe or not is usually in our own power; but the Sublime, acting with an imperious and irresistible force, sways every reader whether he will or no. Skill in invention, lucid arrangement and disposition of facts, are appreciated not by one passage, or by two, but gradually manifest themselves in the general structure of a work; but a sublime thought, if happily timed, illumines an entire subject with the vividness of a lightning-flash, and exhibits the whole power of the orator in a moment of time. Your own experience, I am sure, my dearest Terentian, would enable you to illustrate these and similar points of doctrine.

ou know, my dear Postumius Terentianus, that when we were studying together Cecilius’s **A Sicilian rhetorician, in religion a Jew, who taught at Rome in the time of Augustus. little treatise on the Sublime we found it was too trivial to satisfy the full demands of the subject and omitted altogether to touch upon the main points, and that consequently it does not render to its readers very much of that assistance which should be an author’s chief aim. Moreover, in every systematic treatise there are two requisites: the author must first define his subject, and secondly, though this is really more important, he must show us how and by what means of study we may reach the goal ourselves. Cecilius, however, while assuming our ignorance and endeavouring by a thousand instances to demonstrate the nature of the sublime, apparently thought it unnecessary to deal with the means by which we may be enabled to educate our natures to the proper pitch of elevation. [2] Still, so far as Cecilius is concerned, we ought perhaps rather to praise him for the mere conception of such a treatise and the trouble spent upon it than to blame him for his omissions. But since you have now required me in my turn to prepare some notes on the sublime purely for your own sake, let us then see whether our views have any real value for public speakers; and in the details of our inquiry you yourself, my friend, will, I am sure, do what duty and your heart alike dictate and give me the benefit of your unbiased judgement. For he spoke well who, in answer to the question, “What have we in common with the gods?” said “Kindness and Truth.” **This remark is attributed both to Pythagoras (Aelian, VH XII,59) and to Demosthenes. [3] Further, writing for a man of such learning and culture as yourself, dear friend, I almost feel freed from the need of a lengthy preface showing how the Sublime consists in a consummate excellence and distinction of language, and that this alone gave to the greatest poets and historians their pre-eminence and clothed them with immortal fame. [4] For the effect of genius is not to persuade the audience but rather to transport them out of themselves. Invariably what inspires wonder casts a spell upon us and is always superior to what is merely convincing and pleasing. For our convictions are usually under our own control, while such passages exercise an irresistible power of mastery and get the upper hand with every member of the audience.

Again inventive skill and the due disposal and marshalling of facts do not show themselves in one or two touches: they gradually emerge from the whole tissue of the composition, while, on the other hand, a well-timed flash of sublimity scatters everything before it like a bolt of lightning and reveals the full power of the speaker at a single stroke. But, as I say, my dear Terentianus, these and other such hints you with your experience could supply yourself.

Ἡμῖν δ̓ ἐϰεῖνο διαποϱητέον ἐν ἀϱχῇ, εἰ ἔστιν ὕψους τις ἢ βάϑους τέχνη, ἐπεί τινες ὅλως οἴονται διηπατῆσϑαι τοὺς τὰ τοιαῦτα ἄγοντας εἰς τεχνιϰὰ παϱαγγέλματα. γεννᾶται γάϱ, φησί, τὰ μεγαλοφυῆ ϰαὶ οὐ διδαϰτὰ παϱαγίνεται, ϰαὶ μία τέχνη πϱὸς αὐτὰ τὸ πεφυϰέναι: χείϱω τε τὰ φυσιϰὰ ἔϱγα, ὡς οἴονται, ϰαὶ τῷ παντὶ δειλότεϱα ϰαϑίσταται ταῖς τεχνολογίαις ϰατασϰελετευόμενα. [2] ἐγὼ δὲ ἐλεγχϑήσεσϑαι τοῦϑ̓ ἑτέϱως ἔχον φημί, εἰ ἐπισϰέψαιτό τις, ὅτι ἡ φύσις, ὥσπεϱ τὰ πολλὰ ἐν τοῖς παϑητιϰοῖς ϰαὶ διῃϱμένοις αὐτόνομον, οὕτως οὐϰ εἰϰαῖόν τι ϰἀϰ παντὸς ἀμέϑοδον εἶναι φιλεῖ, ϰαὶ ὅτι αὕτη μὲν πϱῶτόν τι ϰαὶ ἀϱχέτυπον γενέσεως στοιχεῖον ἐπὶ πάντων ὑφέστηϰεν, τὰς δὲ ποσότητας ϰαὶ τὸν ἐφ̓ ἑϰάστου ϰαιϱόν, ἔτι δὲ τὴν ἀπλανεστάτην ἄσϰησίν τε ϰαὶ χϱῆσιν ἱϰανὴ παϱοϱίσαι ϰαὶ συνενεγϰεῖν ἡ μέϑοδος, ϰαὶ ὡς ἐπιϰινδυνότεϱα, αὐτὰ ἐφ̓ αὑτῶν δίχα ἐπιστήμης, ἀστήϱιϰτα ϰαὶ ἀνεϱμάτιστα ἐαϑέντα τὰ μεγάλα, ἐπὶ μόνῃ τῇ φοϱᾷ ϰαὶ ἀμαϑεῖ τόλμῃ λειπόμενα: δεῖ γὰϱ αὐτοῖς ὡς ϰέντϱου πολλάϰις, οὕτω δὲ ϰαὶ χαλινοῦ. [3] ὅπεϱ γὰϱ ὁ Δημοσϑένης ἐπὶ τοῦ ϰοινοῦ τῶν ἀνϑϱώπων ἀποφαίνεται βίου, μέγιστον μὲν εἶναι τῶν ἀγαϑῶν τὸ εὐτυχεῖν, δεύτεϱον δὲ ϰαὶ οὐϰ ἔλαττον τὸ εὖ βουλεύεσϑαι, ὅπεϱ οἷς ἂν μὴ παϱῇ συναναιϱεῖ πάντως ϰαὶ ϑάτεϱον, τοῦτ̓ ἂν ϰαὶ ἐπὶ τῶν λόγων εἴποιμεν, ὡς ἡ μὲν φύσις τὴν τῆς εὐτυχίας τάξιν ἐπέχει, ἡ τέχνη δὲ τὴν τῆς εὐβουλίας. τὸ δὲ ϰυϱιώτατον, ὅτι ϰαὶ αὐτὸ τὸ εἶναί τινα τῶν ἐν λόγοις ἐπὶ μόνῃ τῇ φύσει οὐϰ ἄλλοϑεν ἡμᾶς ἢ παϱὰ τῆς τέχνης ἐϰμαϑεῖν δεῖ. εἰ ταῦϑ̓, ὡς ἔφην, ἐπιλογίσαιτο ϰαϑ̓ ἑαυτὸν ὁ τοῖς χϱηστομαϑοῦσιν ἐπιτιμῶν, οὐϰ ἂν ἔτι, ἐμοὶ δοϰεῖ, πεϱιττὴν ϰαὶ ἄχϱηστον τὴν ἐπὶ τῶν πϱοϰειμένων ἡγήσαιτο ϑεωϱίαν
{... ...}

The first question which presents itself for solution is whether there is any art which can teach sublimity or loftiness in writing. For some hold generally that there is mere delusion in attempting to reduce such subjects to technical rules. “The Sublime,” they tell us, “is born in a man, and not to be acquired by instruction; genius is the only master who can teach it. The vigorous products of nature” (such is their view) “are weakened and in every respect debased, when robbed of their flesh and blood by frigid technicalities.” But I maintain that the truth can be shown to stand otherwise in this matter. Let us look at the case in this way; Nature in her loftier and more passionate moods, while detesting all appearance of restraint, is not wont to show herself utterly wayward and reckless; and though in all cases the vital informing principle is derived from her, yet to determine the right degree and the right moment, and to contribute the precision of practice and experience, is the peculiar province of scientific method. The great passions, when left to their own blind and rash impulses without the control of reason, are in the same danger as a ship let drive at random without ballast. Often they need the spur, but sometimes also the curb. The remark of Demosthenes with regard to human life in general,—that the greatest of all blessings is to be fortunate, but next to that and equal in importance is to be well advised,—for good fortune is utterly ruined by the absence of good counsel,—may be applied to literature, if we substitute genius for fortune, and art for counsel. Then, again (and this is the most important point of all), a writer can only learn from art when he is to abandon himself to the direction of his genius.

These are the considerations which I submit to the unfavourable critic of such useful studies. Perhaps they may induce him to alter his opinion as to the vanity and idleness of our present investigations.

We must begin now by raising the question whether there is an art of sublimity or profundity,**There seems to be no authority for taking this, as Pope does, in the sense of “bathos”. The adjective βαϑύς applied to mental qualities means “deep”, not “low”. for some think those are wholly at fault who try to bring such matters under systematic rules. Genius, it is said, is born and does not come of teaching, and the only art for producing it is nature. Works of natural genius, so people think, are spoiled and utterly demeaned by being reduced to the dry bones of rule and precept. [2] For my part I hold that the opposite may be proved, if we consider that while in lofty emotion Nature for the most part knows no law, yet it is not the way of Nature to work at random and wholly without system. In all production Nature is the prime cause, the great exemplar; but as to all questions of degree, of the happy moment in each case, and again of the safest rules of practice and use, such prescriptions are the proper contribution of an art or system. We must remember also that mere grandeur runs the greater risk, if left to itself without the stay and ballast of scientific method, and abandoned to the impetus of uninstructed enterprise. For genius needs the curb as often as the spur. [3] Speaking of the common life of men Demosthenes **Oration XXIII, ϰατὰ Ἀϱιστοϰϱάτους, Against Aristocrates 113. declares that the greatest of all blessings is good fortune, and that next comes good judgement, which is indeed quite as important, since the lack of it often completely cancels the advantage of the former. We may apply this to literature and say that Nature fills the place of good fortune, Art that of good judgement. And above all we must remember this: the very fact that in literature some effects come of natural genius alone can only be learnt from art.

If then, I say, those who censure the students of this art would lay these considerations to heart, they would not, I fancy, be any longer inclined to consider the study of these subjects superfluous and useless.
{Two pages of the ms. are lost here.}

... ϰαὶ ϰαμίνου σχῶσι μάϰιστον σέλας.
εἰ γάϱ τιν̓ ἑστιοῦχον ὄψομαι μόνον,
μίαν παϱείϱας πλεϰτάνην χειμάϱϱοον,
στέγην πυϱώσω ϰαὶ ϰατανϑϱαϰώσομαι:
νῦν δ̓ οὐ ϰέϰϱαγά πω τὸ γενναῖον μέλος.

Οὐ τϱαγιϰὰ ἔτι ταῦτα, ἀλλὰ παϱατϱάγῳδα, αἱ πλεϰτάναι, ϰαὶ τὸ πϱὸς οὐϱανὸν ἐξεμεῖν, ϰαὶ τὸ τὸν Βοϱέαν αὐλητὴν ποιεῖν, ϰαὶ τὰ ἄλλα ἑξῆς: τεϑόλωται γὰϱ τῇ φϱάσει ϰαὶ τεϑοϱύβηται ταῖς φαντασίαις μᾶλλον ἢ δεδείνωται, ϰἂν ἕϰαστον αὐτῶν πϱὸς αὐγὰς ἀνασϰοπῇς, ἐϰ τοῦ φοβεϱοῦ ϰατ̓ ὀλίγον ὑπονοστεῖ πϱὸς τὸ εὐϰαταφϱόνητον. ὅπου δ̓ ἐν τϱαγῳδίᾳ, πϱάγματι ὀγϰηϱῷ φύσει ϰαὶ ἐπιδεχομένῳ στόμφον, ὅμως τὸ παϱὰ μέλος οἰδεῖν ἀσύγγνωστον, σχολῇ γ̓ ἂν οἶμαι λόγοις ἀληϑινοῖς ἁϱμόσειεν. [2] ταύτῃ ϰαὶ τὰ τοῦ Λεοντίνου Γοϱγίου γελᾶται γϱάφοντος ῾Ξέϱξης ὁ τῶν Πεϱσῶν Ζεύς,᾿ ϰαὶ ῾Γῦπες ἔμψυχοι τάφοι,᾿ ϰαί τινα τῶν Καλλισϑένους ὄντα οὐχ ὑψηλὰ ἀλλὰ μετέωϱα, ϰαὶ ἔτι μᾶλλον τὰ Κλειτάϱχου: φλοιώδης γὰϱ ἁνὴϱ ϰαὶ φυσῶν ϰατὰ τὸν Σοφοϰλέα, μιϰϱοῖς μὲν αὐλίσϰοισι, φοϱβειᾶς δ̓ ἄτεϱ. τά γε μὴν Ἀμφιϰϱάτους τοιαῦτα ϰαὶ Ἡγησίου ϰαὶ Μάτϱιδος: πολλαχοῦ γὰϱ ἐνϑουσιᾶν ἑαυτοῖς δοϰοῦντες οὐ βαϰχεύουσιν ἀλλὰ παίζουσιν. [3] ὅλως δ̓ ἔοιϰεν εἶναι τὸ οἰδεῖν ἐν τοῖς μάλιστα δυσφυλαϰτότατον. φύσει γὰϱ ἅπαντες οἱ μεγέϑους ἐφιέμενοι, φεύγοντες ἀσϑενείας ϰαὶ ξηϱότητος ϰατάγνωσιν, οὐϰ οἶδ̓ ὅπως ἐπὶ τοῦϑ̓ ὑποφέϱονται, πειϑόμενοι τῷ ῾μεγάλων ἀπολισϑαίνειν ὅμως εὐγενὲς ἁμάϱτημα.᾿ [4] ϰαϰοὶ δὲ ὄγϰοι ϰαὶ ἐπὶ σωμάτων ϰαὶ λόγων, οἱ χαῦνοι ϰαὶ ἀναλήϑεις ϰαὶ μήποτε πεϱιιστάντες ἡμᾶς εἰς τοὐναντίον: οὐδὲν γάϱ φασι ξηϱότεϱον ὑδϱωπιϰοῦ. ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν οἰδοῦν ὑπεϱαίϱειν βούλεται τὰ ὕψη, τὸ δὲ μειϱαϰιῶδες ἄντιϰϱυς ὑπεναντίον τοῖς μεγέϑεσι: ταπεινὸν γὰϱ ἐξ ὅλου ϰαὶ μιϰϱόψυχον ϰαὶ τῷ ὄντι ϰαϰὸν ἀγενέστατον. τί ποτ̓ οὖν τὸ μειϱαϰιῶδές ἐστιν; ἢ δῆλον ὡς σχολαστιϰὴ νόησις, ὑπὸ πεϱιεϱγασίας λήγουσα εἰς ψυχϱότητα; ὀλισϑαίνουσι δ̓ εἰς τοῦτο τὸ γένος ὀϱεγόμενοι μὲν τοῦ πεϱιττοῦ ϰαὶ πεποιημένου ϰαὶ μάλιστα τοῦ ἡδέος, ἐποϰέλλοντες δὲ εἰς τὸ ῥωπιϰὸν ϰαὶ ϰαϰόζηλον. [5] τούτῳ παϱάϰειται τϱίτον τι ϰαϰίας εἶδος ἐν τοῖς παϑητιϰοῖς, ὅπεϱ ὁ Θεόδωϱος παϱένϑυϱσον ἐϰάλει. ἔστι δὲ πάϑος ἄϰαιϱον ϰαὶ ϰενὸν ἔνϑα μὴ δεῖ πάϑους, ἢ ἄμετϱον ἔνϑα μετϱίου δεῖ. πολλὰ γὰϱ ὥσπεϱ ἐϰ μέϑης τινὲς εἰς τὰ μηϰέτι τοῦ πϱάγματος, ἴδια ἑαυτῶν ϰαὶ σχολιϰὰ παϱαφέϱονται πάϑη: εἶτα πϱὸς οὐδὲν πεπονϑότας ἀϰϱοατὰς ἀσχημονοῦσιν, εἰϰότως, ἐξεστηϰότες πϱὸς οὐϰ ἐξεστηϰότας: πλὴν πεϱὶ μὲν τῶν παϑητιϰῶν ἄλλος ἡμῖν ἀπόϰειται τόπος.
 
 
 
 
 

... “And let them check the stove’s long tongues of fire:
For if I see one tenant of the hearth,
I’ll thrust within one curling torrent flame,
And bring that roof in ashes to the ground:
But now not yet is sung my noble lay.”

Such phrases cease to be tragic, and become burlesque,—I mean phrases like “curling torrent flames” and “vomiting to heaven,” and representing Boreas as a piper, and so on. Such expressions, and such images, produce an effect of confusion and obscurity, not of energy; and if each separately be examined under the light of criticism, what seemed terrible gradually sinks into absurdity. Since then, even in tragedy, where the natural dignity of the subject makes a swelling diction allowable, we cannot pardon a tasteless grandiloquence, how much more incongruous must it seem in sober prose! Hence we laugh at those fine words of Gorgias of Leontini, such as “Xerxes the Persian Zeus” and “vultures, those living tombs,” and at certain conceits of Callisthenes which are high-flown rather than sublime, and at some in Cleitarchus more ludicrous still—a writer whose frothy style tempts us to travesty Sophocles and say, “He blows a little pipe, and blows it ill.” The same faults may be observed in Amphicrates and Hegesias and Matris, who in their frequent moments (as they think) of inspiration, instead of playing the genius are simply playing the fool.

Speaking generally, it would seem that bombast is one of the hardest things to avoid in writing. For all those writers who are ambitious of a lofty style, through dread of being convicted of feebleness and poverty of language, slide by a natural gradation into the opposite extreme. “Who fails in great endeavour, nobly fails,” is their creed. Now bulk, when hollow and affected, is always objectionable, whether in material bodies or in writings, and in danger of producing on us an impression of littleness: “nothing,” it is said, “is drier than a man with the dropsy.”

The characteristic, then, of bombast is that it transcends the Sublime: but there is another fault diametrically opposed to grandeur: this is called puerility, and it is the failing of feeble and narrow minds,—indeed, the most ignoble of all vices in writing. By puerility we mean a pedantic habit of mind, which by over-elaboration ends in frigidity. Slips of this sort are made by those who, aiming at brilliancy, polish, and especially attractiveness, are landed in paltriness and silly affectation. Closely associated with this is a third sort of vice, in dealing with the passions, which Theodorus used to call false sentiment, meaning by that an ill-timed and empty display of emotion, where no emotion is called for, or of greater emotion than the situation warrants. Thus we often see an author hurried by the tumult of his mind into tedious displays of mere personal feeling which has no connection with the subject. Yet how justly ridiculous must an author appear, whose most violent transports leave his readers quite cold! However, I will dismiss this subject, as I intend to devote a separate work to the treatment of the pathetic in writing.

... Yea, though they check the chimney’s towering flame.
For, if I spy one hearth-holder alone,
I’ll weave one torrent coronal of flame
And fire the steading to a heap of ash.
But not yet have I blown the noble strain. **From Aeschylus’s Ὠϱείϑυια, Oreithyia, now lost. The speaker is Boreas.

All this has lost the tone of tragedy; it is pseudo-tragic, – the “coronals” and “spewing to heaven” **As these words are not in the quotation, some of it is presumably lost. and making Boreas a flute-player and all the rest of it. The phrasing is pompous, while the images make for confusion rather than intensity. Examine each in the light of day and it gradually declines from the terrible to the ridiculous. Now seeing that in tragedy, which is essentially a majestic matter and admits of bombast, misplaced pomposity is none the less unpardonable, surely it is not likely to suit real speeches. [2] Thus it is that people laugh at Gorgias of Leontini for calling Xerxes the “Persian Zeus,” and vultures “living sepulchres”**Γοϱγίας, Gorgias fragment B5a; also at certain phrases of Callisthenes **A historian who flourished about 300 B.C. which are not sublime but highfalutin, and still more at some of Cleitarchus’s **Historian of Alexander the Great, his contemporary. efforts, an affected creature, blowing, as Sophocles says, “on scrannel pipes, yet wasting all his wind.” **These lines, quoted in a fuller form by Cicero (Ad Att. II,xvi,2), are probably from an Oreithyia by Sophocles. The φοϱβειά was a cheek-strap worn by pipers to check the flow of breath. The coronal in l. 3 may be a blast of wind.

You find the same sort of thing in Amphicrates too, and in Hegesias and Matris.**Amphicrates of Athens (first century B.C.), Hegesias of Magnesia (third century B.C.), Matris of Thebes (? second century B.C.), were rhetoricians of the bombastic “Asiatic” school. For often when they think themselves inspired, their supposed ecstasy is merely childish folly . [3] Speaking generally, pomposity seems one of the hardest faults to guard against. For all who aim at grandeur, in trying to avoid the charge of being feeble and arid, fall somehow into this fault, pinning their faith to the maxim that “to miss a high aim is to fail without shame.” [4] Tumours are bad things whether in books or bodies, those empty inflations, void of sincerity, as likely as not producing the opposite to the effect intended. For, as they say, “there’s naught so dry as dropsy.”

Pomposity then comes of trying to outdo the sublime. Puerility, on the other hand, is the exact opposite of grandeur; utterly abject, mean-spirited, and in fact the most ignoble of faults. What then is puerility? Is it not obviously the academic attitude, where over-elaboration ends in frigid failure? Writers fall into this fault through trying to be uncommon and exquisite, and above all to please, and founder instead upon the tinsel **ῥῶπος means “trash,” trumpery wares. reefs of affectation. [5] Closely allied to this is a third kind of fault peculiar to emotional passages, what Theodorus used to call “Parenthyrson.” **Theodorus was a Gadarene rhetorician of the first century B.C., one of whose pupils was the Emperor Tiberius. Parenthyrson means the poking in of the thyrsus at the wrong time, i.e, the affectation of Bacchanalian fury where no fury need be (Saintsbury). This is emotion misplaced and pointless where none is needed, or unrestrained where restraint is required. For writers often behave as if they were drunk and give way to outbursts of emotion which the subject no longer warrants. Such emotion is purely subjective and consequently tedious, so that to an audience which feels none of it their behaviour looks unseemly. And naturally so, for while they are in ecstasy, the audience are not. However we have reserved another place in which to treat of emotional passages.

Θατέϱου δὲ ὧν εἴπομεν, λέγω δὲ τοῦ ψυχϱοῦ, πλήϱης ὁ Τίμαιος, ἀνὴϱ τὰ μὲν ἄλλα ἱϰανὸς ϰαὶ πϱὸς λόγων ἐνίοτε μέγεϑος οὐϰ ἄφοϱος, πολυΐστωϱ, ἐπινοητιϰός: πλὴν ἀλλοτϱίων μὲν ἐλεγϰτιϰώτατος ἁμαϱτημάτων, ἀνεπαίσϑητος δὲ ἰδίων, ὑπὸ δὲ ἔϱωτος τοῦ ξένας νοήσεις ἀεὶ ϰινεῖν πολλάϰις ἐϰπίπτων εἰς τὸ παιδαϱιωδέστατον. [2] παϱαϑήσομαι δὲ τἀνδϱὸς ἓν ἢ δύο, ἐπειδὴ τὰ πλείω πϱοέλαβεν ὁ Κεϰίλιος. ἐπαινῶν Ἀλέξανδϱον τὸν μέγαν, ῾ὃς τὴν Ἀσίαν ὅλην̓ φησίν ῾ἐν ἐλάττοσι παϱέλαβεν, ἢ ὅσοις τὸν ὑπὲϱ τοῦ πϱὸς Πέϱσας πολέμου πανηγυϱιϰὸν λόγον Ἰσοϰϱάτης ἔγϱαψεν.᾿ ϑαυμαστή γε τοῦ Μαϰεδόνος ἡ πϱὸς τὸν σοφιστὴν σύγϰϱισις: δῆλον γάϱ, ὦ Τίμαιε, ὡς οἱ Λαϰεδαιμόνιοι διὰ τοῦτο πολὺ τοῦ Ἰσοϰϱάτους ϰατ̓ ἀνδϱίαν ἐλείποντο, ἐπειδὴ οἱ μὲν τϱιάϰοντα ἔτεσι Μεσσήνην παϱέλαβον, ὁ δὲ τὸν πανηγυϱιϰὸν ἐν μόνοις δέϰα συνετάξατο. [3] τοῖς δὲ Ἀϑηναίοις ἁλοῦσι πεϱὶ Σιϰελίαν τίνα τϱόπον ἐπιφωνεῖ; ὅτι ῾εἰς τὸν Ἑϱμῆν ἀσεβήσαντες ϰαὶ πεϱιϰόψαντες αὐτοῦ τὰ ἀγάλματα, διὰ τοῦτ̓ ἔδωϰαν δίϰην, οὐχ ἥϰιστα δἰ ἕνα ἄνδϱα, ὃς ἀπὸ τοῦ παϱανομηϑέντος διὰ πατέϱων ἦν, Ἑϱμοϰϱάτη τὸν Ἕϱμωνος.᾿ ὥστε ϑαυμάζειν με, Τεϱεντιανὲ ἥδιστε, πῶς οὐ ϰαὶ εἰς Διονύσιον γϱάφει τὸν τύϱαννον: ῾ ἐπεὶ γὰϱ εἰς τὸν Δία ϰαὶ τὸν Ἡϱαϰλέα δυσσεβὴς ἐγένετο, διὰ τοῦτ̓ αὐτὸν Δίων ϰαὶ Ἡϱαϰλείδης τῆς τυϱαννίδος ἀφείλοντο.᾿ [4] τί δεῖ πεϱὶ Τιμαίου λέγειν, ὅπου γε ϰαὶ οἱ ἥϱωες ἐϰεῖνοι, Ξενοφῶντα λέγω ϰαὶ Πλάτωνα, ϰαίτοιγε ἐϰ τῆς Σωϰϱάτους ὄντες παλαίστϱας, ὅμως διὰ τὰ οὕτως μιϰϱοχαϱῆ ποτε ἑαυτῶν ἐπιλανϑάνονται; ὁ μέν γε ἐν τῇ Λαϰεδαιμονίων γϱάφει πολιτείᾳ: ῾ἐϰείνων μὲν γοῦν ἧττον μὲν ἂν φωνὴν ἀϰούσαις ἢ τῶν λιϑίνων, ἧττον δ̓ ἂν ὄμματα στϱέψαις ἢ τῶν χαλϰῶν, αἰδημονεστέϱους δ̓ ἂν αὐτοὺς ἡγήσαιο ϰαὶ αὐτῶν τῶν ἐν τοῖς ὀφϑαλμοῖς παϱϑένων.᾿ Ἀμφιϰϱάτει ϰαὶ οὐ Ξενοφῶντι ἔπϱεπε τὰς ἐν τοῖς ὀφϑαλμοῖς ἡμῶν ϰόϱας λέγειν παϱϑένους αἰδήμονας. οἷον δὲ Ἡϱάϰλεις τὸ τὰς ἁπάντων ἑξῆς ϰόϱας αἰσχυντηλὰς εἶναι πεπεῖσϑαι, ὅπου φασὶν οὐδενὶ οὕτως ἐνσημαίνεσϑαι τήν τινων ἀναίδειαν ὡς ἐν τοῖς ὀφϑαλμοῖς. ῾ οἰνοβαϱές, ϰυνὸς ὄμματ̓ ἔχων̓ φησίν. [5] ὁ μέντοι Τίμαιος, ὡς φωϱίου τινὸς ἐφαπτόμενος, οὐδὲ τοῦτο Ξενοφῶντι τὸ ψυχϱὸν ϰατέλιπεν. φησὶ γοῦν ἐπὶ τοῦ Ἀγαϑοϰλέους ϰαὶ τὸ ῾τὴν ἀνεψιὰν ἑτέϱῳ δεδομένην ἐϰ τῶν ἀναϰαλυπτηϱίων ἁϱπάσαντα ἀπελϑεῖν: ὃ τίς ἂν ἐποίησεν ἐν ὀφϑαλμοῖς ϰόϱας, μὴ πόϱνας ἔχων;᾿ [6] τί δέ; ὁ τἆλλα ϑεῖος Πλάτων τὰς δέλτους ϑέλων εἰπεῖν ῾ γϱάψαντες᾿ φησὶν ῾ἐν τοῖς ἱεϱοῖς ϑήσουσι ϰυπαϱιττίνας μνήμας.᾿ ϰαὶ πάλιν ῾πεϱὶ δὲ τειχῶν, ὦ Μέγιλλε, ἐγὼ ξυμφεϱοίμην ἂν τῇ Σπάϱτῃ τὸ ϰαϑεύδειν ἐᾶν τῇ γῇ ϰαταϰείμενα τὰ τείχη, ϰαὶ μὴ ἐπανίστασϑαι.᾿ [7] ϰαὶ τὸ Ἡϱοδότειον οὐ πόϱϱω, τὸ φάναι τὰς ϰαλὰς γυναῖϰας ῾ἀλγηδόνας ὀφϑαλμῶν.᾿ ϰαίτοιγε ἔχει τινὰ παϱαμυϑίαν, οἱ γὰϱ παῤ αὐτῷ ταυτὶ λέγοντές εἰσιν οἱ βάϱβαϱοι ϰαὶ ἐν μέϑῃ, ἀλλ̓ οὐδ̓ ἐϰ τοιούτων πϱοσώπων διὰ μιϰϱοψυχίαν ϰαλὸν ἀσχημονεῖν πϱὸς τὸν αἰῶνα.

The last of the faults which I mentioned is frequently observed in Timaeus—I mean the fault of frigidity. In other respects he is an able writer, and sometimes not unsuccessful in the loftier style; a man of wide knowledge, and full of ingenuity; a most bitter critic of the failings of others—but unhappily blind to his own. In his eagerness to be always striking out new thoughts he frequently falls into the most childish absurdities. I will only instance one or two passages, as most of them have been pointed out by Caecilius. Wishing to say something very fine about Alexander the Great he speaks of him as a man “who annexed the whole of Asia in fewer years than Isocrates spent in writing his panegyric oration in which he urges the Greeks to make war on Persia.” How strange is the comparison of the “great Emathian conqueror” with an Athenian rhetorician! By this mode of reasoning it is plain that the Spartans were very inferior to Isocrates in courage, since it took them thirty years to conquer Messene, while he finished the composition of this harangue in ten. Observe, too, his language on the Athenians taken in Sicily. “They paid the penalty for their impious outrage on Hermes in mutilating his statues; and the chief agent in their destruction was one who was descended on his father’s side from the injured deity—Hermocrates, son of Hermon.” I wonder, my dearest Terentian, how he omitted to say of the tyrant Dionysius that for his impiety towards Zeus and Herakles he was deprived of his power by Dion and Herakleides. Yet why speak of Timaeus, when even men like Xenophon and Plato—the very demi-gods of literature—though they had sat at the feet of Socrates, sometimes forgot themselves in the pursuit of such paltry conceits. The former, in his account of the Spartan Polity, has these words: “Their voice you would no more hear than if they were of marble, their gaze is as immovable as if they were cast in bronze; you would deem them more modest than the very maidens in their eyes.”5 To speak of the pupils of the eye as “modest maidens” was a piece of absurdity becoming Amphicrates6 rather than Xenophon. And then what a strange delusion to suppose that modesty is always without exception expressed in the eye! whereas it is commonly said that there is nothing by which an impudent fellow betrays his character so much as by the expression of his eyes. Thus Achilles addresses Agamemnon in the Iliad as “drunkard, with eye of dog.” Timaeus, however, with that want of judgment which characterises plagiarists, could not leave to Xenophon the possession of even this piece of frigidity. In relating how Agathocles carried off his cousin, who was wedded to another man, from the festival of the unveiling, he asks, “Who could have done such a deed, unless he had harlots instead of maidens in his eyes?” And Plato himself, elsewhere so supreme a master of style, meaning to describe certain recording tablets, says, “They shall write, and deposit in the temples memorials of cypress wood”;8 and again, “Then concerning walls, Megillus, I give my vote with Sparta that we should let them lie asleep within the ground, and not awaken them.” And Herodotus falls pretty much under the same censure, when he speaks of beautiful women as “tortures to the eye,” though here there is some excuse, as the speakers in this passage are drunken barbarians. Still, even from dramatic motives, such errors in taste should not be permitted to deface the pages of an immortal work.

The second fault of which we spoke above **chap. iii. § 4. is Frigidity, of which there are many examples in Timaeus, **A Sicilian historian at the end of the fourth century B.C. He was so critical that he was nicknamed Ἐπιτίμαιος, “fault-finder". in other respects a capable writer and sometimes far from barren in greatness of style, learned, and full of ideas. Yet while keenly critical of others’ faults, he is blind and deaf to his own, and his insatiable passion for starting strange conceits often lands him in the most puerile bathos. [2] I shall only quote one or two examples from Timaeus, as Cecilius has forestalled me with most of them. In his eulogy of Alexander the Great he speaks of “one who subdued the whole of Asia in fewer years than Isocrates took to write his Panegyric urging war on Persia.” Surely this is an odd comparison of the Macedonian to the sophist, for it is obvious, friend Timaeus, that on this showing Isocrates was a far better man than the Spartans, since they spent thirty years in subduing Messene, while he composed his Panegyric in no more than ten! [3] Again, take his denunciation of the Athenian prisoners in Sicily: “Having committed sacrilege against Hermes and mutilated his statues they were therefore punished, mainly owing to the action of a single man, who was kin on his father’s side to the injured deity, Hermocrates the son of Hermon.” This makes me wonder, my dear Terentianus, why he does not write of the tyrant Dionysius that “Having shown impiety towards Zeus and Heracles, he was therefore deprived of his tyranny by Dion **Since the genitive of Zeus is Διός, this ironically supplies a conceit which matches Timaeus’s play on “Hermes” and “Hermocrates the son of Hermon.” and Heracleides.” [4] But why speak of Timaeus when those very demi-gods, Xenophon and Plato, for all their training in the school of Socrates, yet sometimes forget themselves in their fondness for such cheap effects. In his Constitution of Sparta Xenophon says, “Certainly you would hear as little speech from these Spartans as from marble statues, and could as easily catch the eye of a bronze figure; indeed you might well think them as modest as the maidens in their eyes.” **The pupil of the eye, since it reflects a doll-like image of one who looks close into it, was called ϰόϱη, a maiden. Hence the conceit. Oddly enough our text of Xenophon reads “maidens in their chambers”, τῶν ἐν τοῖς ϑαλάμοις παϱϑένων, Xen. De re publica Laced. III.v. It would have better suited Amphicrates than Xenophon to speak of the pupils in our eyes as modest maidens. And fancy believing that every single man of them had modest pupils, when they say that people show their immodesty in nothing so much as their eyes! Why, an impudent fellow is called “Heavy with wine, with the eyes of a dog.” **Homer Iliad I,235. [5] However, Timaeus, laying hands as it were on stolen goods, could not leave even this frigid conceit to Xenophon. For example, speaking of Agathocles when he carried off his cousin from the unveiling ceremony **i.e. the third day of the marriage ceremonies. although she had been given in marriage to another, he says, “ Who could have done such a thing, had he not harlots instead of maidens in his eyes? “ And what of the otherwise divine Plato? [6] “They will inscribe and store in the temples,” he says, “cypress memorials,” **Laws V,741C. meaning wooden tablets; and again, “As for walls, Megillus, I would consent with Sparta to let the walls lie slumbering on the ground and never rise again.” **Laws VI,778D. [7] Herodotus’s phrase for fair women is not much better: “eye torture” he calls them. **Ἱστοϱίαι V,18. Yet he has some excuse, for in Herodotus this is said by the barbarians, who are, moreover, in their cups. Yet even in the mouths of such characters as these it is not right to display an unseemly triviality before an audience of all the ages.

Ἅπαντα μέντοι τὰ οὕτως ἄσεμνα διὰ μίαν ἐμφύεται τοῖς λόγοις αἰτίαν, διὰ τὸ πεϱὶ τὰς νοήσεις ϰαινόσπουδον, πεϱὶ ὃ δὴ μάλιστα ϰοϱυβαντιῶσιν οἱ νῦν: ἀφ̓ ὧν γὰϱ ἡμῖν τἀγαϑά, σχεδὸν ἀπ̓ αὐτῶν τούτων ϰαὶ τὰ ϰαϰὰ γεννᾶσϑαι φιλεῖ. ὅϑεν ἐπίφοϱον εἰς συνταγμάτων ϰατόϱϑωσιν τά τε ϰάλλη τῆς ἑϱμηνείας ϰαὶ τὰ ὕψη ϰαὶ πϱὸς τούτοις αἱ ἡδοναί: ϰαὶ αὐτὰ ταῦτα ϰαϑάπεϱ τῆς ἐπιτυχίας, οὕτως ἀϱχαὶ ϰαὶ ὑποϑέσεις ϰαὶ τῶν ἐναντίων ϰαϑίστανται. τοιοῦτόν πως ϰαὶ αἱ μεταβολαὶ ϰαὶ ὑπεϱβολαὶ ϰαὶ τὰ πληϑυντιϰά: δείξομεν δ̓ ἐν τοῖς ἔπειτα τὸν ϰίνδυνον, ὃν ἔχειν ἐοίϰασι. διόπεϱ ἀναγϰαῖον ἤδη διαποϱεῖν ϰαὶ ὑποτίϑεσϑαι, δἰ ὅτου τϱόπου τὰς ἀναϰεϰϱαμένας ϰαϰίας τοῖς ὑψηλοῖς ἐϰφεύγειν δυνάμεϑα.

Now all these glaring improprieties of language may be traced to one common root—the pursuit of novelty in thought. It is this that has turned the brain of nearly all the learned world of to-day. Human blessings and human ills commonly flow from the same source: and, to apply this principle to literature, those ornaments of style, those sublime and delightful images, which contribute to success, are the foundation and the origin, not only of excellence, but also of failure. It is thus with the figures called transitions, and hyperboles, and the use of plurals for singulars. I shall show presently the dangers which they seem to involve. Our next task, therefore, must be to propose and to settle the question how we may avoid the faults of style related to sublimity.

However, all these improprieties in literature are weeds sprung from the same seed, namely that passion for novel ideas which is the prevalent craze of the present day. For our virtues and vices spring from much the same sources. And so while beauty of style, sublime expression, yes, and agreeable phrasing all contribute to successful composition, yet these very graces are the source and groundwork no less of failure than of success And we must say the same, I suppose, about variety of construction and the use of exaggeration and the idiomatic plural. But we will show later **Chapters xxiii and xxxviii. the danger which they seem to us to involve. We are, then, bound at once to raise the question and to suggest how we can avoid the faults that go so closely with the elevated style.

Ἔστι δέ, ὦ φίλος, εἴ τινα πεϱιποιησαίμεϑ̓ ἐν πϱώτοις ϰαϑαϱὰν τοῦ ϰατ̓ ἀλήϑειαν ὕψους ἐπιστήμην ϰαὶ ἐπίϰϱισιν. ϰαίτοι τὸ πϱᾶγμα δύσληπτον: ἡ γὰϱ τῶν λόγων ϰϱίσις πολλῆς ἐστι πείϱας τελευταῖον ἐπιγέννημα: οὐ μὴν ἀλλ̓, ὡς εἰπεῖν ἐν παϱαγγέλματι, ἐντεῦϑέν ποϑεν ἴσως τὴν διάγνωσιν αὐτῶν οὐϰ ἀδύνατον ποϱίζεσϑαι.

Our best hope of doing this will be first of all to grasp some definite theory and criterion of the true Sublime. Nevertheless this is a hard matter; for a just judgment of style is the final fruit of long experience; still, I believe that the way I shall indicate will enable us to distinguish between the true and false Sublime, so far as it can be done by rule.

And this, my friend, is the way. To obtain first of all a clear knowledge and appreciation of what is really sublime. And yet that is no easy task. For judgement in literature is the last fruit of ripe experience. However, if I must speak by precept, it is not impossible perhaps that a true discernment in such matters may be derived from some such considerations as these.

Εἰδέναι χϱή, φίλτατε, διότι, ϰαϑάπεϱ ϰἀν τῷ ϰοινῷ βίῳ οὐδὲν ὑπάϱχει μέγα, οὗ τὸ ϰαταφϱονεῖν ἐστι μέγα, οἷον πλοῦτοι τιμαὶ δόξαι τυϱαννίδες, ϰαὶ ὅσα δὴ ἄλλα ἔχει πολὺ τὸ ἔξωϑεν πϱοστϱαγῳδούμενον, οὐϰ ἂν τῷ γε φϱονίμῳ δόξειεν ἀγαϑὰ ὑπεϱβάλλοντα, ὧν αὐτὸ τὸ πεϱιφϱονεῖν ἀγαϑὸν οὐ μέτϱιον: ϑαυμάζουσι γοῦν τῶν ἐχόντων αὐτὰ μᾶλλον τοὺς δυναμένους ἔχειν ϰαὶ διὰ μεγαλοψυχίαν ὑπεϱοϱῶντας: τῇδέ που ϰαὶ ἐπὶ τῶν διῃϱμένων ἐν ποιήμασι ϰαὶ λόγοις ἐπισϰεπτέον, μή τινα μεγέϑους φαντασίαν ἔχοι τοιαύτην, ᾗ πολὺ πϱόσϰειται τὸ εἰϰῆ πϱοσαναπλαττόμενον, ἀναπτυττόμενα δὲ ἄλλως εὑϱίσϰοιτο χαῦνα, ὧν τοῦ ϑαυμάζειν τὸ πεϱιφϱονεῖν εὐγενέστεϱον. [2] φύσει γάϱ πως ὑπὸ τἀληϑοῦς ὕψους ἐπαίϱεταί τε ἡμῶν ἡ ψυχὴ ϰαὶ γαῦϱόν τι ἀνάστημα λαμβάνουσα πληϱοῦται χαϱᾶς ϰαὶ μεγαλαυχίας, ὡς αὐτὴ γεννήσασα ὅπεϱ ἤϰουσεν. [3] ὅταν οὖν ὑπ̓ ἀνδϱὸς ἔμφϱονος ϰαὶ ἐμπείϱου λόγων πολλάϰις ἀϰουόμενόν τι πϱὸς μεγαλοφϱοσύνην τὴν ψυχὴν μὴ συνδιατιϑῇ, μηδ̓ ἐγϰαταλείπῃ τῇ διανοίᾳ πλεῖον τοῦ λεγομένου τὸ ἀναϑεωϱούμενον, πίπτῃ δ̓, ἂν εὖ τὸ συνεχὲς ἐπισϰοπῇς, εἰς ἀπαύξησιν, οὐϰ ἂν ἔτ̓ ἀληϑὲς ὕψος εἴη μέχϱι μόνης τῆς ἀϰοῆς σῳζόμενον. τοῦτο γὰϱ τῷ ὄντι μέγα, οὗ πολλὴ μὲν ἡ ἀναϑεώϱησις, δύσϰολος δέ, μᾶλλον δ̓ ἀδύνατος ἡ ϰατεξανάστασις, ἰσχυϱὰ δὲ ἡ μνήμη ϰαὶ δυσεξάλειπτος. [4] ὅλως δὲ ϰαλὰ νόμιζε ὕψη ϰαὶ ἀληϑινὰ τὰ διὰ παντὸς ἀϱέσϰοντα ϰαὶ πᾶσιν. ὅταν γὰϱ τοῖς ἀπὸ διαφόϱων ἐπιτηδευμάτων βίων ζήλων ἡλιϰιῶν λόγων ἕν τι ϰαὶ ταὐτὸν ἅμα πεϱὶ τῶν αὐτῶν ἅπασι δοϰῇ, τόϑ̓ ἡ ἐξ ἀσυμφώνων ὡς ϰϱίσις ϰαὶ συγϰατάϑεσις τὴν ἐπὶ τῷ ϑαυμαζομένῳ πίστιν ἰσχυϱὰν λαμβάνει ϰαὶ ἀναμφίλεϰτον.

It is proper to observe that in human life nothing is truly great which is despised by all elevated minds. For example, no man of sense can regard wealth, honour, glory, and power, or any of those things which are surrounded by a great external parade of pomp and circumstance, as the highest blessings, seeing that merely to despise such things is a blessing of no common order: certainly those who possess them are admired much less than those who, having the opportunity to acquire them, through greatness of soul neglect it. Now let us apply this principle to the Sublime in poetry or in prose; let us ask in all cases, is it merely a specious sublimity? is this gorgeous exterior a mere false and clumsy pageant, which if laid open will be found to conceal nothing but emptiness? for if so, a noble mind will scorn instead of admiring it. It is natural to us to feel our souls lifted up by the true Sublime, and conceiving a sort of generous exultation to be filled with joy and pride, as though we had ourselves originated the ideas which we read. If then any work, on being repeatedly submitted to the judgment of an acute and cultivated critic, fails to dispose his mind to lofty ideas; if the thoughts which it suggests do not extend beyond what is actually expressed; and if, the longer you read it, the less you think of it,—there can be here no true sublimity, when the effect is not sustained beyond the mere act of perusal. But when a passage is pregnant in suggestion, when it is hard, nay impossible, to distract the attention from it, and when it takes a strong and lasting hold on the memory, then we may be sure that we have lighted on the true Sublime. In general we may regard those words as truly noble and sublime which always please and please all readers. For when the same book always produces the same impression on all who read it, whatever be the difference in their pursuits, their manner of life, their aspirations, their ages, or their language, such a harmony of opposites gives irresistible authority to their favourable verdict.

We must realise, dear friend, that as in our everyday life nothing is really great which it is a mark of greatness to despise, I mean, for instance, wealth, position, reputation, sovereignty, and all the other things which possess a deal of theatrical attraction, and yet to a wise man would not seem supremely good, since contempt for them is itself eminently good – certainly men feel less admiration for those who have these things than for those who could have them but are big enough to slight them – well, so it is with the grand style in poetry and prose. We must consider whether some of these passages have merely some such outward show of grandeur with a rich moulding of casual accretions, and whether, if all this is peeled off, they may not turn out to be empty bombast which it is more noble to despise than to admire? [2] For the true sublime, by some virtue of its nature, elevates us: uplifted with a sense of proud possession, we are filled with joyful pride, as if we had ourselves produced the very thing we heard. [3] If, then, a man of sense, well-versed in literature, after hearing a passage several times finds that it does not affect him with a sense of sublimity, and does not leave behind in his mind more food for thought than the mere words at first suggest, but rather that on careful consideration it sinks in his esteem, then it cannot really be the true sublime, if its effect does not outlast the moment of utterance. **Or “if its appeal is only to the ear.” For what is truly great gives abundant food for thought: it is irksome, nay, impossible, to resist its effect; the memory of it is stubborn and indelible. [4] To speak generally, you should consider that to be truly beautiful and sublime which pleases all people at all times. For when men who differ in their habits, their lives, their tastes, their ages, their dates, all agree together in holding one and the same view about the same writings, then the unanimous verdict, as it were, of such discordant judges makes our faith in the admired passage strong and indisputable.

Ἐπεὶ δὲ πέντε, ὡς ἂν εἴποι τις, πηγαί τινές εἰσιν αἱ τῆς ὑψηγοϱίας γονιμώταται, πϱοϋποϰειμένης ὥσπεϱ ἐδάφους τινὸς ϰοινοῦ ταῖς πέντε ταύταις ἰδέαις τῆς ἐν τῷ λέγειν δυνάμεως, ἧς ὅλως χωϱὶς οὐδέν, πϱῶτον μὲν ϰαὶ ϰϱάτιστον τὸ πεϱὶ τὰς νοήσεις ἁδϱεπήβολον, ὡς ϰἀν τοῖς πεϱὶ Ξενοφῶντος ὡϱισάμεϑα: δεύτεϱον δὲ τὸ σφοδϱὸν ϰαὶ ἐνϑουσιαστιϰὸν πάϑος: ἀλλ̓ αἱ μὲν δύο αὗται τοῦ ὕψους ϰατὰ τὸ πλέον αὐϑιγενεῖς συστάσεις, αἱ λοιπαὶ δ̓ ἤδη ϰαὶ διὰ τέχνης, ἥ τε ποιὰ τῶν σχημάτων πλάσις ῾δισσὰ δέ που ταῦτα τὰ μὲν νοήσεως, ϑάτεϱα δὲ λέξεως᾿, ἐπὶ δὲ τούτοις ἡ γενναία φϱάσις, ἧς μέϱη πάλιν ὀνομάτων τε ἐϰλογὴ ϰαὶ ἡ τϱοπιϰὴ ϰαὶ πεποιημένη λέξις: πέμπτη δὲ μεγέϑους αἰτία ϰαὶ συγϰλείουσα τὰ πϱὸ ἑαυτῆς ἅπαντα, ἡ ἐν ἀξιώματι ϰαὶ διάϱσει σύνϑεσις: φέϱε δὴ τὰ ἐμπεϱιεχόμενα ϰαϑ̓ ἑϰάστην ἰδέαν τούτων ἐπισϰεψώμεϑα, τοσοῦτον πϱοειπόντες, ὅτι τῶν πέντε μοϱίων ὁ Κεϰίλιος ἔστιν ἃ παϱέλιπεν, ὡς ϰαὶ τὸ πάϑος ἀμέλει. [2] ἀλλ̓ εἰ μὲν ὡς ἕν τι ταῦτ̓ ἄμφω, τό τε ὕψος ϰαὶ τὸ παϑητιϰόν, ϰαὶ ἔδοξεν αὐτῷ πάντη συνυπάϱχειν τε ἀλλήλοις ϰαὶ συμπεφυϰέναι, διαμαϱτάνει: ϰαὶ γὰϱ πάϑη τινὰ διεστῶτα ὕψους ϰαὶ ταπεινὰ εὑϱίσϰεται, ϰαϑάπεϱ οἶϰτοι λῦπαι φόβοι, ϰαὶ ἔμπαλιν πολλὰ ὕψη δίχα πάϑους, ὡς πϱὸς μυϱίοις ἄλλοις ϰαὶ τὰ πεϱὶ τοὺς Ἀλωάδας τῷ ποιητῇ παϱατετολμημένα,

Ὄσσαν ἐπ̓ Οὐλύμπῳ μέμασαν ϑέμεν: αὐτὰϱ ἐπ̓ Ὄσσῃ
Πήλιον εἰνοσίφυλλον, ἵν̓ οὐϱανὸς ἄμβατος εἴη:

ϰαὶ τὸ τούτοις ἔτι μεῖζον ἐπιφεϱόμενον,

ϰαί νύ ϰεν ἐξετέλεσσαν.

[3] παϱά γε μὴν τοῖς ῥήτοϱσι τὰ ἐγϰώμια ϰαὶ τὰ πομπιϰὰ ϰαὶ ἐπιδειϰτιϰὰ τὸν μὲν ὄγϰον ϰαὶ τὸ ὑψηλὸν ἐξ ἅπαντος πεϱιέχει, πάϑους δὲ χηϱεύει ϰατὰ τὸ πλεῖστον, ὅϑεν ἥϰιστα τῶν ῥητόϱων οἱ πεϱιπαϑεῖς ἐγϰωμιαστιϰοὶ ἢ ἔμπαλιν οἱ ἐπαινετιϰοὶ πεϱιπαϑεῖς. [4] εἰ δ̓ αὖ πάλιν ἐξ ὅλου μὴ ἐνόμισεν ὁ Κεϰίλιος τὸ ἐμπαϑὲς ἐς τὰ ὕψη ποτὲ συντελεῖν, ϰαὶ διὰ τοῦτ̓ οὐχ ἡγήσατο μνήμης ἄξιον, πάνυ διηπάτηται: ϑαϱϱῶν γὰϱ ἀφοϱισαίμην ἄν, ὡς οὐδὲν οὕτως ὡς τὸ γενναῖον πάϑος, ἔνϑα χϱή, μεγαλήγοϱον, ὥπεϱ ὑπὸ μανίας τινὸς ϰαὶ πνεύματος ἐνϑουσιαστιϰῶς ἐϰπνέον ϰαὶ οἱονεὶ φοιβάζον τοὺς λόγους.

I shall now proceed to enumerate the five principal sources, as we may call them, from which almost all sublimity is derived, assuming, of course, the preliminary gift on which all these five sources depend, namely, command of language. The first and the most important is (1) grandeur of thought, as I have pointed out elsewhere in my work on Xenophon. The second is (2) a vigorous and spirited treatment of the passions. These two conditions of sublimity depend mainly on natural endowments, whereas those which follow derive assistance from Art. The third is (3) a certain artifice in the employment of figures, which are of two kinds, figures of thought and figures of speech. The fourth is (4) dignified expression, which is sub-divided into (a) the proper choice of words, and (b) the use of metaphors and other ornaments of diction. The fifth cause of sublimity, which embraces all those preceding, is (5) majesty and elevation of structure. Let us consider what is involved in each of these five forms separately.

I must first, however, remark that some of these five divisions are omitted by Caecilius; for instance, he says nothing about the passions. Now if he made this omission from a belief that the Sublime and the Pathetic are one and the same thing, holding them to be always coexistent and interdependent, he is in error. Some passions are found which, so far from being lofty, are actually low, such as pity, grief, fear; and conversely, sublimity is often not in the least affecting, as we may see (among innumerable other instances) in those bold expressions of our great poet on the sons of Aloëus—

“Highly they raged
To pile huge Ossa on the Olympian peak,
And Pelion with all his waving trees
On Ossa’s crest to raise, and climb the sky;”

and the yet more tremendous climax—

“And now had they accomplished it.”

And in orators, in all passages dealing with panegyric, and in all the more imposing and declamatory places, dignity and sublimity play an indispensable part; but pathos is mostly absent. Hence the most pathetic orators have usually but little skill in panegyric, and conversely those who are powerful in panegyric generally fail in pathos. If, on the other hand, Caecilius supposed that pathos never contributes to sublimity, and this is why he thought it alien to the subject, he is entirely deceived. For I would confidently pronounce that nothing is so conducive to sublimity as an appropriate display of genuine passion, which bursts out with a kind of “fine madness” and divine inspiration, and falls on our ears like the voice of a god.

There are, one may say, some five genuine sources of the sublime in literature, the common groundwork, as it were, of all five being a natural faculty of expression, without which nothing can be done. The first and most powerful is the command of full-blooded ideas** ἁδϱός means “solid,” “robust,” and is used in literary criticism in a sense similar to δεινός, “vehement.” “Weighty and solid thought” is the meaning. The book on Xenophon is lost; perhaps he means merely “remarks on Xenophon” in some other treatise. – I have defined this in my book on Xenophon – and the second is the inspiration of vehement emotion. These two constituents of the sublime are for the most part congenital. But the other three come partly of art, namely the proper construction of figures – these being probably of two kinds, figures of thought and figures of speech – and, over and above these, nobility of phrase, which again may be resolved into choice of words and the use of metaphor and elaborated diction. The fifth cause of grandeur, which embraces all those already mentioned, is the general effect of dignity and elevation. **The five “sources” are (1) the command of full-blooded ideas; (2) emotion; (3) the proper use of “figures” ; (4) nobility of phrase; (5) general effect. In chapter xxxix. σύνϑεσις means the arrangement of words. Here the phrase seems to mean the putting together of the words and clauses into a total effect of grandeur, making a whole of them. Let us then consider all that is involved under each of these heads, merely prefacing this, that Cecilius has omitted some of these five classes, one obvious omission being that of emotion. [2] Now if he thought that sublimity and emotion were the same thing, and that one always essentially involved the other, he is wrong. For one can find emotion that is mean and devoid of sublimity, for instance feelings of commiseration, annoyance, and fear. On the other hand, many sublime passages are quite apart from emotion. There are thousands of examples, for instance, the poet’s daring lines about the Aloadae: **Homer: Odyssey XI,315-316 and 317.

Ossa then up on Olympus
they strove to set, then upon Ossa
Pelion, ashiver with leaves,
to build them a ladder to Heaven;

and the still greater conception that follows,

Yea and indeed they had done it.

[3] Then again in the orators their eulogies and ceremonial speeches and show pieces throughout include touches of dignity and sublimity, yet are usually void of emotion. The result is that emotional orators excel least in eulogy, while panegyrists equally lack emotion. [4] If, on the other hand, it never entered Cecilius’s head that emotion sometimes contributes towards sublimity, and he therefore omitted it as undeserving of mention, then great indeed is his mistake. I would confidently lay it down that nothing makes so much for grandeur as genuine emotion in the right place. It inspires the words as it were with a fine frenzy and fills them with divine afflatus.

Οὐ μὴν ἀλλ̓ ἐπεὶ τὴν ϰϱατίστην μοῖϱαν ἐπέχει τῶν ἄλλων τὸ πϱῶτον, λέγω δὲ τὸ μεγαλοφυές, χϱὴ ϰἀνταῦϑα, ϰαὶ εἰ δωϱητὸν τὸ πϱᾶγμα μᾶλλον ἢ ϰτητόν, ὅμως ϰαϑ̓ ὅσον οἷόν τε τὰς ψυχὰς ἀνατϱέφειν πϱὸς τὰ μεγέϑη, ϰαὶ ὥσπεϱ ἐγϰύμονας ἀεὶ ποιεῖν γενναίου παϱαστήματος. [2] τίνα, φήσεις, τϱόπον; γέγϱαφά που ϰαὶ ἑτέϱωϑι τὸ τοιοῦτον: ὕψος μεγαλοφϱοσύνης ἀπήχημα. ὅϑεν ϰαὶ φωνῆς δίχα ϑαυμάζεταί ποτε ψιλὴ ϰαϑ̓ ἑαυτὴν ἡ ἔννοια δἰ αὐτὸ τὸ μεγαλόφϱον, ὡς ἡ τοῦ Αἴαντος ἐν Νεϰυίᾳ σιωπὴ μέγα ϰαὶ παντὸς ὑψηλότεϱον λόγου. [3] πϱῶτον οὖν τὸ ἐξ οὗ γίνεται πϱοϋποτίϑεσϑαι πάντως ἀναγϰαῖον, ὡς ἔχειν δεῖ τὸν ἀληϑῆ ῥήτοϱα μὴ ταπεινὸν φϱόνημα ϰαὶ ἀγεννές. οὐδὲ γὰϱ οἷόν τε μιϰϱὰ ϰαὶ δουλοπϱεπῆ φϱονοῦντας ϰαὶ ἐπιτηδεύοντας παῤ ὅλον τὸν βίον ϑαυμαστόν τι ϰαὶ τοῦ παντὸς αἰῶνος ἐξενεγϰεῖν ἄξιον: μεγάλοι δὲ οἱ λόγοι τούτων, ϰατὰ τὸ εἰϰός, ὧν ἂν ἐμβϱιϑεῖς ὦσιν αἱ ἔννοιαι. [4] ταύτῃ ϰαὶ εἰς τοὺς μάλιστα φϱονηματίας ἐμπίπτει τὰ ὑπεϱφυᾶ: ὁ γὰϱ τῷ Παϱμενίωνι φήσαντι, ῾ἐγὼ μὲν ἠϱϰέσϑην̓
{... ... ...}
τὸ ἐπ̓ οὐϱανὸν ἀπὸ γῆς διάστημα: ϰαὶ τοῦτ̓ ἂν εἴποι τις οὐ μᾶλλον τῆς Ἔϱιδος ἢ Ὁμήϱου μέτϱον. [5] ᾧ ἀνόμοιόν γε τὸ Ἡσιόδειον ἐπὶ τῆς Ἀχλύος, εἴγε Ἡσιόδου ϰαὶ τὴν Ἀσπίδα ϑετέον:

τῆς ἐϰ μὲν ῥινῶν μύξαι ῥέον:

οὐ γὰϱ δεινὸν ἐποίησε τὸ εἴδωλον, ἀλλὰ μισητόν. ὁ δὲ πῶς μεγεϑύνει τὰ δαιμόνια;

ὅσσον δ̓ ἠεϱοειδὲς ἀνὴϱ ἴδεν ὀφϑαλμοῖσιν,
ἥμενος ἐν σϰοπτῇ, λεύσσων ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον:
τόσσον ἐπιϑϱώσϰουσι ϑεῶν ὑψηχέες ἵπποι.

τὴν ὁϱμὴν αὐτῶν ϰοσμιϰῷ διαστήματι ϰαταμετϱεῖ. τίς οὖν οὐϰ ἂν εἰϰότως διὰ τὴν ὑπεϱβολὴν τοῦ μεγέϑους ἐπιφϑέγξαιτο, ὅτι ἂν δὶς ἐξῆς ἐφοϱμήσωσιν οἱ τῶν ϑεῶν ἵπποι, οὐϰέϑ̓ εὑϱήσουσιν ἐν ϰόσμῳ τόπον; [6] ὑπεϱφυᾶ ϰαὶ τὰ ἐπὶ τῆς ϑεομαχίας φαντάσματα:

ἀμφὶ δ̓ ἐσάλπιγξεν μέγας οὐϱανὸς Οὔλυμπός τε.
ἔδδεισεν δ̓ ὑπένεϱϑεν ἄναξ ἐνέϱων Ἀϊδωνεύς,
δείσας δ̓ ἐϰ ϑϱόνου ἆλτο ϰαὶ ἴαχε, μή οἱ ἔπειτα
γαῖαν ἀναϱϱήξειε Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχϑων,
οἰϰία δὲ ϑνητοῖσι ϰαὶ ἀϑανάτοισι φανείη,
σμεϱδαλἔ, εὐϱώεντα, τά τε στυγέουσι ϑεοί πεϱ.

ἐπιβλέπεις, ἑταῖϱε, ὡς ἀναϱϱηγνυμένης μὲν ἐϰ βάϑϱων γῆς, αὐτοῦ δὲ γυμνουμένου ταϱτάϱου, ἀνατϱοπὴν δὲ ὅλου ϰαὶ διάστασιν τοῦ ϰόσμου λαμβάνοντος, πάνϑ̓ ἅμα, οὐϱανὸς ᾄδης, τὰ ϑνητὰ τὰ ἀϑάνατα, ἅμα τῇ τότε συμπολεμεῖ ϰαὶ συγϰινδυνεύει μάχῃ; [7] ἀλλὰ ταῦτα φοβεϱὰ μέν, πλὴν ἄλλως, εἰ μὴ ϰατ̓ ἀλληγοϱίαν λαμβάνοιτο, παντάπασιν ἄϑεα ϰαὶ οὐ σῴζοντα τὸ πϱέπον. Ὅμηϱος γάϱ μοι δοϰεῖ παϱαδιδοὺς τϱαύματα ϑεῶν στάσεις τιμωϱίας δάϰϱυα δεσμὰ πάϑη πάμφυϱτα τοὺς μὲν ἐπὶ τῶν Ἰλιαϰῶν ἀνϑϱώπους, ὅσον ἐπὶ τῇ δυνάμει, ϑεοὺς πεποιηϰέναι, τοὺς ϑεοὺς δὲ ἀνϑϱώπους. ἀλλ̓ ἡμῖν μὲν δυσδαιμονοῦσιν ἀπόϰειται λιμὴν ϰαϰῶν ὁ ϑάνατος, τῶν ϑεῶν δ̓ οὐ τὴν φύσιν ἀλλὰ τὴν ἀτυχίαν ἐποίησεν αἰώνιον. [8] πολὺ δὲ τῶν πεϱὶ τὴν ϑεομαχίαν ἀμείνω τὰ ὅσα ἄχϱαντόν τι ϰαὶ μέγα τὸ δαιμόνιον ὡς ἀληϑῶς ϰαὶ ἄϰϱατον παϱίστησιν, οἷα ῾πολλοῖς δὲ πϱὸ ἡμῶν ὁ τόπος ἐξείϱγασταἰ τὰ ἐπὶ τοῦ Ποσειδῶνος,

τϱέμε δ̓ οὔϱεα μαϰϱὰ ϰαὶ ὕλη
ϰαὶ ϰοϱυφαὶ Τϱώων τε πόλις ϰαὶ νῆες Ἀχαιῶν
ποσσὶν ὑπ̓ ἀϑανάτοισι Ποσειδάωνος ἰόντος.
βῆ δ̓ ἐλάαν ἐπὶ ϰύματ̓, ἄταλλε δὲ ϰήτἐ ὑπ̓ αὐτοῦ
πάντοϑεν ἐϰ ϰευϑμῶν, οὐδ̓ ἠγνοίησεν ἄναϰτα.
γηϑοσύνῃ δὲ ϑάλασσα διΐστατο, τοὶ δὲ πέτοντο.

[9] ταύτῃ ϰαὶ ὁ τῶν Ἰουδαίων ϑεσμοϑέτης, οὐχ ὁ τυχὼν ἀνήϱ, ἐπειδὴ τὴν τοῦ ϑείου δύναμιν ϰατὰ τὴν ἀξίαν ἐχώϱησε ϰἀξέφηνεν, εὐϑὺς ἐν τῇ εἰσβολῇ γϱάψας τῶν νόμων ῾εἶπεν ὁ Θεός᾿ φησί: τί; ῾γενέσϑω φῶς, ϰαὶ ἐγένετο: γενέσϑω γῆ, ϰαὶ ἐγένετο.᾿ [10] οὐϰ ὀχληϱὸς ἂν ἴσως, ἑταῖϱε, δόξαιμι, ἓν ἔτι τοῦ ποιητοῦ ϰαὶ τῶν ἀνϑϱωπίνων παϱαϑέμενος τοῦ μαϑεῖν χάϱιν, ὡς εἰς τὰ ἡϱωϊϰὰ μεγέϑη συνεμβαίνειν ἐϑίζει. ἀχλὺς ἄφνω ϰαὶ νὺξ ἄποϱος αὐτῷ τὴν τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἐπέχει μάχην: ἔνϑα δὴ ὁ Αἴας ἀμηχανῶν,

Ζεῦ πάτεϱ, φησίν, ἀλλὰ σὺ ῥῦσαι ὑπ̓ ἠέϱος υἷας Ἀχαιῶν,
ποίησον δ̓ αἴϑϱην, δὸς δ̓ ὀφϑαλμοῖσιν ἰδέσϑαι:
ἐν δὲ φάει ϰαὶ ὄλεσσον.

ἔστιν ὡς ἀληϑῶς τὸ πάϑος Αἴαντος, οὐ γὰϱ ζῆν εὔχεται ῾ἦν γὰϱ τὸ αἴτημα τοῦ ἥϱωος ταπεινότεϱον̓, ἀλλ̓ ἐπειδὴ ἐν ἀπϱάϰτῳ σϰότει τὴν ἀνδϱίαν εἰς οὐδὲν γενναῖον εἶχε διαϑέσϑαι, διὰ ταῦτ̓ ἀγαναϰτῶν ὅτι πϱὸς τὴν μάχην ἀϱγεῖ, φῶς ὅτι τάχιστα αἰτεῖται, ὡς πάντως τῆς ἀϱετῆς εὑϱήσων ἐντάφιον ἄξιον, ϰἂν αὐτῷ Ζεὺς ἀντιτάττηται. [11] ἀλλὰ γὰϱ Ὅμηϱος μὲν ἐνϑάδε οὔϱιος συνεμπνεῖ τοῖς ἀγῶσιν, ϰαὶ οὐϰ ἄλλο τι αὐτὸς πέπονϑεν ἢ

μαίνεται, ὡς ὅτ̓ Ἄϱης ἐγχέσπαλος ἢ ὀλοὸν πῦϱ
οὔϱεσι μαίνηται, βαϑέης ἐνὶ τάϱφεσιν ὕλης,
ἀφλοισμὸς δὲ πεϱὶ στόμα γίγνεται:

δείϰνυσι δ̓ ὅμως διὰ τῆς Ὀδυσσείας ῾ϰαὶ γὰϱ ταῦτα πολλῶν ἕνεϰα πϱοσεπιϑεωϱητέον̓, ὅτι μεγάλης φύσεως ὑποφεϱομένης ἤδη ἴδιόν ἐστιν ἐν γήϱᾳ τὸ φιλόμυϑον. [12] δῆλος γὰϱ ἐϰ πολλῶν τε ἄλλων συντεϑειϰὼς ταύτην δευτέϱαν τὴν ὑπόϑεσιν, ἀτὰϱ δὴ ϰἀϰ τοῦ λείψανα τῶν Ἰλιαϰῶν παϑημάτων διὰ τῆς Ὀδυσσείας ὡς ἐπεισόδιά τινα τοῦ Τϱωϊϰοῦ πολέμου πϱοσεπεισφέϱειν, ϰαὶ νὴ Δἴ ἐϰ τοῦ τὰς ὀλοφύϱσεις ϰαὶ τοὺς οἴϰτους ὡς πάλαι που πϱοεγνωσμένους τοῖς ἥϱωσιν ἐνταῦϑα πϱοσαποδιδόναι. οὐ γὰϱ ἄλλ̓ ἢ τῆς Ἰλιάδος ἐπίλογός ἐστιν ἡ Ὀδύσσεια:

ἔνϑα μὲν Αἴας ϰεῖται ἀϱήϊος, ἔνϑα δ̓ Ἀχιλλεύς,
ἔνϑα δὲ Πάτϱοϰλος, ϑεόφιν μήστωϱ ἀτάλαντος:
ἔνϑα δ̓ ἐμὸς φίλος υἱός.

[13] ἀπὸ δὲ τῆς αὐτῆς αἰτίας, οἶμαι, τῆς μὲν Ἰλιάδος γϱαφομένης ἐν ἀϰμῇ πνεύματος ὅλον τὸ σωμάτιον δϱαματιϰὸν ὑπεστήσατο ϰαὶ ἐναγώνιον, τῆς δὲ Ὀδυσσείας τὸ πλέον διηγηματιϰόν, ὅπεϱ ἴδιον γήϱως. ὅϑεν ἐν τῇ Ὀδυσσείᾳ παϱειϰάσαι τις ἂν ϰαταδυομένῳ τὸν Ὅμηϱον ἡλίῳ, οὗ δίχα τῆς σφοδϱότητος παϱαμένει τὸ μέγεϑος. οὐ γὰϱ ἔτι τοῖς Ἰλιαϰοῖς ἐϰείνοις ποιήμασιν ἴσον ἐνταῦϑα σῴζει τὸν τόνον, οὐδ̓ ἐξωμαλισμένα τὰ ὕψη ϰαὶ ἱζήματα μηδαμοῦ λαμβάνοντα, οὐδὲ τὴν πϱόχυσιν ὁμοίαν τῶν ἐπαλλήλων παϑῶν, οὐδὲ τὸ ἀγχίστϱοφον ϰαὶ πολιτιϰὸν ϰαὶ ταῖς ἐϰ τῆς ἀληϑείας φαντασίαις ϰαταπεπυϰνωμένον: ἀλλ̓ οἷον ὑποχωϱοῦντος εἰς ἑαυτὸν Ὠϰεανοῦ ϰαὶ πεϱὶ τὰ ἴδια μέτϱα ἐϱημουμένου τὸ λοιπὸν φαίνονται τοῦ μεγέϑους ἀμπώτιδες ϰἀν τοῖς μυϑώδεσι ϰαὶ ἀπίστοις πλάνος. [14] λέγων δὲ ταῦτ̓ οὐϰ ἐπιλέλησμαι τῶν ἐν τῇ Ὀδυσσείᾳ χειμώνων ϰαὶ τῶν πεϱὶ τὸν Κύϰλωπα ϰαί τινων ἄλλων, ἀλλὰ γῆϱας διηγοῦμαι, γῆϱας δ̓ ὅμως Ὁμήϱου: πλὴν ἐν ἅπασι τούτοις ἑξῆς τοῦ πϱαϰτιϰοῦ ϰϱατεῖ τὸ μυϑιϰόν. παϱεξέβην δ̓ εἰς ταῦϑ̓, ὡς ἔφην, ἵνα δείξαιμι, ὡς εἰς λῆϱον ἐνίοτε ῥᾷστον ϰατὰ τὴν ἀπαϰμὴν τὰ μεγαλοφυῆ παϱατϱέπεται οἷα τὰ πεϱὶ τὸν ἀσϰὸν ϰαὶ τοὺς ἐϰ Κίϱϰης συοφοϱβουμένους, οὓς ὁ Ζώϊλος ἔφη χοιϱίδια ϰλαίοντα, ϰαὶ τὸν ὑπὸ τῶν πελειάδων ὡς νεοσσὸν παϱατϱεφόμενον Δία ϰαὶ τὸν ἐπὶ τοῦ ναυαγίου δέχ̓ ἡμέϱας ἄσιτον τά τε πεϱὶ τὴν μνηστηϱοφονίαν ἀπίϑανα. τί γὰϱ ἂν ἄλλο φήσαιμεν ταῦτα ἢ τῷ ὄντι τοῦ Διὸς ἐνύπνια; [15] δευτέϱου δὲ εἵνεϰα πϱοσιστοϱείσϑω τὰ ϰατὰ τὴν Ὀδύσσειαν, ὅπως ᾖ σοι γνώϱιμον, ὡς ἡ ἀπαϰμὴ τοῦ πάϑους ἐν τοῖς μεγάλοις συγγϱαφεῦσι ϰαὶ ποιηταῖς εἰς ἦϑος ἐϰλύεται. τοιαῦτα γάϱ που τὰ πεϱὶ τὴν τοῦ Ὀδυσσέως ἠϑιϰῶς αὐτῷ βιολογούμενα οἰϰίαν, οἱονεὶ ϰωμῳδία τίς ἐστιν ἠϑολογουμένη.

I have already said that of all these five conditions of the Sublime the most important is the first, that is, a certain lofty cast of mind. Therefore, although this is a faculty rather natural than acquired, nevertheless it will be well for us in this instance also to train up our souls to sublimity, and make them as it were ever big with noble thoughts. 2How, it may be asked, is this to be done? I have hinted elsewhere in my writings that sublimity is, so to say, the image of greatness of soul. Hence a thought in its naked simplicity, even though unuttered, is sometimes admirable by the sheer force of its sublimity; for instance, the silence of Ajax in the eleventh Odyssey is great, and grander than anything he could have said. 3It is absolutely essential, then, first of all to settle the question whence this grandeur of conception arises; and the answer is that true eloquence can be found only in those whose spirit is generous and aspiring. For those whose whole lives are wasted in paltry and illiberal thoughts and habits cannot possibly produce any work worthy of the lasting reverence of mankind. It is only natural that their words should be full of sublimity whose thoughts are full of majesty. 4Hence sublime thoughts belong properly to the loftiest minds. Such was the reply of Alexander to his general Parmenio, when the latter had observed, “Were I Alexander, I should have been satisfied”; “And I, were I Parmenio”...
The distance between heaven and earth—a measure, one might say, not less appropriate to Homer’s genius than to the stature of his discord. How different is that touch of Hesiod’s in his description of sorrow—if the Shield is really one of his works: “rheum from her nostrils flowed”—an image not terrible, but disgusting. Now consider how Homer gives dignity to his divine persons—
  “As far as lies his airy ken, who sits
  On some tall crag, and scans the wine-dark sea:
  So far extends the heavenly coursers’ stride.”
He measures their speed by the extent of the whole world—a grand comparison, which might reasonably lead us to remark that if the divine steeds were to take two such leaps in succession, they would find no room in the world for another. 6Sublime also are the images in the “Battle of the Gods”—
  “A trumpet sound
  Rang through the air, and shook the Olympian height;
  Then terror seized the monarch of the dead,
  And springing from his throne he cried aloud
  With fearful voice, lest the earth, rent asunder
  By Neptune’s mighty arm, forthwith reveal
  To mortal and immortal eyes those halls
  So drear and dank, which e’en the gods abhor.”
Earth rent from its foundations! Tartarus itself laid bare! The whole world torn asunder and turned upside down! Why, my dear friend, this is a perfect hurly-burly, in which the whole universe, heaven and hell, mortals and immortals, share the conflict and the peril. 7A terrible picture, certainly, but (unless perhaps it is to be taken allegorically) downright impious, and overstepping the bounds of decency. It seems to me that the strange medley of wounds, quarrels, revenges, tears, bonds, and other woes which makes up the Homeric tradition of the gods was designed by its author to degrade his deities, as far as possible, into men, and exalt his men into deities—or rather, his gods are worse off than his human characters, since we, when we are unhappy, have a haven from ills in death, while the gods, according to him, not only live for ever, but live for ever in misery. 8Far to be preferred to this description of the Battle of the Gods are those passages which exhibit the divine nature in its true light, as something spotless, great, and pure, as, for instance, a passage which has often been handled by my predecessors, the lines on Poseidon:—
  “Mountain and wood and solitary peak,
  The ships Achaian, and the towers of Troy,
  Trembled beneath the god’s immortal feet.
  Over the waves he rode, and round him played,
  Lured from the deeps, the ocean’s monstrous brood,
  With uncouth gambols welcoming their lord:
  The charmèd billows parted: on they flew.”
And thus also the lawgiver of the Jews, no ordinary man, having formed an adequate conception of the Supreme Being, gave it adequate expression in the opening words of his “Laws”: “God said”—what?—“let there be light, and there was light: let there be land, and there was.”
I trust you will not think me tedious if I quote yet one more passage from our great poet (referring this time to human characters) in illustration of the manner in which he leads us with him to heroic heights. A sudden and baffling darkness as of night has overspread the ranks of his warring Greeks. Then Ajax in sore perplexity cries aloud—
  “Almighty Sire,
  Only from darkness save Achaia’s sons;
  No more I ask, but give us back the day;
  Grant but our sight, and slay us, if thou wilt.”
The feelings are just what we should look for in Ajax. He does not, you observe, ask for his life—such a request would have been unworthy of his heroic soul—but finding himself paralysed by darkness, and prohibited from employing his valour in any noble action, he chafes because his arms are idle, and prays for a speedy return of light. “At least,” he thinks, “I shall find a warrior’s grave, even though Zeus himself should fight against me.” In such passages the mind of the poet is swept along in the whirlwind of the struggle, and, in his own words, he
  “Like the fierce war-god, raves, or wasting fire
  Through the deep thickets on a mountain-side;
  His lips drop foam.”
But there is another and a very interesting aspect of Homer’s mind. When we turn to the Odyssey we find occasion to observe that a great poetical genius in the decline of power which comes with old age naturally leans towards the fabulous. For it is evident that this work was composed after the Iliad, in proof of which we may mention, among many other indications, the introduction in the Odyssey of the sequel to the story of his heroes’ adventures at Troy, as so many additional episodes in the Trojan war, and especially the tribute of sorrow and mourning which is paid in that poem to departed heroes, as if in fulfilment of some previous design. The Odyssey is, in fact, a sort of epilogue to the Iliad—
  “There warrior Ajax lies, Achilles there,
  And there Patroclus, godlike counsellor
  There lies my own dear son.”
And for the same reason, I imagine, whereas in the Iliad, which was written when his genius was in its prime, the whole structure of the poem is founded on action and struggle, in the Odyssey he generally prefers the narrative style, which is proper to old age. Hence Homer in his Odyssey may be compared to the setting sun: he is still as great as ever, but he has lost his fervent heat. The strain is now pitched to a lower key than in the “Tale of Troy divine”: we begin to miss that high and equable sublimity which never flags or sinks, that continuous current of moving incidents, those rapid transitions, that force of eloquence, that opulence of imagery which is ever true to Nature. Like the sea when it retires upon itself and leaves its shores waste and bare, henceforth the tide of sublimity begins to ebb, and draws us away into the dim region of myth and legend. In saying this I am not forgetting the fine storm-pieces in the Odyssey, the story of the Cyclops, and other striking passages. It is Homer grown old I am discussing, but still it is Homer. Yet in every one of these passages the mythical predominates over the real.
My purpose in making this digression was, as I 21said, to point out into what trifles the second childhood of genius is too apt to be betrayed; such, I mean, as the bag in which the winds are confined,21 the tale of Odysseus’s comrades being changed by Circe into swine (“whimpering porkers” Zoïlus called them), and how Zeus was fed like a nestling by the doves, and how Odysseus passed ten nights on the shipwreck without food, and the improbable incidents in the slaying of the suitors. When Homer nods like this, we must be content to say that he dreams as Zeus might dream. Another reason for these remarks on the Odyssey is that I wished to make you understand that great poets and prose-writers, after they have lost their power of depicting the passions, turn naturally to the delineation of character. Such, for instance, is the lifelike and characteristic picture of the palace of Odysseus, which may be called a sort of comedy of manners.

Now, since the first, I mean natural genius,**This is apparently a synonym for “the command of full-blooded ideas,” stated in the last chapter to be the first source of the sublime. plays a greater part than all the others, here too, although it is rather a gift than an acquired quality, we should still do our utmost to train our minds into sympathy with what is noble and, as it were, impregnate them again and again with lofty inspiration. [2] “How?” you will ask. Well, elsewhere I have written something like this, “Sublimity is the true ring of a noble mind.” **The metaphor is from a bell which “rings true” when struck. At the stroke of circumstance the noble mind gives the true note. cf. R.L.S. “Bright is the ring of words, when the right man rings them” and Newman’s “Style is the shadow of a personality.” And so even without being spoken the bare idea often of itself wins admiration for its inherent genius. How grand, for instance, is the silence of Ajax in the Summoning of the Ghosts, **Odyssey XI,543-567. Ajax, summoned from Hades, keeps a grim silence, still incensed at the award of Achilles’ arms to Odysseus, an affront which caused his suicide. more sublime than any speech. [3] In the first place, then, it is absolutely necessary to suggest its source and to show that the mind of the genuine orator must be neither small nor ignoble. For it is impossible that those whose thoughts and habits all their lives long are petty and servile should flash out anything wonderful, worthy of immortal life. [4] No, a great style is the natural outcome of weighty thoughts, and sublime sayings naturally fall to men of spirit. Alexander’s answer to Parmenio when he said “For my part I had been content” ... **Cf. Plutarch: Alexander XXIX.
{Six pages of the ms. are lost here.}
... the distance between earth and heaven. **When the ms. resumes Longinus is evidently discussing the description of Strife in Iliad, iv. 442 :-
“Small is the crest that she rears at the first, but behold her thereafter
Planting her head in the skies, while she treads with her feet on the earth.” One might say too that this measured the stature not of Strife only but of Homer. [5] Quite unlike this is Hesiod’s description of Gloom, if indeed we are right in adding the Shield to the list of Hesiod’s works:

Rheum from her nostrils was running.**Hesiod: Shield of Heracles 267.

He has not made the image terrible, but offensive. But see how Homer magnifies the powers of heaven:

Far as a man can see with his eyes in the shadowy distance,
Keeping his watch on a hill-top, agaze over the wine-dark ocean,
So far leap at a bound the high-neighing horses of heaven. **Iliad V,770-772.

He makes their stride as far as the East is from the West. So supreme is the grandeur of this, one might well say that if the horses of heaven take two consecutive strides there will then be no place found for them in the world. [6] Again he shows the imagination of genius in his Battle of the Gods:

Gan then to trumpet around the firmament vast and Olympus;
Shuddering down in the depths, the king of the dead, Aidoneus,
Sprang from his throne with a shuddering cry, for fear the earth-shaker,
  Poseidon,
Soon hereafter asunder should splinter the earth, and his mansions
Clear to the eyes of immortals and mortals alike should be opened
Grim and dreary and dank, which the very gods see with abhorrence.**A conflation of two theomachies, (a) Il. xxi. 388
(confused in quotation with v. 750),
and (5) Il. xx. 61-65.

You see, friend, how the earth is split to its foundations, hell itself laid bare, the whole universe sundered and turned upside down; and meanwhile everything, heaven and hell, mortal and immortal alike, shares in the conflict and danger of that battle. [7] Terrible as these passages are, all the same, unless one takes them allegorically, they are utterly irreligious and show no sense of what is fitting. I feel indeed that in recording as he does the wounding of the gods, their quarrels, vengeance, tears, imprisonment, and all their manifold passions Homer has done his best to make the men in the Iliad gods and the gods men. Yet, if we mortals are unhappy, death is the “appointed harbour from our sea of troubles,” **A reminiscence of a lost passage in Aeschylus much quoted in antiquity. whereas Homer has given the gods not only immortal natures but immortal sorrows. [8] The Battle of the Gods, however, is far surpassed by those passages which represent the divine nature in its true attributes, pure, majestic, and unique. Take, for instance, the lines about Poseidon, though they have been treated fully enough by others before us:

Then were the woods and the long-lying ranges a-tremble.
Aye, and the peaks and the city of Troy and the ships of Achaia
Neath the immortal feet and the oncoming march of Poseidon.
He set him to drive o’er the swell of the sea, and the whales at his coming
Capering leapt from the deep and greeted the voice of their master.
Then the sea parted her waves for joy, and they flew on the journey. **Another conflation: Iliad XIII,18; XX,60; XIII,19, 27-29

[9] So, too, the lawgiver of the Jews, no ordinary man, having formed a worthy conception of divine power, gave expression to it at the very threshold of his Laws, where he says: “God said” – what? “‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. ‘Let there be earth,’ and there was earth.” **The sense but not the exact words of Genesis i. 3 and 9. “The idea of the first and instantaneous appearance of light ... is sublime; and its primary appeal is to sense. The further idea that this transcendently glorious apparition is due to mere words, to a breath, . . . heightens enormously the impression of absolutely immeasurable power.” – A. C. Bradley, Oxford Lectures on Poetry, p. 57.

[10] I need not fear to weary you, my friend, if I insert here another passage from the Poet, one that treats of human affairs, to show you his habit of entering into the sublimity of his heroic theme. Suddenly he plunges the battle of the Greeks into mist and helpless night. At his wits’ end Ajax cries:

Zeus Father, rescue from out of the mist the sons of Achaia,
Brighten the heaven with sunshine, grant us the sight of our eyes.
So it be but in daylight, destroy us. **Iliad XVII,645-647.

These are the true feelings of an Ajax. He does not plead for his life; such a prayer would demean the hero: but since the ineffectual darkness robbed his courage of all noble use, therefore, distressed to be idle in battle, he prays for light on the instant, hoping thus at the worst to find a burial worthy of his courage, even though Zeus be ranged against him. [11] Here indeed Homer is swept away by the whirlwind of the battle and so affected by it that he too

Stormily raves, as the War-god, the spearman, or Fire, the destroyer,
Stormily raves on the hills in the deep-lying thickets of woodland;
Fringed are his lips with the foam-froth. **Iliad XV,605-607.

Yet throughout the Odyssey, which for many reasons we must not exclude from our consideration, Homer shows that, as genius ebbs, it is the love of romance that characterises old age. [12] There are indeed many indications that he composed this after the Iliad beside the fact that throughout the Odyssey he introduces as episodes remnants of the adventures at Ilium; yes, and does he not in this poem render to his heroes their share of lamentation as if it were a debt long due? In fact the Odyssey may be called an epilogue to the Iliad;

There then Ajax lies, great warrior; there lies Achilles;
There, too, Patroclus lies, the peer of the gods in counsel;
There, too, mine own dear son. **Odyssey III,109-111. Nestor is telling Telemachus of the days at Troy.

[13] It was, I imagine, for the same reason that, writing the Iliad in the heyday of his genius he made the whole piece lively with dramatic action, whereas in the Odyssey narrative predominates, the characteristic of old age. So in the Odyssey one may liken Homer to the setting sun; the grandeur remains without the intensity. For no longer does he preserve the sustained energy of the great Iliad lays, the consistent sublimity which never sinks into flatness, the flood of moving incidents in quick succession, the versatile rapidity and actuality, brimful of images drawn from real life. It is rather as though the Ocean had shrunk into its lair and lay becalmed within its own confines. Henceforth we see the ebbing tide of Homer’s greatness, as he wanders in the incredible regions of romance. [14] In saying this I have not forgotten the storms in the Odyssey and such incidents as that of the Cyclops – I am describing old age, but the old age of a Homer – yet the fact is that in every one of these passages reality is worsted by romance.

I have been led into this digression to show you, as I said, that natural genius with the decline of vigour often falls very easily into garrulity – there is the story of the wine-skin **Odyssey X,19-22. It was in a wine-skin that Aeolus imprisoned for Odysseus the adverse winds, which his meddlesome companions released. and the men whom Circe turned into swine – Zoilus **A grammarian – probably of the fourth century B.C. – who was known as Homer’s Scourge. called them “porkers in tears” – there is the nurturing of Zeus like a nestling by the doves, Odysseus’s ten-days’ fast on the wrecked ship,**There is possibly in Od. xii. an allusion to the tale that Zeus, hiding in Crete from his father Chronos, was fed by doves. Odysseus’s ten-days’ swim without food comes at the end of the same book. and the incredible story of the suitors’ slaying. **Odyssey XXII. Can one call these aught but veritable dreams of Zeus? **Dreams – divine indeed – but idle in our critic’s eyes when compared with the “lively dramatic action” of the Iliad. Besides, the Iliad describes real fighting, the serious business of life; the Odyssey is but a divine tale. A typical “ancient” point of view. They decried Romance.

[15] There is another justification for our considering the Odyssey as well as the Iliad. I wanted you to realize how with the decline of their emotional power great writers and poets give way to character-study. For instance, his character-sketches of the daily life in Odysseus’s household are in the style of some comedy of character.

Φέϱε νῦν, εἴ τι ϰαὶ ἕτεϱον ἔχοιμεν ὑψηλοὺς ποιεῖν τοὺς λόγους δυνάμενον, ἐπισϰεψώμεϑα. οὐϰοῦν ἐπειδὴ πᾶσι τοῖς πϱάγμασι φύσει συνεδϱεύει τινὰ μόϱια ταῖς ὕλαις συνυπάϱχοντα, ἐξ ἀνάγϰης γένοιτ̓ ἂν ἡμῖν ὕψους αἴτιον τὸ τῶν ἐμφεϱομένων ἐϰλέγειν ἀεὶ τὰ ϰαιϱιώτατα ϰαὶ ταῦτα τῇ πϱὸς ἄλληλα ἐπισυνϑέσει ϰαϑάπεϱ ἕν τι σῶμα ποιεῖν δύνασϑαι. ὃ μὲν γὰϱ τῇ ἐϰλογῇ τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν τῶν λημμάτων, ὃ δὲ τῇ πυϰνώσει τῶν ἐϰλελεγμένων πϱοσάγεται. οἷον ἡ Σαπφὼ τὰ συμβαίνοντα ταῖς ἐϱωτιϰαῖς μανίαις παϑήματα ἐϰ τῶν παϱεπομένων ϰαὶ ἐϰ τῆς ἀληϑείας αὐτῆς ἑϰάστοτε λαμβάνει. ποῦ δὲ τὴν ἀϱετὴν ἀποδείϰνυται; ὅτε τὰ ἄϰϱα αὐτῶν ϰαὶ ὑπεϱτεταμένα δεινὴ ϰαὶ ἐϰλέξαι ϰαὶ εἰς ἄλληλα συνδῆσαι.

[2] Φαίνεταί μοι ϰῆνος ἴσος ϑεοῖσιν
ἔμμεν᾽ ὤνηϱ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει ϰαὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-
  σας ὑπαϰούει
 
ϰαὶ γελαίσας ἰμέϱοεν, τό μ᾽ ἦ μὰν
ϰαϱδίαν ἐν στήϑεσιν ἐπτόαισεν·
ὠς γὰϱ ἔς σ᾽ ἴδω βϱόχε᾽, ὤς με φώναι-
  σ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ἒν ἔτ᾽ εἴϰει,
 
ἀλλ᾽ ἄϰαν μὲν γλῶσσα †ἔαγε†, λέπτον
δ᾽ αὔτιϰα χϱῶι πῦϱ ὐπαδεδϱόμηϰεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ἒν ὄϱημμ᾽, ἐπιϱϱόμ-
  βεισι δ᾽ ἄϰουαι,
 
†έϰαδε μ᾽ ἴδϱως ψῦχϱος ϰαϰχέεται†, τϱόμος δὲ
παῖσαν ἄγϱει, χλωϱοτέϱα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεϑνάϰην δ᾽ ὀλίγω ᾽πιδεύης
  φαίνομ᾽ ἔμ᾽ αὔται·
 
ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον ἐπεὶ †ϰαὶ πένητα†

[3] οὐ ϑαυμάζεις, ὡς ὑπὸ τὸ αὐτὸ τὴν ψυχὴν τὸ σῶμα τὰς ἀϰοὰς τὴν γλῶσσαν τὰς ὄψεις τὴν χϱόαν, πάνϑ̓ ὡς ἀλλότϱια διοιχόμενα ἐπιζητεῖ ϰαὶ ϰαϑ̓ ὑπεναντιώσεις ἅμα ψύχεται ϰᾴεται, ἀλογιστεῖ φϱονεῖ; ἢ γὰϱ φοβεῖται ἢ παῤ ὀλίγον τέϑνηϰεν: ἵνα μὴ ἕν τι πεϱὶ αὐτὴν πάϑος φαίνηται, παϑῶν δὲ σύνοδος. πάντα μὲν τοιαῦτα γίνεται πεϱὶ τοὺς ἐϱῶντας, ἡ λῆψις δ̓ ὡς ἔφην τῶν ἄϰϱων ϰαὶ ἡ εἰς ταὐτὸ συναίϱεσις ἀπειϱγάσατο τὴν ἐξοχήν: ὅνπεϱ οἶμαι ϰαὶ ἐπὶ τῶν χειμώνων τϱόπον ὁ ποιητὴς ἐϰλαμβάνει τῶν παϱαϰολουϑούντων τὰ χαλεπώτατα. [4] ὁ μὲν γὰϱ τὰ Ἀϱιμάσπεια ποιήσας ἐϰεῖνα οἴεται δεινά:

ϑαῦμ̓ ἡμῖν ϰαὶ τοῦτο μέγα φϱεσὶν ἡμετέϱῃσιν.
ἄνδϱες ὕδωϱ ναίουσιν ἀπὸ χϑονὸς ἐν πελάγεσσι:
δύστηνοί τινές εἰσιν, ἔχουσι γὰϱ ἔϱγα πονηϱά,
ὄμματ̓ ἐν ἄστϱοισι, ψυχὴν δ̓ ἐνὶ πόντῳ ἔχουσιν.
ἦ που πολλὰ ϑεοῖσι φίλας ἀνὰ χεῖϱας ἔχοντες
εὔχονται σπλάγχνοισι ϰαϰῶς ἀναβαλλομένοισι.

παντὶ οἶμαι δῆλον, ὡς πλέον ἄνϑος ἔχει τὰ λεγόμενα ἢ δέος. [5] ὁ δὲ Ὅμηϱος πῶς; ἓν γὰϱ ἀπὸ πολλῶν λεγέσϑω:

ἐν δ̓ ἔπες᾿, ὥς ὅτε ϰῦμα ϑοῇ ἐν νηῒ πέσῃσι
λάβϱον ὑπαὶ νεφέων ἀνεμοτϱεφές, ἡ δέ τε πᾶσα
ἄχνῃ ὑπεϰϱύφϑη, ἀνέμοιο δὲ δεινὸς ἀήτης
ἱστίῳ ἐμβϱέμεται, τϱομέουσι δέ τε φϱένα ναῦται
δειδιότες: τυτϑὸν γὰϱ ὑπὲϰ ϑανάτοιο φέϱονται.

[6] ἐπεχείϱησε ϰαὶ ὁ Ἄϱατος τὸ αὐτὸ τοῦτο μετενεγϰεῖν,

ὀλίγον δὲ διὰ ξύλον ἄϊδ̓ ἐϱύϰει:

πλὴν μιϰϱὸν αὐτὸ ϰαὶ γλαφυϱὸν ἐποίησεν ἀντὶ φοβεϱοῦ: ἔτι δὲ παϱώϱισε τὸν ϰίνδυνον, εἰπών, ῾ξύλον ἄϊδ̓ ἀπείϱγει.᾿ οὐϰοῦν ἀπείϱγει. ὁ δὲ ποιητὴς οὐϰ εἰς ἅπαξ παϱοϱίζει τὸ δεινόν, ἀλλὰ τοὺς ἀεὶ ϰαὶ μόνον οὐχὶ ϰατὰ πᾶν ϰῦμα πολλάϰις ἀπολλυμένους εἰϰονογϱαφεῖ. ϰαὶ μὴν τὰς πϱοϑέσεις ἀσυνϑέτους οὔσας συναναγϰάσας παϱὰ φύσιν ϰαὶ εἰς ἀλλήλας συμβιασάμενος ῾ ὑπὲϰ ϑανάτοιὀ τῷ μὲν συνεμπίπτοντι πάϑει τὸ ἔπος ὁμοίως ἐβασάνισεν, τῇ δὲ τοῦ ἔπους συνϑλίψει τὸ πάϑος ἄϰϱως ἀπεπλάσατο ϰαὶ μόνον οὐϰ ἐνετύπωσε τῇ λέξει τοῦ ϰινδύνου τὸ ἰδίωμα ῾ὑπὲϰ ϑανάτοιο φέϱονται.᾿ [7] οὐϰ ἄλλως ὁ Ἀϱχίλοχος ἐπὶ τοῦ ναυαγίου, ϰαὶ ἐπὶ τῇ πϱοσαγγελίᾳ ὁ Δημοσϑένης: ῾ἑσπέϱα μὲν γὰϱ ἦν,᾿ φησίν: ἀλλὰ τὰς ἐξοχὰς ὡς ἂν εἴποι τις ἀϱιστίνδην ἐϰϰαϑήϱαντες ἐπισυνέϑηϰαν, οὐδὲν φλοιῶδες ἢ ἄσεμνον ἢ σχολιϰὸν ἐγϰατατάττοντες διὰ μέσου. λυμαίνεται γὰϱ ταῦτα τὸ ὅλον ὡσανεὶ ψύγματα ἢ ἀϱαιώματα ἐμποιοῦντα ἐς μεγέϑη συνοιϰονομούμενα τῇ πϱὸς ἄλληλα σχέσει συντετειχισμένα.

Let us now consider whether there is anything further which conduces to the Sublime in writing. It is a law of Nature that in all things there are certain constituent parts, coexistent with their substance. It necessarily follows, therefore, that one cause of sublimity is the choice of the most striking circumstances involved in whatever we are describing, and, further, the power of afterwards combining them into one animate whole. The reader is attracted partly by the selection of the incidents, partly by the skill which has welded them together. For instance, Sappho, in dealing with the passionate manifestations attending on the frenzy of lovers, always chooses her strokes from the signs which she has observed to be actually exhibited in such cases. But her peculiar excellence lies in the felicity with which she chooses and unites together the most striking and powerful features.
  “I deem that man divinely blest
  Who sits, and, gazing on thy face,
  Hears thee discourse with eloquent lips,
  And marks thy lovely smile.
  This, this it is that made my heart
  So wildly flutter in my breast;
  Whene’er I look on thee, my voice
  Falters, and faints, and fails;
  My tongue’s benumbed; a subtle fire
  Through all my body inly steals;
  Mine eyes in darkness reel and swim;
  Strange murmurs drown my ears;
  With dewy damps my limbs are chilled;
  An icy shiver shakes my frame;
  Paler than ashes grows my cheek;
  And Death seems nigh at hand.”
Is it not wonderful how at the same moment soul, body, ears, tongue, eyes, colour, all fail her, and are lost to her as completely as if they were not her own? Observe too how her sensations contradict one another—she freezes, she burns, she raves, she reasons, and all at the same instant. And this description is designed to show that she is assailed, not by any particular emotion, but by a tumult of different emotions. All these tokens belong to the passion of love; but it is in the choice, as I said, of the most striking features, and in the combination of them into one picture, that the perfection of this Ode of Sappho’s lies. Similarly Homer in his descriptions of tempests always picks out the most terrific circumstances. The poet of the “Arimaspeia” intended the following lines to be grand—
  “Herein I find a wonder passing strange,
  That men should make their dwelling on the deep,
  Who far from land essaying bold to range
  With anxious heart their toilsome vigils keep;
  Their eyes are fixed on heaven’s starry steep;
  The ravening billows hunger for their lives;
  And oft each shivering wretch, constrained to weep,
  With suppliant hands to move heaven’s pity strives,
  While many a direful qualm his very vitals rives.”
All must see that there is more of ornament than of terror in the description. Now let us turn to Homer. 5One passage will suffice to show the contrast.
  “On them he leaped, as leaps a raging wave,
  Child of the winds, under the darkening clouds,
  On a swift ship, and buries her in foam;
  Then cracks the sail beneath the roaring blast,
  And quakes the breathless seamen’s shuddering heart
  In terror dire: death lours on every wave.”
Aratus has tried to give a new turn to this last thought—
  “But one frail timber shields them from their doom,”
—banishing by this feeble piece of subtlety all the terror from his description; setting limits, moreover, to the peril described by saying “shields them”; for so long as it shields them it matters not whether the “timber” be “frail” or stout. But Homer does not set any fixed limit to the danger, but gives us a vivid picture of men a thousand times on the brink of destruction, every wave threatening them with instant death. Moreover, by his bold and forcible combination of prepositions of opposite meaning he tortures his language to imitate the agony of the scene, the constraint which is put on the words accurately reflecting the anxiety of the sailors’ minds, and the diction being stamped, as it were, with the peculiar terror of the situation. 7Similarly Archilochus in his description of the shipwreck, and similarly Demosthenes when he describes how the news came of the taking of Elatea—“It was evening,” etc. Each of these authors fastidiously rejects whatever is not essential to the subject, and in putting together the most vivid features is careful to guard against the interposition of anything frivolous, unbecoming, or tiresome. Such blemishes mar the general effect, and give a patched and gaping appearance to the edifice of sublimity, which ought to be built up in a solid and uniform structure.

Well, then, let us see further whether we could find anything else that can make style sublime. Since with all things there are associated certain elements, essentially inherent in their substance, it follows that we shall find one factor of sublimity in a consistently happy choice of these constituent elements, and in the power of combining them together as it were into an organic whole. One writer for instance attracts the reader by the selection of ideas, another by the soldering of these selected. Sappho, for instance, never fails to take the emotions incident to the passion of love from the symptoms which accompany it in real life. And wherein does she show her excellence? In the skill with which she selects and combines the most striking and intense of those symptoms.

[2] He seems to me equal to gods that man
whoever he is who opposite you
sits and listens close
  to your sweet speaking
 
and lovely laughing – oh it
puts the heart in my chest on wings
for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking
  is left in me
 
no: tongue breaks and thin
fire is racing under skin
and in eyes no sight and drumming
  fills ears
 
And cold sweat holds me and shaking
grips me all, greener than grass
I am and dead – or almost
  I seem to me.
 
But all is to be dared, because even a person of poverty
**Sappho 31, der gr. Text ist korrigiert.
English translation by Anne Carson,
Knopf, 2002.
Cf. Sappho [Cf. Catullus 51,Ille mi par esse deo videtur,
ille, si fas est, superare divos,
qui sedens adversus identidem te
  spectat et audit
 
dulce ridentem, misero quod omnes
eripit sensus mihi: nam simul te,
Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi
  {vocis in ore;}
 
lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus
flamma demanat, sonitu suopte
tintinant aures, gemina teguntur
  lumina nocte.
 
otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est:
otio exsultas nimiumque gestis:
otium et reges prius et beatas
  perdidit urbes. engl.]He seems to me to be equal to a god,
he, if it is permissible, seems to surpass the gods,
who sitting opposite again and again
  watches and hears you
 
sweetly laughing, which rips out all senses
from miserable me: for at the same moment I look upon you,
Lesbia, nothing is left for me
  {of my voice in my mouth;}
 
But my tongue grows thick, a thin flame
runs down beneath my limbs, with their own sound
my ears ring, my lights (eyes)
  are covered by twin night.
 
Idleness is a troublesome thing for you, Catullus:
In idleness you revel and delight too much:
Idleness has destroyed both kings and
  blessed cities before.

[3] Is it not wonderful how she summons at the same time, soul, body, hearing, tongue, sight, colour, all as though they had wandered off apart from herself? She feels contradictory sensations, freezes, burns, raves, reasons – for one that is at the point of death is clearly beside herself. She wants to display not a single emotion, but a whole congress of emotions. Lovers all show such symptoms as these, but what gives supreme merit to her art is, as I said, the skill with which she chooses the most striking and combines them into a single whole. It is, I fancy, much in the same way that the poet in describing storms picks out the most alarming circumstances. [4] The author of the Arimaspeia, **Aristeas of Proconnesus, who wrote an epic in three books on the Arimaspi of the farthest north. Herodotus (iv. 27) says their name was derived from Scythian words, arima = “one” and spou = “eye." to be sure, thinks these lines awe-inspiring:

Here is another thing also that fills us with feelings of wonder,
Men that dwell in the water, away from the earth, on the ocean.
Sorrowful wretches they are, and theirs is a grievous employment:
Ever they rivet their eyes on the stars, their thoughts on the waters.
Often, I ween, to the gods they lift up their hands and they pray;
Ever their innermost parts are terribly tossed to and fro.

Anyone can see, I fancy, that this is more flowery than fearful. [5] But how does Homer do it? Let us take one example of many:

He fell on the host as a wave of the sea on a hurrying vessel,
Rising up under the clouds, a boisterous son of the storm-wind.
The good ship is lost in the shroud of the foam, and the breath of the tempest
Terribly roars in the sails; and the sailors for fear are atremble.
By the breadth of a hand swept out from under the jaws of destruction. **Iliad XV,624-628.

[6] Aratus, too, tried to adapt this same idea:

’Tis but the tiniest plank that bars them from bitter destruction. **Aratus: Phaenomena 299.

But he has demeaned the idea and made it elegant instead of awe-inspiring. Moreover, he defines the danger when he says, “A plank keeps off destruction,” Why then, it does keep it off. Homer, on the other hand, instead of defining the danger once and for all, depicts the sailors as being all the time, again and again, with every wave on the very brink of death. Moreover, in the phrase “out from under the jaws of destruction,” by forcing into an abnormal union prepositions not usually compounded he has tortured his language into conformity with, the impending disaster, magnificently figured the disaster by the compression of his language and almost stamped on the diction the form and feature of the danger – “swept out from under the jaws of destruction.” [7] Comparable to this is the passage of Archilochus about the shipwreck **There are two existing fragments of Archilochus to which this might possibly refer: ἵστη ϰατ’ ἤϰην ϰύματός τε ϰἀνέμου, “he stood on the razor-edge of wave and wind,” or ψυχὰς ἔχοντες ϰυμάτων ἐν ἀγϰάλαις, “their hearts lay locked in the waves’ embrace.” and the description of the arrival of the news in Demosthenes. **De corona 169. Demosthenes describes the alarm at Athens caused by the news that Philip of Macedon had captured and fortified Elateia, 339 B.C. “Now it was evening,” etc. What they have done is to make a clean sweep, as it were, of all the main points by order of merit, and to bring them together, allowing nothing affected or undignified or pedantic to intervene. For all such irrelevancies are like the introduction of gaps or open tracery **Literally “perforations,” cf. XXXII,5. in architecture: they utterly spoil the effect of sublime ideas, well ordered and built into one coherent structure. **This sentence has been infinitely emended without much benefit. I take τὰ μεγ. as object of λυμ. and τὸ ὅλον as adverbial. The general sense is that Homer’s ideas are solid masonry.

Σύνεδϱός ἐστι ταῖς πϱοεϰϰειμέναις ἀϱετὴ ϰαὶ ἣν ϰαλοῦσιν αὔξησιν, ὅταν δεχομένων τῶν πϱαγμάτων ϰαὶ ἀγώνων ϰατὰ πεϱιόδους ἀϱχάς τε πολλὰς ϰαὶ ἀναπαύλας ἕτεϱα ἑτέϱοις ἐπεισϰυϰλούμενα μεγέϑη συνεχῶς ἐπεισάγηται ϰατ̓ ἐπίβασιν. [2] τοῦτο δὲ εἴτε διὰ τοπηγοϱίαν, εἴτε δείνωσιν, ἢ πϱαγμάτων ἢ ϰατασϰευῶν ἐπίϱϱωσιν, εἴτ̓ ἐποιϰονομίαν ἔϱγων ἢ παϑῶν ῾μυϱίαι γὰϱ ἰδέαι τῶν αὐξήσεων̓ γίνοιτο, χϱὴ γινώσϰειν ὅμως τὸν ῥήτοϱα, ὡς οὐδὲν ἂν τούτων ϰαϑ̓ αὑτὸ συσταίη χωϱὶς ὕψους τέλειον, πλὴν εἰ μὴ ἐν οἴϰτοις ἄϱα, νὴ Δία, ἢ ἐν εὐτελισμοῖς, τῶν δ̓ ἄλλων αὐξητιϰῶν ὅτου πεϱ ἂν τὸ ὑψηλὸν ἀφέλῃς, ὡς ψυχὴν ἐξαιϱήσεις σώματος: εὐϑὺς γὰϱ ἀτονεῖ ϰαὶ ϰενοῦται τὸ ἔμπϱαϰτον αὐτῶν μὴ τοῖς ὕψεσι συνεπιϱϱωννύμενον. [3] ᾗ μέντοι διαφέϱει τοῦ ἀϱτίως εἰϱημένου τὰ νῦν παϱαγγελλόμενα ῾πεϱιγϱαφὴ γάϱ τις ἦν ἐϰεῖνο τῶν ἄϰϱων λημμάτων ϰαὶ εἰς ἑνότητα σύνταξις᾿, ϰαὶ τίνι ϰαϑόλου τῶν αὐξήσεων παϱαλλάττει τὰ ὕψη, τῆς σαφηνείας αὐτῆς ἕνεϰα συντόμως διοϱιστέον.

Closely associated with the part of our subject we have just treated of is that excellence of writing which is called amplification, when a writer or pleader, whose theme admits of many successive starting-points and pauses, brings on one impressive point after another in a continuous and ascending scale. 2Now whether this is employed in the treatment of a commonplace, or in the way of exaggeration, whether to place arguments or facts in a strong light, or in the disposition of actions, or of passions—for amplification takes a hundred different shapes—in all cases the orator must be cautioned that none of these methods is complete without the aid of sublimity,—unless, indeed, it be our object to excite pity, or to depreciate an opponent’s argument. In all other uses of amplification, if you subtract the element of sublimity you will take as it were the soul from the body. No sooner is the support of sublimity removed than the whole becomes lifeless, nerveless, and dull.
There is a difference, however, between the rules I am now giving and those just mentioned. Then I was speaking of the delineation and co-ordination of the principal circumstances. My next task, therefore, must be briefly to define this difference, and with it the general distinction between amplification and sublimity. Our whole discourse will thus gain in clearness.

Closely allied to the merits distinguished above is what is called “amplification.” **Effect of accumulation, “piling it on.” Whenever the subject matter and the issues from section to section admit of several fresh starts and halting-places, then one great phrase after another is wheeled on to the stage with increasing force. [2] This may be done either by the development of a commonplace, or by exaggeration, or by laying stress on events or arguments, **i.e. tours de force. or by careful husbandry of facts or feelings. There are indeed ten thousand kinds of amplification. Still the speaker must recognize that without sublimity none of these methods by itself can form a perfect whole. One may indeed very well make an exception where the effect required is one of commiseration or depreciation, but in all other forms of amplification to remove the touch of sublimity is like taking soul from body. [3] For they lose their vigour at once and become nerveless and hollow without the tonic effect of the sublime. However, mere clarity demands that I should briefly define the difference between my present precepts and that of which I spoke above (the delimitation of the main points and their arrangement so as to form a single whole) and show generally in what respect sublimity is distinct from these effects of amplification.

Ὁ μὲν οὖν τῶν τεχνογϱάφων ὅϱος ἔμοιγ̓ οὐϰ ἀϱεστός. αὔξησίς ἐστι, φασί, λόγος μέγεϑος πεϱιτιϑεὶς τοῖς ὑποϰειμένοις: δύναται γὰϱ ἀμέλει ϰαὶ ὕψους ϰαὶ πάϑους ϰαὶ τϱόπων εἶναι ϰοινὸς οὗτος ὁ ὅϱος, ἐπειδὴ ϰἀϰεῖνα τῷ λόγῳ πεϱιτίϑησι ποιόν τι μέγεϑος. ἐμοὶ δὲ φαίνεται ταῦτα ἀλλήλων παϱαλλάττειν, ᾗ ϰεῖται τὸ μὲν ὕψος ἐν διάϱματι, ἡ δ̓ αὔξησις ϰαὶ ἐν πλήϑει: διὸ ϰεῖνο μὲν ϰἀν νοήματι ἑνὶ πολλάϰις, ἡ δὲ πάντως μετὰ ποσότητος ϰαὶ πεϱιουσίας τινὸς ὑφίσταται. [2] ϰαὶ ἔστιν ἡ αὔξησις, ὡς τύπῳ πεϱιλαβεῖν, συμπλήϱωσις ἀπὸ πάντων τῶν ἐμφεϱομένων τοῖς πϱάγμασι μοϱίων ϰαὶ τόπων, ἰσχυϱοποιοῦσα τῇ ἐπιμονῇ τὸ ϰατεσϰευασμένον, ταύτῃ τῆς πίστεως διεστῶσα, ὅτι ἡ μὲν τὸ ζητούμενον ἀποδείϰνυσιν
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πλουσιώτατα, ϰαϑάπεϱ τι πέλαγος, εἰς ἀναπεπταμένον ϰέχυται πολλαχῇ μέγεϑος. [3] ὅϑεν, οἶμαι, ϰατὰ λόγον ὁ μὲν ῥήτωϱ ἅτε παϑητιϰώτεϱος πολὺ τὸ διάπυϱον ἔχει ϰαὶ ϑυμιϰῶς ἐϰφλεγόμενον, ὁ δὲ ϰαϑεστὼς ἐν ὄγϰῳ ϰαὶ μεγαλοπϱεπεῖ σεμνότητι, οὐϰ ἔψυϰται μέν, ἀλλ̓ οὐχ οὕτως ἐπέστϱαπται. [4] οὐ ϰατ̓ ἄλλα δέ τινα ἢ ταῦτα, ἐμοὶ δοϰεῖ, φίλτατε Τεϱεντιανέ, ῾λέγω δέ, εἰ ϰαὶ ἡμῖν ὡς Ἕλλησιν ἐφεῖταί τι γινώσϰειν̓ ϰαὶ ὁ Κιϰέϱων τοῦ Δημοσϑένους ἐν τοῖς μεγέϑεσι παϱαλλάττει: ὁ μὲν γὰϱ ἐν ὕψει τὸ πλέον ἀποτόμῳ, ὁ δὲ Κιϰέϱων ἐν χύσει, ϰαὶ ὁ μὲν ἡμέτεϱος διὰ τὸ μετὰ βίας ἕϰαστα, ἔτι δὲ τάχους ῥώμης δεινότητος οἷον ϰαίειν τε ἅμα ϰαὶ διαϱπάζειν, σϰηπτῷ τινι παϱειϰάζοιτ̓ ἂν ἢ ϰεϱαυνῷ, ὁ δὲ Κιϰέϱων ὡς ἀμφιλαφής τις ἐμπϱησμὸς οἶμαι πάντη νέμεται ϰαὶ ἀνειλεῖται, πολὺ ἔχων ϰαὶ ἐπίμονον ἀεὶ τὸ ϰαῖον, ϰαὶ διαϰληϱονομούμενον ἄλλοτ̓ ἀλλοίως ἐν αὐτῷ ϰαὶ ϰατὰ διαδοχὰς ἀνατϱεφόμενον. [5] ἀλλὰ ταῦτα μὲν ὑμεῖς ἂν ἄμεινον ἐπιϰϱίνοιτε, ϰαιϱὸς δὲ τοῦ Δημοσϑενιϰοῦ μὲν ὕψους ϰαὶ ὑπεϱτεταμένου ἔν τε ταῖς δεινώσεσι ϰαὶ τοῖς σφοδϱοῖς πάϑεσι, ϰαὶ ἔνϑα δεῖ τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν τὸ σύνολον ἐϰπλῆξαι, τῆς δὲ χύσεως, ὅπου χϱὴ ϰαταντλῆσαι: τοπηγοϱίαις τε γὰϱ ϰαὶ ἐπιλόγοις ϰατὰ τὸ πλέον ϰαὶ παϱαβάσεσι ϰαὶ τοῖς φϱαστιϰοῖς ἅπασι ϰαὶ ἐπιδειϰτιϰοῖς, ἱστοϱίαις τε ϰαὶ φυσιολογίαις, ϰαὶ οὐϰ ὀλίγοις ἄλλοις μέϱεσιν ἁϱμόδιος.

I must first remark that I am not satisfied with the definition of amplification generally given by authorities on rhetoric. They explain it to be a form of language which invests the subject with a certain grandeur. Yes, but this definition may be applied indifferently to sublimity, pathos, and the use of figurative language, since all these invest the discourse with some sort of grandeur. The difference seems to me to lie in this, that sublimity gives elevation to a subject, while amplification gives extension as well. Thus the sublime is often conveyed in a single thought, but amplification can only subsist with a certain prolixity and diffusiveness. 2The most general definition of amplification would explain it to consist in the gathering together of all the constituent parts and topics of a subject, emphasising the argument by repeated insistence, herein differing from proof, that whereas the object of proof is logical demonstration, ...
Plato, like the sea, pours forth his riches in a copious and expansive flood. 3Hence the style of the orator, who is the greater master of our emotions, is often, as it were, red-hot and ablaze with passion, whereas Plato, whose strength lay in a sort of weighty and sober magnificence, though never frigid, does not rival the thunders of Demosthenes. 4And, if a Greek may be allowed to express an opinion on the subject of Latin literature, I think the same difference may be discerned in the grandeur of Cicero as compared with that of his Grecian rival. The sublimity of Demosthenes is generally sudden and abrupt: that of Cicero is equally diffused. Demosthenes is vehement, rapid, vigorous, terrible; he burns and sweeps away all before him; and hence we may liken him to a whirlwind or a thunderbolt: Cicero is like a widespread conflagration, which rolls over and feeds on all around it, whose fire is extensive and burns long, breaking out successively in different places, and finding its fuel now here, now there. 5Such points, however, I resign to your more competent judgment.
To resume, then, the high-strung sublimity of Demosthenes is appropriate to all cases where it is desired to exaggerate, or to rouse some vehement emotion, and generally when we want to carry away our audience with us. We must employ the diffusive style, on the other hand, when we wish to overpower them with a flood of language. It is suitable, for example, to familiar topics, and to perorations in most cases, and to digressions, and to all descriptive and declamatory passages, and in dealing with history or natural science, and in numerous other cases.

The definition given in the text-books does not satisfy me. Amplification, they say, is language which invests the subject with grandeur. Now that definition could obviously serve just as well for the sublime, the emotional and the metaphorical style, since these also invest the language with some quality of grandeur. But in my view they are each distinct. Sublimity lies in elevation, amplification rather in amount; [2] and so you often find sublimity in a single idea, whereas amplification always goes with quantity and a certain degree of redundancy. To give a rough definition, amplification consists in accumulating all the aspects and topics inherent in the subject and thus strengthening the argument by dwelling upon it. Therein it differs from proof, which demonstrates the required point ... **"Whereas amplification serves to enhance conviction”: so our author presumably continued and then proceeded to illustrate Plato’s skill in amplification and to compare his style with that of Demosthenes. It is of Plato that he is speaking when the ms. resumes.
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... very rich indeed: like a sea, often flooding a vast expanse of grandeur. [3] I should say then that in point of style the orator, **Demosthenes. being more emotional, has abundant warmth and passionate glow, whereas Plato, steady in his majestic and stately dignity, is far from cold, yet does not flash such fire. [4] It is in the very same respect – so I feel, my dear Terentianus, if indeed we Greeks may be allowed an opinion – that Cicero differs from Demosthenes in his grand effects. Demosthenes’ strength is usually in rugged sublimity, Cicero’s in diffusion. Our countryman with his violence, yes, and his speed, his force, his terrific power of rhetoric, burns, as it were, and scatters everything before him, and may therefore be compared to a flash of lightning or a thunder-bolt. Cicero seems to me like a widespread conflagration, rolling along and devouring all around it: his is a strong and steady fire, its flames duly distributed, now here, now there, and fed by relays of fuel. [5] You Romans, of course, can form a better judgement on this question, but clearly the opportunity for Demosthenes’ sublimity and nervous force comes in his intensity and violent emotion, and in passages where he has utterly to dumbfound the audience; whereas diffuseness is in place when you need to overwhelm them with a flood of rhetoric. The latter then mostly suits the treatment of a commonplace, a peroration, a digression, and all descriptive and “show” passages, history, too, and natural philosophy as well as various other kinds of literature.

Ὅτι μέντοι ὁ Πλάτων ῾ἐπάνειμι γάῤ τοιούτῳ τινὶ χεύματι ἀψοφητὶ ῥέων οὐδὲν ἧττον μεγεϑύνεται, ἀνεγνωϰὼς τὰ ἐν τῇ Πολιτείᾳ τὸν τύπον οὐϰ ἀγνοεῖς. ῾οἱ ἄϱα φϱονήσεως᾿ φησὶ ῾ ϰαὶ ἀϱετῆς ἄπειϱοι εὐωχίαις δὲ ϰαὶ τοῖς τοιούτοις ἀεὶ συνόντες ϰάτω ὡς ἔοιϰε φέϱονται ϰαὶ ταύτῃ πλανῶνται διὰ βίου, πϱὸς δὲ τὸ ἀληϑὲς ἄνω οὔτ̓ ἀνέβλεψαν πώποτε οὔτ̓ ἀνηνέχϑησαν οὐδὲ βεβαίου τε ϰαὶ ϰαϑαϱᾶς ἡδονῆς ἐγεύσαντο, ἀλλὰ βοσϰημάτων δίϰην ϰάτω ἀεὶ βλέποντες ϰαὶ ϰεϰυφότες εἰς γῆν ϰαὶ εἰς τϱαπέζας βόσϰονται χοϱταζόμενοι ϰαὶ ὀχεύοντες, ϰαὶ ἕνεϰα τῆς τούτων πλεονεξίας λαϰτίζοντες ϰαὶ ϰυϱίττοντες ἀλλήλους σιδηϱοῖς ϰέϱασι ϰαὶ ὁπλαῖς ἀποϰτιννύουσι δἰ ἀπληστίαν.᾿ [2] Ἐνδείϰνυται δ̓ ἡμῖν οὗτος ἁνήϱ, εἰ βουλοίμεϑα μὴ ϰατολιγωϱεῖν, ὡς ϰαὶ ἄλλη τις παϱὰ τὰ εἰϱημένα ὁδὸς ἐπὶ τὰ ὑψηλὰ τείνει. ποία δὲ ϰαὶ τίς αὕτη; ἡ τῶν ἔμπϱοσϑεν μεγάλων συγγϱαφέων ϰαὶ ποιητῶν μίμησίς τε ϰαὶ ζήλωσις. ϰαί γε τούτου, φίλτατε, ἀπϱὶξ ἐχώμεϑα τοῦ σϰοποῦ: πολλοὶ γὰϱ ἀλλοτϱίῳ ϑεοφοϱοῦνται πνεύματι τὸν αὐτὸν τϱόπον, ὃν ϰαὶ τὴν Πυϑίαν λόγος ἔχει τϱίποδι πλησιάζουσαν, ἔνϑα ῥῆγμά ἐστι γῆς ἀναπνεῖν ὥς φασιν ἀτμὸν ἔνϑεον, αὐτόϑεν ἐγϰύμονα τῆς δαιμονίου ϰαϑισταμένην δυνάμεως παϱαυτίϰα χϱησμῳδεῖν ϰατ̓ ἐπίπνοιαν. οὕτως ἀπὸ τῆς τῶν ἀϱχαίων μεγαλοφυΐας εἰς τὰς τῶν ζηλούντων ἐϰείνους ψυχὰς ὡς ἀπὸ ἱεϱῶν στομίων ἀπόϱϱοιαί τινες φέϱονται, ὑφ̓ ὧν ἐπιπνεόμενοι ϰαὶ οἱ μὴ λίαν φοιβαστιϰοὶ τῷ ἑτέϱων συνενϑουσιῶσι μεγέϑει. [3] μόνος Ἡϱόδοτος Ὁμηϱιϰώτατος ἐγένετο; Στησίχοϱος ἔτι πϱότεϱον ὅ τε Ἀϱχίλοχος, πάντων δὲ τούτων μάλιστα ὁ Πλάτων ἀπὸ τοῦ Ὁμηϱιϰοῦ ϰείνου νάματος εἰς αὑτὸν μυϱίας ὅσας παϱατϱοπὰς ἀποχετευσάμενος. ϰαὶ ἴσως ἡμῖν ἀποδείξεων ἔδει, εἰ μὴ τὰ ἐπ̓ εἴδους ϰαὶ οἱ πεϱὶ Ἀμμώνιον ἐϰλέξαντες ἀνέγϱαψαν. [4] ἔστι δ̓ οὐ ϰλοπὴ τὸ πϱᾶγμα, ἀλλ̓ ὡς ἀπὸ ϰαλῶν εἰδῶν ἢ πλασμάτων ἢ δημιουϱγημάτων ἀποτύπωσις. ϰαὶ οὐδ̓ ἂν ἐπαϰμάσαι μοι δοϰεῖ τηλιϰαῦτά τινα τοῖς τῆς φιλοσοφίας δόγμασι, ϰαὶ εἰς ποιητιϰὰς ὕλας πολλαχοῦ συνεμβῆναι ϰαὶ φϱάσεις εἰ μὴ πεϱὶ πϱωτείων νὴ Δία παντὶ ϑυμῷ πϱὸς Ὅμηϱον, ὡς ἀνταγωνιστὴς νέος πϱὸς ἤδη τεϑαυμασμένον, ἴσως μὲν φιλονειϰότεϱον ϰαὶ οἱονεὶ διαδοϱατιζόμενος, οὐϰ ἀνωφελῶς δ̓ ὅμως διηϱιστεύετο: ῾ἀγαϑἢ γὰϱ ϰατὰ τὸν Ἡσίοδον ῾ἔϱις ἥδε βϱοτοῖσι.᾿ ϰαὶ τῷ ὄντι ϰαλὸς οὗτος ϰαὶ ἀξιονιϰότατος εὐϰλείας ἀγών τε ϰαὶ στέφανος, ἐν ᾧ ϰαὶ τὸ ἡττᾶσϑαι τῶν πϱογενεστέϱων οὐϰ ἄδοξον.

To return, however, to Plato: how grand he can be with all that gentle and noiseless flow of eloquence you will be reminded by this characteristic passage, which you have read in his Republic: “They, therefore, who have no knowledge of wisdom and virtue, whose lives are passed in feasting and similar joys, are borne downwards, as is but natural, and in this region they wander all their lives; but they never lifted up their eyes nor were borne upwards to the true world above, nor ever tasted of pleasure abiding and unalloyed; but like beasts they ever look downwards, and their heads are bent to the ground, or rather to the table; they feed full their bellies and their lusts, and longing ever more and more for such things they kick and gore one another with horns and hoofs of iron, and slay one another in their insatiable desires.”
We may learn from this author, if we would but observe his example, that there is yet another path besides those mentioned which leads to sublime heights. What path do I mean? The emulous imitation of the great poets and prose-writers of the past. On this mark, dear friend, let us keep our eyes ever steadfastly fixed. Many gather the divine impulse from another’s spirit, just as we are told that the Pythian priestess, when she takes her seat on the tripod, where there is said to be a rent in the ground breathing upwards a heavenly emanation, straightway conceives from that source the godlike gift of prophecy, and utters her inspired oracles; so likewise from the mighty genius of the great writers of antiquity there is carried into the souls of their rivals, as from a fount of inspiration, an effluence which breathes upon them until, even though their natural temper be but cold, they share the sublime enthusiasm of others. 3Thus Homer’s name is associated with a numerous band of illustrious disciples—not only Herodotus, but Stesichorus before him, and the great Archilochus, and above all Plato, who from the great fountain-head of Homer’s genius drew into himself innumerable tributary streams. Perhaps it would have been necessary to illustrate this point, had not Ammonius and his school already classified and noted down the various examples. 4Now what I am speaking of is not plagiarism, but resembles the process of copying from fair forms or statues or works of skilled labour. Nor in my opinion would so many fair flowers of imagery have bloomed among the philosophical dogmas of Plato, nor would he have risen so often to the language and topics of poetry, had he not engaged heart and soul in a contest for precedence with Homer, like a young champion entering the lists against a veteran. It may be that he showed too ambitious a spirit in venturing on such a duel; but nevertheless it was not without advantage to him: “for strife like this,” as Hesiod says, “is good for men.” And where shall we find a more glorious arena or a nobler crown than here, where even defeat at the hands of our predecessors is not ignoble?

However, to return to Plato, despite his noiseless current, he none the less attains greatness. You have read the Republic and you know his style. “Those who have then no experience,” he says, “of wisdom or of goodness, living always amid banquets and other such festivities, are seemingly carried downwards and there they wander all their lives. They have never yet raised their eyes to the truth, never been carried upwards, never tasted true, abiding pleasure. They are like so many cattle; stooping downwards, with their eyes always bent on the earth and on their dinner tables, they feed and fatten and breed, and so greedy are they for these enjoyments that they kick and butt with hooves and horns of iron and kill each other for insatiate desire.” **Republic IX,586A, with slight omissions.

Here is an author who shows us, if we will condescend to see, that there is another road, besides those we have mentioned, which leads to sublimity. What and what manner of road is this? Zealous imitation of the great historians and poets of the past. That is the aim, dear friend, and we must hold to it with all our might. For many are carried away by the inspiration of another, just as the story runs that the Pythian priestess on approaching the tripod where there is, they say, “a rift in the earth upbreathing steam divine,” becomes thereby impregnated with the divine power and is at once inspired to utter oracles; so, too, from the natural genius of those old writers there flows into the hearts of their admirers as it were an emanation from the mouth of holiness. **He seems to play on the two meanings of στόμιον, the mouth of a prophet and the mouth or rift in the rocky floor in the Priestess’s chamber at Delphi, out of which there rose an intoxicating vapour. Inspired by this, even those who are not easily moved by the divine afflatus share the enthusiasm of these others’ grandeur.

Was Herodotus alone “Homeric in the Highest"? No, there was Stesichorus at a still earlier date and Archilochus too, **Quintilian calls Stesichorus a “lyric Homer,” and Archilochus, the iambic satirist, was regarded as one of the great originals. They both belong to the seventh century B.C. and above all others Plato, who has irrigated his style with ten thousand runnels from the great Homeric spring. We might need to give instances, had not Ammonius **A pupil of Aristarchus who took over his school at Alexandria. He composed a work on “Plato’s debt to Homer.” and his pupils drawn up a classified selection. [4] Such borrowing is no theft; it is rather like taking an impression from fine characters as one does from moulded figures or other works of art. Plato would never have reared so many of these flowers to bloom among his philosophic tenets, never have wandered so often with Homer into the regions and phrases of poetry, had he not striven, yea with heart and soul, to contest the prize with Homer like a young antagonist with one who had already won his spurs, perhaps in too keen emulation, longing as it were to break a spear, and yet always to good purpose. For, as Hesiod says, “Good is this strife for mankind.” Fair indeed is the crown, and the fight for fame well worth the winning, where even to be worsted by our forerunners is not without glory.

Οὐϰοῦν ϰαὶ ἡμᾶς, ἡνίϰ̓ ἂν διαπονῶμεν ὑψηγοϱίας τι ϰαὶ μεγαλοφϱοσύνης δεόμενον, ϰαλὸν ἀναπλάττεσϑαι ταῖς ψυχαῖς, πῶς ἂν εἰ τύχοι ταὐτὸ τοῦϑ̓ Ὅμηϱος εἶπεν, πῶς δ̓ ἂν Πλάτων ἢ Δημοσϑένης ὕψωσαν ἢ ἐν ἱστοϱίᾳ Θουϰυδίδης. πϱοσπίπτοντα γὰϱ ἡμῖν ϰατὰ ζῆλον ἐϰεῖνα τὰ πϱόσωπα ϰαὶ οἷον διαπϱέποντα, τὰς ψυχὰς ἀνοίσει πως πϱὸς τὰ ἀνειδωλοποιούμενα μέτϱα: [2] ἔτι δὲ μᾶλλον, εἰ ϰἀϰεῖνο τῇ διανοίᾳ πϱοσυπογϱάφοιμεν, πῶς ἂν τόδε τι ὑπ̓ ἐμοῦ λεγόμενον παϱὼν Ὅμηϱος ἤϰουσεν ἢ Δημοσϑένης, ἢ πῶς ἂν ἐπὶ τούτῳ διετέϑησαν: τῷ γὰϱ ὄντι μέγα τὸ ἀγώνισμα, τοιοῦτον ὑποτίϑεσϑαι τῶν ἰδίων λόγων διϰαστήϱιον ϰαὶ ϑέατϱον, ϰαὶ ἐν τηλιϰούτοις ἥϱωσι ϰϱιταῖς τε ϰαὶ μάϱτυσιν ὑπέχειν τῶν γϱαφομένων εὐϑύνας πεπαῖχϑαι. [3] πλέον δὲ τούτων παϱοϱμητιϰόν, εἰ πϱοστιϑείης, πῶς ἂν ἐμοῦ ταῦτα γϱάψαντος ὁ μετ̓ ἐμὲ πᾶς ἀϰούσειεν αἰών; εἰ δέ τις αὐτόϑεν φοβοῖτο, μὴ τοῦ ἰδίου βίου ϰαὶ χϱόνου φϑέγξαιτό τι ὑπεϱήμεϱον, ἀνάγϰη ϰαὶ τὰ συλλαμβανόμενα ὑπὸ τῆς τούτου ψυχῆς ἀτελῆ ϰαὶ τυφλὰ ὥσπεϱ ἀμβλοῦσϑαι, πϱὸς τὸν τῆς ὑστεϱοφημίας ὅλως μὴ τελεσφοϱούμενα χϱόνον.

Therefore it is good for us also, when we are labouring on some subject which demands a lofty and majestic style, to imagine to ourselves how Homer might have expressed this or that, or how Plato or Demosthenes would have clothed it with sublimity, or, in history, Thucydides. For by our fixing an eye of rivalry on those high examples they will become like beacons to guide us, and will perhaps lift up our souls to the fulness of the stature we conceive. 2And it would be still better should we try to realise this further thought, How would Homer, had he been here, or how would Demosthenes, have listened to what I have written, or how would they have been affected by it? For what higher incentive to exertion could a writer have than to imagine such judges or such an audience of his works, and to give an account of his writings with heroes like these to criticise and look on? 3Yet more inspiring would be the thought, With what feelings will future ages through all time read these my works? If this should awaken a fear in any writer that he will not be intelligible to his contemporaries it will necessarily follow that the conceptions of his mind will be crude, maimed, and abortive, and lacking that ripe perfection which alone can win the applause of ages to come.

We too, then, when we are working at some passage that demands sublimity of thought and expression, should do well to form in our hearts the question, “How perchance would Homer have said this, how would Plato or Demosthenes have made it sublime or Thucydides in his history?” Emulation will bring those great characters before our eyes, and like guiding stars they will lead our thoughts to the ideal standards of perfection. [2] Still more will this be so, if we give our minds the further hint, “How would Homer or Demosthenes, had either been present, have listened to this passage of mine? How would it have affected them?” Great indeed is the ordeal, if we propose such a jury and audience as this to listen to our own utterances and make believe that we are submitting our work to the scrutiny of such superhuman witnesses and judges. [3] Even more stimulating would it be to add, “If I write this, how would all posterity receive it?"

But if a man shrinks at the very thought of saying anything that exceeds the comprehension of his own time, then must all the conceptions of that man’s nature be like some blind, half-formed embryo, all too abortive for the life of posthumous fame.

Ὄγϰου ϰαὶ μεγαληγοϱίας ϰαὶ ἀγῶνος ἐπὶ τούτοις, ὦ νεανία, ϰαὶ αἱ φαντασίαι παϱασϰευαστιϰώταται: οὕτω γοῦν εἰδωλοποιΐας αὐτὰς ἔνιοι λέγουσι: ϰαλεῖται μὲν γὰϱ ϰοινῶς φαντασία πᾶν τὸ ὁπωσοῦν ἐννόημα γεννητιϰὸν λόγου παϱιστάμενον: ἤδη δ̓ ἐπὶ τούτων ϰεϰϱάτηϰε τοὔνομα, ὅταν ἃ λέγεις ὑπ̓ ἐνϑουσιασμοῦ ϰαὶ πάϑους βλέπειν δοϰῇς ϰαὶ ὑπ̓ ὄψιν τιϑῇς τοῖς ἀϰούουσιν. [2] ὡς δ̓ ἕτεϱόν τι ἡ ῥητοϱιϰὴ φαντασία βούλεται ϰαὶ ἕτεϱον ἡ παϱὰ ποιηταῖς, οὐϰ ἂν λάϑοι σε, οὐδ̓ ὅτι τῆς μὲν ἐν ποιήσει τέλος ἐστὶν ἔϰπληξις, τῆς δ̓ ἐν λόγοις ἐνάϱγεια. ἀμφότεϱαι δ̓ ὅμως τό τε παϑητιϰὸν ἐπιζητοῦσι ϰαὶ τὸ συγϰεϰινημένον.

ὦ μῆτεϱ ἱϰετεύω σε, μὴ ᾿πίσειέ μοι
τὰς αἱματωποὺς ϰαὶ δϱαϰοντώδεις ϰόϱας:
αὗται γάϱ, αὗται πλησίον ϑϱώσϰουσί μου.

ϰαὶ

οἴμοι, ϰτανεῖ με: ποῖ φύγω;

ἐνταῦϑ̓ ὁ ποιητὴς αὐτὸς εἶδεν Ἐϱινύας: ὃ δὲ ἐφαντάσϑη, μιϰϱοῦ δεῖν ϑεάσασϑαι ϰαὶ τοὺς ἀϰούοντας ἠνάγϰασεν. [3] ἔστι μὲν οὖν φιλοπονώτατος ὁ Εὐϱιπίδης δύο ταυτὶ πάϑη, μανίας τε ϰαὶ ἔϱωτας, ἐϰτϱαγῳδῆσαι, ϰἀν τούτοις ὡς οὐϰ οἶδ̓ εἴ τισιν ἑτέϱοις ἐπιτυχέστατος, οὐ μὴν ἀλλὰ ϰαὶ ταῖς ἄλλαις ἐπιτίϑεσϑαι φαντασίαις οὐϰ ἄτολμος. ἥϰιστά γέ τοι μεγαλοφυὴς ὢν ὅμως τὴν αὐτὸς αὑτοῦ φύσιν ἐν πολλοῖς γενέσϑαι τϱαγιϰὴν πϱοσηνάγϰασεν, ϰαὶ παῤ ἕϰαστα ἐπὶ τῶν μεγεϑῶν, ὡς ὁ ποιητής,

οὐϱῇ δὲ πλευϱάς τε ϰαὶ ἰσχίον ἀμφοτέϱωϑεν
μαστίεται, ἑὲ δ̓ αὐτὸν ἐποτϱύνει μαχέσασϑαι.

[4] τῷ γοῦν Φαέϑοντι παϱαδιδοὺς τὰς ἡνίας ὁ Ἥλιος,

ἔλα δὲ μήτε Λιβυϰὸν αἰϑέῤ εἰσβαλών:
ϰϱᾶσιν γὰϱ ὑγϱὰν οὐϰ ἔχων, ἁψῖδα σὴν
ϰάτω διήσει,

φησίν, εἶϑ̓ ἑξῆς,

ἵει δ̓ ἐφ̓ ἑπτὰ Πλειάδων ἔχων δϱόμον.
τοσαῦτ̓ ἀϰούσας εἶτ̓ ἔμαϱψεν ἡνίας:
ϰϱούσας δὲ πλευϱὰ πτεϱοφόϱων ὀχημάτων
μεϑῆϰεν, αἱ δ̓ ἔπταντ̓ ἐπ̓ αἰϑέϱος πτύχας.
πατὴϱ δ̓ ὄπισϑε νῶτα Σειϱίου βεβὼς
ἵππευε παῖδα νουϑετῶν: ἐϰεῖς᾿ ἔλα,
τῇδε στϱέφ̓ ἅϱμα, τῇδε.

ἆῤ οὐϰ ἂν εἴποις, ὅτι ἡ ψυχὴ τοῦ γϱάφοντος συνεπιβαίνει τοῦ ἅϱματος, ϰαὶ συγϰινδυνεύουσα τοῖς ἵπποις συνεπτέϱωται; οὐ γὰϱ ἄν, εἰ μὴ τοῖς οὐϱανίοις ἐϰείνοις ἔϱγοις ἰσοδϱομοῦσα ἐφέϱετο, τοιαῦτ̓ ἄν ποτε ἐφαντάσϑη. ὅμοια ϰαὶ τὰ ἐπὶ τῆς Κασσάνδϱας αὐτῷ,

ἀλλ̓, ὦ φίλιπποι Τϱῶες.

[5] τοῦ δ̓ Αἰσχύλου φαντασίαις ἐπιτολμῶντος ἡϱωϊϰωτάταις, ὥσπεϱ ϰαὶ οἱ Ἑπτὰ ἐπὶ Θήβας παῤ αὐτῷ,

ἄνδϱες ῾φησὶν̓ ἑπτὰ ϑούϱιοι λοχαγέται,
ταυϱοσφαγοῦντες εἰς μελάνδετον σάϰος,
ϰαὶ ϑιγγάνοντες χεϱσὶ ταυϱείου φόνου,
Ἄϱη τ̓ Ἐνυὼ ϰαὶ φιλαίματον Φόβον
ὁϱϰωμότησαν,

τὸν ἴδιον αὑτῶν πϱὸς ἀλλήλους δίχα οἴϰτου συνομνύμενοι ϑάνατον, ἐνίοτε μέντοι ἀϰατεϱγάστους ϰαὶ οἱονεὶ ποϰοειδεῖς τὰς ἐννοίας ϰαὶ ἀμαλάϰτους φέϱοντος, ὅμως ἑαυτὸν ὁ Εὐϱιπίδης ϰἀϰείνοις ὑπὸ φιλοτιμίας τοῖς ϰινδύνοις πϱοσβιβάζει. [6] ϰαὶ παϱὰ μὲν Αἰσχύλῳ παϱαδόξως τὰ τοῦ Λυϰούϱγου βασίλεια ϰατὰ τὴν ἐπιφάνειαν τοῦ Διονύσου ϑεοφοϱεῖται,

ἐνϑουσιᾷ δὴ δῶμα, βαϰχεύει στέγη:

ὁ δ̓ Εὐϱιπίδης τὸ αὐτὸ τοῦϑ̓ ἑτέϱως ἐφηδύνας ἐξεφώνησε,

πᾶν δὲ συνεβάϰχεὐ ὄϱος.

[7] ἄϰϱως δὲ ϰαὶ ὁ Σοφοϰλῆς ἐπὶ τοῦ ϑνῄσϰοντος Οἰδίπου ϰαὶ ἑαυτὸν μετὰ διοσημείας τινὸς ϑάπτοντος πεφάντασται, ϰαὶ ϰατὰ τὸν ἀπόπλουν τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἐπὶ τἀχιλλέως πϱοφαινομένου τοῖς ἀναγομένοις ὑπὲϱ τοῦ τάφου, ἣν οὐϰ οἶδ̓ εἴ τις ὄψιν ἐναϱγέστεϱον εἰδωλοποίησε Σιμωνίδου: πάντα δ̓ ἀμήχανον παϱατίϑεσϑαι. [8] οὐ μὴν ἀλλὰ τὰ μὲν παϱὰ τοῖς ποιηταῖς μυϑιϰωτέϱαν ἔχει τὴν ὑπεϱέϰπτωσιν, ὡς ἔφην, ϰαὶ πάντη τὸ πιστὸν ὑπεϱαίϱουσαν, τῆς δὲ ῥητοϱιϰῆς φαντασίας ϰάλλιστον ἀεὶ τὸ ἔμπϱαϰτον ϰαὶ ἐνάληϑες. δειναὶ δὲ ϰαὶ ἔϰφυλοι αἱ παϱαβάσεις, ἡνίϰ̓ ἂν ᾖ ποιητιϰὸν τοῦ λόγου ϰαὶ μυϑῶδες τὸ πλάσμα ϰαὶ εἰς πᾶν πϱοσεϰπῖπτον τὸ ἀδύνατον, ὡς ἤδη νὴ Δία ϰαὶ οἱ ϰαϑ̓ ἡμᾶς δεινοὶ ῥήτοϱες, ϰαϑάπεϱ οἱ τϱαγῳδοί, βλέπουσιν Ἐϱινύας, ϰαὶ οὐδὲ ἐϰεῖνο μαϑεῖν οἱ γενναῖοι δύνανται, ὅτι ὁ λέγων Ὀϱέστης

μέϑες, μἴ οὖσα τῶν ἐμῶν Ἐϱινύων
μέσον μ̓ ὀχμάζεις, ὡς βάλῃς ἐς τάϱταϱον,

φαντάζεται ταῦϑ̓ ὅτι μαίνεται. [9] τί οὖν ἡ ῥητοϱιϰὴ φαντασία δύναται; πολλὰ μὲν ἴσως ϰαὶ ἄλλα τοῖς λόγοις ἐναγώνια ϰαὶ ἐμπαϑῆ πϱοσεισφέϱειν, ϰαταϰιϱναμένη μέντοι ταῖς πϱαγματιϰαῖς ἐπιχειϱήσεσιν οὐ πείϑει τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν μόνον, ἀλλὰ ϰαὶ δουλοῦται. ῾ϰαὶ μὴν εἴ τις,᾿ φησὶν ῾αὐτίϰα δὴ μάλα ϰϱαυγῆς ἀϰούσειε πϱὸ τῶν διϰαστηϱίων, εἶτ̓ εἴποι τις, ὡς ἀνέῳϰται τὸ δεσμωτήϱιον, οἱ δὲ δεσμῶται φεύγουσιν, οὐϑεὶς οὕτως οὔτε γέϱων οὔτε νέος ὀλίγωϱός ἐστιν, ὃς οὐχὶ βοηϑήσει, ϰαϑ̓ ὅσον δύναται: εἰ δὲ δή τις εἴποι παϱελϑών, ὡς ὁ τούτους ἀφεὶς οὗτός ἐστιν, οὐδὲ λόγου τυχὼν παϱαυτίϰ̓ ἂν ἀπόλοιτο.᾿ [10] ὡς νὴ Δία ϰαὶ ὁ Ὑπεϱίδης ϰατηγοϱούμενος, ἐπειδὴ τοὺς δούλους μετὰ τὴν ἧτταν ἐλευϑέϱους ἐψηφίσατο, τοῦτο τὸ ψήφισμα, εἶπεν, οὐχ ὁ ῥήτωϱ ἔγϱαψεν ἀλλ̓ ἡ ἐν Χαιϱωνείᾳ μάχη. ἅμα γὰϱ τῷ πϱαγματιϰῷ ἐπιχειϱεῖν ὁ ῥήτωϱ πεφάντασται, διὸ ϰαὶ τὸν τοῦ πείϑειν ὅϱον ὑπεϱβέβηϰε τῷ λήμματι. [11] φύσει δέ πως ἐν τοῖς τοιούτοις ἅπασιν ἀεὶ τοῦ ϰϱείττονος ἀϰούομεν, ὅϑεν ἀπὸ τοῦ ἀποδειϰτιϰοῦ πεϱιελϰόμεϑα εἰς τὸ ϰατὰ φαντασίαν ἐϰπληϰτιϰόν, ᾧ τὸ πϱαγματιϰὸν ἐγϰϱύπτεται πεϱιλαμπόμενον. ϰαὶ τοῦτ̓ οὐϰ ἀπειϰότως πάσχομεν: δυεῖν γὰϱ συνταττομένων ὑφ̓ ἓν ἀεὶ τὸ ϰϱεῖττον εἰς ἑαυτὸ τὴν ϑατέϱου δύναμιν πεϱισπᾷ. [12] Τοσαῦτα πεϱὶ τῶν ϰατὰ τὰς νοήσεις ὑψηλῶν ϰαὶ ὑπὸ μεγαλοφϱοσύνης μιμήσεως ἢ φαντασίας ἀπογεννωμένων ἀϱϰέσει.

The dignity, grandeur, and energy of a style largely depend on a proper employment of images, a term which I prefer to that usually given. The term image in its most general acceptation includes every thought, howsoever presented, which issues in speech. But the term is now generally confined to those cases when he who is speaking, by reason of the rapt and excited state of his feelings, imagines himself to see what he is talking about, and produces a similar illusion in his hearers. 2Poets and orators both employ images, but with a very different object, as you are well aware. The poetical image is designed to astound; the oratorical image to give perspicuity. Both, however, seek to work on the emotions.
  “Mother, I pray thee, set not thou upon me
  Those maids with bloody face and serpent hair:
  See, see, they come, they’re here, they spring upon me!”
And again—
  “Ah, ah, she’ll slay me! whither shall I fly?”
The poet when he wrote like this saw the Erinyes with his own eyes, and he almost compels his readers to see them too. 3Euripides found his chief delight in the labour of giving tragic expression to these two passions of madness and love, showing here a real mastery which I cannot think he exhibited elsewhere. Still, he is by no means diffident in venturing on other fields of the imagination. His genius was far from being of the highest order, but by taking pains he often raises himself to a tragic elevation. In his sublimer moments he generally reminds us of Homer’s description of the lion—
  “With tail he lashes both his flanks and sides,
  And spurs himself to battle.”
Take, for instance, that passage in which Helios, in handing the reins to his son, says—
  “Drive on, but shun the burning Libyan tract;
  The hot dry air will let thine axle down:
  Toward the seven Pleiades keep thy steadfast way.”
And then—
  “This said, his son undaunted snatched the reins,
  Then smote the winged coursers’ sides: they bound
  Forth on the void and cavernous vault of air.
  His father mounts another steed, and rides
  With warning voice guiding his son. ‘Drive there!
  Turn, turn thy car this way.’”
May we not say that the spirit of the poet mounts the chariot with his hero, and accompanies the winged steeds in their perilous flight? Were it not so,—had not his imagination soared side by side with them in that celestial passage,—he would never have conceived so vivid an image. Similar is that passage in his “Cassandra,” beginning
  “Ye Trojans, lovers of the steed.”
Aeschylus is especially bold in forming images suited to his heroic themes: as when he says of his “Seven against Thebes”—
  “Seven mighty men, and valiant captains, slew
  Over an iron-bound shield a bull, then dipped
  Their fingers in the blood, and all invoked
  Ares, Enyo, and death-dealing Flight
  In witness of their oaths,”
and describes how they all mutually pledged themselves without flinching to die. Sometimes, however, his thoughts are unshapen, and as it were rough-hewn and rugged. Not observing this, Euripides, from too blind a rivalry, sometimes falls under the same censure. Aeschylus with a strange violence of language represents the palace of Lycurgus as possessed at the appearance of Dionysus—
  “The halls with rapture thrill, the roof’s inspired.”
Here Euripides, in borrowing the image, softens its extravagance—
  “And all the mountain felt the god.”
Sophocles has also shown himself a great master of the imagination in the scene in which the dying Oedipus prepares himself for burial in the midst of a tempest, and where he tells how Achilles appeared to the Greeks over his tomb just as they were putting out to sea on their departure from Troy. This last scene has also been delineated by Simonides with a vividness which leaves him inferior to none. But it would be an endless task to cite all possible examples.
To return, then, in poetry, as I observed, a certain mythical exaggeration is allowable, transcending altogether mere logical credence. But the chief beauties of an oratorical image are its energy and reality. Such digressions become offensive and monstrous when the language is cast in a poetical and fabulous mould, and runs into all sorts of impossibilities. Thus much may be learnt from the great orators of our own day, when they tell us in tragic tones that they see the Furies—good people, can’t they understand that when Orestes cries out
  “Off, off, I say! I know thee who thou art,
  One of the fiends that haunt me: I feel thine arms
  About me cast, to drag me down to hell,”
these are the hallucinations of a madman?
  Wherein, then, lies the force of an oratorical image? Doubtless in adding energy and passion in a hundred different ways to a speech; but especially in this, that when it is mingled with the practical, argumentative parts of an oration, it does not merely convince the hearer, but enthralls him. Such is the effect of those words of Demosthenes: “Supposing, now, at this moment a cry of alarm were heard outside the assize courts, and the news came that the prison was broken open and the prisoners escaped, is there any man here who is such a trifler that he would not run to the rescue at the top of his speed? But suppose some one came forward with the information that they had been set at liberty by the defendant, what then? Why, he would be lynched on the spot!” 10Compare also the way in which Hyperides excused himself, when he was proceeded against for bringing in a bill to liberate the slaves after Chaeronea. “This measure,” he said, “was not drawn up by any orator, but by the battle of Chaeronea.” This striking image, being thrown in by the speaker in the midst of his proofs, enables him by one bold stroke to carry all mere logical objection before him. In all such cases our nature is drawn towards that which affects it most powerfully: hence an image lures us away from an argument: judgment is paralysed, matters of fact disappear from view, eclipsed by the superior blaze. Nor is it surprising that we should be thus affected; for when two forces are thus placed in juxtaposition, the stronger must always absorb into itself the weaker.
  On sublimity of thought, and the manner in which it arises from native greatness of mind, from imitation, and from the employment of images, this brief outline must suffice.

Weight, grandeur, and energy in writing are very largely produced, dear pupil, by the use of “images.” (That at least is what some people call the actual mental pictures.) For the term Imagination is applied in general to an idea which enters the mind from any source and engenders speech, [2] but the word has now come to be used predominantly of passages where, inspired by strong emotion, you seem to see what you describe and bring it vividly before the eyes of your audience. That imagination means one thing in oratory and another in poetry you will yourself detect, and also that the object of poetry is to enthral, **ἔϰπληξις means startling people out of their wits, emotional illusion. of prose writing to present things vividly, though both indeed aim at this latter and at excited feeling.

Mother, I beg thee goad not on against me
These snake-like hags with silent bloody feet.
See there! See there! They leap upon me close. **Euripides: Orestes 255-257. Orestes on his sick-bed in a fit of mania sees Clytaemnestra setting the Furies at him. Eurip. I.T. 291. A herdsman describing to Iphigeneia how he saw Orestes in a fit of madness on the shore, quotes this as one of his wild utterances.

And -

Ah, she will slay me, whither shall I flee? **Euripides: Ephigenie in Tauris 291. A herdsman describing to Iphigeneia how he saw Orestes in a fit of madness on the shore, quotes this as one of his wild utterances.

In these passages the poet himself had Furies before his eyes and almost compelled the audience to see what he imagined. [3] Now Euripides spends his fondest efforts in presenting these two emotions, madness and love, in tragic guise, and succeeds more brilliantly with these emotions than, I think, with any others; not that he lacks enterprise to attack other forms of imagination as well. While his natural genius is certainly not sublime, yet in many places he forces it into the tragic mould and invariably in his grand passages, as the poet says,

His tail at his ribs and his flanks now lashes on this, now on that side.
Ever he spurs himself on to share in the joys of the battle. **Iliad XX,170. The simile is a wounded lion, to which Homer compares Achilles preparing to fight with Aeneas.

[4] For instance, when Helios hands over the reins to Phaëthon: -

“And see thou drive not to the Libyan clime.
Its torrid air with no damp humour tempered
Will fire thy wheel and melt it."

And he goes on,

“But for the seven Pleiads shape thy course.”
This heard, young Phaëthon caught up the reins,
Slashed at the flanks of his wing-wafted team.
And launched them flying to the cloudy coombs.
Behind, his sire, astride the Dog-star’s back,
Rode, schooling thus his son. “Now, drive thou there,
Now this way wheel thy car, this way.” **Euripides: Phaëthon, 168-177.

Would you not say that the writer’s feelings are aboard the car, sharing the perilous flight of those winged horses? Never could he have shown such imagination, had he not run neck and neck with those celestial doings. You find the same in his Cassandra’s speech beginning

Nay, Trojans, lovers of horse flesh. **Euripides: fr. 935, Alexandros?

[5] Aeschylus ventures upon imaginative passages of the true heroic mould. For instance he says of his Seven against Thebes:

Seven resistless captains o’er a shield
Black-bound with hide have slit a bullock’s throat,
And dipped their fingers in the bullock’s blood.
Swearing a mighty oath by War and Havoc
And Panic, bloodshed’s lover

– where they all pledge themselves to each other to die “apart from pity.” **Ἑπτὰ ἐπὶ Θήβας 42-46; “apart from pity” is a reminiscence of l. 51. Sometimes, however, he introduces rough ideas, all woolly, as it were, and ragged,**ἀμαλάϰτους = lit. “untanned,” i.e. raw, crude. and yet Euripides’ emulation leads him to embark on the same perilous path. [6] Aeschylus uses a startling phrase of Lycurgus’s palace, magically possessed at the appearance of Dionysus,

The house breathes ecstasy, the roof-tree revels. **From the lost trilogy, which dealt with Dionysus’s coming to Thrace, Lycurgus’s resistance and the final establishment of the Dionysian religion in Thrace.

Euripides expressed the same idea differently, softening it down,

And all the mountain felt
And worshipped with them. **Bacchae 726. A messenger is describing to Pentheus how he saw the Bacchanals on Mt. Cithaeron -
πᾶν δὲ συνεβάϰχευ’ ὄϱος
ϰαὶ ϑῆϱες, οὐδὲν δ’ ἦν ἀϰίνητον δϱόμῳ.

[7] Sophocles describes with superb imagination the dying Oedipus, conducting his own burial amid strange portents in the sky; **Οἰδίπους ἐπὶ Κολωνῷ 1586-1666. and Achilles at the departure of the Greeks, when he appears above his tomb to those embarking,**Polyxena, fragment 523 a scene which nobody perhaps has depicted so vividly as Simonides. But to give all the instances would be endless. [8] However, as I said, these examples from poetry show a romantic exaggeration, far exceeding the limits of credibility, whereas the most perfect effect of imagination in oratory is always one of reality and truth. The exceptions to this rule have a strange, outlandish air, when the texture of the speech is poetical and romantic and deviates into all sorts of impossibilities For instance, our wonderful modern orators – save the mark! – are like so many tragedians in seeing Furies, and the fine fellows cannot even understand that when Orestes says,

Avaunt! Of mine own Furies art thou one
That clip my waist to cast me down to Hell, **Euripides: Orestes, 264-265.

he only imagines that, because he is mad. [9] What then is the use of imagination in rhetoric? It may be said generally to introduce a great deal of vigour and emotion into one’s speeches, but when combined with argumentative treatment it not only convinces the audience, it positively masters them. Take Demosthenes: “And yet, suppose that at this very moment we were to hear an uproar in front of the law courts and someone were to tell us, ’The prison has been broken open and the prisoners are escaping,’ there is no man, old or young, so careless that he would not run to give all the assistance in his power. But suppose someone were to come and actually tell us that this was the man who set them free, he would be killed on the moment without a hearing.” **Timocrates 208. [10] And then, to be sure, there is Hypereides on his trial, when he had moved the enfranchisement of the slaves after the Athenian reverse. “It was not the speaker that framed this measure, but the battle of Chaeroneia.” **Plutarch tells how after Philip’s victory at Chaeronela (338 B.C.) which ended the freedom of Athens, Demosthenes’ supporter, Hypereides, proposed in panic an illegal extension of the franchise and, when subsequently impeached, said “The arms of Macedon obscured my vision. It was not I that made the proposal; it was the battle of Chaponeia." There, besides developing his technical argument the orator uses his imagination and consequently his conception far exceeds the limits of mere persuasion. [11] In all such cases the stronger accents seem naturally to catch our ears, so that our attention is drawn from the reasoning to the enthralling effect of the imagination, and the technique is concealed in a halo of brilliance. And this effect on us is natural enough; set two forces side by side and the stronger always borrows the virtues of the other.

[12] This must suffice for our treatment of sublimity in ideas, as produced by nobility of mind or imitation **See Chapter xiii § 2. or imagination.
 

Αὐτόϑι μέντοι ϰαὶ ὁ πεϱὶ σχημάτων ἐφεξῆς τέταϰται τόπος: ϰαὶ γὰϱ ταῦτ̓, ἂν ὃν δεῖ σϰευάζηται τϱόπον, ὡς ἔφην, οὐϰ ἂν ἡ τυχοῦσα μεγέϑους εἴη μεϱίς. οὐ μὴν ἀλλ̓ ἐπεὶ τὸ πάντα διαϰϱιβοῦν πολύεϱγον ἐν τῷ παϱόντι, μᾶλλον δ̓ ἀπεϱιόϱιστον, ὀλίγα τῶν ὅσα μεγαληγοϱίας ἀποτελεστιϰὰ τοῦ πιστώσασϑαι τὸ πϱοϰείμενον ἕνεϰα ϰαὶ δὴ διέξιμεν. [2] ἀπόδειξιν ὁ Δημοσϑένης ὑπὲϱ τῶν πεπολιτευμένων εἰσφέϱει: τίς δ̓ ἦν ἡ ϰατὰ φύσιν χϱῆσις αὐτῆς; ῾οὐχ ἡμάϱτετε, ὦ τὸν ὑπὲϱ τῆς τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἐλευϑεϱίας ἀγῶνα ἀϱάμενοι: ἔχετε δὲ οἰϰεῖα τούτου παϱαδείγματα: οὐδὲ γὰϱ οἱ ἐν Μαϱαϑῶνι ἥμαϱτον οὐδ̓ οἱ ἐν Σαλαμῖνι οὐδ̓ οἱ ἐν Πλαταιαῖς.᾿ ἀλλ̓ ἐπειδὴ ϰαϑάπεϱ ἐμπνευσϑεὶς ἐξαίφνης ὑπὸ ϑεοῦ ϰαὶ οἱονεὶ φοιβόληπτος γενόμενος, τὸν τῶν ἀϱιστέων τῆς Ἑλλάδος ὅϱϰον ἐξεφώνησεν ῾οὐϰ ἔστιν ὅπως ἡμάϱτετε, μὰ τοὺς ἐν Μαϱαϑῶνι πϱοϰινδυνεύσαντας,᾿ φαίνεται δἰ ἑνὸς τοῦ ὀμοτιϰοῦ σχήματος, ματος, ὅπεϱ ἐνϑάδε ἀποστϱοφὴν ἐγὼ ϰαλῶ, τοὺς μὲν πϱογόνους ἀποϑεώσας, ὅτι δεῖ τοὺς οὕτως ἀποϑανόντας ὡς ϑεοὺς ὀμνύναι παϱιστάνων, τοῖς δὲ ϰϱίνουσι τὸ τῶν ἐϰεῖ πϱοϰινδυνευσάντων ἐντιϑεὶς φϱόνημα, τὴν δὲ τῆς ἀποδείξεως φύσιν μεϑεσταϰὼς εἰς ὑπεϱβάλλον ὕψος ϰαὶ πάϑος ϰαὶ ξένων ϰαὶ ὑπεϱφυῶν ὅϱϰων ἀξιοπιστίαν, ϰαὶ ἅμα παιώνειόν τινα ϰαὶ ἀλεξιφάϱμαϰον εἰς τὰς ψυχὰς τῶν ἀϰουόντων ϰαϑιεὶς λόγον, ὡς ϰουφιζομένους ὑπὸ τῶν ἐγϰωμίων μηδὲν ἔλαττον τῇ μάχῃ τῇ πϱὸς Φίλιππον ἢ ἐπὶ τοῖς ϰατὰ Μαϱαϑῶνα ϰαὶ Σαλαμῖνα νιϰητηϱίοις παϱίστασϑαι φϱονεῖν: οἷς πᾶσι τοὺς ἀϰϱοατὰς διὰ τοῦ σχηματισμοῦ συναϱπάσας ᾤχετο. [3] ϰαίτοι παϱὰ τῷ Εὐπόλιδι. τοῦ ὅϱϰου τὸ σπέϱμα φασὶν εὑϱῆσϑαι:

οὐ γὰϱ μὰ τὴν Μαϱαϑῶνι τὴν ἐμὴν μάχην,
χαίϱων τις αὐτῶν τοὐμὸν ἀλγυνεῖ ϰέαϱ.

ἔστι δ̓ οὐ τὸ ὁπωσοῦν τινὰ ὀμόσαι μέγα, τὸ δὲ ποῦ ϰαὶ πῶς ϰαὶ ἐφ̓ ὧν ϰαιϱῶν ϰαὶ τίνος ἕνεϰα. ἀλλ̓ ἐϰεῖ μὲν οὐδέν ἐστ̓ εἰ μὴ ὅϱϰος, ϰαὶ πϱὸς εὐτυχοῦντας ἔτι ϰαὶ οὐ δεομένους παϱηγοϱίας τοὺς Ἀϑηναίους, ἔτι δ̓ οὐχὶ τοὺς ἄνδϱας ἀπαϑανατίσας ὁ ποιητὴς ὤμοσεν, ἵνα τῆς ἐϰείνων ἀϱετῆς τοῖς ἀϰούουσιν ἐντέϰῃ λόγον ἄξιον, ἀλλ̓ ἀπὸ τῶν πϱοϰινδυνευσάντων ἐπὶ τὸ ἄψυχον ἀπεπλανήϑη, τὴν μάχην. παϱὰ δὲ τῷ Δημοσϑένει πεπϱαγμάτευται πϱὸς ἡττημένους ὁ ὅϱϰος, ὡς μὴ Χαιϱώνειαν ἔτ̓ Ἀϑηναίοις ἀτύχημα φαίνεσϑαι, ϰαὶ ταὐτόν, ὡς ἔφην, ἅμα ἀπόδειξίς ἐστι τοῦ μηδὲν ἡμαϱτηϰέναι παϱάδειγμα ὅϱϰων πίστις ἐγϰώμιον πϱοτϱοπή. [4] ϰἀπειδήπεϱ ὑπήντα τῷ ῥήτοϱι: ῾λέγεις ἧτταν πολιτευσάμενος, εἶτα νίϰας ὀμνύεις,᾿ διὰ ταῦϑ̓ ἑξῆς ϰανονίζει ϰαὶ δἰ ἀσφαλείας ἄγει ϰαὶ ὀνόματα, διδάσϰων ὅτι ϰἀν βαϰχεύμασι νήφειν ἀναγϰαῖον: ῾τοὺς πϱοϰινδυνεύσαντας᾿ φησὶ ῾Μαϱαϑῶνι ϰαὶ τοὺς Σαλαμῖνι ϰαὶ ἐπ̓ Ἀϱτεμισίῳ ναυμαχήσαντας, ϰαὶ τοὺς ἐν Πλαταιαῖς παϱαταξαμένους.᾿ οὐδαμοῦ ῾νιϰήσαντας᾿ εἶπεν, ἀλλὰ πάντη τὸ τοῦ τέλους διαϰέϰλοφεν ὄνομα, ἐπειδήπεϱ ἦν εὐτυχὲς ϰαὶ τοῖς ϰατὰ Χαιϱώνειαν ὑπεναντίον. διόπεϱ ϰαὶ τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν φϑάνων εὐϑὺς ὑποφέϱει: ῾οὓς ἅπαντας ἔϑαψε δημοσίᾀ φησὶν ῾ἡ πόλις, Αἰσχίνη, οὐχὶ τοὺς ϰατοϱϑώσαντας μόνους.᾿

The subject which next claims our attention is that of figures of speech. I have already observed that figures, judiciously employed, play an important part in producing sublimity. It would be a tedious, or rather an endless task, to deal with every detail of this subject here; so in order to establish what I have laid down, I will just run over, without further preface, a few of those figures which are most effective in lending grandeur to language.
Demosthenes is defending his policy; his natural line of argument would have been: “You did not do wrong, men of Athens, to take upon yourselves the struggle for the liberties of Hellas. Of this you have home proofs. They did not wrong who fought at Marathon, at Salamis, and Plataea.” Instead of this, in a sudden moment of supreme exaltation he bursts out like some inspired prophet with that famous appeal to the mighty dead: “Ye did not, could not have done wrong. I swear it by the men who faced the foe at Marathon!” He employs the figure of adjuration, to which I will here give the name of Apostrophe. And what does he gain by it? He exalts the Athenian ancestors to the rank of divinities, showing that we ought to invoke those who have fallen for their country as gods; he fills the hearts of his judges with the heroic pride of the old warriors of Hellas; forsaking the beaten path of argument he rises to the loftiest altitude of grandeur and passion, and commands assent by the startling novelty of his appeal; he applies the healing charm of eloquence, and thus “ministers to the mind diseased” of his countrymen, until lifted by his brave words above their misfortunes they begin to feel that the disaster of Chaeronea is no less glorious than the victories of Marathon and Salamis. All this he effects by the use of one figure, and so carries his hearers away with him. It is said that the germ of this adjuration is found in Eupolis—
  “By mine own fight, by Marathon, I say,
  Who makes my heart to ache shall rue the day!”
But there is nothing grand in the mere employment of an oath. Its grandeur will depend on its being employed in the right place and the right manner, on the right occasion, and with the right motive. In Eupolis the oath is nothing beyond an oath; and the Athenians to whom it is addressed are still prosperous, and in need of no consolation. Moreover, the poet does not, like Demosthenes, swear by the departed heroes as deities, so as to engender in his audience a just conception of their valour, but diverges from the champions to the battle—a mere lifeless thing. But Demosthenes has so skilfully managed the oath that in addressing his countrymen after the defeat of Chaeronea he takes out of their minds all sense of disaster; and at the same time, while proving that no mistake has been made, he holds up an example, confirms his arguments by an oath, and makes his praise of the dead an incentive to the living. 4And to rebut a possible objection which occurred to him—“Can you, Demosthenes, whose policy ended in defeat, swear by a victory?”—the orator proceeds to measure his language, choosing his very words so as to give no handle to opponents, thus showing us that even in our most inspired moments reason ought to hold the reins. Let us mark his words: “Those who faced the foe at Marathon; those who fought in the sea-fights of Salamis and Artemisium; those who stood in the ranks at Plataea.” Note that he nowhere says “those who conquered,” artfully suppressing any word which might hint at the successful issue of those battles, which would have spoilt the parallel with Chaeronea. And for the same reason he steals a march on his audience, adding immediately: “All of whom, Aeschines,—not those who were successful only,—were buried by the state at the public expense.”

The topic of figures next claims attention, for these too, if rightly handled, may be, as I said, **Chapter viii. an important element in the sublime. However, since it would be a long and indeed an interminable task to treat them all in detail at this point, we will by way of strengthening our position merely run through a few of those which make for grandeur. [2] To proceed then, Demosthenes is producing an argument in favour of his policy. **Ὑπὲϱ Κτησιφῶντος πεϱὶ τοῦ Στεφάνου 208: “But no; you cannot, men of Athens, you cannot have done wrongly when you accepted the risks of war for the redemption and the liberties of mankind; I swear it by our forefathers who bore the brunt of warfare at Marathon, who stood in array of battle at Plataea, who fought in the sea-fights of Salamis and Artemisium, and by all the brave men who repose in our public sepulchres, buried there by a country that accounted them all to be alike worthy of the same honor—all, I say, Aeschines, not the successful and the victorious alone. So justice bids: for by all the duty of brave men was accomplished: their fortune was such as Heaven severally allotted to them.” What was the natural way to treat it? “You were not wrong, men of Athens, in undertaking that struggle for the freedom of Greece, and you have proof of this near home, for neither were the men at Marathon misguided nor those at Salamis nor those at Plataea.” But when in a sudden moment of inspiration, as if possessed by the divine afflatus, he utters his great oath about the champions of Greece, “It cannot be that you were wrong; no, by those who bore the brunt at Marathon,” then you feel that by employing the single figure of adjuration – which I here call apostrophe – he has deified his ancestors by suggesting that one should swear by men who met such a death, as if they were gods: he has filled his judges with the spirit of those who bore the brunt there: he has transformed his argument into a passage of transcendent sublimity and emotion, giving it the power of conviction that lies in so strange and startling an oath: and at the same time his words have administered to his hearers a remedy and an antidote, with the result that, relieved by his eulogy, they come to feel as proud of the war with Philip as of their victories at Marathon and Salamis. In all this by the use of the figure he is enabled to carry the audience away with him. [3] True he is said to have found the germ of the oath in Eupolis:

Nay, by the fight I fought at Marathon,
No one of them shall unscathed vex my heart. **From the Demes of the comedian Eupolls, a contemporary of Aristophanes.

But the mere swearing of an oath is not sublime: we must consider the place, the manner, the circumstances, the motive. In Eupolis there is nothing but an oath, and that addressed to Athens, when still in prosperity and needing no encouragement. Moreover, the poet’s oath does not immortalise the men so as to beget in the audience a true opinion of their worth, but instead he wanders from those who bore the brunt to an inanimate object, namely “the fight.” In Demosthenes the oath is carefully designed to suit the feelings of defeated men, so that the Athenians should no longer regard Chaeroneia as a disaster; and it is, as I said, at the same time a proof that no mistake has been made, an example, a sworn confirmation, a eulogy, and a stimulus. [4] The orator was faced with the objection, “You are speaking of a reverse due to your policy and then you go swearing by victories,” and therefore in the sequel he proceeds to measure his every word and keeps on the safe side, inculcating the lesson that “in the very whirlwind of passion you must beget a temperance.” **The reference to Hamlet III, ii. may be justified by the author’s reminiscence of Euripides’ Bacchae 317 -
ϰαὶ γὰϱ ἐν βαϰχεύμασιν
οὖσ’ ἥ γε σώφϱων οὐ διαφϑαϱήσεται,
In the wildest rite
Cometh no stain to her whose heart is white. “Those who bore the brunt,” he says, “at Marathon and those who fought on shipboard at Salamis and Artemisium and those who faced the Persians at Plataea” – never “those who won the victory.” Throughout he cunningly avoids naming the result, because it was successful and the opposite of what happened at Chaeroneia. So before his hearers can raise the objection he promptly adds, “To all of these the country gave a public funeral, Aeschines, not only to those who were successful.”

Οὐϰ ἄξιον ἐπὶ τούτου τοῦ τόπου παϱαλιπεῖν ἕν τι τῶν ἡμῖν τεϑεωϱημένων, φίλτατε, ἔσται δὲ πάνυ σύντομον, ὅτι φύσει πως συμμαχεῖ τε τῷ ὕψει τὰ σχήματα ϰαὶ πάλιν ἀντισυμμαχεῖται ϑαυμαστῶς ὑπ̓ αὐτοῦ. πῇ δὲ ϰαὶ πῶς, ἐγὼ φϱάσω. ὕποπτόν ἐστιν ἰδίως τὸ διὰ σχημάτων πανουϱγεῖν ϰαὶ πϱοσβάλλον ὑπόνοιαν ἐνέδϱας ἐπιβουλῆς παϱαλογισμοῦ. ϰαὶ ταῦϑ̓ ὅταν ᾖ πϱὸς ϰϱιτὴν ϰύϱιον ὁ λόγος, μάλιστα δὲ πϱὸς τυϱάννους βασιλέας ἡγεμόνας ἐν ὑπεϱοχαῖς: ἀγαναϰτεῖ γὰϱ εὐϑύς, εἰ ὡς παῖς ἄφϱων ὑπὸ τεχνίτου ῥήτοϱος σχηματίοις ϰατασοφίζεται, ϰαὶ εἰς ϰαταφϱόνησιν ἑαυτοῦ λαμβάνων τὸν παϱαλογισμὸν ἐνίοτε μὲν ἀποϑηϱιοῦται τὸ σύνολον, ϰἂν ἐπιϰϱατήσῃ δὲ τοῦ ϑυμοῦ, πϱὸς τὴν πειϑὼ τῶν λόγων πάντως ἀντιδιατίϑεται. διόπεϱ ϰαὶ τότε ἄϱιστον δοϰεῖ τὸ σχῆμα, ὅταν αὐτὸ τοῦτο διαλανϑάνῃ ὅτι σχῆμά ἐστιν. [2] τὸ τοίνυν ὕψος ϰαὶ πάϑος τῆς ἐπὶ τῷ σχηματίζειν ὑπονοίας ἀλέξημα ϰαὶ ϑαυμαστή τις ἐπιϰουϱία ϰαϑίσταται, ϰαί πως παϱαληφϑεῖσα ἡ τοῦ πανουϱγεῖν τέχνη τοῖς ϰάλλεσι ϰαὶ μεγέϑεσι τὸ λοιπὸν δέδυϰε ϰαὶ πᾶσαν ὑποψίαν ἐϰπέφευγεν. ἱϰανὸν δὲ τεϰμήϱιον τὸ πϱοειϱημένον ῾μὰ τοὺς ἐν Μαϱαϑῶνι.᾿ τίνι γὰϱ ἐνταῦϑ̓ ὁ ῥήτωϱ ἀπέϰϱυψε τὸ σχῆμα; δῆλον ὅτι τῷ φωτὶ αὐτῷ. σχεδὸν γὰϱ ὥσπεϱ ϰαὶ τἀμυδϱὰ φέγγη ἐναφανίζεται τῷ ἡλίῳ πεϱιαυγούμενα, οὕτω τὰ τῆς ῥητοϱιϰῆς σοφίσματα ἐξαμαυϱοῖ πεϱιχυϑὲν πάντοϑεν τὸ μέγεϑος. [3] οὐ πόϱϱω δ̓ ἴσως τούτου ϰαὶ ἐπὶ τῆς ζωγϱαφίας τι συμβαίνει: ἐπὶ γὰϱ τοῦ αὐτοῦ ϰειμένων ἐπιπέδου παϱαλλήλων ἐν χϱώμασι τῆς σϰιᾶς τε ϰαὶ τοῦ φωτός, ὅμως πϱοϋπαντᾷ τε τὸ φῶς ταῖς ὄψεσι ϰαὶ οὐ μόνον ἔξοχον ἀλλὰ ϰαὶ ἐγγυτέϱω παϱὰ πολὺ φαίνεται. οὐϰοῦν ϰαὶ τῶν λόγων τὰ πάϑη ϰαὶ τὰ ὕψη ταῖς ψυχαῖς ἡμῶν ἐγγυτέϱω ϰείμενα διά τε φυσιϰήν τινα συγγένειαν ϰαὶ διὰ λαμπϱότητα, ἀεὶ τῶν σχημάτων πϱοεμφανίζεται ϰαὶ τὴν τέχνην αὐτῶν ἀποσϰιάζει ϰαὶ οἷον ἐν ϰαταϰαλύψει τηϱεῖ.

There is one truth which my studies have led me to observe, which perhaps it would be worth while to set down briefly here. It is this, that by a natural law the Sublime, besides receiving an acquisition of strength from figures, in its turn lends support in a remarkable manner to them. To explain: the use of figures has a peculiar tendency to rouse a suspicion of dishonesty, and to create an impression of treachery, scheming, and false reasoning; especially if the person addressed be a judge, who is master of the situation, and still more in the case of a despot, a king, a military potentate, or any of those who sit in high places. If a man feels that this artful speaker is treating him like a silly boy and trying to throw dust in his eyes, he at once grows irritated, and thinking that such false reasoning implies a contempt of his understanding, he perhaps flies into a rage and will not hear another word; or even if he masters his resentment, still he is utterly indisposed to yield to the persuasive power of eloquence. Hence it follows that a figure is then most effectual when it appears in disguise. 2To allay, then, this distrust which attaches to the use of figures we must call in the powerful aid of sublimity and passion. For art, once associated with these great allies, will be overshadowed by their grandeur and beauty, and pass beyond the reach of all suspicion. To prove this I need only refer to the passage already quoted: “I swear it by the men,” etc. It is the very brilliancy of the orator’s figure which blinds us to the fact that it is a figure. For as the fainter lustre of the stars is put out of sight by the all-encompassing rays of the sun, so when sublimity sheds its light all round the sophistries of rhetoric they become invisible. 3A similar illusion is produced by the painter’s art. When light and shadow are represented in colour, though they lie on the same surface side by side, it is the light which meets the eye first, and appears not only more conspicuous but also much nearer. In the same manner passion and grandeur of language, lying nearer to our souls by reason both of a certain natural affinity and of their radiance, always strike our mental eye before we become conscious of the figure, throwing its artificial character into the shade and hiding it as it were in a veil.

While on this topic I must not omit to mention a view of my own, dear friend, which I will state, however, quite concisely. Figures seem to be natural allies of the sublime and to draw in turn marvellous reinforcement from the alliance. Where and how? I will tell you. There is an inevitable suspicion attaching to the unconscionable use of figures. It gives a suggestion of treachery, craft, fallacy, especially when your speech is addressed to a judge with absolute authority, or still more to a despot, a king, or a ruler in high place. He is promptly put out, if he is treated like a simple child and outwitted by the figures of a sophisticated speaker. Construing the fallacy as a personal affront, he sometimes turns absolutely savage; and even if he controls his feelings, he becomes wholly hostile to the reasoning of the speech. So find that a figure is always most effective when it conceals the very fact of its being a figure. [2] The sublimity and the effect on the emotions are a wonderfully helpful antidote against the suspicion that accompanies the use of figures. The effrontery of the artifice is somehow lost in its brilliant setting of beauty and grandeur: it is no longer obvious, and thus avoids all suspicion. A sufficient instance is that mentioned above, “By those at Marathon.” In that case how did the orator conceal the figure? Obviously by its very brilliance.**Cf. Ch. XV,11. Much in the same way that dimmer lights vanish in the surrounding radiance of the sun, so the all-embracing atmosphere of grandeur obscures the rhetorical devices. [3] We see something of the same kind in painting. Though the high lights and shadows lie side by side in the same plane, yet the high lights spring to the eye and seem not only to stand out but to be actually much nearer. So it is in writing. What is sublime and moving lies nearer to our hearts, and thus, partly from a natural affinity, partly from brilliance of effect, it always strikes the eye long before the figures, thus throwing their art into the shade and keeping it hid as it were under a bushel.

Τί δ̓ ἐϰεῖνα φῶμεν, τὰς πεύσεις τε ϰαὶ ἐϱωτήσεις; ἆϱα οὐϰ αὐταῖς ταῖς τῶν σχημάτων εἰδοποιΐαις παϱὰ πολὺ ἐμπϱαϰτότεϱα ϰαὶ σοβαϱώτεϱα συντείνει τὰ λεγόμενα; ῾ἢ βούλεσϑε εἰπέ μοι πεϱιϊόντες ἀλλήλων πυνϑάνεσϑαι: λέγεταί τι ϰαινόν; τί γὰϱ ἂν γένοιτο τούτου ϰαινότεϱον ἢ Μαϰεδὼν ἀνὴϱ ϰαταπολεμῶν τὴν Ἑλλάδα; τέϑνηϰε Φίλιππος; οὐ μὰ Δἴ ἀλλ̓ ἀσϑενεῖ. τί δ̓ ὑμῖν διαφέϱει; ϰαὶ γὰϱ ἂν οὗτός τι πάϑῃ, ταχέως ὑμεῖς ἕτεϱον Φίλιππον ποιήσετε.᾿ ϰαὶ πάλιν ῾πλέωμεν ἐπὶ Μαϰεδονίαν̓ φησί. ῾ποῖ δὴ πϱοσοϱμιούμεϑα, ἤϱετό τις. εὑϱήσει τὰ σαϑϱὰ τῶν Φιλίππου πϱαγμάτων αὐτὸς ὁ πόλεμος.᾿ ἦν δὲ ἁπλῶς ῥηϑὲν τὸ πϱᾶγμα τῷ παντὶ ϰαταδεέστεϱον, νυνὶ δὲ τὸ ἔνϑουν ϰαὶ ὀξύϱϱοπον τῆς πεύσεως ϰαὶ ἀποϰϱίσεως ϰαὶ τὸ πϱὸς ἑαυτὸν ὡς πϱὸς ἕτεϱον ἀνϑυπαντᾶν οὐ μόνον ὑψηλότεϱον ἐποίησε τῷ σχηματισμῷ τὸ ῥηϑὲν ἀλλὰ ϰαὶ πιστότεϱον. [2] ἄγει γὰϱ τὰ παϑητιϰὰ τότε μᾶλλον, ὅταν αὐτὰ φαίνηται μὴ ἐπιτηδεύειν αὐτὸς ὁ λέγων ἀλλὰ γεννᾶν ὁ ϰαιϱός, ἡ δ̓ ἐϱώτησις ἡ εἰς ἑαυτὸν ϰαὶ ἀπόϰϱισις μιμεῖται τοῦ πάϑους τὸ ἐπίϰαιϱον. σχεδὸν γὰϱ ὡς οἱ ὑφ̓ ἑτέϱων ἐϱωτώμενοι παϱοξυνϑέντες ἐϰ τοῦ παϱαχϱῆμα πϱὸς τὸ λεχϑὲν ἐναγωνίως ϰαὶ ἀπ̓ αὐτῆς τῆς ἀληϑείας ἀνϑυπαντῶσιν, οὕτως τὸ σχῆμα τῆς πεύσεως ϰαὶ ἀποϰϱίσεως εἰς τὸ δοϰεῖν ἕϰαστον τῶν ἐσϰεμμένων ἐξ ὑπογύου ϰεϰινῆσϑαί τε ϰαὶ λέγεσϑαι τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν ἀπάγον ϰαὶ παϱαλογίζεται. ἔτι τοίνυν ῾ἓν γάϱ τι τῶν ὑψηλοτάτων τὸ Ἡϱοδότειον πεπίστευταἰ εἰ οὕτως ἔ
{... ...}

The figures of question and interrogation also possess a specific quality which tends strongly to stir an audience and give energy to the speaker’s words. “Or tell me, do you want to run about asking one another, is there any news? what greater news could you have than that a man of Macedon is making himself master of Hellas? Is Philip dead? Not he. However, he is ill. But what is that to you? Even if anything happens to him you will soon raise up another Philip.” Or this passage: “Shall we sail against Macedon? And where, asks one, shall we effect a landing? The war itself will show us where Philip’s weak places lie.” Now if this had been put baldly it would have lost greatly in force. As we see it, it is full of the quick alternation of question and answer. The orator replies to himself as though he were meeting another man’s objections. And this figure not only raises the tone of his words but makes them more convincing. 2For an exhibition of feeling has then most effect on an audience when it appears to flow naturally from the occasion, not to have been laboured by the art of the speaker; and this device of questioning and replying to himself reproduces the moment of passion. For as a sudden question addressed to an individual will sometimes startle him into a reply which is an unguarded expression of his genuine sentiments, so the figure of question and interrogation blinds the judgment of an audience, and deceives them into a belief that what is really the result of labour in every detail has been struck out of the speaker by the inspiration of the moment.
There is one passage in Herodotus which is generally credited with extraordinary sublimity....
The removal of connecting particles gives a quick rush and “torrent rapture” to a passage, the writer appearing to be actually almost left behind by his own words. There is an example in Xenophon: “Clashing their shields together they pushed, they fought, they slew, they fell.” And the words of Eurylochus in the Odyssey—
  “We passed at thy command the woodland’s shade;
  We found a stately hall built in a mountain glade.”
Words thus severed from one another without the intervention of stops give a lively impression of one who through distress of mind at once halts and hurries in his speech. And this is what Homer has expressed by using the figure Asyndeton.

Now what are we to say of our next example, the figures of question and answer? Is it not just their appeal to the imagination which braces his **i.e. Demosthenes, who in the Greek is the implied subject of the verb. language into greater vigour and rapidity? “Tell me, my friend, do you all want to go round asking each other ‘Is there any news?’ For what stranger news could there be than this of a Macedonian conquering Greece? ‘Is Philip dead?’ ‘No, not dead but ill.’ What difference does it make to you? Whatever happens to him, you will soon manufacture another Philip for yourselves.” **Demosthenes: Philippic I,10, slightly altered. Or again: “Let us sail to Macedon. Someone asks me, ‘Where on earth shall we land?’ Why, the mere course of the war will find out the weak spots in Philip’s fortunes.” **Phil. I,44, slightly altered. Here a bare statement would have been utterly inadequate. As it is, the inspiration and quick play of the question and answer, and his way of meeting his own words as if they were someone else’s, make the passage, through his use of the figure, not only loftier but also more convincing. [2] For emotion is always more telling when it seems not to be premeditated by the speaker but to be born of the moment; and this way of questioning and answering one’s self counterfeits spontaneous emotion. People who are cross-questioned by others in the heat of the moment reply forcibly and with utter candour; and in much the same way the figure of question and answer misleads the audience into supposing that each carefully premeditated argument is aroused in the mind and put into words on the spur of the moment. Moreover – for this passage of Herodotus has always been reckoned one of the most sublime – if in this way ... **Herodot VII,21?
αὗται αἱ πᾶσαι οὐδ᾽ εἰ ἕτεϱαι πϱὸς ταύτῃσι πϱοσγενόμεναι στϱατηλασίαι μιῆς τῆσδε οὐϰ ἄξιαι. τί γὰϱ οὐϰ ἤγαγε ἐϰ τῆς Ἀσίης ἔϑνος ἐπὶ τὴν Ἑλλάδα Ξέϱξης; ϰοῖον δὲ πινόμενόν μιν ὕδωϱ οὐϰ ἐπέλιπε, πλὴν τῶν μεγάλων ποταμῶν; οἳ μὲν γὰϱ νέας παϱείχοντο, οἳ δὲ ἐς πεζὸν ἐτετάχατο, τοῖσι δὲ ἵππος πϱοσετέταϰτο, τοῖσι δὲ ἱππαγωγὰ πλοῖα ἅμα στϱατευομένοισι, τοῖσι δὲ ἐς τὰς γεφύϱας μαϰϱὰς νέας παϱέχειν, τοῖσι δὲ σῖτά τε ϰαὶ νέας.
All these expeditions and whatever others have happened in addition could not together be compared with this single one. For what nation did Xerxes not lead from Asia against Hellas? What water did not fail when being drunk up, except only the greatest rivers? Some people supplied him with ships, some were enrolled in his infantry, some were assigned the provision of horsemen, others of horse-bearing transports to follow the army, and others again of warships for the bridges, or of food and ships.
{Two pages of the ms. are here missing.}

.. πλοϰα ἐϰπίπτει ϰαὶ οἱονεὶ πϱοχεῖται τὰ λεγόμενα, ὀλίγου δεῖν φϑάνοντα ϰαὶ αὐτὸν τὸν λέγοντα. ῾ϰαὶ συμβαλόντες᾿ φησὶν ὁ Ξενοφῶν ῾τὰς ἀσπίδας ἐωϑοῦντο ἐμάχοντο ἀπέϰτεινον ἀπέϑνῃσϰον.᾿ [2] ϰαὶ τὰ τοῦ Εὐϱυλόχου,

ἤλϑομεν ὡς ἐϰέλευες, ἀνὰ δϱυμά, φαίδιμ̓ Ὀδυσσεῦ.
εἴδομεν ἐν βήσσῃσι τετυγμένα δώματα ϰαλά.

τὰ γὰϱ ἀλλήλων διαϰεϰομμένα ϰαὶ οὐδὲν ἧσσον ϰατεσπευσμένα φέϱει τῆς ἀγωνίας ἔμφασιν ἅμα ϰαὶ ἐμποδιζούσης τι ϰαὶ συνδιωϰούσης. τοιαῦϑ̓ ὁ ποιητὴς ἐξήνεγϰε διὰ τῶν ἀσυνδέτων.

... The removal of connecting particles gives a quick rush and “torrent rapture” to a passage, the writer appearing to be actually almost left behind by his own words. There is an example in Xenophon: “Clashing their shields together they pushed, they fought, they slew, they fell.”55 And the words of Eurylochus in the Odyssey—

“We passed at thy command the woodland’s shade;
We found a stately hall built in a mountain glade.”

Words thus severed from one another without the intervention of stops give a lively impression of one who through distress of mind at once halts and hurries in his speech. And this is what Homer has expressed by using the figure Asyndeton.

... **The subject is now the figure Asyndeton, omission of conjunctive particles.the phrases drop out unconnected in a sort of spate, almost too quick for the speaker himself. “And locking their shields,” says Xenophon, “they pushed, fought, slew, fell.” **Ἑλληνιϰά IV,iii,19. [2] And take the words of Eurylochus,

We came, as thou badest us come, through the oak-coppice,
  shining Odysseus.
Builded in thickets we saw habitations of wonderful beauty. **Odyssey X,251-252.

The phrases being disconnected and yet none the less rapid give the idea of an agitation which both checks the utterance and at the same time hounds it on. Something of this kind the Poet has expressed by his use of asyndeton.

Ἄϰϱως δὲ ϰαὶ ἡ ἐπὶ ταὐτὸ σύνοδος τῶν σχημάτων εἴωϑε ϰινεῖν, ὅταν δύο ἢ τϱία οἷον ϰατὰ συμμοϱίαν ἀναϰιϱνάμενα ἀλλήλοις ἐϱανίζῃ τὴν ἰσχὺν τὴν πειϑὼ τὸ ϰάλλος, ὁποῖα ϰαὶ τὰ εἰς τὸν Μειδίαν, ταῖς ἀναφοϱαῖς ὁμοῦ ϰαὶ τῇ διατυπώσει συναναπεπλεγμένα τὰ ἀσύνδετα. ῾πολλὰ γὰϱ ἂν ποιήσειεν ὁ τύπτων, ὧν ὁ παϑὼν ἔνια οὐδ̓ ἂν ἀπαγγεῖλαι δύναιτο ἑτέϱῳ, τῷ σχήματι τῷ βλέμματι τῇ φωνῇ.᾿ [2] εἶϑ̓ ἵνα μὴ ἐπὶ τῶν αὐτῶν ὁ λόγος ἰὼν στῇ ῾ἐν στάσει γὰϱ τὸ ἠϱεμοῦν, ἐν ἀταξίᾳ δὲ τὸ πάϑος, ἐπεὶ φοϱὰ ψυχῆς ϰαὶ συγϰίνησίς ἐστιν̓, εὐϑὺς ἐπ̓ ἄλλα μεϑήλατο ἀσύνδετα ϰαὶ ἐπαναφοϱάς: ῾τῷ σχήματι τῷ βλέμματι τῇ φωνῇ, ὅταν ὡς ὑβϱίζων, ὅταν ὡς ἐχϑϱός, ὅταν ϰονδύλοις, ὅταν ὡς δοῦλον.᾿ οὐδὲν ἄλλο διὰ τούτων ὁ ῥήτωϱ ἢ ὅπεϱ ὁ τύπτων ἐϱγάζεται, τὴν διάνοιαν τῶν διϰαστῶν τῇ ἐπαλλήλῳ πλήττει φοϱᾷ. [3] εἶτ̓ ἐντεῦϑεν πάλιν ὡς αἱ ϰαταιγίδες, ἄλλην ποιούμενος ἐμβολὴν ῾ὅταν ϰονδύλοις, ὅταν ἐπὶ ϰόϱϱης᾿ φησί: ῾ταῦτα ϰινεῖ, ταῦτα ἐξίστησιν ἀνϑϱώπους, ἀήϑεις ὄντας τοῦ πϱοπηλαϰίζεσϑαι: οὐδεὶς ἂν ταῦτα ἀπαγγέλλων δύναιτο τὸ δεινὸν παϱαστῆσαι.᾿ οὐϰοῦν τὴν μὲν φύσιν τῶν ἐπαναφοϱῶν ϰαὶ ἀσυνδέτων πάντη φυλάττει τῇ συνεχεῖ μεταβολῇ: οὕτως αὐτῷ ϰαὶ ἡ τάξις ἄταϰτον ϰαὶ ἔμπαλιν ἡ ἀταξία ποιὰν πεϱιλαμβάνει τάξιν.

But nothing is so conducive to energy as a combination of different figures, when two or three uniting their resources mutually contribute to the vigour, the cogency, and the beauty of a speech. So Demosthenes in his speech against Meidias repeats the same words and breaks up his sentences in one lively descriptive passage: “He who receives a blow is hurt in many ways which he could not even describe to another, by gesture, by look, by tone.” Then, to vary the movement of his speech, and prevent it from standing still (for stillness produces rest, but passion requires a certain disorder of language, imitating the agitation and commotion of the soul), he at once dashes off in another direction, breaking up his words again, and repeating them in a different form, “by gesture, by look, by tone—when insult, when hatred, is added to violence, when he is struck with the fist, when he is struck as a slave!” By such means the orator imitates the action of Meidias, dealing blow upon blow on the minds of his judges. Immediately after like a hurricane he makes a fresh attack: “When he is struck with the fist, when he is struck in the face; this is what moves, this is what maddens a man, unless he is inured to outrage; no one could describe all this so as to bring home to his hearers its bitterness.” You see how he preserves, by continual variation, the intrinsic force of these repetitions and broken clauses, so that his order seems irregular, and conversely his irregularity acquires a certain measure of order.
Supposing we add the conjunctions, after the practice of Isocrates and his school: “Moreover, I must not omit to mention that he who strikes a blow may hurt in many ways, in the first place by gesture, in the second place by look, in the third and last place by his tone.” If you compare the words thus set down in logical sequence with the expressions of the “Meidias,” you will see that the rapidity and rugged abruptness of passion, when all is made regular by connecting links, will be smoothed away, and the whole point and fire of the passage will at once disappear. 2For as, if you were to bind two runners together, they will forthwith be deprived of all liberty of movement, even so passion rebels against the trammels of conjunctions and other particles, because they curb its free rush and destroy the impression of mechanical impulse.

The combination of several of these figures often has a supremely moving effect, when two or three co-operate as it were together to contribute force, conviction, beauty. Thus, for instance, in the speech against Meidias **Demosthenes: Κατὰ Μειδίου 72. the asyndeta are interwoven with the figures of repetition and vivid presentation.

"For the aggressor may do many injuries, some of which the victim could not even describe to anyone else – by his manner, his looks, his voice.” [2] Then to prevent the speech running on in the same groove – for monotony expresses quiet, while emotion, being a violent upheaval of the soul, demands disorder – he leaps at once into further asyndeta and repetitions. “By his manner, his looks, his voice, when he strikes with insult, when he strikes like an enemy, when he strikes with his knuckles, when he strikes you like a slave.” **This last clause is not in our texts of the Meidias. There are a few other less important alterations. Here the orator does just the same as the aggressor, he belabours the minds of the jury with blow after blow. [3] Then at this point he proceeds to make another whirlwind onslaught. “When it’s with his knuckles, when it’s a slap on the face,” he says, “this rouses, this maddens a man who is not accustomed to insult. Nobody by describing this could convey its effect.” Thus all the time he preserves the essence of his repetitions and asyndeta through continual variation, so that his very order is disordered and equally his disorder implies a certain element of order.

Φέϱε οὖν, πϱόσϑες τοὺς συνδέσμους, εἰ ϑέλοις, ὡς ποιοῦσιν οἱ Ἰσοϰϱάτειοι: ῾ϰαὶ μὴν οὐδὲ τοῦτο χϱὴ παϱαλιπεῖν, ὡς πολλὰ ἂν ποιήσειεν ὁ τύπτων, πϱῶτον μὲν τῷ σχήματι, εἶτα δὲ τῷ βλέμματι, εἶτά γε μὴν αὐτῇ τῇ φωνῇ,᾿ ϰαὶ εἴσῃ ϰατὰ τὸ ἑξῆς οὕτως παϱαγϱάφων, ὡς τοῦ πάϑους τὸ συνδεδιωγμένον ϰαὶ ἀποτϱαχυνόμενον, ἐὰν τοῖς συνδέσμοις ἐξομαλίσῃς εἰς λειότητα, ἄϰεντϱόν τε πϱοσπίπτει ϰαὶ εὐϑὺς ἔσβεσται. [2] ὥσπεϱ γὰϱ εἴ τις συνδήσειε τῶν ϑεόντων τὰ σώματα τὴν φοϱὰν αὐτῶν ἀφῄϱηται, οὕτως ϰαὶ τὸ πάϑος ὑπὸ τῶν συνδέσμων ϰαὶ τῶν ἄλλων πϱοσϑηϰῶν ἐμποδιζόμενον ἀγαναϰτεῖ: τὴν γὰϱ ἐλευϑεϱίαν ἀπολλύει τοῦ δϱόμου ϰαὶ τὸ ὡς ἀπ̓ ὀϱγάνου τινὸς ἀφίεσϑαι.

Supposing we add the conjunctions, after the practice of Isocrates and his school: “Moreover, I must not omit to mention that he who strikes a blow may hurt in many ways, in the first place by gesture, in the second place by look, in the third and last place by his tone.” If you compare the words thus set down in logical sequence with the expressions of the “Meidias,” you will see that the rapidity and rugged abruptness of passion, when all is made regular by connecting links, will be smoothed away, and the whole point and fire of the passage will at once disappear. For as, if you were to bind two runners together, they will forthwith be deprived of all liberty of movement, even so passion rebels against the trammels of conjunctions and other particles, because they curb its free rush and destroy the impression of mechanical impulse.

Now insert the connecting particles, if you care to do so, in the style of Isocrates and his school.**Isaeus, Hypereides, Theopompus, etc. “And yet one must not overlook this too, that the aggressor may do much, first by his manner, then by his looks, and then again by his mere voice.” If you thus paraphrase it sentence by sentence you will see that if the rush and ruggedness of the emotion is fined down and smoothed out by the use of connecting particles, it falls flat and immediately loses all its point and fire. [2] For just as you deprive runners of their speed if you tie them together, emotion equally resents being hampered by connecting particles and other such appendages. It loses its freedom of motion and its effect of coming like a bolt from a catapult.

Τῆς δὲ αὐτῆς ἰδέας ϰαὶ τὰ ὑπεϱβατὰ ϑετέον. ἔστι δὲ λέξεων ἢ νοήσεων ἐϰ τοῦ ϰατ̓ ἀϰολουϑίαν ϰεϰινημένη τάξις ϰαὶ οἱονεὶ χαϱαϰτὴϱ ἐναγωνίου πάϑους ἀληϑέστατος. ὡς γὰϱ οἱ τῷ ὄντι ὀϱγιζόμενοι ἢ φοβούμενοι ἢ ἀγαναϰτοῦντες ἢ ὑπὸ ζηλοτυπίας ἢ ὑπὸ ἄλλου τινὸς ῾πολλὰ γὰϱ ϰαὶ ἀναϱίϑμητα πάϑη ϰαὶ οὐδ̓ ἂν εἰπεῖν τις ὁπόσα δύναιτὀ, ἑϰάστοτε παϱαπίπτοντες ἄλλα πϱοϑέμενοι πολλάϰις ἐπ̓ ἄλλα μεταπηδῶσι, μέσα τινὰ παϱεμβαλόντες ἀλόγως, εἶτ̓ αὖϑις ἐπὶ τὰ πϱῶτα ἀναϰυϰλοῦντες ϰαὶ πάντη πϱὸς τῆς ἀγωνίας, ὡς ὑπ̓ ἀστάτου πνεύματος, τῇδε ϰἀϰεῖσε ἀγχιστϱόφως ἀντισπώμενοι τὰς λέξεις τὰς νοήσεις τὴν ἐϰ τοῦ ϰατὰ φύσιν εἱϱμοῦ παντοίως πϱὸς μυϱίας τϱοπὰς ἐναλλάττουσι τάξιν: οὕτω παϱὰ τοῖς ἀϱίστοις συγγϱαφεῦσι διὰ τῶν ὑπεϱβατῶν ἡ μίμησις ἐπὶ τὰ τῆς φύσεως ἔϱγα φέϱεται. τότε γὰϱ ἡ τέχνη τέλειος, ἡνίϰ̓ ἂν φύσις εἶναι δοϰῇ, ἡ δ̓ αὖ φύσις ἐπιτυχής, ὅταν λανϑάνουσαν πεϱιέχῃ τὴν τέχνην: ὥσπεϱ λέγει ὁ Φωϰαεὺς Διονύσιος παϱὰ τῷ Ἡϱοδότῳ: ῾ἐπὶ ξυϱοῦ γὰϱ ἀϰμῆς ἔχεται ἡμῖν τὰ πϱάγματα, ἄνδϱες Ἴωνες, εἶναι ἐλευϑέϱοις ἢ δούλοις, ϰαὶ τούτοις ὡς δϱαπέτῃσιν. νῦν ὦν ὑμεῖς ἢν μὲν βούλησϑε ταλαιπωϱίας ἐνδέχεσϑαι, παϱαχϱῆμα μὲν πόνος ὑμῖν, οἷοί τε δὲ ἔσεσϑε ὑπεϱβαλέσϑαι τοὺς πολεμίους.᾿ [2] ἐνταῦϑ̓ ἦν τὸ ϰατὰ τάξιν: ῾ὦ ἄνδϱες Ἴωνες, νῦν ϰαιϱός ἐστιν ὑμῖν πόνους ἐπιδέχεσϑαι: ἐπὶ ξυϱοῦ γὰϱ ἀϰμῆς ἔχεται ἡμῖν τὰ πϱάγματα.᾿ ὁ δὲ τὸ μὲν ῾ἄνδϱες Ἴωνες᾿ ὑπεϱεβίβασεν: πϱοεισέβαλεν οὖν εὐϑὺς ἀπὸ τοῦ φόβου, ὡς μηδ̓ ἀϱχὴν φϑάνων πϱὸς τὸ ἐφεστὼς δέος πϱοσαγοϱεῦσαι τοὺς ἀϰούοντας: ἔπειτα δὲ τὴν τῶν νοημάτων ἀπέστϱεψε τάξιν. πϱὸ γὰϱ τοῦ φῆσαι ὅτι αὐτοὺς δεῖ πονεῖν ῾τοῦτο γάϱ ἐστιν ὃ παϱαϰελεύεταἰ, ἔμπϱοσϑεν ἀποδίδωσι τὴν αἰτίαν, δἰ ἣν πονεῖν δεῖ, ῾ἐπὶ ξυϱοῦ ἀϰμῆς᾿ φήσας ῾ἔχεται ἡμῖν τὰ πϱάγματα:᾿ ὡς μὴ δοϰεῖν ἐσϰεμμένα λέγειν, ἀλλ̓ ἠναγϰασμένα. [3] ἔτι δὲ μᾶλλον ὁ Θουϰυδίδης ϰαὶ τὰ φύσει πάντως ἡνωμένα ϰαὶ ἀδιανέμητα ὅμως ταῖς ὑπεϱβάσεσιν ἀπ̓ ἀλλήλων ἄγειν δεινότατος. ὁ δὲ Δημοσϑένης οὐχ οὕτως μὲν αὐϑάδης ὥσπεϱ οὗτος, πάντων δ̓ ἐν τῷ γένει τούτῳ ϰαταϰοϱέστατος, ϰαὶ πολὺ τὸ ἀγωνιστιϰὸν ἐϰ τοῦ ὑπεϱβιβάζειν ϰαὶ ἔτι νὴ Δία τὸ ἐξ ὑπογύου λέγειν συνεμφαίνων, ϰαὶ πϱὸς τούτοις εἰς τὸν ϰίνδυνον τῶν μαϰϱῶν ὑπεϱβατῶν τοὺς ἀϰούοντας συνεπισπώμενος: [4] πολλάϰις γὰϱ τὸν νοῦν, ὃν ὥϱμησεν εἰπεῖν, ἀναϰϱεμάσας ϰαὶ μεταξὺ ὡς εἰς ἀλλόφυλον ϰαὶ ἀπεοιϰυῖαν τάξιν, ἄλλ̓ ἐπ̓ ἄλλοις διὰ μέσου ϰαὶ ἔξωϑέν ποϑεν ἐπεισϰυϰλῶν, εἰς φόβον ἐμβαλὼν τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν ὡς ἐπὶ παντελεῖ νοῦ λόγου διαπτώσει, ϰαὶ συναποϰινδυνεύειν ὑπ̓ ἀγωνίας τῷ λέγοντι συναναγϰάσας, εἶτα παϱαλόγως διὰ μαϰϱοῦ τὸ πάλαι ζητούμενον εὐϰαίϱως ἐπὶ τέλει που πϱοσαποδούς, αὐτῷ τῷ ϰατὰ τὰς ὑπεϱβάσεις παϱαβόλῳ ϰαὶ ἀϰϱοσφαλεῖ πολὺ μᾶλλον ἐϰπλήττει. φειδὼ δὲ τῶν παϱαδειγμάτων ἔστω διὰ τὸ πλῆϑος.

The figure hyperbaton belongs to the same class. By hyperbaton we mean a transposition of words or thoughts from their usual order, bearing unmistakably the characteristic stamp of violent mental agitation. In real life we often see a man under the influence of rage, or fear, or indignation, or beside himself with jealousy, or with some other out of the interminable list of human passions, begin a sentence, and then swerve aside into some inconsequent parenthesis, and then again double back to his original statement, being borne with quick turns by his distress, as though by a shifting wind, now this way, now that, and playing a thousand capricious variations on his words, his thoughts, and the natural order of his discourse. Now the figure hyperbaton is the means which is employed by the best writers to imitate these signs of natural emotion. For art is then perfect when it seems to be nature, and nature, again, is most effective when pervaded by the unseen presence of art. An illustration will be found in the speech of Dionysius of Phocaea in Herodotus: “A hair’s breadth now decides our destiny, Ionians, whether we shall live as freemen or as slaves—ay, as runaway slaves. Now, therefore, if you choose to endure a little hardship, you will be able at the cost of some present exertion to overcome your enemies.”58 2The regular sequence here would have been: “Ionians, now is the time for you to endure a little hardship; for a hair’s breadth will now decide our destiny.” But the Phocaean transposes the title “Ionians,” rushing at once to the subject of alarm, as though in the terror of the moment he had forgotten the usual address to his audience. Moreover, he inverts the logical order of his thoughts, and instead of beginning with the necessity for exertion, which is the point he wishes to urge upon them, he first gives them the reason for that necessity in the words, “a hair’s breadth now decides our destiny,” so that his words seem unpremeditated, and forced upon him by the crisis.
Thucydides surpasses all other writers in the bold use of this figure, even breaking up sentences which are by their nature absolutely one and indivisible. But nowhere do we find it so unsparingly employed as in Demosthenes, who though not so daring in his manner of using it as the elder writer is very happy in giving to his speeches by frequent transpositions the lively air of unstudied debate. Moreover, he drags, as it were, his audience with him into the perils of a long inverted clause. 4He often begins to say something, then leaves the thought in suspense, meanwhile thrusting in between, in a position apparently foreign and unnatural, some extraneous matters, one upon another, and having thus made his hearers fear lest the whole discourse should break down, and forced them into eager sympathy with the danger of the speaker, when he is nearly at the end of a period he adds just at the right moment, i.e. when it is least expected, the point which they have been waiting for so long. And thus by the very boldness and hazard of his inversions he produces a much more astounding effect. I forbear to cite examples, as they are too numerous to require it.

In the same category we must place Inversion. This figure consists in arranging words and thoughts out of the natural sequence, and bears, so to speak, the genuine stamp of vehement emotion. Just as people who are really angry or frightened or worried or are carried away from time to time by jealousy or any other feeling – there are countless emotions, more than one can say – often put forward one point and then spring off to another with various illogical interpolations, and then wheel round again to their original position, while, under the stress of their excitement, like a ship before a veering wind, they lay their words and thoughts first on one tack then another, and keep altering the natural order of sequence into innumerable variations – so, too, the best prose-writers by the use of inversions imitate nature and achieve the same effect. For art is only perfect when it looks like nature and Nature succeeds only by concealing art about her person. Take the speech of Dionysius, the Phocaean, in Herodotus.**Ἱστοϱίαι VI,xi,2. “Indeed our fortunes stand upon a razor’s edge, men of Ionia, whether we be free men or slaves, aye, and runaway slaves. Now, therefore if you are willing to endure hardship, at the moment there is toil for you, but you will be able to overcome your enemies.” [2] Here the natural order was, “O men of Ionia, now is the time for you to endure toil, for our fortunes stand upon a razor’s edge.” He has transposed the “men of Ionia” and started at once with his fears; so pressing was the danger that he would not even address the audience first. He has, moreover, inverted the order of ideas. Before saying that they must toil – for that is the point of his exhortation – he first gives the reason why they must toil, by saying, “Our fortunes stand upon a razor’s edge.” The result is that his words do not seem premeditated but rather wrung from him. [3] Thucydides is still cleverer at using inversions to separate ideas which are naturally one and indivisible. Demosthenes, though not indeed so wilful as Thucydides, is the most insatiable of all in this kind of use and not only employs inversions to give a great effect of vehemence, and also, if you please, of improvisation, but even drags his audience along with him to share the peril of his long inversions. [4] For he often hangs up the sense which he has begun to express, and meanwhile manages to wheel on to the empty stage one extraneous idea after another in a strange and unlikely order, making the audience terrified for the total collapse of the sentence and compelling them from sheer excitement to share the speaker’s risk: then unexpectedly, after a great interval, the long-lost phrase turns up at the end, so that he astounds them all the more by the mere reckless audacity of his inversions. But there are so many examples that I must stay my hand.

Τά γε μὴν πολύπτωτα λεγόμενα, ἀϑϱοισμοὶ ϰαὶ μεταβολαὶ ϰαὶ ϰλίμαϰες, πάνυ ἀγωνιστιϰά, ὡς οἶσϑα, ϰόσμου τε ϰαὶ παντὸς ὕψους ϰαὶ πάϑους συνεϱγά. τί δέ; αἱ τῶν πτώσεων χϱόνων πϱοσώπων ἀϱιϑμῶν γενῶν ἐναλλάξεις πῶς ποτε ϰαταποιϰίλλουσι ϰαὶ ἐπεγείϱουσι τὰ ἑϱμηνευτιϰά; [2] φημὶ δὲ τῶν ϰατὰ τοὺς ἀϱιϑμοὺς οὐ μόνα ταῦτα ϰοσμεῖν, ὁπόσα τοῖς τύποις ἑνιϰὰ ὄντα τῇ δυνάμει ϰατὰ τὴν ἀναϑεώϱησιν πληϑυντιϰὰ εὑϱίσϰεται:

αὐτίϰα, φησί, λαὸς ἀπείϱων
ϑύννον ἐπ̓ ἠϊόνεσσι διϊστάμενοι ϰελάδησαν:

ἀλλ̓ ἐϰεῖνα μᾶλλον παϱατηϱήσεως ἄξια, ὅτι ἔσϑ̓ ὅπου πϱοσπίπτει τὰ πληϑυντιϰὰ μεγαλοϱϱημονέστεϱα ϰαὶ αὐτῷ δοξοϰοποῦντα τῷ ὄχλῳ τοῦ ἀϱιϑμοῦ. [3] τοιαῦτα παϱὰ τῷ Σοφοϰλεῖ τὰ ἐπὶ τοῦ Οἰδίπου:

ὦ γάμοι, γάμοι,
ἐφύσαϑ̓ ἡμᾶς ϰαὶ φυτεύσαντες πάλιν
ἀνεῖτε ταὐτὸ σπέϱμα ϰἀπεδείξατε
πατέϱας ἀδελφοὺς παῖδας, αἷμ̓ ἐμφύλιον,
νύμφας, γυναῖϰας, μητέϱας τε χὠπόσα
αἴσχιστ̓ ἐν ἀνϑϱώποισιν ἔϱγα γίγνεται.

πάντα γὰϱ ταῦτα ἓν ὄνομά ἐστιν, Οἰδίπους, ἐπὶ δὲ ϑατέϱου Ἰοϰάστη, ἀλλ̓ ὅμως χυϑεὶς εἰς τὰ πληϑυντιϰὰ ὁ ἀϱιϑμὸς συνεπλήϑυσε ϰαὶ τὰς ἀτυχίας, ϰαὶ ὡς ἐϰεῖνα πεπλεόνασται

ἐξῆλϑον Ἕϰτοϱές τε ϰαὶ Σαϱπηδόνες:

ϰαὶ τὸ Πλατωνιϰόν, ὃ ϰαὶ ἑτέϱωϑι παϱετεϑείμεϑα, ἐπὶ τῶν Ἀϑηναίων: [4] ῾οὐ γὰϱ Πέλοπες οὐδὲ Κάδμοι οὐδ̓ Αἴγυπτοί τε ϰαὶ Δαναοὶ οὐδ̓ ἄλλοι πολλοὶ φύσει βάϱβαϱοι συνοιϰοῦσιν ἡμῖν, ἀλλ̓ αὐτοὶ Ἕλληνες, οὐ μιξοβάϱβαϱοι οἰϰοῦμεν.᾿ ϰαὶ τὰ ἑξῆς. φύσει γὰϱ ἐξαϰούεται τὰ πϱάγματα ϰομπωδέστεϱα ἀγεληδὸν οὕτως τῶν ὀνομάτων ἐπισυντιϑεμένων. οὐ μέντοι δεῖ ποιεῖν αὐτὸ ἐπ̓ ἄλλων, εἰ μὴ ἐφ̓ ὧν δέχεται τὰ ὑποϰείμενα αὔξησιν ἢ πληϑὺν ἢ ὑπεϱβολὴν ἢ πάϑος, ἕν τι τούτων ἢ τὰ πλείονα, ἐπεί τοι τὸ πανταχοῦ ϰώδωνας ἐξῆφϑαι λίαν σοφιστιϰόν.

The juxtaposition of different cases, the enumeration of particulars, and the use of contrast and climax, all, as you know, add much vigour, and give beauty and great elevation and life to a style. The diction also gains greatly in diversity and movement by changes of case, time, person, number, and gender.
With regard to change of number: not only is the style improved by the use of those words which, though singular in form, are found on inspection to be plural in meaning, as in the lines—
  “A countless host dispersed along the sand
  With joyous cries the shoal of tunny hailed,”
but it is more worthy of observation that plurals for singulars sometimes fall with a more impressive dignity, rousing the imagination by the mere sense of vast number. 3Such is the effect of those words of Oedipus in Sophocles—
  “Oh fatal, fatal ties!
  Ye gave us birth, and we being born ye sowed
  The self-same seed, and gave the world to view
  Sons, brothers, sires, domestic murder foul,
  Brides, mothers, wives.... Ay, ye laid bare
  The blackest, deepest place where Shame can dwell.”
Here we have in either case but one person, first Oedipus, then Jocasta; but the expansion of number into the plural gives an impression of multiplied calamity. So in the following plurals—
  “There came forth Hectors, and there came Sarpedons.”
And in those words of Plato’s (which we have already adduced elsewhere), referring to the Athenians: “We have no Pelopses or Cadmuses or Aegyptuses or Danauses, or any others out of all the mob of Hellenised barbarians, dwelling among us; no, this is the land of pure Greeks, with no mixture of foreign elements,” etc. Such an accumulation of words in the plural number necessarily gives greater pomp and sound to a subject. But we must only have recourse to this device when the nature of our theme makes it allowable to amplify, to multiply, or to speak in the tones of exaggeration or passion. To overlay every sentence with ornament is very pedantic.

Again, accumulation, variation, and climax, the so-called “figures of many cases,” **Strictly this means the use of more than one case {πτῶσις} of the same word, “Haeret pede pes, densusque viro vir,” but it seems here to cover also rhetorical changes of tense, person, number, or gender. are, as you know, a most effective aid in giving ornament and every kind of sublime and emotional effect. And consider, too, what variety and liveliness is lent to the exposition by changes of case, tense, person, number, gender. [2] Now in the category of number not only are those uses ornamental where the singular form is found on consideration to signify a plural – take the lines:

And straightaway a numberless people
Scatter the length of the beaches and thunder,
  “the Tunny, the Tunny!” **Author unknown. To the inhabitants of Sicily and S. Italy
the tunny-fish was as important as the herring is to us.
A “look-out” was stationed on a high place to signal the
approach of a shoal. Here “numberless people” is
presumably hyperbole for a crowd of fishermen.

– but it is still more worthy of notice that the plural sounds more full-mouthed, while the very idea of multitude which the plural number conveys is itself impressive. [3] This is the case with Sophocles’ lines about Oedipus:

Curse on the marriages
That gave us birth and having given birth
Flung forth the self-same seed again and showed
Fathers and sons and brothers all blood-kin.
And brides and wives and mothers, all the shame
Of all the foulest deeds that men have done. **Οἰδίπους Τύϱαννος 1403-1408.

These all mean one person, Oedipus, and on the other side Jocasta, but the expansion into the plural serves to make the misfortunes plural as well. There is the same sense of multiplication in

“Forth came Hectors and Sarpedons too,” **Unknown

and in the passage of Plato about the Athenians, **Μενέξενος, Menexenus 245D. which we have also quoted elsewhere: [4] “For no Pelopes nor Cadmi nor Egypti and Danai nor any other hordes of born barbarians share our home, but we are pure Greeks here, no semi-barbarians,” and so on. The facts naturally sound more imposing from the accumulation of names to signify groups instead of individuals. This device should not, however, be employed except where the subject invites heroics or redundancy or exaggeration or emotion, either one or more of these. To sound bells **Lit. “to be hung all over with bells,” as some war-horses were. In [Demosthenes] Aristogeiton § 90 ϰώδωνας ἐξαψάμενος is used of advertising what had better be concealed. A “figure” should be concealed not advertised, cf. chapter xvii. § 1 (sub fin.). in every sentence would be unduly pretentious.
 
 
 
 

Ἀλλὰ μὴν ϰαὶ τοὐναντίον τὰ ἐϰ τῶν πληϑυντιϰῶν εἰς τὰ ἑνιϰὰ ἐπισυναγόμενα ἐνίοτε ὑψηλοφανέστατα. ῾ἔπειϑ̓ ἡ Πελοπόννησος ἅπασα διειστήϰεἰ φησί. ῾ϰαὶ δὴ Φϱυνίχῳ δϱᾶμα Μιλήτου ἅλωσιν διδάξαντι εἰς δάϰϱυα ἔπεσε τὸ ϑέητϱον.᾿ τὸ ἐϰ τῶν διῃϱημένων εἰς τὰ ἡνωμένα ἐπισυστϱέψαι τὸν ἀϱιϑμὸν σωματοειδέστεϱον. [2] αἴτιον δ̓ ἐπ̓ ἀμφοῖν τοῦ ϰόσμου ταὐτὸν οἶμαι: ὅπου τε γὰϱ ἑνιϰὰ ὑπάϱχει τὰ ὀνόματα, τὸ πολλὰ ποιεῖν αὐτὰ παϱὰ δόξαν ἐμπαϑοῦς: ὅπου τε πληϑυντιϰά, τὸ εἰς ἕν τι εὔηχον συγϰοϱυφοῦν τὰ πλείονα διὰ τὴν εἰς τοὐναντίον μεταμόϱφωσιν τῶν πϱαγμάτων ἐν τῷ παϱαλόγῳ.

On the other hand, the contraction of plurals into singulars sometimes creates an appearance of great dignity; as in that phrase of Demosthenes: “Thereupon all Peloponnesus was divided.” There is another in Herodotus: “When Phrynichus brought a drama on the stage entitled The Taking of Miletus, the whole theatre fell a weeping”—instead of “all the spectators.” This knitting together of a number of scattered particulars into one whole gives them an aspect of corporate life. And the beauty of both uses lies, I think, in their betokening emotion, by giving a sudden change of complexion to the circumstances,—whether a word which is strictly singular is unexpectedly changed into a plural,—or whether a number of isolated units are combined by the use of a single sonorous word under one head.

et again, the converse of this, the contraction of plural to singular, sometimes gives a great effect of sublimity. “Moreover, the whole Peloponnese was split,” says Demosthenes. **Ὑπὲϱ Κτησιφῶντος πεϱὶ τοῦ Στεφάνου, On the Crown 18. Again, “when Phrynichus produced his Capture of Miletus the theatre burst into tears.” **Herodotus VI,xxi,2: “οὐδὲν ὁμοίως ϰαὶ Ἀϑηναῖοι. Ἀϑηναῖοι μὲν γὰϱ δῆλον ἐποίησαν ὑπεϱαχϑεσϑέντες τῇ Μιλήτου ἁλώσι τῇ τε ἄλλῃ πολλαχῇ, ϰαὶ δὴ ϰαὶ ποιήσαντι Φϱυνίχῳ δϱᾶμα Μιλήτου ἅλωσιν ϰαὶ διδάξαντι ἐς δάϰϱυά τε ἔπεσε τὸ ϑέητϱον, ϰαὶ ἐζημίωσάν μιν ὡς ἀναμνήσαντα οἰϰήια ϰαϰὰ χιλίῃσι δϱαχμῇσι, ϰαὶ ἐπέταξαν μηδένα χϱᾶσϑαι τούτῳ τῷ δϱάματι.”
“The Athenians acted very differently. The Athenians made clear their deep grief for the taking of Miletus in many ways, but especially in this: when Phrynichus wrote a play entitled ‘The Fall of Miletus’ and produced it, the whole theater fell to weeping; they fined Phrynichus a thousand drachmas for bringing to mind a calamity that affected them so personally, and forbade the performance of that play forever.” In the case of separate individuals to compress the number into the singular gives more sense of a single whole. [2] The ornamental effect is due in both to the same cause. Where the words are singular, to make them plural suggests unforeseen emotion: where they are plural and you combine a number of things into a well-sounding singular, then this opposite change gives an effect of surprise.

Ὅταν γε μὴν τὰ παϱεληλυϑότα τοῖς χϱόνοις εἰσάγῃς ὡς γινόμενα ϰαὶ παϱόντα, οὐ διήγησιν ἔτι τὸν λόγον, ἀλλ̓ ἐναγώνιον πϱᾶγμα ποιήσεις. ῾πεπτωϰὼς δέ τις᾿ φησὶν ὁ Ξενοφῶν ῾ὑπὸ τῷ Κύϱου ἵππῳ ϰαὶ πατούμενος παίει τῇ μαχαίϱᾳ εἰς τὴν γαστέϱα τὸν ἵππον: ὁ δὲ σφαδάζων ἀποσείεται τὸν Κῦϱον, ὁ δὲ πίπτει.᾿ τοιοῦτος ἐν τοῖς πλείστοις ὁ Θουϰυδίδης.

When past events are introduced as happening in present time the narrative form is changed into a dramatic action. Such is that description in Xenophon: “A man who has fallen, and is being trampled under foot by Cyrus’s horse, strikes the belly of the animal with his scimitar; the horse starts aside and unseats Cyrus, and he falls.” Similarly in many passages of Thucydides.

Again, if you introduce events in past time as happening at the present moment, the passage will be transformed from a narrative into a vivid actuality. “Someone has fallen,” says Xenophon, **Cyropaedia VII,i,37. “under Cyrus’s horse and, being trodden under foot, is striking the horse’s belly with his dagger. The horse rearing throws Cyrus and he falls.” Thuccydides uses such effects as frequently as anybody.

Ἐναγώνιος δ̓ ὁμοίως ϰαὶ ἡ τῶν πϱοσώπων ἀντιμετάϑεσις ϰαὶ πολλάϰις ἐν μέσοις τοῖς ϰινδύνοις ποιοῦσα τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν δοϰεῖν στϱέφεσϑαι:

φαίης ϰ̓ ἀϰμῆτας ϰαὶ ἀτειϱέας
ἄντεσϑ̓ ἐν πολέμῳ: ὣς ἐσσυμένως ἐμάχοντο.

ϰαὶ ὁ Ἄϱατος

μὴ ϰείνῳ ἐνὶ μηνὶ πεϱιϰλύζοιο ϑαλάσσῃ.

[2] ὧδέ που ϰαὶ ὁ Ἡϱόδοτος: ῾ἀπὸ δὲ Ἐλεφαντίνης πόλεως ἄνω πλεύσεαι, ϰαὶ ἔπειτα ἀφίξῃ ἐς πεδίον λεῖον: διεξελϑὼν δὲ τοῦτο τὸ χωϱίον αὖϑις εἰς ἕτεϱον πλοῖον ἐμβὰς πλεύσεαι δὔ ἡμέϱας, ἔπειτα ἥξεις ἐς πόλιν μεγάλην, ᾗ ὄνομα Μεϱόη.᾿ ὁϱᾷς, ὦ ἑταῖϱε, ὡς παϱαλαβών σου τὴν ψυχὴν διὰ τῶν τόπων ἄγει τὴν ἀϰοὴν ὄψιν ποιῶν; πάντα δὲ τὰ τοιαῦτα πϱὸς αὐτὰ ἀπεϱειδόμενα τὰ πϱόσωπα ἐπ̓ αὐτῶν ἵστησι τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν τῶν ἐνεϱγουμένων. [3] ϰαὶ ὅταν ὡς οὐ πϱὸς ἅπαντας, ἀλλ̓ ὡς πϱὸς μόνον τινὰ λαλῇς,

Τυδείδην δ̓ οὐϰ ἂν γνοίης, ποτέϱοισι μετείη,

ἐμπαϑέστεϱόν τε αὐτὸν ἅμα ϰαὶ πϱοσεϰτιϰώτεϱον ϰαὶ ἀγῶνος ἔμπλεων ἀποτελέσεις, ταῖς εἰς ἑαυτὸν πϱοσφωνήσεσιν ἐξεγειϱόμενον.

Equally dramatic is the interchange of persons, often making a reader fancy himself to be moving in the midst of the perils described—
  “Unwearied, thou wouldst deem, with toil unspent,
  They met in war; so furiously they fought.”
and that line in Aratus—
  “Beware that month to tempt the surging sea.”
In the same way Herodotus: “Passing from the city of Elephantine you will sail upwards until you reach a level plain. You cross this region, and there entering another ship you will sail on for two days, and so reach a great city, whose name is Meroe.” Observe how he takes us, as it were, by the hand, and leads us in spirit through these places, making us no longer readers, but spectators. Such a direct personal address always has the effect of placing the reader in the midst of the scene of action. And by pointing your words to the individual reader, instead of to the readers generally, as in the line
  “Thou had’st not known for whom Tydides fought,”
and thus exciting him by an appeal to himself, you will rouse interest, and fix attention, and make him a partaker in the action of the book.
 
 

Change of person gives an equally vivid effect, and often makes the audience feel themselves set in the thick of the danger.

... You would say that unworn and with temper undaunted
Each met the other in war, so headlong the rush of their battle. ** Iliad XV,697-698. ἀλλήλοισιν is omitted after ἀτειϱέας.

And Aratus’s line:

Be not thou in that month in the midst of the surge of the ocean. **Φαινόμενα 287.

[2] Herodotus does much the same: “You will sail up from the city of Elephantine and there come to a smooth plain. And when you have passed through that place you will board again another ship and sail two days and then you will come to a great city, the name of which is Meroë.” **Ἱστοϱίαι II,xxix, abridged and slightly altered. You see, friend, how he takes you along with him through the country and turns hearing into sight. All such passages with a direct personal application set the hearer in the centre of the action. [3] By appearing to address not the whole audience but a single individual -

Of Tydeus’ son thou couldst not have known with which of the
  hosts he was fighting **Iliad V,85.

– you will move him more and make him more attentive and full of active interest, if you rouse him by these personal appeals.

Ἔτι γε μὴν ἔσϑ̓ ὅτε πεϱὶ πϱοσώπου διηγούμενος ὁ συγγϱαφεὺς ἐξαίφνης παϱενεχϑεὶς εἰς τὸ αὐτὸ πϱόσωπον ἀντιμεϑίσταται, ϰαὶ ἔστι τὸ τοιοῦτον εἶδος ἐϰβολή τις πάϑους.

Ἕϰτωϱ δὲ Τϱώεσσιν ἐϰέϰλετο μαϰϱὸν ἀΰσας,
νηυσὶν ἐπισσεύεσϑαι, ἐᾶν δ̓ ἔναϱα βϱοτόεντα.
ὃν δ̓ ἂν ἐγὼν ἀπάνευϑε νεῶν ἐϑέλοντα νοήσω,
αὐτοῦ οἱ ϑάνατον μητίσομαι.

οὐϰοῦν τὴν μὲν διήγησιν ἅτε πϱέπουσαν ὁ ποιητὴς πϱοσῆψεν ἑαυτῷ, τὴν δ̓ ἀπότομον ἀπειλὴν τῷ ϑυμῷ τοῦ ἡγεμόνος ἐξαπίνης οὐδὲν πϱοδηλώσας πεϱιέϑηϰεν: ἐψύχετο γάϱ, εἰ παϱενετίϑει: ῾ἔλεγε δὲ τοῖά τινα ϰαὶ τοῖα ὁ Ἕϰτωϱ:᾿ νυνὶ δ̓ ἔφϑαϰεν ἄφνω τὸν μεταβαίνοντα ἡ τοῦ λόγου μετάβασις. [2] διὸ ϰαὶ ἡ πϱόχϱησις τοῦ σχήματος τότε, ἡνίϰα ὀξὺς ὁ ϰαιϱὸς ὢν διαμέλλειν τῷ γϱάφοντι μὴ διδῷ, ἀλλ̓ εὐϑὺς ἐπαναγϰάζῃ μεταβαίνειν ἐϰ πϱοσώπων εἰς πϱόσωπα, ὡς ϰαὶ παϱὰ τῷ Ἑϰαταίῳ: ῾Κῆϋξ δὲ ταῦτα δεινὰ ποιούμενος αὐτίϰα ἐϰέλευε τοὺς Ἡϱαϰλείδας ἐπιγόνους ἐϰχωϱεῖν: οὐ γὰϱ ὑμῖν δυνατός εἰμι ἀϱήγειν. ὡς μὴ ὦν αὐτοί τε ἀπόλησϑε ϰἀμὲ τϱώσητε, ἐς ἄλλον τινὰ δῆμον ἀποίχεσϑαι.᾿ [3] ὁ μὲν γὰϱ Δημοσϑένης ϰατ̓ ἄλλον τινὰ τϱόπον ἐπὶ τοῦ Ἀϱιστογείτονος ἐμπαϑὲς τὸ πολυπϱόσωπον ϰαὶ ἀγχίστϱοφον παϱέσταϰεν. ῾ϰαὶ οὐδεὶς ὑμῶν χολὴν̓ φησὶν ῾οὐδ̓ ὀϱγὴν ἔχων εὑϱεϑήσεται, ἐφ̓ οἷς ὁ βδελυϱὸς οὗτος ϰαὶ ἀναιδὴς βιάζεται; ὅς, ὦ μιαϱώτατε ἁπάντων, ϰεϰλειμένης σοι τῆς παϱϱησίας οὐ ϰιγϰλίσιν οὐδὲ ϑύϱαις, ἃ ϰαὶ παϱανοίξειεν ἄν τις᾿ ἐν ἀτελεῖ τῷ νῷ ταχὺ διαλλάξας ϰαὶ μόνον οὐ μίαν λέξιν διὰ τὸν ϑυμὸν εἰς δύο διασπάσας πϱόσωπα ῾ὅς, ὦ μιαϱώτατε,᾿ εἶτα πϱὸς τὸν Ἀϱιστογείτονα τὸν λόγον ἀποστϱέψας ϰαὶ ἀπολιπεῖν δοϰῶν, ὅμως διὰ τοῦ πάϑους πολὺ πλέον ἐπέστϱεψεν. [4] οὐϰ ἄλλως ἢ Πηνελόπη,

ϰῆϱυξ, τίπτε δέ σε πϱόεσαν μνηστῆϱες ἀγαυοί;
εἰπέμεναι δμωῇσιν Ὀδυσσῆος ϑείοιο
ἔϱγων παύσασϑαι, σφίσι δ̓ αὐτοῖς δαῖτα πένεσϑαι;
μὴ μνηστεύσαντες, μηδ̓ ἄλλοϑ̓ ὁμιλήσαντες,
ὕστατα ϰαὶ πύματα νῦν ἐνϑάδε δειπνήσειαν,
οἳ ϑάμ̓ ἀγειϱόμενοι βίοτον ϰαταϰείϱετε πολλόν,
ϰτῆσιν Τηλεμάχοιο δαΐφϱονος: οὐδέ τι πατϱῶν
ὑμετέϱων τῶν πϱόσϑεν ἀϰούετε παῖδες ἐόντες,
οἷος Ὀδυσσεὺς ἔσϰε.

Sometimes, again, a writer in the midst of a narrative in the third person suddenly steps aside and makes a transition to the first. It is a kind of figure which strikes like a sudden outburst of passion. Thus Hector in the Iliad
  “With mighty voice called to the men of Troy
  To storm the ships, and leave the bloody spoils:
  If any I behold with willing foot
  Shunning the ships, and lingering on the plain,
  That hour I will contrive his death.”
The poet then takes upon himself the narrative part, as being his proper business; but this abrupt threat he attributes, without a word of warning, to the enraged Trojan chief. To have interposed any such words as “Hector said so and so” would have had a frigid effect. As the lines stand the writer is left behind by his own words, and the transition is effected while he is preparing for it. 2Accordingly the proper use of this figure is in dealing with some urgent crisis which will not allow the writer to linger, but compels him to make a rapid change from one person to another. So in Hecataeus: “Now Ceyx took this in dudgeon, and straightway bade the children of Heracles to depart. ‘Behold, I can give you no help; lest, therefore, ye perish yourselves and bring hurt upon me also, get ye forth into some other land.’” There is a different use of the change of persons in the speech of Demosthenes against Aristogeiton, which places before us the quick turns of violent emotion. “Is there none to be found among you,” he asks, “who even feels indignation at the outrageous conduct of a loathsome and shameless wretch who,—vilest of men, when you were debarred from freedom of speech, not by barriers or by doors, which might indeed be opened,” etc. Thus in the midst of a half-expressed thought he makes a quick change of front, and having almost in his anger torn one word into two persons, “who, vilest of men,” etc., he then breaks off his address to Aristogeiton, and seems to leave him, nevertheless, by the passion of his utterance, rousing all the more the attention of the court. The same feature may be observed in a speech of Penelope’s—
  “Why com’st thou, Medon, from the wooers proud?
  Com’st thou to bid the handmaids of my lord
  To cease their tasks, and make for them good cheer?
  Ill fare their wooing, and their gathering here!
  Would God that here this hour they all might take
  Their last, their latest meal! Who day by day
  Make here your muster, to devour and waste
  The substance of my son: have ye not heard
  When children at your fathers’ knee the deeds
  And prowess of your king?”

Again sometimes a writer, while speaking of one of his characters, suddenly turns and changes into the actual character. A figure of this kind is a sort of outbreak of emotion:

Hector lifted his voice and cried afar to the Trojans
To haste them back to the galleys and leave the blood-spattered booty.
Whomsoever I spy of his own will afar from the galleys,
Death for him there will I plan. **Iliad XV,346-349.

There the poet has assigned to himself the narrative as his proper share, and then suddenly without any warning attached the abrupt threat to the angry champion. To insert “Hector said so and so” would have been frigid. As it is, the change of construction suddenly anticipates the change of speaker. [2] So this figure is useful, when a sudden crisis will not let the writer wait, and forces him to change at once from one character to another. There is an instance in Hecataeus **The Milesian historian, sixth century B.C.: “Ceyx took this ill and immediately bade the younger descendants of Heracles be gone. For I cannot help you. [3] So to prevent perishing yourselves and hurting me, away with you to some other people.” By a somewhat different method Demosthenes in the Aristogeiton has used the change of person to suggest the quick play of emotion. “And will none of you,” he says, “be found to feel indignation at the violence of this shameless rascal, who – oh you most accursed of villains, when you were cut off from free speech not by gates and doors which one might very well open ...” **Against Aristogiton 1, 27-28. Leaving his sense incomplete he has made a sudden change and in his indignation almost split a single phrase between two persons – “who – oh you most accursed” – and thus, while swinging his speech round on to Aristogeiton and appearing to abandon the jury, **As the difficulty of “understanding” an object to ἀπολιπεῖν seems too great, I have followed Toll’s snggestion that τοὺς ϰϱιτὰς has fallen out of the text. The usual interpretation of the unamended ms. is “turning off his speech– to-Aristogeiton and appearing to abandon him.” But Demosthenes does the exact opposite. He has not previously addressed his speech to Aristogeiton. he has yet by means of the emotion made his appeal to them much more direct. [4] Penelope does the same:

Herald, oh why have they sent thee hither, those high-born suitors?
Is it to tell the hand-maidens that serve in the house of Odysseus
To cease them now from their tasks and make ready a feast for the suitors?
Would that they never had wooed me nor ever met here in our halls,
Would they might make in my house their last and latest of banquets.
Ye that assemble together and woefully minish our substance!
... nor ever from your fathers
Heard ye ever at home long ago in the days of your childhood
What manner of man was Odysseus. **Odyssey IV,681-689.

Καὶ μέντοι πεϱίφϱασις ὡς οὐχ ὑψηλοποιόν, οὐδεὶς ἂν οἶμαι διστάσειεν. ὡς γὰϱ ἐν μουσιϰῇ διὰ τῶν παϱαφώνων ϰαλουμένων ὁ ϰύϱιος φϑόγγος ἡδίων ἀποτελεῖται, οὕτως ἡ πεϱίφϱασις πολλάϰις συμφϑέγγεται τῇ ϰυϱιολογίᾳ ϰαὶ εἰς ϰόσμον ἐπὶ πολὺ συνηχεῖ, ϰαὶ μάλιστ̓ ἂν μὴ ἔχῃ φυσῶδές τι ϰαὶ ἄμουσον ἀλλ̓ ἡδέως ϰεϰϱαμένον. [2] ἱϰανὸς δὲ τοῦτο τεϰμηϱιῶσαι ϰαὶ Πλάτων ϰατὰ τὴν εἰσβολὴν τοῦ Ἐπιταφίου: ῾ἔϱγῳ μὲν ἡμῖν οἵδ̓ ἔχουσι τὰ πϱοσήϰοντα σφίσιν αὐτοῖς, ὧν τυχόντες ποϱεύονται τὴν εἱμαϱμένην ποϱείαν, πϱοπεμφϑέντες ϰοινῇ μὲν ὑπὸ τῆς πόλεως, ἰδίᾳ δὲ ἕϰαστος ὑπὸ τῶν πϱοσηϰόντων.᾿ οὐϰοῦν τὸν ϑάνατον εἶπεν εἱμαϱμένην ποϱείαν, τὸ δὲ τετυχηϰέναι τῶν νομιζομένων πϱοπομπήν τινα δημοσίαν ὑπὸ τῆς πατϱίδος. ἆϱα δὴ τούτοις μετϱίως ὤγϰωσε τὴν νόησιν, ἢ ψιλὴν λαβὼν τὴν λέξιν ἐμελοποίησε, ϰαϑάπεϱ ἁϱμονίαν τινὰ τὴν ἐϰ τῆς πεϱιφϱάσεως πεϱιχεάμενος εὐμέλειαν; [3] ϰαὶ Ξενοφῶν: ῾πόνον δὲ τοῦ ζῆν ἡδέως ἡγεμόνα νομίζετε: ϰάλλιστον δὲ πάντων ϰαὶ πολεμιϰώτατον ϰτῆμα εἰς τὰς ψυχὰς συγϰεϰόμισϑε: ἐπαινούμενοι γὰϱ μᾶλλον ἢ τοῖς ἄλλοις πᾶσι χαίϱετε.᾿ ἀντὶ τοῦ πονεῖν ϑέλετε ῾πόνον ἡγεμόνα τοῦ ζῆν ἡδέως ποιεῖσϑἐ εἰπὼν ϰαὶ τἆλλ̓ ὁμοίως ἐπεϰτείνας μεγάλην τινὰ ἔννοιαν τῷ ἐπαίνῳ πϱοσπεϱιωϱίσατο. [4] ϰαὶ τὸ ἀμίμητον ἐϰεῖνο τοῦ Ἡϱοδότου: ῾τῶν δὲ Σϰυϑέων τοῖς συλήσασι τὸ ἱεϱὸν ἐνέβαλεν ἡ ϑεὸς ϑήλειαν νοῦσον.᾿

None, I suppose, would dispute the fact that periphrasis tends much to sublimity. For, as in music the simple air is rendered more pleasing by the addition of harmony, so in language periphrasis often sounds in concord with a literal expression, adding much to the beauty of its tone,—provided always that it is not inflated and harsh, but agreeably blended. To confirm this one passage from Plato will suffice—the opening words of his Funeral Oration: “In deed these men have now received from us their due, and that tribute paid they are now passing on their destined journey, with the State speeding them all and his own friends speeding each one of them on his way.” Death, you see, he calls the “destined journey”; to receive the rites of burial is to be publicly “sped on your way” by the State. And these turns of language lend dignity in no common measure to the thought. He takes the words in their naked simplicity and handles them as a musician, investing them with melody,—harmonising them, as it were,—by the use of periphrasis. So Xenophon: “Labour you regard as the guide to a pleasant life, and you have laid up in your souls the fairest and most soldier-like of all gifts: in praise is your delight, more than in anything else.” By saying, instead of “you are ready to labour,” “you regard labour as the guide to a pleasant life,” and by similarly expanding the rest of that passage, he gives to his eulogy a much wider and loftier range of sentiment. Let us add that inimitable phrase in Herodotus: “Those Scythians who pillaged the temple were smitten from heaven by a female malady.”
But this figure, more than any other, is very liable to abuse, and great restraint is required in employing it. It soon begins to carry an impression of feebleness, savours of vapid trifling, and arouses disgust. Hence Plato, who is very bold and not always happy in his use of figures, is much ridiculed for saying in his Laws that “neither gold nor silver wealth must be allowed to establish itself in our State,” suggesting, it is said, that if he had forbidden property in oxen or sheep he would certainly have spoken of it as “bovine and ovine wealth.”
Here we must quit this part of our subject, hoping, my dear friend Terentian, that your learned curiosity will be satisfied with this short excursion on the use of figures in their relation to the Sublime. All those which I have mentioned help to render a style more energetic and impassioned; and passion contributes as largely to sublimity as the delineation of character to amusement.

That periphrasis contributes to the sublime, no one, I fancy, would question. Just as in music what we call ornament**This word is used elsewhere of certain intervals which were considered a mean between harmony and discord. That meaning would not suit this passage. The sense of musical ornament or embellishment is appropriate here and etymologically probable. Saintsbury suggests "the dominant note is more sweetly brought out by accompanying trills and harmonies." enhances the beauty of the main theme, so periphrasis often chimes in with the literal expression of our meaning and gives it a far richer note, especially if it is not bombastic or discordant but agreeably in harmony. [2] A sufficient proof of this is the opening of Plato’s Funeral Oration, **Menexenus 236D. “First then in deeds we have given them their due reward, and, this won, they pass now along the appointed path, escorted all in common by their country and each man severally by his kinsmen.” Here he calls death an appointed path and their enjoyment of due rites a sort of public escort by their country. Notice what a supreme dignity this gives to the thought; how he has taken the literal expression and made it musical, lapping it, as it were, in the tuneful harmonies of his periphrasis. [3] Again Xenophon says, “You hold that hard work is a guide to the pleasures of life and you have stored in your hearts the best and most knightly of all treasures. For nothing pleases you so much as praise.” **Cyropaedia I,v,12. By saying “You make hard work a guide to the pleasures of life” instead of “You are willing to work hard,” and by similarly expanding the rest of his sentence, he has extended his eulogy to include a fine idea. Then there is that inimitable phrase in Herodotus: “Upon those Scythians that sacked her temple the goddess sent a female malady.” **Ἱστοϱίαι I,cv,4; i.e. one that made them women, the goddess was Aphrodite.

Ἐπίϰηϱον μέντοι τὸ πϱᾶγμα, ἡ πεϱίφϱασις, τῶν ἄλλων πλέον, εἰ μὴ συμμέτϱως τινὶ λαμβάνοιτο: εὐϑὺς γὰϱ ἀβλεμὲς πϱοσπίπτει, ϰουφολογίας τε ὄζον ϰαὶ παχύτατον: ὅϑεν ϰαὶ τὸν Πλάτωνα ῾δεινὸς γὰϱ ἀεὶ πεϱὶ σχῆμα ϰἄν τισιν ἀϰαίϱως᾿ ἐν τοῖς νόμοις λέγοντα ῾ὡς οὔτε ἀϱγυϱοῦν δεῖ πλοῦτον οὔτε χϱυσοῦν ἐν πόλει ἱδϱυμένον ἐᾶν οἰϰεῖν̓ διαχλευάζουσιν, ὡς εἰ πϱόβατα, φησίν, ἐϰώλυε ϰεϰτῆσϑαι, δῆλον ὅτι πϱοβάτειον ἂν ϰαὶ βόειον πλοῦτον ἔλεγεν. [2] Ἀλλὰ γὰϱ ἅλις ὑπὲϱ τῆς εἰς τὰ ὑψηλὰ τῶν σχημάτων χϱήσεως ἐϰ παϱενϑήϰης τοσαῦτα πεφιλολογῆσϑαι, Τεϱεντιανὲ φίλτατε: πάντα γὰϱ ταῦτα παϑητιϰωτέϱους ϰαὶ συγϰεϰινημένους ἀποτελεῖ τοὺς λόγους: πάϑος δὲ ὕψους μετέχει τοσοῦτον, ὁπόσον ἦϑος ἡδονῆς.

But since the thoughts conveyed by words and the expression of those thoughts are for the most part interwoven with one another, we will now add some considerations which have hitherto been overlooked on the subject of expression. To say that the choice of appropriate and striking words has a marvellous power and an enthralling charm for the reader, that this is the main object of pursuit with all orators and writers, that it is this, and this alone, which causes the works of literature to exhibit the glowing perfections of the finest statues, their grandeur, their beauty, their mellowness, their dignity, their energy, their power, and all their other graces, and that it is this which endows the facts with a vocal soul; to say all this would, I fear, be, to the initiated, an impertinence. Indeed, we may say with strict truth that beautiful words are the very light of thought. 2I do not mean to say that imposing language is appropriate to every occasion. A trifling subject tricked out in grand and stately words would have the same effect as a huge tragic mask placed on the head of a little child. Only in poetry and There is a genuine ring in that line of Anacreon’s—
  “The Thracian filly I no longer heed.”
The same merit belongs to that original phrase in Theophrastus; to me, at least, from the closeness of its analogy, it seems to have a peculiar expressiveness, though Caecilius censures it, without telling us why. “Philip,” says the historian, “showed a marvellous alacrity in taking doses of trouble.” We see from this that the most homely language is sometimes far more vivid than the most ornamental, being recognised at once as the language of common life, and gaining immediate currency by its familiarity. In speaking, then, of Philip as “taking doses of trouble,” Theopompus has laid hold on a phrase which describes with peculiar vividness one who for the sake of advantage endured what was base and sordid with patience and cheerfulness. The same may be observed of two passages in Herodotus: “Cleomenes having lost his wits, cut his own flesh into pieces with a short sword, until by gradually mincing his whole body he destroyed himself”; and “Pythes continued fighting on his ship until he was entirely hacked to pieces.” Such terms come home at once to the vulgar reader, but their own vulgarity is redeemed by their expressiveness.

However it is a risky **Lit. “perishable,” likely to go bad. business, periphrasis, more so than any of the other figures, unless used with a due sense of proportion. For it soon falls flat; smacks of triviality and slow wits. So that critics have even made fun of Plato – always so clever at a figure, sometimes unseasonably so – for saying in his Laws “that we should not let silvern treasure nor golden settle and make a home in a city.” **Νόμοι VII,801B. Had he been forbidding people to possess sheep, says the critic, he would clearly have said “ovine and bovine treasure."

[2] But, my dear Terentianus, this digression must suffice for our discussion of the use of figures as factors in the sublime. Our conclusion is that they all serve to lend emotion and excitement to the style. But emotion **This may be explained by reference to what is said about the Iliad and Odyssey in chapter ix. The former, full of emotional incidents, is sublime; the latter depends on character study and is only agreeable. is as much an element in the sublime, as is the study of character in agreeable writing.
 
 
 

Ἐπειδὴ μέντοι ἡ τοῦ λόγου νόησις ἥ τε φϱάσις τὰ πλείω δἰ ἑϰατέϱου διέπτυϰται, ἴϑι δή, ἂν τοῦ φϱαστιϰοῦ μέϱους ᾖ τινα λοιπὰ ἔτι, πϱοσεπιϑεασώμεϑα. ὅτι μὲν τοίνυν ἡ τῶν ϰυϱίων ϰαὶ μεγαλοπϱεπῶν ὀνομάτων ἐϰλογὴ ϑαυμαστῶς ἄγει ϰαὶ ϰαταϰηλεῖ τοὺς ἀϰούοντας, ϰαὶ ὡς πᾶσι τοῖς ῥήτοϱσι ϰαὶ συγγϱαφεῦσι ϰατ̓ ἄϰϱον ἐπιτήδευμα, μέγεϑος ἅμα ϰάλλος εὐπίνειαν βάϱος ἰσχὺν ϰϱάτος, ἔτι δὲ τἆλλα ἂν ὦσί τινα τοῖς λόγοις ὥσπεϱ ἀγάλμασι ϰαλλίστοις δἰ αὑτῆς ἐπανϑεῖν παϱασϰευάζουσα ϰαὶ οἱονεὶ ψυχήν τινα τοῖς πϱάγμασι φωνητιϰὴν ἐντιϑεῖσα, μὴ ϰαὶ πεϱιττὸν ᾖ πϱὸς εἰδότας διεξιέναι. φῶς γὰϱ τῷ ὄντι ἴδιον τοῦ νοῦ τὰ ϰαλὰ ὀνόματα. [2] ὁ μέντοι γε ὄγϰος αὐτῶν οὐ πάντη χϱειώδης, ἐπεὶ τοῖς μιϰϱοῖς πϱαγματίοις πεϱιτιϑέναι μεγάλα ϰαὶ σεμνὰ ὀνόματα ταὐτὸν ἂν φαίνοιτο, ὡς εἴ τις τϱαγιϰὸν πϱοσωπεῖον μέγα παιδὶ πεϱιϑείη νηπίῳ, πλὴν ἐν μὲν ποιήσει ϰαὶ ἱ ...
{δεσΩντ ϑΩατΩοϱ φολια}

But since the thoughts conveyed by words and the expression of those thoughts are for the most part interwoven with one another, we will now add some considerations which have hitherto been overlooked on the subject of expression. To say that the choice of appropriate and striking words has a marvellous power and an enthralling charm for the reader, that this is the main object of pursuit with all orators and writers, that it is this, and this alone, which causes the works of literature to exhibit the glowing perfections of the finest statues, their grandeur, their beauty, their mellowness, their dignity, their energy, their power, and all their other graces, and that it is this which endows the facts with a vocal soul; to say all this would, I fear, be, to the initiated, an impertinence. Indeed, we may say with strict truth that beautiful words are the very light of thought. I do not mean to say that imposing language is appropriate to every occasion. A trifling subject tricked out in grand and stately words would have the same effect as a huge tragic mask placed on the head of a little child. Only in poetry and ...

Now, since thought and diction often explain each other, we must further consider whether there are any elements of style still left untouched. It is probably superfluous to explain at length to those who know, how the choice of the right word and the fine word has a marvellously moving and seductive effect upon an audience and how all orators and historians make this their supreme object. For this of itself gives to the style at once grandeur, beauty, a classical flavour, **i.e. the mellowness of age, to be taken in close connexion with what he goes on to say about the mellowing effect of time – probably through oxidization – on bronze statues. weight, force, strength, and a sort of glittering charm, like the bloom on the surface of the most beautiful bronzes, and endues the facts as it were with a living voice. Truly, beautiful words are the very light of thought. [2] However, their majesty is not for common use, since to attach great and stately words to trivial things would be like fastening a great tragic mask on a simple child. However in poetry and [history] ...
{Four pages of the ms. are here lost.}

... ϑϱεπτιϰώτατον ϰαὶ γόνιμον, τὸ δ̓ Ἀναϰϱέοντος: ῾οὐϰέτι Θϱηιϰίης ἐπιστϱέφομαι.᾿ ταύτῃ ϰαὶ τὸ τοῦ Θεοπόμπου ϰαινὸν ἐπαινετόν: διὰ τὸ ἀνάλογον ἔμοιγε σημαντιϰώτατα ἔχειν δοϰεῖ: ὅπεϱ ὁ Κεϰίλιος οὐϰ οἶδ̓ ὅπως ϰαταμέμφεται. ῾δεινὸς ὢν̓ φησὶν ῾ὁ Φίλιππος ἀναγϰοφαγῆσαι πϱάγματα.᾿ ἔστιν ἄῤ ὁ ἰδιωτισμὸς ἐνίοτε τοῦ ϰόσμου παϱὰ πολὺ ἐμφανιστιϰώτεϱον: ἐπιγινώσϰεται γὰϱ αὐτόϑεν ἐϰ τοῦ ϰοινοῦ βίου, τὸ δὲ σύνηϑες ἤδη πιστότεϱον. οὐϰοῦν ἐπὶ τοῦ τὰ αἰσχϱὰ ϰαὶ ῥυπαϱὰ τλημόνως ϰαὶ μεϑ̓ ἡδονῆς ἕνεϰα πλεονεξίας ϰαϱτεϱοῦντος τὸ ἀναγϰοφαγεῖν τὰ πϱάγματα ἐναϱγέστατα παϱείληπται. [2] ὧδέ πως ἔχει ϰαὶ τὰ Ἡϱοδότεια: ῾ ὁ Κλεομένης᾿ φησὶ ῾ μανεὶς τὰς ἑαυτοῦ σάϱϰας ξιφιδίῳ ϰατέτεμεν εἰς λεπτά, ἕως ὅλον ϰαταχοϱδεύων ἑαυτὸν διέφϑειϱεν.᾿ ϰαὶ ῾ ὁ Πύϑης ἕως τοῦδε ἐπὶ τῆς νεὼς ἐμάχετο, ἕως ἅπας ϰατεϰϱεουϱγήϑη.᾿ ταῦτα γὰϱ ἐγγὺς παϱαξύει τὸν ἰδιώτην, ἀλλ̓ οὐϰ ἰδιωτεύει τῷ σημαντιϰῶς.

... There is a genuine ring in that line of Anacreon’s—
“The Thracian filly I no longer heed.”
The same merit belongs to that original phrase in Theophrastus; to me, at least, from the closeness of its analogy, it seems to have a peculiar expressiveness, though Caecilius censures it, without telling us why. “Philip,” says the historian, “showed a marvellous alacrity in taking doses of trouble.” We see from this that the most homely language is sometimes far more vivid than the most ornamental, being recognised at once as the language of common life, and gaining immediate currency by its familiarity. In speaking, then, of Philip as “taking doses of trouble,” Theopompus has laid hold on a phrase which describes with peculiar vividness one who for the sake of advantage endured what was base and sordid with patience and cheerfulness. The same may be observed of two passages in Herodotus: “Cleomenes having lost his wits, cut his own flesh into pieces with a short sword, until by gradually mincing his whole body he destroyed himself”;74 and “Pythes continued fighting on his ship until he was entirely hacked to pieces.” Such terms come home at once to the vulgar reader, but their own vulgarity is redeemed by their expressiveness.

... is most illuminating **Lit. “gives abundant food for thought.” But a genitive governed by these two adjectives may be lost: “greatly promoting the growth and productive of ...” The subject is now metaphor, as one kind of fine phrasing. and typical; so, too, with Anacreon’s “No more care I for the Thracian colt.” **A metaphor for a young girl, not uncommon in Greek and Latin lyrics. Mid-Victorian humourists thus used “filly”. In the same way the phrase used by Theopompus, though less admirable, seems to me highly expressive in virtue of the analogy implied, **Aristotle explains in his Poetics (XXI,11) that a large class of metaphors rest on an implied analogy, e.g. we can call old age the evening of life, because old age: life—evening: day. We might expound the analogy here as, insults: Philip—training breakfasts: an oarsman, i.e. they are “stomached” for some ulterior motive. Theopompus of Chios was a fourth-century historian. though Cecilius for some reason finds fault with it. “Philip,” he says, “had a wonderful faculty of stomaching things.” Thus the vulgar phrase sometimes proves far more enlightening than elegant language. Being taken from our common life it is immediately recognised, and what is familiar is halfway to conviction. Applied to one whose greedy ambition makes him glad to endure with patience what is shameful and sordid, “stomaching things” forms a very vivid phrase. [2] It is much the same with Herodotus’s phrases: “In his madness,” he says, “Cleomenes cut his own flesh into strips with a dagger, until he made mincemeat of himself and perished,” **Ἱστοϱίαι VI,75. and “Pythes went on fighting in the ship until he was all cut into collops.” **Ἱστοϱίαι vii,181. These come perilously near to vulgarity, but are not vulgar because they are so expressive.

Πεϱὶ δὲ πλήϑους μεταφοϱῶν ὁ μὲν Κεϰίλιος ἔοιϰε συγϰατατίϑεσϑαι τοῖς δύο ἢ τὸ πλεῖστον τϱεῖς ἐπὶ ταὐτοῦ νομοϑετοῦσι τάττεσϑαι. ὁ γὰϱ Δημοσϑένης ὅϱος ϰαὶ τῶν τοιούτων. ὁ τῆς χϱείας δὲ ϰαιϱός, ἔνϑα τὰ πάϑη χειμάϱϱου δίϰην ἐλαύνεται, ϰαὶ τὴν πολυπλήϑειαν αὐτῶν ὡς ἀναγϰαίαν ἐνταῦϑα συνεφέλϰεται. [2] ῾ ἄνϑϱωποἰ φησὶ ῾μιαϱοὶ ϰαὶ ϰόλαϰες, ἠϰϱωτηϱιασμένοι τὰς ἑαυτῶν ἕϰαστοι πατϱίδας, τὴν ἐλευϑεϱίαν πϱοπεπωϰότες πϱότεϱον Φιλίππῳ, νυνὶ δὲ Ἀλεξάνδϱῳ, τῇ γαστϱὶ μετϱοῦντες ϰαὶ τοῖς αἰσχίστοις τὴν εὐδαιμονίαν, τὴν δ̓ ἐλευϑεϱίαν ϰαὶ τὸ μηδένα ἔχειν δεσπότην, ἃ τοῖς πϱότεϱον Ἕλλησιν ὅϱοι τῶν ἀγαϑῶν ἦσαν ϰαὶ ϰανόνες, ἀνατετϱοφότες.᾿ ἐνταῦϑα τῷ πλήϑει τῶν τϱοπιϰῶν ὁ ϰατὰ τῶν πϱοδοτῶν ἐπιπϱοσϑεῖ τοῦ ῥήτοϱος ϑυμός. [3] διόπεϱ ὁ μὲν Ἀϱιστοτέλης ϰαὶ ὁ Θεόφϱαστος μειλίγματά φασί τινα τῶν ϑϱασειῶν εἶναι ταῦτα μεταφοϱῶν, τὸ ῾ ὡσπεϱεἲ φάναι ϰαὶ ῾ οἱονεἲ ϰαὶ ῾ εἰ χϱὴ τοῦτον εἰπεῖν τὸν τϱόπον̓ ϰαὶ ῾ εἰ δεῖ παϱαϰινδυνευτιϰώτεϱον λέξαι.᾿ ἡ γὰϱ ὑποτίμησις, φασίν, ἰᾶται τὰ τολμηϱά. [4] ἐγὼ δὲ ϰαὶ ταῦτα μὲν ἀποδέχομαι, ὅμως δὲ πλήϑους ϰαὶ τόλμης μεταφοϱῶν, ὅπεϱ ἔφην ϰἀπὶ τῶν σχημάτων, τὰ εὔϰαιϱα ϰαὶ σφοδϱὰ πάϑη ϰαὶ τὸ γενναῖον ὕψος εἶναί φημι ἴδιά τινα ἀλεξιφάϱμαϰα, ὅτι τῷ ῥοϑίῳ τῆς φοϱᾶς ταυτὶ πέφυϰεν ἅπαντα τἆλλα παϱασύϱειν ϰαὶ πϱοωϑεῖν, μᾶλλον δὲ ϰαὶ ὡς ἀναγϰαῖα πάντως εἰσπϱάττεσϑαι τὰ παϱάβολα, ϰαὶ οὐϰ ἐᾷ τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν σχολάζειν πεϱὶ τὸν τοῦ πλήϑους ἔλεγχον διὰ τὸ συνενϑουσιᾶν τῷ λέγοντι. [5] ἀλλὰ μὴν ἔν γε ταῖς τοπηγοϱίαις ϰαὶ διαγϱαφαῖς οὐϰ ἄλλο τι οὕτως ϰατασημαντιϰὸν ὡς οἱ συνεχεῖς ϰαὶ ἐπάλληλοι τϱόποι. δἰ ὧν ϰαὶ παϱὰ Ξενοφῶντι ἡ τἀνϑϱωπίνου σϰήνους ἀνατομὴ πομπιϰῶς ϰαὶ ἔτι μᾶλλον ἀναζωγϱαφεῖται ϑείως παϱὰ τῷ Πλάτωνι. τὴν μὲν ϰεφαλὴν αὐτοῦ φησιν ἀϰϱόπολιν, ἰσϑμὸν δὲ μέσον διῳϰοδομῆσϑαι μεταξὺ τοῦ στήϑους τὸν αὐχένα, σφονδύλους τε ὑπεστηϱῖχϑαί φησιν οἷον στϱόφιγγας, ϰαὶ τὴν μὲν ἡδονὴν ἀνϑϱώποις εἶναι ϰαϰοῦ δέλεαϱ, γλῶσσαν δὲ γεύσεως δοϰίμιον: ἄναμμα δὲ τῶν φλεβῶν τὴν ϰαϱδίαν ϰαὶ πηγὴν τοῦ πεϱιφεϱομένου σφοδϱῶς αἵματος, εἰς τὴν δοϱυφοϱιϰὴν οἴϰησιν ϰατατεταγμένην: τὰς δὲ διαδϱομὰς τῶν πόϱων ὀνομάζει στενωπούς: ῾ τῇ δὲ πηδήσει τῆς ϰαϱδίας, ἐν τῇ τῶν δεινῶν πϱοσδοϰίᾳ ϰαὶ τῇ τοῦ ϑυμοῦ ἐπεγέϱσει, ἐπειδὴ διάπυϱος ἦν, ἐπιϰουϱίαν μηχανώμενοἰ φησὶ ῾ τὴν τοῦ πλεύμονος ἰδέαν ἐνεφύτευσαν, μαλαϰὴν ϰαὶ ἄναιμον ϰαὶ σήϱαγγας ἐντὸς ἔχουσαν οἷον μάλαγμα, ἵν̓ ὁ ϑυμὸς ὁπότ̓ ἐν αὐτῇ ζέσῃ, πηδῶσα εἰς ὑπεῖϰον μὴ λυμαίνηται.᾿ ϰαὶ τὴν μὲν τῶν ἐπιϑυμιῶν οἴϰησιν πϱοσεῖπεν ὡς γυναιϰωνῖτιν, τὴν τοῦ ϑυμοῦ δὲ ὥσπεϱ ἀνδϱωνῖτιν: τόν γε μὴν σπλῆνα τῶν ἐντὸς μαγεῖον, ὅϑεν πληϱούμενος τῶν ἀποϰαϑαιϱομένων μέγας ϰαὶ ὕπουλος αὔξεται. ῾ μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα σαϱξὶ πάντἀ φησί ῾ ϰατεσϰίασαν, πϱοβολὴν τῶν ἔξωϑεν τὴν σάϱϰα, οἷον τὰ πιλήματα, πϱοϑέμενοι:᾿ νομὴν δὲ σαϱϰῶν ἔφη τὸ αἷμα: τῆς δὲ τϱοφῆς ἕνεϰα, φησί, διωχέτευσαν τὸ σῶμα, τέμνοντες ὥσπεϱ ἐν ϰήποις ὀχετούς, ὡς ἔϰ τινος νάματος ἐπιόντος, ἀϱαιοῦ ὄντος αὐλῶνος τοῦ σώματος, τὰ τῶν φλεβῶν ῥέοι νάματα. ἡνίϰα δὲ ἡ τελευτὴ παϱαστῇ, λύεσϑαί φησι τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς οἱονεὶ νεὼς πείσματα, μεϑεῖσϑαί τε αὐτὴν ἐλευϑέϱαν. [6] ταῦτα ϰαὶ τὰ παϱαπλήσια μυϱἴ ἄττα ἐστὶν ἑξῆς: ἀπόχϱη δὲ τὰ δεδηλωμένα, ὡς μεγάλαι τε φύσιν εἰσὶν αἱ τϱοπιϰαί, ϰαὶ ὡς ὑψηλοποιὸν αἱ μεταφοϱαί, ϰαὶ ὅτι οἱ παϑητιϰοὶ ϰαὶ φϱαστιϰοὶ ϰατὰ τὸ πλεῖστον αὐταῖς χαίϱουσι τόποι. [7] ὅτι μέντοι ϰαὶ ἡ χϱῆσις τῶν τϱόπων, ὥσπεϱ τἆλλα πάντα ϰαλὰ ἐν λόγοις, πϱοαγωγὸν ἀεὶ πϱὸς τὸ ἄμετϱον, δῆλον ἤδη, ϰἂν ἐγὼ μὴ λέγω. ἐπὶ γὰϱ τούτοις ϰαὶ τὸν Πλάτωνα οὐχ ἥϰιστα διασύϱουσι, πολλάϰις ὥσπεϱ ὑπὸ βαϰχείας τινὸς τῶν λόγων εἰς ἀϰϱάτους ϰαὶ ἀπηνεῖς μεταφοϱὰς ϰαὶ εἰς ἀλληγοϱιϰὸν στόμφον ἐϰφεϱόμενον. ῾ οὐ γὰϱ ῥᾴδιον ἐπινοεῖν̓ φησὶν ῾ ὅτι πόλιν εἶναι δεῖ δίϰην ϰϱατῆϱος ϰεϰεϱασμένην, οὗ μαινόμενος μὲν οἶνος ἐγϰεχυμένος ζεῖ, ϰολαζόμενος δ̓ ὑπὸ νήφοντος ἑτέϱου ϑεοῦ, ϰαλὴν ϰοινωνίαν λαβὼν ἀγαϑὸν πόμα ϰαὶ μέτϱιον ἀπεϱγάζεται.᾿ νήφοντα γάϱ, φασί, ϑεὸν τὸ ὕδωϱ λέγειν, ϰόλασιν δὲ τὴν ϰϱᾶσιν, ποιητοῦ τινος τῷ ὄντι οὐχὶ νήφοντός ἐστι. [8] τοῖς τοιούτοις ἐλαττώμασιν ἐπιχειϱῶν ὅμως αὐτὸ ϰαὶ ὁ Κεϰίλιος ἐν τοῖς ὑπὲϱ Λυσίου συγγϱάμμασιν ἀπεϑάϱϱησε τῷ παντὶ Λυσίαν ἀμείνω Πλάτωνος ἀποφήνασϑαι, δυσὶ πάϑεσι χϱησάμενος ἀϰϱίτοις: φιλῶν γὰϱ τὸν Λυσίαν ὡς οὐδ̓ αὐτὸς αὑτόν, ὅμως μᾶλλον μισεῖ τῷ παντὶ Πλάτωνα ἢ Λυσίαν φιλεῖ. πλὴν οὗτος μὲν ὑπὸ φιλονειϰίας, οὐδὲ τὰ ϑέματα ὁμολογούμενα, ϰαϑάπεϱ ᾠήϑη. ὡς γὰϱ ἀναμάϱτητον ϰαὶ ϰαϑαϱὸν τὸν ῥήτοϱα πϱοφέϱει πολλαχῇ διημαϱτημένου τοῦ Πλάτωνος, τὸ δ̓ ἦν ἄϱα οὐχὶ τοιοῦτον, οὐδὲ ὀλίγου δεῖ.

Concerning the number of metaphors to be employed together Caecilius seems to give his vote with those critics who make a law that not more than two, or at the utmost three, should be combined in the same place. The use, however, must be determined by the occasion. Those outbursts of passion which drive onwards like a winter torrent draw with them as an indispensable accessory whole masses of metaphor. It is thus in that passage of Demosthenes (who here also is our safest guide): “Those vile fawning wretches, each one of whom has lopped from his country her fairest members, who have toasted away their liberty, first to Philip, now to Alexander, who measure happiness by their belly and their vilest appetites, who have overthrown the old landmarks and standards of felicity among Greeks,—to be freemen, and to have no one for a master.”77 Here the number of the metaphors is obscured by the orator’s indignation against the betrayers of his country. And to effect this Aristotle and Theophrastus recommend the softening of harsh metaphors by the use of some such phrase as “So to say,” “As it were,” “If I may be permitted the expression,” “If so bold a term is allowable.” For thus to forestall criticism78 mitigates, they assert, the boldness of the metaphors. And I will not deny that these have their use. Nevertheless I must repeat the remark which I made in the case of figures,79 and maintain that there are native antidotes to the number and boldness of metaphors, in well-timed displays of strong feeling, and in unaffected sublimity, because these have an innate power by the dash of their movement of sweeping along and carrying all else before them. Or should we not rather say that they absolutely demand as indispensable the use of daring metaphors, and will not allow the hearer to pause and criticise the number of them, because he shares the passion of the speaker?

In the treatment, again, of familiar topics and in descriptive passages nothing gives such distinctness as a close and continuous series of metaphors. It is by this means that Xenophon has so finely delineated the anatomy of the human frame.80 And there is a still more brilliant and life-like picture in Plato.81 The human head he calls a citadel; the neck is an isthmus set to divide it from the chest; to support it beneath are the vertebrae, turning like hinges; pleasure he describes as a bait to tempt men to ill; the tongue is the arbiter of tastes. The heart is at once the knot of the veins and the source of the rapidly circulating blood, and is stationed in the guard-room of the body. The ramifying blood-vessels he calls alleys. “And casting about,” he says, “for something to sustain the violent palpitation of the heart when it is alarmed by the approach of danger or agitated by passion, since at such times it is overheated, they (the gods) implanted in us the lungs, which are so fashioned that being soft and bloodless, and having cavities within, they act like a buffer, and when the heart boils with inward passion by yielding to its throbbing save it from injury.” He compares the seat of the desires to the women’s quarters, the seat of the passions to the men’s quarters, in a house. The spleen, again, is the napkin of the internal organs, by whose excretions it is saturated from time to time, and swells to a great size with inward impurity. “After this,” he continues, “they shrouded the whole with flesh, throwing it forward, like a cushion, as a barrier against injuries from without.” The blood he terms the pasture of the flesh. “To assist the process of nutrition,” he goes on, “they divided the body into ducts, cutting trenches like those in a garden, so that, the body being a system of narrow conduits, the current of the veins might flow as from a perennial fountain-head. And when the end is at hand,” he says, “the soul is cast loose from her moorings like a ship, and free to wander whither she will.” These, and a hundred similar fancies, follow one another in quick succession. But those which I have pointed out are sufficient to demonstrate how great is the natural power of figurative language, and how largely metaphors conduce to sublimity, and to illustrate the important part which they play in all impassioned and descriptive passages.

That the use of figurative language, as of all other beauties of style, has a constant tendency towards excess, is an obvious truth which I need not dwell upon. It is chiefly on this account that even Plato comes in for a large share of disparagement, because he is often carried away by a sort of frenzy of language into an intemperate use of violent metaphors and inflated allegory. “It is not easy to remark” (he says in one place) “that a city ought to be blended like a bowl, in which the mad wine boils when it is poured out, but being disciplined by another and a sober god in that fair society produces a good and temperate drink.”82 Really, it is said, to speak of water as a “sober god,” and of the process of mixing as a “discipline,” is to talk like a poet, and no very sober one either. It was such defects as these that the hostile critic83 Caecilius made his ground of attack, when he had the boldness in his essay “On the Beauties of Lysias” to pronounce that writer superior in every respect to Plato. Now Caecilius was doubly unqualified for a judge: he loved Lysias better even than himself, and at the same time his hatred of Plato and all his works is greater even than his love for Lysias. Moreover, he is so blind a partisan that his very premises are open to dispute. He vaunts Lysias as a faultless and immaculate writer, while Plato is, according to him, full of blemishes. Now this is not the case: far from it.

As to the proper number of metaphors, Cecilius seems on the side of those who lay down a law that two or at the most three should be used together. Demosthenes assuredly is the canon in these matters too. And what decides the occasion for their use? Why, the right moment, when emotion sweeps on like a flood and inevitably carries the multitude of metaphors along it. [2] “Men,” he says, “of evil life, flatterers, who have each foully mutilated their own country and pledged their liberty in a cup of wine first to Philip and now to Alexander, men who measure happiness by their bellies and their basest appetites, and have strewn in ruins that liberty and freedom from despotism which to Greeks of older days was the canon and standard of all that was good.” **Πεϱὶ τοῦ Στεφάνου, On the Crown 296. Here it is the orator’s indignation against the traitors which screens the multitude of metaphors. [3] Accordingly, Aristotle and Theophrastus say that bold metaphors are softened by inserting “as if” or “as it were” or “if one may say so” or “if one may risk the expression.” [4] The apology, they tell us, mitigates the audacity of the language. I accept this, but at the same time, as I said in speaking of “figures,” the proper antidote for a multitude of daring metaphors is strong and timely emotion and genuine sublimity. These by their nature sweep everything along in the forward surge of their current, or rather they positively demand bold imagery as essential to their effect, and do not give the hearer time to examine how many metaphors there are, because he shares the excitement of the speaker.

[5] Moreover in the treatment of a commonplace and in descriptions there is nothing so expressive as a sustained series of metaphors. It is thus that in Xenophon **Memorabilia I,iv,5. the anatomy of the human tabernacle is magnificently depicted, and still more divinely in Plato, **Τίμαιος 65C–85E. The illustrations are selected from passages in the Timaeus between 65C and 85E. The head he calls the citadel of the body, the neck is an isthmus built between the head and chest, and the vertebrae, he says, are planted beneath like hinges; pleasure is evil’s bait for man, and the tongue is the touchstone of taste. The heart is a knot of veins and the source whence the blood runs vigorously round, and it has its station in the guard-house of the body. The passage-ways of the body he calls alleys, and for the leaping of the heart in the expectation of danger or the arising of wrath, since this was due to fiery heat, the gods devised a support by implanting the lungs, making them a sort of buffer, soft and bloodless and full of pores inside, so that when anger boiled up in the heart it might throb against a yielding surface and get no damage. The seat of the desires he compares to the women’s apartments and the seat of anger to the men’s. The spleen again is the napkin of the entrails, “whence it is filled with the offscourings and becomes swollen and fetid.” “After this,” he goes on, “they shrouded the whole in a covering of flesh, like a felt mat, to shield it from the outer world.” Blood he calls the fodder of the flesh, and adds, “For purposes of nutriment they irrigated the body, cutting channels as one does in a garden, and thus, the body being a conduit full of passages, **Lit. perforated the streams in the veins were able to flow as it were from a running stream.” And when the end comes, the soul, he says, is loosed like a ship from its moorings and set free. These and thousands of similar metaphors occur throughout. [6] Those we have pointed out suffice to show that figurative writing has a natural grandeur and that metaphors make for sublimity: also that emotional and descriptive passages are most glad of them. However, that the use of metaphor, like all the other beauties of style, always tempts writers to excess is obvious without my stating it. [7] Indeed it is for these passages in particular that critics pull Plato to pieces, on the ground that he is often carried away by the intoxication of his language into harsh and intemperate metaphor and allegorical bombast. “It is by no means easy to see,” he says, “that a city needs mixing like a wine-bowl, where the mad wine seethes as it is poured in, but is chastened by another and a sober god and finding good company makes an excellent and temperate drink.” **Laws vi,773C. To call water “a sober god” and mixing “chastisement,” say the critics, is the language of a poet who is far from sober.

[8] Cecilius, too, laying his finger on such defects as this, has actually had the face to declare in his writings in praise of Lysias that Lysias is altogether superior to Plato. Here he has given way to two uncritical impulses: for though he loves Lysias even better than himself, yet his hatred for Plato altogether outweighs his love for Lysias. However he is the victim of prejudice and even his premises are not, as he supposed, admitted. For he prefers his orator on the ground that he is immaculate and never makes a mistake, whereas Plato is full of mistakes. But the truth, we find, is different, very different indeed.

Φέϱε δή, λάβωμεν τῷ ὄντι ϰαϑαϱόν τινα συγγϱαφέα ϰαὶ ἀνέγϰλητον. ἆῤ οὐϰ ἄξιόν ἐστι διαποϱῆσαι πεϱὶ αὐτοῦ τούτου ϰαϑολιϰῶς, πότεϱόν ποτε ϰϱεῖττον ἐν ποιήμασι ϰαὶ λόγοις, μέγεϑος ἐν ἐνίοις διημαϱτημένοις, ἢ τὸ σύμμετϱον μὲν ἐν τοῖς ϰατοϱϑώμασιν, ὑγιὲς δὲ πάντη ϰαὶ ἀδιάπτωτον; ϰαὶ ἔτι νὴ Δία, πότεϱόν ποτε αἱ πλείους ἀϱεταὶ τὸ πϱωτεῖον ἐν λόγοις ἢ αἱ μείζους διϰαίως ἂν φέϱοιντο; ἔστι γὰϱ ταῦτ̓ οἰϰεῖα τοῖς πεϱὶ ὕψους σϰέμματα ϰαὶ ἐπιϰϱίσεως ἐξ ἅπαντος δεόμενα. [2] ἐγὼ δ̓ οἶδα μέν, ὡς αἱ ὑπεϱμεγέϑεις φύσεις ἥϰιστα ϰαϑαϱαί: τὸ γὰϱ ἐν παντὶ ἀϰϱιβὲς ϰίνδυνος μιϰϱότητος, ἐν δὲ τοῖς μεγέϑεσιν, ὥσπεϱ ἐν τοῖς ἄγαν πλούτοις, εἶναί τι χϱὴ ϰαὶ παϱολιγωϱούμενον: μήποτε δὲ νοῦτο ϰαὶ ἀναγϰαῖον ᾖ, τὸ τὰς μὲν ταπεινὰς ϰαὶ μέσας φύσεις διὰ τὸ μηδαμῆ παϱαϰινδυνεύειν μηδὲ ἐφίεσϑαι τῶν ἄϰϱων ἀναμαϱτήτους ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολὺ ϰαὶ ἀσφαλεστέϱας διαμένειν, τὰ δὲ μεγάλα ἐπισφαλῆ δἰ αὐτὸ γίνεσϑαι τὸ μέγεϑος. [3] ἀλλὰ μὴν οὐδὲ ἐϰεῖνο ἀγνοῶ τὸ δεύτεϱον, ὅτι φύσει πάντα τὰ ἀνϑϱώπεια ἀπὸ τοῦ χείϱονος ἀεὶ μᾶλλον ἐπιγινώσϰεται ϰαὶ τῶν μὲν ἁμαϱτημάτων ἀνεξάλειπτος ἡ μνήμη παϱαμένει, τῶν ϰαλῶν δὲ ταχέως ἀποϱϱεῖ. [4] παϱατεϑειμένος δ̓ οὐϰ ὀλίγα ϰαὶ αὐτὸς ἁμαϱτήματα ϰαὶ Ὁμήϱου ϰαὶ τῶν ἄλλων, ὅσοι μέγιστοι, ϰαὶ ἥϰιστα τοῖς πταίσμασιν ἀϱεσϰόμενος, ὅμως δὲ οὐχ ἁμαϱτήματα μᾶλλον αὐτὰ ἑϰούσια ϰαλῶν ἢ παϱοϱάματα δἰ ἀμέλειαν εἰϰῆ που ϰαὶ ὡς ἔτυχεν ὑπὸ μεγαλοφυΐας ἀνεπιστάτως παϱενηνεγμένα, οὐδὲν ἧττον οἶμαι τὰς μείζονας ἀϱετάς, εἰ ϰαὶ μὴ ἐν πᾶσι διομαλίζοιεν, τὴν τοῦ πϱωτείου ψῆφον μᾶλλον ἀεὶ φέϱεσϑαι, ϰἂν εἰ μὴ δἰ ἑνὸς ἑτέϱου, τῆς μεγαλοφϱοσύνης αὐτῆς ἕνεϰα: ἐπείτοιγε ϰαὶ ἄπτωτος ὁ Ἀπολλώνιος ἐν τοῖς Ἀϱγοναύταις ποιητὴς ϰἀν τοῖς βουϰολιϰοῖς πλὴν ὀλίγων τῶν ἔξωϑεν ὁ Θεόϰϱιτος ἐπιτυχέστατος, ἆῤ οὖν Ὅμηϱος ἂν μᾶλλον ἢ Ἀπολλώνιος ἐϑέλοις γενέσϑαι; [5] τί δέ; Ἐϱατοσϑένης ἐν τῇ Ἠϱιγόνῃ ῾διὰ πάντων γὰϱ ἀμώμητον τὸ ποιημάτιον̓ Ἀϱχιλόχου πολλὰ ϰαὶ ἀνοιϰονόμητα παϱασύϱοντος, ϰἀϰείνης τῆς ἐϰβολῆς τοῦ δαιμονίου πνεύματος, ἣν ὑπὸ νόμον τάξαι δύσϰολον, ἆϱα δὴ μείζων ποιητής; τί δ̓; ἐν μέλεσι μᾶλλον ἂν εἶναι Βαϰχυλίδης ἕλοιο ἢ Πίνδαϱος ϰαὶ ἐν τϱαγῳδίᾳ Ἴων ὁ Χῖος ἢ νὴ Δία Σοφοϰλῆς;ἐπειδὴ οἱ μὲν ἀδιάπτωτοι ϰαὶ ἐν τῷ γλαφυϱῷ πάντη ϰεϰαλλιγϱαφημένοι: ὁ δὲ Πίνδαϱος ϰαὶ ὁ Σοφοϰλῆς ὁτὲ μὲν οἷον πάντα ἐπιφλέγουσι τῇ φοϱᾷ, σβέννυνται δ̓ ἀλόγως πολλάϰις, ϰαὶ πίπτουσιν ἀτυχέστατα. ἢ οὐδεὶς ἂν εὖ φϱονῶν ἑνὸς δϱάματος, τοῦ Οἰδίποδος, εἰς ταὐτὸ συνϑεὶς τὰ Ἴωνος ἀντιτιμήσαιτο ἑξῆς;

But supposing now that we assume the existence of a really unblemished and irreproachable writer. Is it not worth while to raise the whole question whether in poetry and prose we should prefer sublimity accompanied by some faults, or a style which never rising above moderate excellence never stumbles and never requires correction? and again, whether the first place in literature is justly to be assigned to the more numerous, or the loftier excellences? For these are questions proper to an inquiry on the Sublime, and urgently asking for settlement.

I know, then, that the largest intellects are far from being the most exact. A mind always intent on correctness is apt to be dissipated in trifles; but in great affluence of thought, as in vast material wealth, there must needs be an occasional neglect of detail. And is it not inevitably so? Is it not by risking nothing, by never aiming high, that a writer of low or middling powers keeps generally clear of faults and secure of blame? whereas the loftier walks of literature are by their very loftiness perilous? I am well aware, again, that there is a law by which in all human productions the weak points catch the eye first, by which their faults remain indelibly stamped on the memory, while their beauties quickly fade away. Yet, though I have myself noted not a few faulty passages in Homer and in other authors of the highest rank, and though I am far from being partial to their failings, nevertheless I would call them not so much wilful blunders as oversights which were allowed to pass unregarded through that contempt of little things, that “brave disorder,” which is natural to an exalted genius; and I still think that the greater excellences, though not everywhere equally sustained, ought always to be voted to the first place in literature, if for no other reason, for the mere grandeur of soul they evince. Let us take an instance: Apollonius in his Argonautica has given us a poem actually faultless; and in his pastoral poetry Theocritus is eminently happy, except when he occasionally attempts another style. And what then? Would you rather be a Homer or an Apollonius? Or take Eratosthenes and his Erigone; because that little work is without a flaw, is he therefore a greater poet than Archilochus, with all his disorderly profusion? greater than that impetuous, that god-gifted genius, which chafed against the restraints of law? or in lyric poetry would you choose to be a Bacchylides or a Pindar? in tragedy a Sophocles or (save the mark!) an Io of Chios? Yet Io and Bacchylides never stumble, their style is always neat, always pretty; while Pindar and Sophocles sometimes move onwards with a wide blaze of splendour, but often drop out of view in sudden and disastrous eclipse. Nevertheless no one in his senses would deny that a single play of Sophocles, the Oedipus, is of higher value than all the dramas of Io put together.

Suppose we illustrate this by taking some altogether immaculate and unimpeachable writer, must we not in this very connection raise the general question: Which is the better in poetry and in prose, grandeur with a few flaws or correct composition of mediocre quality, yet entirely sound and impeccable? Yes, and we must surely ask the farther question whether in literature the first place is rightly due to the largest number of merits or to the merits that are greatest in themselves. These inquiries are proper to a treatise on the sublime and on every ground demand decision. [2] Now I am well aware that the greatest natures are least immaculate. Perfect precision runs the risk of triviality, whereas in great writing as in great wealth there must needs be something overlooked. Perhaps it is inevitable that the humble, mediocre natures, because they never run any risks, never aim at the heights, should remain to a large extent safe from error, while in great natures their very greatness spells danger. [3] Not indeed that I am ignorant of this second point, that whatever men do is always inevitably regarded from the worst side: faults make an ineradicable impression, but beauties soon slip from our memory. [4] I have myself noted a good many faults in Homer and the other greatest authors, and though these slips certainly offend my taste, yet I prefer to call them not wilful mistakes but careless oversights, let in casually almost and at random by the heedlessness of genius. In spite, then, of these faults I still think that great excellence, even if it is not sustained throughout at the same level, should always be voted the first place, if for nothing else, for its inherent nobility. Apollonius, for instance, in his Argonauiica is an impeccable poet and Theocritus – except in a few extraneous matters – is supremely successful in his pastorals. Yet would you not rather be Homer than Apollonius? [5] And what of Eratosthenes **Versatile scholar of the third century B.C., who wrote history, geography, astronomy, literary criticism, and other poems besides the elegy here mentioned. in his Erigone? Wholly blameless as the little poem is, do you therefore think him a greater poet than Archilochus with all the manifold irrelevance **Lit. ill-arranged, undigested matter. he carries on his flood; greater than those outbursts of divine inspiration, which are so troublesome to bring under any rule? In lyrics, again, would you choose to be Bacchylides rather than Pindar, or in tragedy Ion of Chios rather than (save the mark!) Sophocles? In both eases the former is impeccable and a master of elegance in the smooth style. On the other hand Pindar and Sophocles sometimes seem to fire the whole landscape as they sweep across it, while often their fire is unaccountably quenched and they fall miserably flat. Yet would anyone in his senses give the single tragedy of Oedipus for all the works of Ion in a row?

Εἰ δ̓ ὅϱῳ μὴ τῷ ἀληϑεῖ ϰϱίνοιτο τὰ ϰατοϱϑώματα, οὕτως ἂν ϰαὶ Ὑπεϱίδης τῷ παντὶ πϱοέχοι Δημοσϑένους. ἔστι γὰϱ αὐτοῦ πολυφωνότεϱος ϰαὶ πλείους ἀϱετὰς ἔχων, ϰαὶ σχεδὸν ὕπαϰϱος ἐν πᾶσιν ὡς ὁ πένταϑλος, ὥστε τῶν μὲν πϱωτείων ἐν ἅπασι τῶν ἄλλων ἀγωνιστῶν λείπεσϑαι, πϱωτεύειν δὲ τῶν ἰδιωτῶν. [2] ὁ μέν γε Ὑπεϱίδης πϱὸς τῷ πάντα ἔξω γε τῆς συνϑέσεως μιμεῖσϑαι τὰ Δημοσϑένεια ϰατοϱϑώματα ϰαὶ τὰς Λυσιαϰὰς ἐϰ πεϱιττοῦ πεϱιείληφεν ἀϱετάς τε ϰαὶ χάϱιτας. ϰαὶ γὰϱ λαλεῖ μετὰ ἀφελείας ἔνϑα χϱή, ϰαὶ οὐ πάντα ἑξῆς ϰαὶ μονοτόνως ὡς ὁ Δημοσϑένης λέγει: τό τε ἠϑιϰὸν ἔχει μετὰ γλυϰύτητος ἡδὺ λιτῶς ἐφηδυνόμενον: ἄφατοί τε πεϱὶ αὐτόν εἰσιν ἀστεϊσμοί, μυϰτὴϱ πολιτιϰώτατος, εὐγένεια, τὸ ϰατὰ τὰς εἰϱωνείας εὐπάλαιστϱον, σϰώμματα οὐϰ ἄμουσα οὐδ̓ ἀνάγωγα ϰατὰ τοὺς Ἀττιϰοὺς ἐϰείνους, ἀλλ̓ ἐπιϰείμενα, διασυϱμός τε ἐπιδέξιος ϰαὶ πολὺ τὸ ϰωμιϰὸν ϰαὶ μετὰ παιδιᾶς εὐστόχου ϰέντϱον, ἀμίμητον δὲ εἰπεῖν τὸ ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις ἐπαφϱόδιτον: οἰϰτίσασϑαί τε πϱοσφυέστατος, ἔτι δὲ μυϑολογῆσαι ϰεχυμένος ϰαὶ ἐν ὑγϱῷ πνεύματι διεξοδεῦσαι ἔτι εὐϰαμπὴς ἄϰϱως, ὥσπεϱ ἀμέλει τὰ μὲν πεϱὶ τὴν Λητὼ ποιητιϰώτεϱα, τὸν δ̓ ἐπιτάφιον ἐπιδειϰτιϰῶς, ὡς οὐϰ οἶδ̓ εἴ τις ἄλλος, διέϑετο. [3] ὁ δὲ Δημοσϑένης ἀνηϑοποίητος, ἀδιάχυτος, ἥϰιστα ὑγϱὸς ἢ ἐπιδειϰτιϰός, ἁπάντων ἑξῆς τῶν πϱοειϱημένων ϰατὰ τὸ πλέον ἄμοιϱος. ἔνϑα μέντοι γελοῖος εἶναι βιάζεται ϰαὶ ἀστεῖος, οὐ γέλωτα ϰινεῖ μᾶλλον ἢ ϰαταγελᾶται, ὅταν δὲ ἐγγίζειν ϑέλῃ τῷ ἐπίχαϱις εἶναι, τότε πλέον ἀφίσταται. τό γέ τοι πεϱὶ Φϱύνης ἢ Ἀϑηνογένους λογίδιον ἐπιχειϱήσας γϱάφειν ἔτι μᾶλλον ἂν Ὑπεϱίδην συνέστησεν. [4] ἀλλ̓ ἐπειδήπεϱ, οἶμαι, τὰ μὲν ϑατέϱου ϰαλά, ϰαὶ εἰ πολλὰ, ὅμως ἀμεγέϑη ϰαϱδίῃ νήφοντος ἀϱγὰ ϰαὶ τὸν ἀϰϱοατὴν ἠϱεμεῖν ἐῶντα ῾οὐδεὶς γοῦν Ὑπεϱίδην ἀναγινώσϰων φοβεῖταἰ, ὁ δὲ ἔνϑεν ἑλὼν τοῦ μεγαλοφυεστάτου ϰαὶ ἐπ̓ ἄϰϱον ἀϱετὰς συντετελεσμένας, ὑψηγοϱίας τόνον, ἔμψυχα πάϑη, πεϱιουσίαν ἀγχίνοιαν τάχος, ἔνϑα δὴ ϰύϱιον, τὴν ἅπασιν ἀπϱόσιτον δεινότητα ϰαὶ δύναμιν, ἐπειδὴ ταῦτα, φημί, ὡς ϑεόπεμπτα δεινὰ δωϱήματα ῾οὐ γὰϱ εἰπεῖν ϑεμιτὸν ἀνϑϱώπινἀ ἀϑϱόα ἐς ἑαυτὸν ἔσπασεν, διὰ τοῦτο οἷς ἔχει ϰαλοῖς ἅπαντας ἀεὶ νιϰᾷ ϰαὶ ὑπὲϱ ὧν οὐϰ ἔχει, ϰαὶ ὡσπεϱεὶ ϰαταβϱοντᾷ ϰαὶ ϰαταφέγγει τοὺς ἀπ̓ αἰῶνος ῥήτοϱας: ϰαὶ ϑᾶττον ἄν τις ϰεϱαυνοῖς φεϱομένοις ἀντανοῖξαι τὰ ὄμματα δύναιτο, ἢ ἀντοφϑαλμῆσαι τοῖς ἐπαλλήλοις ἐϰείνου πάϑεσιν.

If the number and not the loftiness of an author’s merits is to be our standard of success, judged by this test we must admit that Hyperides is a far superior orator to Demosthenes. For in Hyperides there is a richer modulation, a greater variety of excellence. He is, we may say, in everything second-best, like the champion of the pentathlon, who, though in every contest he has to yield the prize to some other combatant, is superior to the unpractised in all five. Not only has he rivalled the success of Demosthenes in everything but his manner of composition, but, as though that were not enough, he has taken in all the excellences and graces of Lysias as well. He knows when it is proper to speak with simplicity, and does not, like Demosthenes, continue the same key throughout. His touches of character are racy and sparkling, and full of a delicate flavour. Then how admirable is his wit, how polished his raillery! How well-bred he is, how dexterous in the use of irony! His jests are pointed, but without any of the grossness and vulgarity of the old Attic comedy. He is skilled in making light of an opponent’s argument, full of a well-aimed satire which amuses while it stings; and through all this there runs a pervading, may we not say, a matchless charm. He is most apt in moving compassion; his mythical digressions show a fluent ease, and he is perfect in bending his course and finding a way out of them without violence or effort. Thus when he tells the story of Leto he is really almost a poet; and his funeral oration shows a declamatory magnificence to which I hardly know a parallel. Demosthenes, on the other hand, has no touches of character, none of the versatility, fluency, or declamatory skill of Hyperides. He is, in fact, almost entirely destitute of all those excellences which I have just enumerated. When he makes violent efforts to be humorous and witty, the only laughter he arouses is against himself; and the nearer he tries to get to the winning grace of Hyperides, the farther he recedes from it. Had he, for instance, attempted such a task as the little speech in defence of Phryne or Athenagoras, he would only have added to the reputation of his rival. Nevertheless all the beauties of Hyperides, however numerous, cannot make him sublime. He never exhibits strong feeling, has little energy, rouses no emotion; certainly he never kindles terror in the breast of his readers. But Demosthenes followed a great master,84 and drew his consummate excellences, his high-pitched eloquence, his living passion, his copiousness, his sagacity, his speed—that mastery and power which can never be approached—from the highest of sources. These mighty, these heaven-sent gifts (I dare not call them human), he made his own both one and all. Therefore, I say, by the noble qualities which he does possess he remains supreme above all rivals, and throws a cloud over his failings, silencing by his thunders and blinding by his lightnings the orators of all ages. Yes, it would be easier to meet the lightning-stroke with steady eye than to gaze unmoved when his impassioned eloquence is sending out flash after flash.

If excellence were to be judged by the number of merits and not by greatness, Hypereides would then be altogether superior to Demosthenes. He has more strings to his lute and his merits are more numerous. He may almost be said to come a good second in every competition, like the winner of the pentathlon. In each contest he loses to the professional champion, but comes first of the amateurs. **Each of the five contests of the Pentathlon would doubtless be won by a different specialist, but the all-round athlete who was second in each contest would win the prize. [2] Besides reproducing all the virtues of Demosthenes, except his skill in arrangement, **Or “composition” in the sense in which art-critics use the word. Hypereides has, moreover, embraced all the merits and graces of Lysias. He talks plainly, where necessary, does not make all his points in a monotonous series, as Demosthenes is said to do, and has the power of characterisation, seasoned moreover (Heaven knows) by simplicity and charm. Then he has an untold store of polished wit, urbane sarcasm, well-bred elegance, supple turns of irony, jests neither tasteless nor ill-bred, apposite according to the best models of Attic wit, clever satire, plenty of pointed ridicule and well-directed fun, and therewithal what I may call an inimitable fascination. Nature endowed him fully with the power of evoking pity and also of telling a tale fluently and winding his way through a description with facile inspiration, while he is also admirably versatile. His story of Leto, **Ὑπεϱείδης. In his Deliacos (frags. 67–75, Blass), in which he upheld Athens’ claim to the presidency of the Delian temple. for instance, is highly poetical and his Funeral Oration **Ἐπιτάφιος, oration VI.an almost unsurpassed example of a show piece. [3] Demosthenes, on the other hand, has no gift of characterisation or of fluency, is far from facile and no show orator. Speaking generally, he has no part in any one of the merits we have just mentioned. When he is forced into attempting a jest or a witty passage, he rather raises the laugh against himself; and when he tries to achieve something like charm, he is farther from it than ever. If he had tried to write the little speech on Phryne or Athenogenes, **A copy of the speech against Athenogenes was dug up in Egypt in 1888. The defence of Phryne, famous for the story of her disrobing in court, is lost. he would have recommended Hypereides still further to our praise. [4] But nevertheless I feel that the beauties of Hypereides, many as they are, yet lack grandeur; they are dispassionate, born of sober sense, and do not trouble the peace of the audience. No one, for instance, is panic-stricken while reading Hypereides. But Demosthenes no sooner “takes up the tale” **Odyssey VIII,500. A Homeric phrase used of one minstrel taking up the tale where the other dropped it than he shows the merits of great genius in their most consummate form, sublime intensity, living emotion, redundancy, readiness, speed – where speed is in season – and his own unapproachable vehemence and power: snatching into his arms all the wealth of these mighty, heaven-sent gifts – it would be impious to call them human – he thus by those beauties that he has invariably defeats all comers, and to make up for those he lacks, he seems to dumbfound the world’s orators with his thunder and lightning. You could sooner open your eyes to the descent of a thunderbolt than face unblinking his repeated outbursts of emotion.

Ἐπὶ μέντοι τοῦ Πλάτωνος ϰαὶ ἄλλη τίς ἐστιν, ὡς ἔφην, διαφοϱά: οὐ γὰϱ μεγέϑει τῶν ἀϱετῶν ἀλλὰ ϰαὶ τῷ πλήϑει πολὺ λειπόμενος αὐτοῦ Λυσίας ὅμως πλεῖον ἔτι τοῖς ἁμαϱτήμασι πεϱιττεύει ἢ ταῖς ἀϱεταῖς λείπεται. [2] τί ποτ̓ οὖν εἶδον οἱ ἰσόϑεοι ἐϰεῖνοι ϰαὶ τῶν μεγίστων ἐποϱεξάμενοι τῆς συγγϱαφῆς, τῆς δ̓ ἐν ἅπασιν ἀϰϱιβείας ὑπεϱφϱονήσαντες; πϱὸς πολλοῖς ἄλλοις ἐϰεῖνο, ὅτι ἡ φύσις οὐ ταπεινὸν ἡμᾶς ζῷον οὐδ̓ ἀγεννὲς ἔϰϱινε τὸν ἄνϑϱωπον, ἀλλ̓ ὡς εἰς μεγάλην τινὰ πανήγυϱιν εἰς τὸν βίον ϰαὶ εἰς τὸν σύμπαντα ϰόσμον ἐπάγουσα, ϑεατάς τινας τῶν ὅλων αὐτῆς ἐσομένους ϰαὶ φιλοτιμοτάτους ἀγωνιστάς, εὐϑὺς ἄμαχον ἔϱωτα ἐνέφυσεν ἡμῶν ταῖς ψυχαῖς παντὸς ἀεὶ τοῦ μεγάλου ϰαὶ ὡς πϱὸς ἡμᾶς δαιμονιωτέϱου. [3] διόπεϱ τῇ ϑεωϱίᾳ ϰαὶ διανοίᾳ τῆς ἀνϑϱωπίνης ἐπιβολῆς οὐδ̓ ὁ σύμπας ϰόσμος ἀϱϰεῖ, ἀλλὰ ϰαὶ τοὺς τοῦ πεϱιέχοντος πολλάϰις ὅϱους ἐϰβαίνουσιν αἱ ἐπίνοιαι, ϰαὶ εἴ τις πεϱιβλέψαιτο ἐν ϰύϰλῳ τὸν βίον, ὅσῳ πλέον ἔχει τὸ πεϱιττὸν ἐν πᾶσι ϰαὶ μέγα ϰαὶ ϰαλόν, ταχέως εἴσεται, πϱὸς ἃ γεγόναμεν. [4] ἔνϑεν φυσιϰῶς πως ἀγόμενοι μὰ Δἴ οὐ τὰ μιϰϱὰ ῥεῖϑϱα ϑαυμάζομεν, εἰ ϰαὶ διαυγῆ ϰαὶ χϱήσιμα, ἀλλὰ τὸν Νεῖλον ϰαὶ Ἴστϱον ἢ Ῥῆνον, πολὺ δ̓ ἔτι μᾶλλον τὸν Ὠϰεανόν: οὐδέ γε τὸ ὑφ̓ ἡμῶν τουτὶ φλογίον ἀναϰαιόμενον, ἐπεὶ ϰαϑαϱὸν σῴζει τὸ φέγγος, ἐϰπληττόμεϑα τῶν οὐϱανίων μᾶλλον, ϰαίτοι πολλάϰις ἐπισϰοτουμένων, οὐδὲ τῶν τῆς Αἴτνης ϰϱατήϱων ἀξιοϑαυμαστότεϱον νομίζομεν, ἧς αἱ ἀναχοαὶ πέτϱους τε ἐϰ βυϑοῦ ϰαὶ ὅλους ὄχϑους ἀναφέϱουσι ϰαὶ ποταμοὺς ἐνίοτε τοῦ γηγενοῦς ἐϰείνου ϰαὶ αὐτοῦ μόνου πϱοχέουσιν πυϱός. [5] ἀλλ̓ ἐπὶ τῶν τοιούτων ἁπάντων ἐϰεῖν̓ ἂν εἴποιμεν, ὡς εὐπόϱιστον μὲν ἀνϑϱώποις τὸ χϱειῶδες ἢ ϰαὶ ἀναγϰαῖον, ϑαυμαστὸν δ̓ ὅμως ἀεὶ τὸ παϱάδοξον.

But in the case of Plato and Lysias there is, as I said, a further difference. Not only is Lysias vastly inferior to Plato in the degree of his merits, but in their number as well; and at the same time he is as far ahead of Plato in the number of his faults as he is behind in that of his merits.

What truth, then, was it that was present to those mighty spirits of the past, who, making whatever is greatest in writing their aim, thought it beneath them to be exact in every detail? Among many others especially this, that it was not in nature’s plan for us her chosen children to be creatures base and ignoble,—no, she brought us into life, and into the whole universe, as into some great field of contest, that we should be at once spectators and ambitious rivals of her mighty deeds, and from the first implanted in our souls an invincible yearning for all that is great, all that is diviner than ourselves. Therefore even the whole world is not wide enough for the soaring range of human thought, but man’s mind often overleaps the very bounds of space.85 When we survey the whole circle of life, and see it abounding everywhere in what is elegant, grand, and beautiful, we learn at once what is the true end of man’s being. And this is why nature prompts us to admire, not the clearness and usefulness of a little stream, but the Nile, the Danube, the Rhine, and far beyond all the Ocean; not to turn our wandering eyes from the heavenly fires, though often darkened, to the little flame kindled by human hands, however pure and steady its light; not to think that tiny lamp more wondrous than the caverns of Aetna, from whose raging depths are hurled up stones and whole masses of rock, and torrents sometimes come pouring from earth’s centre of pure and living fire.

To sum the whole: whatever is useful or needful lies easily within man’s reach; but he keeps his homage for what is astounding.

There is, as I said, **See chapter XXXII. a further point of difference in the case of Plato. Lysias is far inferior both in the greatness and the number of his merits; and the excess of his faults is still greater than the defect of his merits. [2] What then was in the mind of those demigods who aimed only at what is greatest in writing and scorned detailed accuracy? Among many other things this, that Nature has distinguished man, as a creature of no mean or ignoble quality. As if she were inviting us rather to some great gathering, she has called us into life, into the whole universe, there to be spectators of all that she has made and eager competitors for honour; and she therefore from the first breathed into our hearts an unconquerable passion for whatever is great and more divine than ourselves. [3] Thus within the scope of human enterprise there lie such powers of contemplation and thought that even the whole universe cannot satisfy them, but our ideas often pass beyond the limits that enring us. Look at life from all sides and see how in all things the extraordinary, the great, the beautiful stand supreme, and you will soon realise the object of our creation. [4] So it is by some natural instinct that we admire, surely not the small streams, clear and useful as they are, but the Nile, the Danube, the Rhine, and far above all, the sea. The little fire we kindle for ourselves keeps clear and steady, yet we do not therefore regard it with more amazement than the fires of Heaven, which are often darkened, or think it more wonderful than the craters of Etna in eruption, hurling up rocks and whole hills from their depths and sometimes shooting forth rivers of that pure Titanic fire. [5] But on all such matters I would only say this, that what is useful and indeed necessary is cheap enough; it is always the unusual which wins our wonder.

Οὐϰοῦν ἐπί γε τῶν ἐν λόγοις μεγαλοφυῶν, ἐφ̓ ὧν οὐϰέτ̓ ἔξω τῆς χϱείας ϰαὶ ὠφελείας πίπτει τὸ μέγεϑος, πϱοσήϰει συνϑεωϱεῖν αὐτόϑεν, ὅτι τοῦ ἀναμαϱτήτου πολὺ ἀφεστῶτες οἱ τηλιϰοῦτοι ὅμως πάντες εἰσὶν ἐπάνω τοῦ ϑνητοῦ: ϰαὶ τὰ μὲν ἄλλα τοὺς χϱωμένους ἀνϑϱώπους ἐλέγχει, τὸ δ̓ ὕψος ἐγγὺς αἴϱει μεγαλοφϱοσύνης ϑεοῦ: ϰαὶ τὸ μὲν ἄπταιστον οὐ ψέγεται, τὸ μέγα δὲ ϰαὶ ϑαυμάζεται. [2] τί χϱὴ πϱὸς τούτοις ἔτι λέγειν, ὡς ἐϰείνων τῶν ἀνδϱῶν ἕϰαστος ἅπαντα τὰ σφάλματα ἑνὶ ἐξωνεῖται πολλάϰις ὕψει ϰαὶ ϰατοϱϑώματι, ϰαὶ τὸ ϰυϱιώτατον, ὡς, εἴ γε ἐϰλέξας τὰ Ὁμήϱου, τὰ Δημοσϑένους, τὰ Πλάτωνος, τῶν ἄλλων, ὅσοι δὴ μέγιστοι, παϱαπτώματα πάντα ὁμόσε συναϑϱοίσειεν, ἐλάχιστον ἄν τι, μᾶλλον δ̓ οὐδὲ πολλοστημόϱιον ἂν εὑϱεϑείη τῶν ἐϰείνοις τοῖς ἥϱωσι πάντη ϰατοϱϑουμένων; διὰ ταῦϑ̓ ὁ πᾶς αὐτοῖς αἰὼν ϰαὶ βίος, οὐ δυνάμενος ὑπὸ τοῦ φϑόνου παϱανοίας ἁλῶναι, φέϱων ἀπέδωϰε τὰ νιϰητήϱια ϰαὶ ἄχϱι νῦν ἀναφαίϱετα φυλάττει ϰαὶ ἔοιϰε τηϱήσειν,

ἔστ̓ ἂν ὕδωϱ τε ῥέῃ, ϰαὶ δένδϱεα μαϰϱὰ τεϑήλῃ.

[3] πϱὸς μέντοι γε τὸν γϱάφοντα, ὡς ὁ Κολοσσὸς ὁ ἡμαϱτημένος οὐ ϰϱείττων ἢ ὁ Πολυϰλείτου Δοϱυφόϱος, παϱάϰειται πϱὸς πολλοῖς εἰπεῖν, ὅτι ἐπὶ μὲν τέχνης ϑαυμάζεται τὸ ἀϰϱιβέστατον, ἐπὶ δὲ τῶν φυσιϰῶν ἔϱγων τὸ μέγεϑος, φύσει δὲ λογιϰὸν ὁ ἄνϑϱωπος: ϰἀπὶ μὲν ἀνδϱιάντων ζητεῖται τὸ ὅμοιον ἀνϑϱώπῳ, ἐπὶ δὲ τοῦ λόγου τὸ ὑπεϱαῖϱον, ὡς ἔφην, τὰ ἀνϑϱώπινα. [4] πϱοσήϰει δ̓ ὅμως ῾ἀναϰάμπτει γὰϱ ἐπὶ τὴν ἀϱχὴν ἡμῖν τοῦ ὑπομνήματος ἡ παϱαίνεσις᾿, ἐπειδὴ τὸ μὲν ἀδιάπτωτον ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολὺ τέχνης ἐστὶ ϰατόϱϑωμα, τὸ δ̓ ἐν ὑπεϱοχῇ πλὴν οὐχ ὁμότονον μεγολοφυΐας, βοήϑημα τῇ φύσει πάντη ποϱίζεσϑαι τὴν τέχνην: ἡ γὰϱ ἀλληλουχία τούτων ἴσως γένοιτ̓ ἂν τὸ τέλειον. Τοσαῦτα ἦν ἀναγϰαῖον ὑπὲϱ τῶν πϱοτεϑέντων ἐπιϰϱῖναι σϰεμμάτων: χαιϱέτω δ̓ ἕϰαστος οἷς ἥδεται.

How much more do these principles apply to the Sublime in literature, where grandeur is never, as it sometimes is in nature, dissociated from utility and advantage. Therefore all those who have achieved it, however far from faultless, are still more than mortal. When a writer uses any other resource he shows himself to be a man; but the Sublime lifts him near to the great spirit of the Deity. He who makes no slips must be satisfied with negative approbation, but he who is sublime commands positive reverence. Why need I add that each one of those great writers often redeems all his errors by one grand and masterly stroke? But the strongest point of all is that, if you were to pick out all the blunders of Homer, Demosthenes, Plato, and all the greatest names in literature, and add them together, they would be found to bear a very small, or rather an infinitesimal proportion to the passages in which these supreme masters have attained absolute perfection. Therefore it is that all posterity, whose judgment envy herself cannot impeach, has brought and bestowed on them the crown of glory, has guarded their fame until this day against all attack, and is likely to preserve it

“As long as lofty trees shall grow,
And restless waters seaward flow.”

It has been urged by one writer that we should not prefer the huge disproportioned Colossus to the Doryphorus of Polycletus. But (to give one out of many possible answers) in art we admire exactness, in the works of nature magnificence; and it is from nature that man derives the faculty of speech. Whereas, then, in statuary we look for close resemblance to humanity, in literature we require something which transcends humanity. Nevertheless (to reiterate the advice which we gave at the beginning of this essay), since that success which consists in avoidance of error is usually the gift of art, while high, though unequal excellence is the attribute of genius, it is proper on all occasions to call in art as an ally to nature. By the combined resources of these two we may hope to achieve perfection.
  Such are the conclusions which were forced upon me concerning the points at issue; but every one may consult his own taste.

In dealing, then, with writers of genius, whose grandeur is of a kind that comes within the limits of use and profit, **As the grandeurs of Nature, e.g. volcanoes, do not. we must at the outset form the conclusion that, while they are far from unerring, yet they are all more than human. Other qualities prove their possessors men, sublimity lifts them near the mighty mind of God. Correctness escapes censure; greatness earns admiration as well. [2] We need hardly add that each of these great men again and again redeems all his mistakes by a single touch of sublimity and true excellence; and, what is finally decisive, if we were to pick out all the faults in Homer, Demosthenes, Plato and all the other greatest authors and put them together, we should find them a tiny fraction, not the ten-thousandth part, of the true excellence to be found on every page of these demi-gods. That is why the judgement of all ages, which no jealousy can prove to be amiss, has awarded them the crown of victory, guarding it as their inalienable right, and is likely so to preserve it,

So long as the rivers run and the tail trees flourish in green. **Quoted in Plato: Phaedrus 264C, as part of an epitaph said to have been written for Midas.

[3] As to the statement that the faulty Colossus is no better than Polycleitus’s spearman, **This statue by the great fifth-century sculptor was regarded as a canon of the true proportion. The statement is probably in Cecilius’s treatise. Cf. Plinius: Historia naturalis, XXXIV,55. there are many obvious answers to that. In art we admire accuracy, in nature grandeur; and it is nature that has given man the power of using words. Also we expect a statue to resemble a man, but in literature, as I said before, we look for something greater than human. [4] However, to come back again to the doctrine with which we began our treatise,**See chapter II. since the merit of impeccable correctness is, generally speaking, due to art, and the height of excellence, though not sustained, to genius, it is proper that art should always assist Nature. Their co-operation may thus result in perfection. This much had to be said to decide the questions before us. But everyone is welcome to his own taste.

Ταῖς δὲ μεταφοϱαῖς γειτνιῶσιν ῾ἐπανιτέον γὰῤ αἱ παϱαβολαὶ ϰαὶ εἰϰόνες, ἐϰείνῃ μόνον παϱαλλάττουσαι...
{δεσωντ δωο φολια}

To return, however, from this long digression; closely allied to metaphors are comparisons and similes, differing only in this ***

To return to metaphors. Closely akin to them are illustration and imagery. The only difference is ...
{Two pages of the ms. are here lost.}

... στοι ϰαὶ αἱ τοιαῦται: ῾εἰ μὴ τὸν ἐγϰέφαλον ἐν ταῖς πτέϱναις ϰαταπεπατημένον φοϱεῖτε.᾿ διόπεϱ εἰδέναι χϱὴ τὸ μέχϱι ποῦ παϱοϱιστέον ἕϰαστον: τὸ γὰϱ ἐνίοτε πεϱαιτέϱω πϱοεϰπίπτειν ἀναιϱεῖ τὴν ὑπεϱβολὴν ϰαὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα ὑπεϱτεινόμενα χαλᾶται, ἔσϑ̓ ὅτε δὲ ϰαὶ εἰς ὑπεναντιώσεις ἀντιπεϱιΐσταται. [2] ὁ γοῦν Ἰσοϰϱάτης οὐϰ οἶδ̓ ὅπως παιδὸς πϱᾶγμα ἔπαϑεν διὰ τὴν τοῦ πάντα αὐξητιϰῶς ἐϑέλειν λέγειν φιλοτιμίαν. ἔστι μὲν γὰϱ ὑπόϑεσις αὐτῷ τοῦ Πανηγυϱιϰοῦ λόγου, ὡς ἡ Ἀϑηναίων πόλις ταῖς εἰς τοὺς Ἕλληνας εὐεϱγεσίαις ὑπεϱβάλλει τὴν Λαϰεδαιμονίων, ὁ δ̓ εὐϑὺς ἐν τῇ εἰσβολῇ ταῦτα τίϑησιν: ῾ἔπειϑ̓ οἱ λόγοι τοσαύτην ἔχουσι δύναμιν, ὥσϑ̓ οἷόν τ̓ εἶναι ϰαὶ τὰ μεγάλα ταπεινὰ ποιῆσαι ϰαὶ τοῖς μιϰϱοῖς πεϱιϑεῖναι μέγεϑος, ϰαὶ τὰ παλαιὰ ϰαινῶς εἰπεῖν ϰαὶ πεϱὶ τῶν νεωστὶ γεγενημένων ἀϱχαίως διελϑεῖν.᾿ οὐϰοῦν, φησί τις, Ἰσόϰϱατες, οὕτως μέλλεις ϰαὶ τὰ πεϱὶ Λαϰεδαιμονίων ϰαὶ Ἀϑηναίων ἐναλλάττειν; σχεδὸν γὰϱ τὸ τῶν λόγων ἐγϰώμιον ἀπιστίας τῆς ϰαϑ̓ αὑτοῦ τοῖς ἀϰούουσι παϱάγγελμα ϰαὶ πϱοοίμιον ἐξέϑηϰε. [3] μήποτ̓ οὖν ἄϱισται τῶν ὑπεϱβολῶν, ὡς ϰαὶ ἐπὶ τῶν σχημάτων πϱοείπομεν, αἱ αὐτὸ τοῦτο διαλανϑάνουσαι ὅτι εἰσὶν ὑπεϱβολαί. γίνεται δὲ τὸ τοιόνδε, ἐπειδὰν ὑπὸ ἐϰπαϑείας μεγέϑει τινὶ συνεϰφωνῶνται πεϱιστάσεως, ὅπεϱ ὁ Θουϰυδίδης ἐπὶ τῶν ἐν Σιϰελίᾳ φϑειϱομένων ποιεῖ. ῾οἵ τε γὰϱ Συϱαϰούσιοἰ φησὶν ῾ἐπιϰαταβάντες τοὺς ἐν τῷ ποταμῷ μάλιστα ἔσφαζον, ϰαὶ τὸ ὕδωϱ εὐϑὺς διέφϑαϱτο: ἀλλ̓ οὐδὲν ἧσσον ἐπίνετο ὁμοῦ τῷ πηλῷ ᾑματωμένον ϰαὶ τοῖς πολλοῖς ἔτι ἦν πεϱιμάχητον.᾿ αἷμα ϰαὶ πηλὸν πινόμενα ὅμως εἶναι πεϱιμάχητα ἔτι ποιεῖ πιστὸν ἡ τοῦ πάϑους ὑπεϱοχὴ ϰαὶ πεϱίστασις. [4] ϰαὶ τὸ Ἡϱοδότειον ἐπὶ τῶν ἐν Θεϱμοπύλαις ὅμοιον. ῾ἐν τούτᾠ φησὶν ῾ ἀλεξομένους μαχαίϱῃσιν, ὅσοις αὐτῶν ἔτι ἐτύγχανον πεϱιοῦσαι, ϰαὶ χεϱσὶ ϰαὶ στόμασι, ϰατέχωσαν οἱ βάϱβαϱοι.᾿ ἐνταῦϑ̓, οἷόν ἐστι τὸ ϰαὶ στόμασι μάχεσϑαι πϱὸς ὡπλισμένους ϰαὶ ὁποῖόν τι τὸ ϰαταϰεχῶσϑαι βέλεσιν, ἐϱεῖς, πλὴν ὁμοίως ἔχει πίστιν: οὐ γὰϱ τὸ πϱᾶγμα ἕνεϰα τῆς ὑπεϱβολῆς παϱαλαμβάνεσϑαι δοϰεῖ, ἡ ὑπεϱβολὴ δ̓ εὐλόγως γεννᾶσϑαι πϱὸς τοῦ πϱάγματος. [5] ἔστι γάϱ, ὡς οὐ διαλείπω λέγων, παντὸς τολμήματος λεϰτιϰοῦ λύσις ϰαὶ πανάϰειά τις τὰ ἐγγὺς ἐϰστάσεως ἔϱγα ϰαὶ πάϑη: ὅϑεν ϰαὶ τὰ ϰωμιϰὰ ϰαίτοιγ̓ εἰς ἀπιστίαν ἐϰπίπτοντα πιϑανὰ διὰ τὸ γελοῖον:

ἀγϱὸν
ἔσχ̓ ἐλάττω γῆν ἔχοντ̓ ἐπιστολῆς.

ϰαὶ γὰϱ ὁ γέλως πάϑος ἐν ἡδονῇ. [6] αἱ δ̓ ὑπεϱβολαὶ ϰαϑάπεϱ ἐπὶ τὸ μεῖζον, οὕτως ϰαὶ ἐπὶ τοὔλαττον, ἐπειδὴ ϰοινὸν ἀμφοῖν ἡ ἐπίτασις: ϰαί πως ὁ διασυϱμὸς ταπεινότητός ἐστιν αὔξησις.

Such absurdities as, “Unless you carry your brains next to the ground in your heels.”87 Hence it is necessary to know where to draw the line; for if ever it is overstepped the effect of the hyperbole is spoilt, being in such cases relaxed by overstraining, and producing the very opposite to the effect desired. Isocrates, for instance, from an ambitious desire of lending everything a strong rhetorical colouring, shows himself in quite a childish light. Having in his Panegyrical Oration set himself to prove that the Athenian state has surpassed that of Sparta in her services to Hellas, he starts off at the very outset with these words: “Such is the power of language that it can extenuate what is great, and lend greatness to what is little, give freshness to what is antiquated, and describe what is recent so that it seems to be of the past.”88 Come, Isocrates (it might be asked), is it thus that you are going to tamper with the facts about Sparta and Athens? This flourish about the power of language is like a signal hung out to warn his audience not to believe him. We may repeat here what we said about figures, and say that the hyperbole is then most effective when it appears in disguise. And this effect is produced when a writer, impelled by strong feeling, speaks in the accents of some tremendous crisis; as Thucydides does in describing the massacre in Sicily. “The Syracusans,” he says, “went down after them, and slew those especially who were in the river, and the water was at once defiled, yet still they went on drinking it, though mingled with mud and gore, most of them even fighting for it.”90 The drinking of mud and gore, and even the fighting for it, is made credible by the awful horror of the scene described. Similarly Herodotus on those who fell at Thermopylae: “Here as they fought, those who still had them, with daggers, the rest with hands and teeth, the barbarians buried them under their javelins.”91 That they fought with the teeth against heavy-armed assailants, and that they were buried with javelins, are perhaps hard sayings, but not incredible, for the reasons already explained. We can see that these circumstances have not been dragged in to produce a hyperbole, but that the hyperbole has grown naturally out of the circumstances. For, as I am never tired of explaining, in actions and passions verging on frenzy there lies a kind of remission and palliation of any licence of language. Hence some comic extravagances, however improbable, gain credence by their humour, such as—

“He had a farm, a little farm, where space severely pinches;
’Twas smaller than the last despatch from Sparta by some inches.”

For mirth is one of the passions, having its seat in pleasure. And hyperboles may be employed either to increase or to lessen—since exaggeration is common to both uses. Thus in extenuating an opponent’s argument we try to make it seem smaller than it is.

... **The mutilated word is assumed to be ϰαταγέλαστος. Longinus has returned to the topics from which he digressed towards the end of chapter XXXII., where the comparison of Plato and Lysias led to the discussion of faultlessness and genius, just concluded. The hs. resumes with the discussion of hyperbole. Laughable also are such things as “If you do not carry your brains trodden down in your heels.” **Demosthenes: πεϱὶ Ἁλοννήσου, On the Halonnesus 45. One must know, then, where to draw the line in each case. The hyperbole is sometimes ruined by overshooting the mark. Overdo the strain and the thing sags, and often produces the opposite effect to that intended. [2] For instance Isocrates fell into unaccountable puerility through his ambition to amplify everything. The theme of his Panegyric is that Athens surpasses Sparta in her benefits to Greece. But at the very outset **Πεϱὶ εἰϱήνης, Panegyricus VIII. he puts this: “Moreover words have such power that they can make great things humble and endue small things with greatness, give a new guise to what is old and describe recent events in the style of long ago” – “Why Isocrates,” says someone, “do you intend by this means to change the roles of the Spartans and the Athenians?” For his praises of the power of words have all but published a prefatory advertisement to the audience that he himself is not to be believed. [3] Perhaps then, as we said above of figures, **See chapter XVII. the best hyperbole is the one which conceals the very fact of its being a hyperbole. And this happens when it is uttered under stress of emotion to suit the circumstances of a great crisis. This is what Thucydides does in speaking of those who perished in Sicily. “For the Syracusans went down and began to slaughter chiefly those in the river. The water was immediately tainted but none the less they kept on drinking it, foul though it was with mud and gore, and most of them were still ready to fight for it.” **The Peloponnesian War VII,84,5. That a drink of mud and gore should yet be worth fighting for is made credible only by the height of the emotion which the circumstances arouse. It is the same with Herodotus’s description of those who fought at Thermopylae. [4] “On this spot,” he says, “while they defended themselves with daggers, such as still had daggers left, and with hands and teeth, they were buried by the barbarians.” **Ἱστοϱίαι VII,225,3. Here you may well ask what is meant by actually “fighting with teeth” against armed men or being “buried” with missiles; yet all the same it carries credence, because Herodotus does not seem to have introduced the incident to justify the hyperbole, but the hyperbole seems the natural outcome of the incident. [5] As I am never tired of saying, to atone for a daring phrase the universal specific is found in actions and feelings that almost carry one away. Thus, too, comic expressions, though they go so far as to be incredible, yet sound convincing because they are laughable:

His field was briefer than a Spartan’s letter.

[6] Laughter indeed is an emotion based on pleasure. Hyperbole may tend to belittle as well as to magnify: the common element in both is a strain on the facts. In a sense too satire is an exaggeration of pettiness.

Ἡ πέμπτη μοῖϱα τῶν συντελουσῶν εἰς τὸ ὕψος, ὧν γε ἐν ἀϱχῇ πϱοὐϑέμεϑα, ἔϑ̓ ἡμῖν λείπεται, ϰϱάτιστε, ἡ διὰ τῶν λόγων αὐτὴ ποιὰ σύνϑεσις. ὑπὲϱ ἧς ἐν δυσὶν ἀποχϱώντως ἀποδεδωϰότες συντάγμασιν, ὅσα γε τῆς ϑεωϱίας ἦν ἡμῖν ἐφιϰτά, τοσοῦτον ἐξ ἀνάγϰης πϱοσϑείημεν ἂν εἰς τὴν παϱοῦσαν ὑπόϑεσιν, ὡς οὐ μόνον ἐστὶ πειϑοῦς ϰαὶ ἡδονῆς ἡ ἁϱμονία φυσιϰὸν ἀνϑϱώποις, ἀλλὰ ϰαὶ μεγαληγοϱίας ϰαὶ πάϑους ϑαυμαστόν τι ὄϱγανον. [2] οὐ γὰϱ αὐλὸς μὲν ἐντίϑησίν τινα πάϑη τοῖς ἀϰϱοωμένοις ϰαὶ οἷον ἔϰφϱονας ϰαὶ ϰοϱυβαντιασμοῦ πλήϱεις ἀποτελεῖ, ϰαὶ βάσιν ἐνδούς τινα ῥυϑμοῦ πϱὸς ταύτην ἀναγϰάζει βαίνειν ἐν ῥυϑμῷ ϰαὶ συνεξομοιοῦσϑαι τῷ μέλει τὸν ἀϰϱοατήν, ϰἂν ἄμουσος ᾖ παντάπασι, ϰαὶ νὴ Δία φϑόγγοι ϰιϑάϱας, οὐδὲν ἁπλῶς σημαίνοντες, ταῖς τῶν ἤχων μεταβολαῖς ϰαὶ τῇ πϱὸς ἀλλήλους ϰϱούσει ϰαὶ μίξει τῆς συμφωνίας ϑαυμαστὸν ἐπάγουσι πολλάϰις, ὡς ἐπίστασαι, ϑέλγητϱον [3] ῾ϰαίτοι ταῦτα εἴδωλα ϰαὶ μιμήματα νόϑα ἐστὶ πειϑοῦς, οὐχὶ τῆς ἀνϑϱωπείας φύσεως, ὡς ἔφην, ἐνεϱγήματα γνήσιἀ, οὐϰ οἰόμεϑα δ̓ ἄϱα τὴν σύνϑεσιν, ἁϱμονίαν τινὰ οὖσαν λόγων ἀνϑϱώποις ἐμφύτων ϰαὶ τῆς ψυχῆς αὐτῆς, οὐχὶ τῆς ἀϰοῆς μόνης ἐφαπτομένων, ποιϰίλας ϰινοῦσαν ἰδέας ὀνομάτων νοήσεων πϱαγμάτων ϰάλλους εὐμελείας, πάντων ἡμῖν ἐντϱόφων ϰαὶ συγγενῶν, ϰαὶ ἅμα τῇ μίξει ϰαὶ πολυμοϱφίᾳ τῶν ἑαυτῆς φϑόγγων τὸ παϱεστὼς τῷ λέγοντι πάϑος εἰς τὰς ψυχὰς τῶν πέλας παϱεισάγουσαν ϰαὶ εἰς μετουσίαν αὐτοῦ τοὺς ἀϰούοντας ἀεὶ ϰαϑιστᾶσαν, τῇ τε τῶν λέξεων ἐποιϰοδομήσει τὰ μεγέϑη συναϱμόζουσαν, δἰ αὐτῶν τούτων ϰηλεῖν τε ὁμοῦ, ϰαὶ πϱὸς ὄγϰον τε ϰαὶ ἀξίωμα ϰαὶ ὕψος ϰαὶ πᾶν ὃ ἐν αὑτῇ πεϱιλαμβάνει ϰαὶ ἡμᾶς ἑϰάστοτε συνδιατιϑέναι, παντοίως ἡμῶν τῆς διανοίας ἐπιϰϱατοῦσαν; ἀλλ̓ εἰ ϰαὶ μανία τὸ πεϱὶ τῶν οὕτως ὁμολογουμένων διαποϱεῖν, ἀποχϱῶσα γὰϱ ἡ πεῖϱα πίστις, [4] ὑψηλόν γέ που δοϰεῖ νόημα ϰαὶ ἔστι τῷ ὄντι ϑαυμάσιον, ὃ τῷ ψηφίσματι ὁ Δημοσϑένης ἐπιφέϱει: ῾τοῦτο τὸ ψήφισμα τὸν τότε τῇ πόλει πεϱιστάντα ϰίνδυνον παϱελϑεῖν ἐποίησεν, ὥσπεϱ νέφος:᾿ ἀλλ̓ αὐτῆς τῆς διανοίας οὐϰ ἔλαττον τῇ ἁϱμονίᾳ πεφώνηται: ὅλον τε γὰϱ ἐπὶ τῶν δαϰτυλιϰῶν εἴϱηται ῥυϑμῶν: εὐγενέστατοι δ̓ οὗτοι ϰαὶ μεγεϑοποιοί, διὸ ϰαὶ τὸ ἡϱῷον, ὧν ἴσμεν ϰάλλιστον, μέτϱον συνιστᾶσι: τό τε ἐπείτοιγε ἐϰ τῆς ἰδίας αὐτὸ χώϱας μετάϑες, ὅποι δὴ ἐϑέλεις, ῾τοῦτο τὸ ψήφισμα, ὥσπεϱ νέφος, ἐποίησε τὸν τότε ϰίνδυνον παϱελϑεῖν,᾿ ἢ νὴ Δία μίαν ἀπόϰοψον συλλαβὴν μόνον ῾ἐποίησε παϱελϑεῖν ὡς νέφος,᾿ ϰαὶ εἴσῃ πόσον ἡ ἁϱμονία τῷ ὕψει συνηχεῖ. αὐτὸ γὰϱ τὸ ῾ὥσπεϱ νέφος᾿ ἐπὶ μαϰϱοῦ τοῦ πϱώτου ῥυϑμοῦ βέβηϰε, τέϱασι ϰαταμετϱουμένου χϱόνοις: ἐξαιϱεϑείσης δὲ τῆς μιᾶς συλλαβῆς ῾ὡς νέφος᾿ εὐϑὺς ἀϰϱωτηϱιάζει τῇ συγϰοπῇ τὸ μέγεϑος, ὡς ἔμπαλιν, ἐὰν ἐπεϰτείνῃς ῾παϱελϑεῖν ἐποίησεν ὡσπεϱεὶ νέφος,᾿ τὸ αὐτὸ σημαίνει, οὐ τὸ αὐτὸ δὲ ἔτι πϱοσπίπτει, ὅτι τῷ μήϰει τῶν ἄϰϱων χϱόνων συνεϰλύεται ϰαὶ διαχαλᾶται τὸ ὕψος τὸ ἀπότομον.

We have still left, my dear sir, the fifth of those sources which we set down at the outset as contributing to sublimity, that which consists in the mere arrangement of words in a certain order. Having already published two books dealing fully with this subject—so far at least as our investigations had carried us—it will be sufficient for the purpose of our present inquiry to add that harmony is an instrument which has a natural power, not only to win and to delight, but also in a remarkable degree to exalt the soul and sway the heart of man. When we see that a flute kindles certain emotions in its hearers, rendering them almost beside themselves and full of an orgiastic frenzy, and that by starting some kind of rhythmical beat it compels him who listens to move in time and assimilate his gestures to the tune, even though he has no taste whatever for music; when we know that the sounds of a harp, which in themselves have no meaning, by the change of key, by the mutual relation of the notes, and their arrangement in symphony, often lay a wonderful spell on an audience—though these are mere shadows and spurious imitations of persuasion, not, as I have said, genuine manifestations of human nature:—can we doubt that composition (being a kind of harmony of that language which nature has taught us, and which reaches, not our ears only, but our very souls), when it raises changing forms of words, of thoughts, of actions, of beauty, of melody, all of which are engrained in and akin to ourselves, and when by the blending of its manifold tones it brings home to the minds of those who stand by the feelings present to the speaker, and ever disposes the hearer to sympathise with those feelings, adding word to word, until it has raised a majestic and harmonious structure:—can we wonder if all this enchants us, wherever we meet with it, and filling us with the sense of pomp and dignity and sublimity, and whatever else it embraces, gains a complete mastery over our minds? It would be mere infatuation to join issue on truths so universally acknowledged, and established by experience beyond dispute.

Now to give an instance: that is doubtless a sublime thought, indeed wonderfully fine, which Demosthenes applies to his decree: τοῦτο τὸ ψήφισμα τὸν τότε τῇ πόλει περιστάντα κίνδυνον παρελθεῖν ἐποίησεν ὥσπερ νέφος, “This decree caused the danger which then hung round our city to pass away like a cloud.” But the modulation is as perfect as the sentiment itself is weighty. It is uttered wholly in the dactylic measure, the noblest and most magnificent of all measures, and hence forming the chief constituent in the finest metre we know, the heroic. [And it is with great judgment that the words ὥσπερ νέφος are reserved till the end.] Supposing we transpose them from their proper place and read, say τοῦτο τὸ ψήφισμα ὥσπερ νέφος ἐποίησε τὸν τότε κίνδυνον παρελθεῖν—nay, let us merely cut off one syllable, reading ἐποίησε παρελθεῖν ὡς νέφος—and you will understand how close is the unison between harmony and sublimity. In the passage before us the words ὥσπερ νέφος move first in a heavy measure, which is metrically equivalent to four short syllables: but on removing one syllable, and reading ὡς νέφος, the grandeur of movement is at once crippled by the abridgment. So conversely if you lengthen into ὡσπερεὶ νέφος, the meaning is still the same, but it does not strike the ear in the same manner, because by lingering over the final syllables you at once dissipate and relax the abrupt grandeur of the passage.

Of those factors of sublimity which we specified at the beginning, **Chapter VIII. one still remains, good friend – I mean the arrangement of the words themselves in a certain order. On this question I have in two treatises given a sufficient account of such conclusions as I could reach, and for our present purpose I need only add this, that men find in melody **ἁϱμονία is a combination of elements in a proper proportion. In music these elements are treble and base and the result melody. In writing the composition of clauses, sentences, paragraphs is a "harmony," but Longinus is thinking here rather of the aural effect of good composition, the melody of words. not only a natural instrument of persuasion and pleasure, but also a marvellous instrument of grandeur and emotion. [2] Does not the flute, for instance, induce certain emotions in those who hear it? Does it not seem to carry them away and fill them with divine frenzy? It sets a particular rhythmic movement and forces them to move in rhythm. The hearer has to conform to the tune, though he may be utterly unmusical. Why, the very tones of the harp, themselves meaningless, by the variety of their sounds and by their mutual pulsation and harmonious blending often exercise, as you know, a marvellous spell. [3] Yet these are only a bastard counterfeit of persuasion, not, as I said above, a genuine activity of human nature. We hold, then, that composition, which is a kind of melody in words – words which are part of man’s nature and reach not his ears only but his very soul – stirring as it does myriad ideas of words, thoughts, things, beauty, musical charm, all of which are born and bred in us; while, moreover, by the blending of its own manifold tones it brings into the hearts of the bystanders the speaker’s actual emotion so that all who hear him share in it, and by piling phrase on phrase builds up one majestic whole – we hold, I say, that by these very means it casts a spell on us and always turns our thoughts towards what is majestic and dignified and sublime and all else that it embraces, winning a complete mastery over our minds. Now it may indeed seem lunacy to raise any question on matters of such agreement, since experience is a sufficient test, [4] yet surely the idea which Demosthenes attaches to his decree strikes one as sublime and truly marvellous: “This decree made the peril at that time encompassing the country pass away like as a cloud.” **Ὑπὲϱ Κτησιφῶντος πεϱὶ τοῦ Στεφάνου, De Corona 188. The passage follows that mentioned in chap. x, in which Demosthenes vividly describes the alarm caused by Philip’s capture of Elateia in 339 B.C. The decree, passed on Demosthenes’ motion, provided for naval and military action against Philip and, more important still, for reconciliation with Thebes. Demosthenes served on the embassy to Thebes, and an alliance was made, and a joint army formed.

But its ring is due no less to the melody than to the thought. Its delivery rests wholly on the dactyls, which are the noblest of rhythms and make for grandeur – and that is why the most beautiful of all known metres, the heroic, is composed of dactyls. **If the second syllable of ἐποίησεν is taken as long, there are two dactyls in the sentence, τοῦτο τὸ at the beginning and ὥσπεϱ νέφος at the end. Longinus seems to regard the rhythmical effect as dependent upon the position of these. But he goes on to say that the effect of the last two words is due to the fact that ὥσπεϱ is a spondee, two long syllables, equivalent to four short syllables or four metrical beats. For to be sure if you transfer it **“It” seems to refer to the concluding dactyl to which Longinus attaches special importance. Or perhaps τέλος is omitted after τό τε. The sense would be the same. anywhere you like from its proper place – τοῦτο τὸ ψήφισμα ὥσπεϱ νέφος ἐποιήσε τὸν τότε ϰίνδυνον παϱελϑεῖν – or indeed if you only cut off a single syllable – ἐποιήσε παϱελϑεῖν ὡς νέφος – you will realize how truly the melody chimes in with the sublimity. Indeed the actual effect of ὥσπεϱ νέφος depends on the first “foot” being a long one, equivalent to four beats. Cut out the one syllable – ὡς νέφος – the curtailment at once mutilates the grandeur. So again if you lengthen it – παϱελϑεῖν ἐποιήσεν ὡσπεϱεὶ νέφος – the meaning is the same, but it does not strike the same upon the ear, because the sheer sublimity loses its solidity and tension by lengthening out the concluding beats.

Ἐν δὲ τοῖς μάλιστα μεγεϑοποιεῖ τὰ λεγόμενα, ϰαϑάπεϱ τὰ σώματα, ἡ τῶν μελῶν ἐπισύνϑεσις, ὧν ἓν μὲν οὐδὲν τμηϑὲν ἀφ̓ ἑτέϱου ϰαϑ̓ ἑαυτὸ ἀξιόλογον ἔχει, πάντα δὲ μετ̓ ἀλλήλων ἐϰπληϱοῖ τέλειον σύστημα, οὕτως τὰ μεγάλα, σϰεδασϑέντα μὲν ἀπ̓ ἀλλήλων, ἄλλος᾿ ἄλλῃ ἅμα ἑαυτοῖς συνδιαφοϱεῖ ϰαὶ τὸ ὕψος, σωματοποιούμενα δὲ τῇ ϰοινωνίᾳ ϰαὶ ἔτι δεσμῷ τῆς ἁϱμονίας πεϱιϰλειόμενα αὐτῷ τῷ ϰύϰλῳ φωνήεντα γίνεται: ϰαὶ σχεδὸν ἐν ταῖς πεϱιόδοις ἔϱανός ἐστι πλήϑους τὰ μεγέϑη. [2] ἀλλὰ μὴν ὅτι γε πολλοὶ ϰαὶ συγγϱαφέων ϰαὶ ποιητῶν οὐϰ ὄντες ὑψηλοὶ φύσει, μήποτε δὲ ϰαὶ ἀμεγέϑεις, ὅμως ϰοινοῖς ϰαὶ δημώδεσι τοῖς ὀνόμασι ϰαὶ οὐδὲν ἐπαγομένοις πεϱιττὸν ὡς τὰ πολλὰ συγχϱώμενοι, διὰ μόνου τοῦ συνϑεῖναι ϰαὶ ἁϱμόσαι ταῦτα δ̓ ὅμως ὄγϰον ϰαὶ διάστημα ϰαὶ τὸ μὴ ταπεινοὶ δοϰεῖν εἶναι πεϱιεβάλοντο, ϰαϑάπεϱ ἄλλοι τε πολλοὶ ϰαὶ Φίλιστος, Ἀϱιστοφάνης ἔν τισιν, ἐν τοῖς πλείστοις Εὐϱιπίδης, ἱϰανῶς ἡμῖν δεδήλωται. [3] μετά γέ τοι τὴν τεϰνοϰτονίαν Ἡϱαϰλῆς φησι,

γέμω ϰαϰῶν δὴ ϰοὐϰέτ̓ ἔσϑ̓ ὅποι τεϑῇ.

σφόδϱα δημῶδες τὸ λεγόμενον, ἀλλὰ γέγονεν ὑψηλὸν τῇ πλάσει ἀναλογοῦν, εἰ δ̓ ἄλλως αὐτὸ συναϱμόσεις, φανήσεταί σοι, διότι τῆς συνϑέσεως ποιητὴς ὁ Εὐϱιπίδης μᾶλλόν ἐστιν ἢ τοῦ νοῦ. [4] ἐπὶ δὲ τῆς συϱομένης ὑπὸ τοῦ ταύϱου Δίϱϰης,

εἰ δέ που τύχοι
πέϱιξ ἑλίξας, εἶλχ̓ ὁμοῦ λαβὼν
γυναῖϰα πέτϱαν δϱῦν μεταλλάσσων ἀεί,

ἔστι μὲν γενναῖον ϰαὶ τὸ λῆμμα, ἁδϱότεϱον δὲ γέγονε τῷ τὴν ἁϱμονίαν μὴ ϰατεσπεῦσϑαι μηδ̓ οἷον ἐν ἀποϰυλίσματι φέϱεσϑαι, ἀλλὰ στηϱιγμούς τε ἔχειν πϱὸς ἄλληλα τὰ ὀνόματα ϰαὶ ἐξεϱείσματα τῶν χϱόνων πϱὸς ἑδϱαῖον διαβεβηϰότα μέγεϑος.

There is another method very efficient in exalting a style. As the different members of the body, none of which, if severed from its connection, has any intrinsic excellence, unite by their mutual combination to form a complete and perfect organism, so also the elements of a fine passage, by whose separation from one another its high quality is simultaneously dissipated and evaporates, when joined in one organic whole, and still further compacted by the bond of harmony, by the mere rounding of the period gain power of tone. In fact, a clause may be said to derive its sublimity from the joint contributions of a number of particulars. And further (as we have shown at large elsewhere), many writers in prose and verse, though their natural powers were not high, were perhaps even low, and though the terms they employed were usually common and popular and conveying no impression of refinement, by the mere harmony of their composition have attained dignity and elevation, and avoided the appearance of meanness. Such among many others are Philistus, Aristophanes occasionally, Euripides almost always. Thus when Heracles says, after the murder of his children,

“I’m full of woes, I have no room for more,”

the words are quite common, but they are made sublime by being cast in a fine mould. By changing their position you will see that the poetical quality of Euripides depends more on his arrangement than on his thoughts. Compare his lines on Dirce dragged by the bull—

“Whatever crossed his path,
Caught in his victim’s form, he seized, and dragging
Oak, woman, rock, now here, now there, he flies.”

The circumstance is noble in itself, but it gains in vigour because the language is disposed so as not to hurry the movement, not running, as it were, on wheels, because there is a distinct stress on each word, and the time is delayed, advancing slowly to a pitch of stately sublimity.

Nothing is of greater service in giving grandeur to such passages than the composition **i.e. the way they are put together, the anatomy of the sentence. of the various members. It is the same with the human body. None of the members has any value by itself apart from the others, yet one with another they all constitute a perfect organism. Similarly if these effects of grandeur are separated, the sublimity is scattered with them to the winds: but if they are united into a single system and embraced moreover by the bonds of rhythm, then by being merely rounded into a period they gain a living voice. In a period, one might say, the grandeur comes from a multitude of contributors. [2] We have indeed abundantly show that many writers both in prose and poetry, who are not by nature sublime, perhaps even the very opposite, while using for the most part current vulgar language, which suggests nothing out of the common, yet by the mere force of composition and verbal carpentry have achieved dignity and distinction and an effect of grandeur; Philistus, **A Sicilian historian (fourth century) and an imitator of Thucydides. for instance, among many others, Aristophanes occasionally, Euripides almost always. [3] After the slaughter of his children Heracles says:

I am stowed full with woes and have no room for more. **Ἡϱαϰλῆς μαινόμενος 1245.

The phrase is indubitably vulgar, yet becomes sublime by being apt to the setting. **The sense is doubtful. He seems to mean that common-place phrases gain grandeur from their position in the whole passage. A modern critic has said the same about the line, “It all comes to the same thing in the end,” in Browning’s “Any Wife to Any Husband.” A common phrase becomes in that setting fine. If you put the passage together in any other way, you will realise that Euripides is a poet rather in virtue of his composition than his ideas. [4] Speaking of Dirce being torn away by the bull, he says,

And wheresoever he chanced
To wheel around, he seized and haled at once
Woman or rock or oak, now this, now that. **From the lost Ἀντιόπη, Antiope. Loved by Jupiter, Antiope bore two sons, Amphion and Zethus. Later she fell into the clutches of her uncle Lycus, king of Thebes, and his wife Dirce, who condemned her to be dragged to death by a bull. Antiope’s sons, entrusted with this execution, discovered that she was their mother, so they killed Lycus and tied Dirce by her hair to the bull. In this passage the bull is dealing with Dirce.

The idea itself is a fine one, but it gains additional force from the fact that the rhythm is not hurried along as if it ran on rollers, but the words offer resistance to each other **He is referring probably to the clash of consonants which gives emphasis by delaying pronunciation, thus producing an “austere” effect. The words cannot be run together: each resists the other and claims full room, as it were, with straddled legs (διαβεβηϰότα). and derive support from the pauses, planting themselves in an attitude of stable grandeur.

Μιϰϱοποιοῦν δ̓ οὐδὲν οὕτως ἐν τοῖς ὑψηλοῖς, ὡς ῥυϑμὸς ϰεϰλασμένος λόγων ϰαὶ σεσοβημένος, οἷον δὴ πυϱϱίχιοι ϰαὶ τϱοχαῖοι ϰαὶ διχόϱειοι, τέλεον εἰς ὀϱχηστιϰὸν συνεϰπίπτοντες: εὐϑὺς γὰϱ πάντα φαίνεται τὰ ϰατάϱυϑμα ϰομψὰ ϰαὶ μιϰϱοχαϱῆ ϰαὶ ἀπαϑέστατα διὰ τῆς ὁμοειδίας ἐπιπολάζοντα: [2] ϰαὶ ἔτι τούτων τὸ χείϱιστον ὅτι, ὥσπεϱ τὰ ᾠδάϱια τοὺς ἀϰϱοατὰς ἀπὸ τοῦ πϱάγματος ἀφέλϰει ϰαὶ ἐφ̓ αὑτὰ βιάζεται, οὕτως ϰαὶ τὰ ϰατεϱϱυϑμισμένα τῶν λεγομένων οὐ τὸ τοῦ λόγου πάϑος ἐνδίδωσι τοῖς ἀϰούουσι, τὸ δὲ τοῦ ῥυϑμοῦ, ὡς ἐνίοτε πϱοειδότας τὰς ὀφειλομένας ϰαταλήξεις αὐτοὺς ὑποϰϱούειν τοῖς λέγουσι ϰαὶ φϑάνοντας ὡς ἐν χοϱῷ τινι πϱοαποδιδόναι τὴν βάσιν. [3] ὁμοίως δὲ ἀμεγέϑη ϰαὶ τὰ λίαν συγϰείμενα ϰαὶ εἰς μιϰϱὰ ϰαὶ βϱαχυσύλλαβα συγϰεϰομμένα ϰαὶ ὡσανεὶ γόμφοις τισὶν ἐπαλλήλοις ϰατ̓ ἐγϰοπὰς ϰαὶ σϰληϱότητας ἐπισυνδεδεμένα.

Nothing so much degrades the tone of a style as an effeminate and hurried movement in the language, such as is produced by pyrrhics and trochees and dichorees falling in time together into a regular dance measure. Such abuse of rhythm is sure to savour of coxcombry and petty affectation, and grows tiresome in the highest degree by a monotonous sameness of tone. But its worst effect is that, as those who listen to a ballad have their attention distracted from its subject and can think of nothing but the tune, so an over-rhythmical passage does not affect the hearer by the meaning of its words, but merely by their cadence, so that sometimes, knowing where the pause must come, they beat time with the speaker, striking the expected close like dancers before the stop is reached. Equally undignified is the splitting up of a sentence into a number of little words and short syllables crowded too closely together and forced into cohesion,—hammered, as it were, successively together,—after the manner of mortice and tenon.

Nothing demeans an elevated passage so much as a weak and agitated rhythm, pyrrhics {⏑⏑}for instance, and trochees {–⏑} and dichorees {–⏑–⏑}which fall into sheer dance-music. For all over-rhythmical passages at once become merely pretty and cheap; the effect of the monotonous jingle is superficial and stirs no emotion. [2] Moreover, the worst of it is that, just as lyrics **On the stage. divert the attention of the audience from the action and forcibly claim it for themselves, so, too, over-rhythmical prose gives the audience the effect not of the words but of the rhythm. Thus they sometimes foresee the due ending for themselves and keep time with their feet, anticipating the speaker and setting the step as if it were a dance. [3] Equally deficient in grandeur are those passages which are too close-packed and concise, broken up into tiny fragments and short syllables . They give the impression of being roughly dovetailed together with close-set pins.**He seems to mean that the pauses do not come at the proper places to give the sentence an organic unity: it is like a piece of carpentry not properly jointed but roughly hammered together with a clumsy crowd of nails.

Ἔτι γε μὴν ὕψους μειωτιϰὸν ϰαὶ ἡ ἄγαν τῆς φϱάσεως συγϰοπή: πηϱοῖ γὰϱ τὸ μέγεϑος, ὅταν εἰς λίαν συνάγηται βϱαχύ: ἀϰουέσϑω δὲ νῦν μὴ τὰ δεόντως συνεστϱαμμένα, ἀλλ̓ ὅσα ἄντιϰϱυς μιϰϱὰ ϰαὶ ϰαταϰεϰεϱματισμένα: συγϰοπὴ μὲν γὰϱ ϰολούει τὸν νοῦν, συντομία δ̓ ἐπ̓ εὐϑύ, δῆλον δ̓ ὡς ἔμπαλιν τὰ ἐϰτάδην ἀπόψυχα: τὰ γὰϱ ἄϰαιϱον μῆϰος ἀναϰαλούμενα.

Sublimity is further diminished by cramping the diction. Deformity instead of grandeur ensues from over-compression. Here I am not referring to a judicious compactness of phrase, but to a style which is dwarfed, and its force frittered away. To cut your words too short is to prune away their sense, but to be concise is to be direct. On the other hand, we know that a style becomes lifeless by over-extension, I mean by being relaxed to an unseasonable length.

Extreme conciseness again has a lowering effect. The grandeur is mutilated by being too closely compressed. You must understand here not proper compression, but absolutely short sentences, the small change of literature. For extreme conciseness cripples the sense; true brevity goes straight to the point. [3] Conversely, it is plain that prolix passages are lifeless; their undue length makes them drag.

Δεινὴ δ̓ αἰσχῦναι τὰ μεγέϑη ϰαὶ ἡ μιϰϱότης τῶν ὀνομάτων. παϱὰ γοῦν τῷ Ἡϱοδότῳ ϰατὰ μὲν τὰ λήμματα δαιμονίως ὁ χειμὼν πέφϱασται, τινὰ δὲ νὴ Δία πεϱιέχει τῆς ὕλης ἀδοξότεϱα, ϰαὶ τοῦτο μὲν ἴσως ῾ζεσάσης δὲ τῆς ϑαλάσσης,᾿ ὡς τὸ ῾ζεσάσης᾿ πολὺ τὸ ὕψος πεϱισπᾷ διὰ τὸ ϰαϰόστομον: ἀλλ̓ ῾ὁ ἄνεμος᾿ φησὶν ῾ἐϰοπίασεν,᾿ ϰαὶ τοὺς πεϱὶ τὸ ναυάγιον δϱασσομένους ἐξεδέχετο ῾τέλος ἀχάϱιστον.᾿ ἄσεμνον γὰϱ τὸ ϰοπιάσαι ἰδιωτιϰόν, τὸ δ̓ ἀχάϱιστον τηλιϰούτου πάϑους ἀνοίϰειον. [2] ὁμοίως ϰαὶ ὁ Θεόπομπος ὑπεϱφυῶς σϰευάσας τὴν τοῦ Πέϱσου ϰατάβασιν ἐπ̓ Αἴγυπτον ὀνοματίοις τισὶ τὰ ὅλα διέβαλεν. ῾ποία γὰϱ πόλις ἢ ποῖον ἔϑνος τῶν ϰατὰ τὴν Ἀσίαν οὐϰ ἐπϱεσβεύετο πϱὸς βασιλέα; τί δὲ τῶν ἐϰ τῆς γῆς γεννωμένων ἢ τῶν ϰατὰ τέχνην ἐπιτελουμένων ϰαλῶν ἢ τιμίων οὐϰ ἐϰομίσϑη δῶϱον ὡς αὐτόν; οὐ πολλαὶ μὲν ϰαὶ πολυτελεῖς στϱωμναὶ ϰαὶ χλανίδες τὰ μὲν ἁλουϱγῆ, τὰ δὲ ποιϰιλτά, τὰ δὲ λευϰά, πολλαὶ δὲ σϰηναὶ χϱυσαῖ ϰατεσϰευασμέναι πᾶσι τοῖς χϱησίμοις, πολλαὶ δὲ ϰαὶ ξυστίδες ϰαὶ ϰλῖναι πολυτελεῖς; ἔτι δὲ ϰαὶ ϰοῖλος ἄϱγυϱος ϰαὶ χϱυσὸς ἀπειϱγασμένος ϰαὶ ἐϰπώματα ϰαὶ ϰϱατῆϱες, ὧν τοὺς μὲν λιϑοϰολλήτους, τοὺς δ̓ ἄλλους ἀϰϱιβῶς ϰαὶ πολυτελῶς εἶδες ἂν ἐϰπεπονημένους. πϱὸς δὲ τούτοις ἀναϱίϑμητοι μὲν ὅπλων μυϱιάδες τῶν μὲν Ἑλληνιϰῶν, τῶν δὲ βαϱβαϱιϰῶν, ὑπεϱβάλλοντα δὲ τὸ πλῆϑος ὑποζύγια ϰαὶ πϱὸς ϰαταϰοπὴν ἱεϱεῖα σιτευτά: ϰαὶ πολλοὶ μὲν ἀϱτυμάτων μέδιμνοι, πολλοὶ δ̓ οἱ ϑύλαϰοι ϰαὶ σάϰϰοι ϰαὶ χάϱται βυβλίων ϰαὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἁπάντων χϱησίμων: τοσαῦτα δὲ ϰϱέα τεταϱιχευμένα παντοδαπῶν ἱεϱείων, ὡς σωϱοὺς αὐτῶν γενέσϑαι τηλιϰούτους, ὥστε τοὺς πϱοσιόντας πόϱϱωϑεν ὑπολαμβάνειν ὄχϑους εἶναι ϰαὶ λόφους ἀντωϑουμένους.᾿ [3] ἐϰ τῶν ὑψηλοτέϱων εἰς τὰ ταπεινότεϱα ἀποδιδϱάσϰει, δέον ποιήσασϑαι τὴν αὔξησιν ἔμπαλιν: ἀλλὰ τῇ ϑαυμαστῇ τῆς ὅλης παϱασϰευῆς ἀγγελίᾳ παϱαμίξας τοὺς ϑυλάϰους ϰαὶ τὰ ἀϱτύματα ϰαὶ τὰ σαϰϰία μαγειϱείου τινὰ φαντασίαν ἐποίησεν. ὥσπεϱ γὰϱ εἴ τις ἐπ̓ αὐτῶν ἐϰείνων τῶν πϱοϰοσμημάτων μεταξὺ τῶν χϱυσίων ϰαὶ λιϑοϰολλήτων ϰϱατήϱων ϰαὶ ἀϱγύϱου ϰοίλου σϰηνῶν τε ὁλοχϱύσων ϰαὶ ἐϰπωμάτων, φέϱων μέσα ἔϑηϰεν ϑυλάϰια ϰαὶ σαϰϰία, ἀπϱεπὲς ἂν ἦν τῇ πϱοσόψει τὸ ἔϱγον: οὕτω ϰαὶ τῆς ἑϱμηνείας τὰ τοιαῦτα ὀνόματα αἴσχη ϰαὶ οἱονεὶ στίγματα ϰαϑίσταται παϱὰ ϰαιϱὸν ἐγϰαταταττόμενα. [4] παϱέϰειτο δ̓ ὡς ὁλοσχεϱῶς ἐπελϑεῖν ϰαὶ ὡς ὄχϑους λέγει συμβεβλῆσϑαι, ϰαὶ πεϱὶ τῆς ἄλλης παϱασϰευῆς οὕτως ἁμάξας εἰπεῖν ϰαὶ ϰαμήλους ϰαὶ πλῆϑος ὑποζυγίων φοϱταγωγούντων πάντα τὰ πϱὸς τϱυφὴν ϰαὶ ἀπόλαυσιν τϱαπεζῶν χοϱηγήματα, ἢ σωϱοὺς ὀνομάσαι παντοίων σπεϱμάτων ϰαὶ τῶν ἅπεϱ διαφέϱει πϱὸς ὀψοποιΐας ϰαὶ ἡδυπαϑείας, ἢ εἴπεϱ πάντως ἐβούλετο αὐτάϱϰη οὕτως ϑεῖναι, ϰαὶ ὅσα τϱαπεζοϰόμων εἰπεῖν ϰαὶ ὀψοποιῶν ἡδύσματα. [5] οὐ γὰϱ δεῖ ϰαταντᾶν ἐν τοῖς ὕψεσιν εἰς τὰ ῥυπαϱὰ ϰαὶ ἐξυβϱισμένα, ἂν μὴ σφόδϱα ὑπό τινος ἀνάγϰης συνδιωϰώμεϑα, ἀλλὰ τῶν πϱαγμάτων πϱέποι ἂν ϰαὶ τὰς φωνὰς ἔχειν ἀξίας ϰαὶ μιμεῖσϑαι τὴν δημιουϱγήσασαν φύσιν τὸν ἄνϑϱωπον ἥτις ἐν ἡμῖν τὰ μέϱη τὰ ἀπόϱϱητα οὐϰ ἔϑηϰεν ἐν πϱοσώπῳ, οὐδὲ τὰ τοῦ παντὸς ὄγϰου πεϱιηϑήματα, ἀπεϰϱύψατο δὲ ὡς ἐνῆν ϰαὶ ϰατὰ τὸν Ξενοφῶντα τοὺς τούτων ὅτι ποϱϱωτάτω ὀχετοὺς ἀπέστϱεψεν, οὐδαμῆ ϰαταισχύνασα τὸ τοῦ ὅλου ζῴου ϰάλλος. [6] Ἀλλὰ γὰϱ οὐϰ ἐπ̓ εἴδους ἐπείγει τὰ μιϰϱοποιὰ διαϱιϑμεῖν: πϱοϋποδεδειγμένων γὰϱ τῶν ὅσα εὐγενεῖς ϰαὶ ὑψηλοὺς ἐϱγάζεται τοὺς λόγους, δῆλον ὡς τὰ ἐναντία τούτων ταπεινοὺς ποιήσει ϰατὰ τὸ πλεῖστον ϰαὶ ἀσχήμονας.

The use of mean words has also a strong tendency to degrade a lofty passage. Thus in that description of the storm in Herodotus the matter is admirable, but some of the words admitted are beneath the dignity of the subject; such, perhaps, as “the seas having seethed” because the ill-sounding phrase “having seethed” detracts much from its impressiveness: or when he says “the wind wore away,” and “those who clung round the wreck met with an unwelcome end.”97 “Wore away” is ignoble and vulgar, and “unwelcome” inadequate to the extent of the disaster.

Similarly Theopompus, after giving a fine picture of the Persian king’s descent against Egypt, has exposed the whole to censure by certain paltry expressions. “There was no city, no people of Asia, which did not send an embassy to the king; no product of the earth, no work of art, whether beautiful or precious, which was not among the gifts brought to him. Many and costly were the hangings and robes, some purple, some embroidered, some white; many the tents, of cloth of gold, furnished with all things useful; many the tapestries and couches of great price. Moreover, there was gold and silver plate richly wrought, goblets and bowls, some of which might be seen studded with gems, and others besides worked in relief with great skill and at vast expense. Besides these there were suits of armour in number past computation, partly Greek, partly foreign, endless trains of baggage animals and fat cattle for slaughter, many bushels of spices, many panniers and sacks and sheets of writing-paper; and all other necessaries in the same proportion. And there was salt meat of all kinds of beasts in immense quantity, heaped together to such a height as to show at a distance like mounds and hills thrown up one against another.” He runs off from the grander parts of his subject to the meaner, and sinks where he ought to rise. Still worse, by his mixing up panniers and spices and bags with his wonderful recital of that vast and busy scene one would imagine that he was describing a kitchen. Let us suppose that in that show of magnificence some one had taken a set of wretched baskets and bags and placed them in the midst, among vessels of gold, jewelled bowls, silver plate, and tents and goblets of gold; how incongruous would have seemed the effect! Now just in the same way these petty words, introduced out of season, stand out like deformities and blots on the diction. These details might have been given in one or two broad strokes, as when he speaks of mounds being heaped together. So in dealing with the other preparations he might have told us of “waggons and camels and a long train of baggage animals loaded with all kinds of supplies for the luxury and enjoyment of the table,” or have mentioned “piles of grain of every species, and of all the choicest delicacies required by the art of the cook or the taste of the epicure,” or (if he must needs be so very precise) he might have spoken of “whatever dainties are supplied by those who lay or those who dress the banquet.” In our sublimer efforts we should never stoop to what is sordid and despicable, unless very hard pressed by some urgent necessity. If we would write becomingly, our utterance should be worthy of our theme. We should take a lesson from nature, who when she planned the human frame did not set our grosser parts, or the ducts for purging the body, in our face, but as far as she could concealed them, “diverting,” as Xenophon says, “those canals as far as possible from our senses,”98 and thus shunning in any part to mar the beauty of the whole creature.

However, it is not incumbent on us to specify and enumerate whatever diminishes a style. We have now pointed out the various means of giving it nobility and loftiness. It is clear, then, that whatever is contrary to these will generally degrade and deform it.

The use of trivial words has a terribly debasing effect on a grand passage. The storm, for instance, in Herodotus is, as far as the ideas go, wonderfully described, but it includes certain things which are, Heaven knows, beneath the dignity of the subject. One might instance perhaps “the sea seething": **Ἱστοϱίαι VII,188. the word “seething” is so cacophonous that it takes off a great deal of the sublimity. But he does worse. “The wind,” he says, “flagged,” **Ἱστοϱίαι VII,191. and “For those who were clinging to the wreck there awaited an unpleasing end.” **Ἱστοϱίαι VIII,13. “Flagged” is too colloquial a word to be dignified, and “unpleasant” ill befits so terrible a disaster. [2] Similarly Theopompus, after fitting out the Persian king’s descent into Egypt in the most marvellous manner, discredited the whole description by the use of some paltry words. “For what city or what people of those in Asia did not send envoys to the king? What was there of beauty or of value whether born of the earth or perfected by art that was not brought as an offering to him? Were there not many costly coverlets and cloaks, some purple, some variegated, some white; many pavilions of gold furnished with all things needful, many robes of state and costly couches? Then, moreover, there was plate of beaten silver and wrought gold, cups, and bowls, some of which you might have seen studded with jewels and others embellished by some other means both cunning and costly. Besides these there were countless myriads of weapons, some Greek, some barbarian; baggage animals beyond number, and victims fatted for slaughter; many bushels of spice, and many the bags and sacks and pots of edible roots and of all other things needful; and such a store of salted meat of every kind that it lay in heaps so large that those who approached from a distance took them for mounds and hills confronting them.

[3] He runs away from the sublime to the trivial, where he needs rather a crescendo. As it is, by introducing bags and spices and sacks in the middle of his wonderful description of the whole equipage he has almost given the effect of a cook-shop. Suppose that in all this elaborate show someone had brought bags and sacks and set them in the middle of the gold and jewelled bowls, the beaten silver, the pavilions of solid gold and the drinking-cups – that would have presented an unseemly sight. In the same way the untimely introduction of such words as these disfigures the description, brands it, so to speak, with infamy. [4] He might have given a comprehensive description both of what he calls the heaped-up mounds and of the rest of the equipage by altering his description thus, “camels and a multitude of baggage animals laden with all that serves the luxury and pleasure of the table”: or he might have called them “heaps of every kind of grain and of all known aids to cookery and good living”: or, if he must at all hazards be explicit “all the dainties known to caterers and cooks.” [5] One ought not in elevated passages to have recourse to what is sordid and contemptible, except under pressure of extreme necessity, but the proper course is to suit the words to the dignity of the subject and thus imitate Nature, the artist that created man. Nature did not place in full view our dishonourable parts nor the drains that purge our whole frame, but as far as possible concealed them and, as Xenophon says,**Ἀπομνημονεύματα, Memorabilia I,iv,6. thrust their channels into the furthest background, for fear of spoiling the beauty of the whole figure.

[6] There is, however, no immediate need for enumerating and classifying all the factors of mean style. As we have already laid down all the qualities that make our utterance noble and sublime, it obviously follows that the opposite of these will generally make it trivial and ungainly.

Ἐϰεῖνο μέντοι λοιπὸν ῾ἕνεϰα τῆς σῆς χϱηστομαϑείας οὐϰ ὀϰνήσομεν ἐπιπϱοσϑεῖναἰ διασαφῆσαι, Τεϱεντιανὲ φίλτατε, ὅπεϱ ἐζήτησέ τις τῶν φιλοσόφων πϱοσέναγχος, ῾ ϑαῦμά μ̓ ἔχει,᾿ λέγων, ῾ ὡς ἀμέλει ϰαὶ ἑτέϱους πολλούς, πῶς ποτε ϰατὰ τὸν ἡμέτεϱον αἰῶνα πιϑαναὶ μὲν ἐπ̓ ἄϰϱον ϰαὶ πολιτιϰαί, δϱιμεῖαί τε ϰαὶ ἐντϱεχεῖς, ϰαὶ μάλιστα πϱὸς ἡδονὰς λόγων εὔφοϱοι, ὑψηλαὶ δὲ λίαν ϰαὶ ὑπεϱμεγέϑεις, πλὴν εἰ μή τι σπάνιον, οὐϰέτι γίνονται φύσεις. τοσαύτη λόγων ϰοσμιϰή τις ἐπέχει τὸν βίον ἀφοϱία. [2] ἢ νὴ Δἴ ᾿ ἔφη ῾πιστευτέον ἐϰείνῳ τῷ ϑϱυλουμένῳ, ὡς ἡ δημοϰϱατία τῶν μεγάλων ἀγαϑὴ τιϑηνός, ᾗ μόνῃ σχεδὸν ϰαὶ συνήϰμασαν οἱ πεϱὶ λόγους δεινοὶ ϰαὶ συναπέϑανον; ϑϱέψαι τε γάϱ φησιν ἱϰανὴ τὰ φϱονήματα τῶν μεγαλοφϱόνων ἡ ἐλευϑεϱία ϰαὶ ἐπελπίσαι ϰαὶ ἅμα διελϑεῖν τὸ πϱόϑυμον τῆς πϱὸς ἀλλήλους ἔϱιδος ϰαὶ τῆς πεϱὶ τὰ πϱωτεῖα φιλοτιμίας. [3] ἔτι γε μὴν διὰ τὰ πϱοϰείμενα ἐν ταῖς πολιτείαις ἔπαϑλα ἑϰάστοτε τὰ ψυχιϰὰ πϱοτεϱήματα τῶν ῥητόϱων μελετώμενα ἀϰονᾶται ϰαὶ οἷον ἐϰτϱίβεται ϰαὶ τοῖς πϱάγμασι ϰατὰ τὸ εἰϰὸς ἐλεύϑεϱα συνεϰλάμπει. οἱ δὲ νῦν ἐοίϰαμεν̓ ἔφη ῾παιδομαϑεῖς εἶναι δουλείας διϰαίας, τοῖς αὐτῆς ἔϑεσι ϰαὶ ἐπιτηδεύμασιν ἐξ ἁπαλῶν ἔτι φϱονημάτων μόνον οὐϰ ἐνεσπαϱγανωμένοι ϰαὶ ἄγευστοι ϰαλλίστου ϰαὶ γονιμωτάτου λόγων νάματος, τὴν ἐλευϑεϱίαν̓ ἔφη ῾λέγω, διόπεϱ οὐδὲν ὅτι μὴ ϰόλαϰες ἐϰβαίνομεν μεγαλοφυεῖς.᾿ [4] διὰ τοῦτο τὰς μὲν ἄλλας ἕξεις ϰαὶ εἰς οἰϰέτας πίπτειν ἔφασϰεν, δοῦλον δὲ μηδένα γίνεσϑαι ῥήτοϱα: εὐϑὺς γὰϱ ἀναζεῖ τὸ ἀπαϱϱησίαστον ϰαὶ οἷον ἔμφϱουϱον ὑπὸ συνηϑείας ἀεὶ ϰεϰονδυλισμένον: [5] ῾ἥμισυ γάϱ τ̓ ἀϱετῆς᾿ ϰατὰ τὸν Ὅμηϱον ῾ἀποαίνυται δούλιον ἦμαϱ.᾿ ῾ὥσπεϱ οὖν, εἴ γἐ φησὶ ῾ τοῦτο πιστὸν ἀϰούω, τὰ γλωττόϰομα, ἐν οἷς οἱ Πυγμαῖοι ϰαλούμενοι δὲ νᾶνοι τϱέφονται, οὐ μόνον ϰωλύει τῶν ἐγϰεϰλεισμένων τὰς αὐξήσεις, ἀλλὰ ϰαὶ συναϱαιοῖ διὰ τὸν πεϱιϰείμενον τοῖς σώμασι δεσμόν: οὕτως ἅπασαν δουλείαν, ϰἂν ᾖ διϰαιοτάτη, ψυχῆς γλωττόϰομον ϰαὶ ϰοινὸν δή τις ἀπεφήνατο δεσμωτήϱιον.᾿ [6] ἐγὼ μέντοι γε ὑπολαμβάνων ῾ῥᾴδιον,᾿ ἔφην, ῾ὦ βέλτιστε, ϰαὶ ἴδιον ἀνϑϱώπου τὸ ϰαταμέμφεσϑαι τὰ ἀεὶ παϱόντα: ὅϱα δέ, μή ποτε οὐχ ἡ τῆς οἰϰουμένης εἰϱήνη διαφϑείϱει τὰς μεγάλας φύσεις, πολὺ δὲ μᾶλλον ὁ ϰατέχων ἡμῶν τὰς ἐπιϑυμίας ἀπεϱιόϱιστος οὑτοσὶ πόλεμος ϰαὶ νὴ Δία πϱὸς τούτῳ τὰ φϱουϱοῦντα τὸν νῦν βίον ϰαὶ ϰατ̓ ἄϰϱας ἄγοντα ϰαὶ φέϱοντα ταυτὶ πάϑη. ἡ γὰϱ φιλοχϱηματία, πϱὸς ἣν ἅπαντες ἀπλήστως ἤδη νοσοῦμεν, ϰαὶ ἡ φιληδονία δουλαγωγοῦσι, μᾶλλον δέ, ὡς ἂν εἴποι τις, ϰαταβυϑίζουσιν αὐτάνδϱους ἤδη τοὺς βίους, φιλαϱγυϱία μὲν νόσημα μιϰϱοποιόν, φιληδονία δ̓ ἀγεννέστατον. [7] οὐ δὴ ἔχω λογιζόμενος εὑϱεῖν, ὡς οἷόν τε πλοῦτον ἀόϱιστον ἐϰτιμήσαντας, τὸ δ̓ ἀληϑέστεϱον εἰπεῖν, ἐϰϑειάσαντας, τὰ συμφυῆ τούτῳ ϰαϰὰ εἰς τὰς ψυχὰς ἡμῶν ἐπεισιόντα μὴ παϱαδέχεσϑαι. ἀϰολουϑεῖ γὰϱ τῷ ἀμέτϱῳ πλούτῳ ϰαὶ ἀϰολάστῳ συνημμένη ϰαὶ ἴσα, φασί, βαίνουσα πολυτέλεια, ϰαὶ ἅμα ἀνοίγοντος ἐϰείνου τῶν πόλεων ϰαὶ οἴϰων τὰς εἰσόδους εὐϑὺς ἐμβαίνει ϰαὶ συνοιϰίζεται. χϱονίσαντα δὲ ταῦτα ἐν τοῖς βίοις νεοττοποιεῖται, ϰατὰ τοὺς σοφούς, ϰαὶ ταχέως γενόμενα πεϱὶ τεϰνοποιΐαν ἀλαζονείαν τε γεννῶσι ϰαὶ τύφον ϰαὶ τϱυφὴν οὐ νόϑα ἑαυτῶν γεννήματα ἀλλὰ ϰαὶ πάνυ γνήσια. ἐὰν δὲ ϰαὶ τούτους τις τοῦ πλούτου τοὺς ἐϰγόνους εἰς ἡλιϰίαν ἐλϑεῖν ἐάσῃ, ταχέως δεσπότας ταῖς ψυχαῖς ἐντίϰτουσιν ἀπαϱαιτήτους, ὕβϱιν ϰαὶ παϱανομίαν ϰαὶ ἀναισχυντίαν. [8] ταῦτα γὰϱ οὕτως ἀνάγϰη γίνεσϑαι ϰαὶ μηϰέτι τοὺς ἀνϑϱώπους ἀναβλέπειν μηδ̓ ἕτεϱα φήμης εἶναί τινα λόγον, ἀλλὰ τοιούτων ἐν ϰύϰλῳ τελεσιουϱγεῖσϑαι ϰατ̓ ὀλίγον τὴν τῶν βίων διαφϑοϱάν, φϑίνειν δὲ ϰαὶ ϰαταμαϱαίνεσϑαι τὰ ψυχιϰὰ μεγέϑη, ϰαὶ ἄζηλα γίνεσϑαι, ἡνίϰα τὰ ϑνητὰ ἑαυτῶν μέϱη ἐϰϑαυμάζοιεν, [9] παϱέντες αὔξειν τἀϑάνατα. οὐ γὰϱ ἐπὶ ϰϱίσει μέν τις δεϰασϑεὶς οὐϰ ἂν ἔτι τῶν διϰαίων ϰαὶ ϰαλῶν ἐλεύϑεϱος ϰαὶ ὑγιὴς ἂν ϰϱιτὴς γένοιτο (ἀνάγϰη γὰϱ τῷ δωϱοδόϰῳ τὰ οἰϰεῖα μὲν φαίνεσϑαι ϰαλὰ ϰαὶ δίϰαια), ὅπου δὲ ἡμῶν ἑϰάστου τοὺς ὅλους ἤδη βίους δεϰασμοὶ βϱαβεύουσι ϰαὶ ἀλλοτϱίων ϑῆϱαι ϑανάτων ϰαὶ ἐνέδϱαι διαϑηϰῶν, τὸ δ᾿ ἐϰ τοῦ παντὸς ϰεϱδαίνειν ὠνούμεϑα τῆς ψυχῆς ἕϰαστος πϱὸς τῆς {φιλοχϱηματίας} ἠνδϱαποδισμένοι, ἆϱα δὴ ἐν τῇ τοσαύτῃ λοιμιϰῇ τοῦ βίου διαφϑοϱᾷ δοϰοῦμεν ἔτι ἐλεύϑεϱόν τινα ϰϱιτὴν τῶν μεγάλων ἢ διηϰόντων πϱὸς τὸν αἰῶνα ϰἀδέϰαστον ἀπολελεῖφϑαι ϰαὶ μὴ ϰαταϱχαιϱεσιάζεσϑαι πϱὸς τῆς τοῦ πλεονεϰτεῖν ἐπιϑυμίας; [10] ἀλλὰ μήποτε τοιούτοις, οἷοί πεϱ ἐσμὲν ἡμεῖς, ἄμεινον ἄϱχεσϑαι ἢ ἐλευϑέϱοις εἶναι· ἐπείτοιγε ἀφεϑεῖσαι τὸ σύνολον, ὡς ἐξ εἱϱϰτῆς ἄφετοι, ϰατὰ τῶν πλησίον αἱ πλεονεξίαι ϰἂν ἐπιϰλύσειαν τοῖς ϰαϰοῖς τὴν οἰϰουμένην. [11] ὅλως δὲ δάπανον ἔφην εἶναι τῶν νῦν γεννωμένων φύσεων τὴν ῥᾳϑυμίαν, ᾗ πλὴν ὀλίγων πάντες ἐγϰαταβιοῦμεν, οὐϰ ἄλλως πονοῦντες ἢ ἀναλαμβάνοντες εἰ μὴ ἐπαίνου ϰαὶ ἡδονῆς ἕνεϰα, ἀλλὰ μὴ τῆς ζήλου ϰαὶ τιμῆς ἀξίας ποτὲ ὠφελείας.” [12] “ϰϱάτιστον εἰϰῆ ταῦτ᾿ ἐᾶν,” ἐπὶ δὲ τὰ συνεχῆ χωϱεῖν· ἦν δὲ ταῦτα τὰ πάϑη, πεϱὶ ὧν ἐν ἰδίῳ πϱοηγουμένως ὑπεσχόμεϑα γϱάψειν ὑπομνήματι, ἅτε τήν τε τοῦ ἄλλου λόγου ϰαὶ αὐτοῦ τοῦ ὕψους μοῖϱαν ἐπεχόντων, ὡς ἡμῖν ...

There is still another point which remains to be cleared up, my dear Terentian, and on which I shall not hesitate to add some remarks, to gratify your inquiring spirit. It relates to a question which was recently put to me by a certain philosopher. “To me,” he said, “in common, I may say, with many others, it is a matter of wonder that in the present age, which produces many highly skilled in the arts Of popular persuasion, many of keen and active powers, many especially rich in every pleasing gift of language, the growth of highly exalted and wide-reaching genius has with a few rare exceptions almost entirely ceased. So universal is the dearth of eloquence which prevails throughout the world. Must we really,” he asked, “give credit to that oft-repeated assertion that democracy is the kind nurse of genius, and that high literary excellence has flourished with her prime and faded with her decay? Liberty, it is said, is all-powerful to feed the aspirations of high intellects, to hold out hope, and keep alive the flame of mutual rivalry and ambitious struggle for the highest place. Moreover, the prizes which are offered in every free state keep the spirits of her foremost orators whetted by perpetual exercise;99 they are, as it were, ignited by friction, and naturally blaze forth freely because they are surrounded by freedom. But we of to-day,” he continued, “seem to have learnt in our childhood the lessons of a benignant despotism, to have been cradled in her habits and customs from the time when our minds were still tender, and never to have tasted the fairest and most fruitful fountain of eloquence, I mean liberty. Hence we develop nothing but a fine genius for flattery. This is the reason why, though all other faculties are consistent with the servile condition, no slave ever became an orator; because in him there is a dumb spirit which will not be kept down: his soul is chained: he is like one who has learnt to be ever expecting a blow. For, as Homer says—

“’The day of slavery
Takes half our manly worth away.’

“As, then (if what I have heard is credible), the cages in which those pigmies commonly called dwarfs are reared not only stop the growth of the imprisoned creature, but absolutely make him smaller by compressing every part of his body, so all despotism, however equitable, may be defined as a cage of the soul and a general prison.”

My answer was as follows: “My dear friend, it is so easy, and so characteristic of human nature, always to find fault with the present.101 Consider, now, whether the corruption of genius is to be attributed, not to a world-wide peace,102 but rather to the war within us which knows no limit, which engages all our desires, yes, and still further to the bad passions which lay siege to us to-day, and make utter havoc and spoil of our lives. Are we not enslaved, nay, are not our careers completely shipwrecked, by love of gain, that fever which rages unappeased in us all, and love of pleasure?—one the most debasing, the other the most ignoble of the mind’s diseases. When I consider it I can find no means by which we, who hold in such high honour, or, to speak more correctly, who idolise boundless riches, can close the door of our souls against those evil spirits which grow up with them. For Wealth unmeasured and unbridled is dogged by Extravagance: she sticks close to him, and treads in his footsteps: and as soon as he opens the gates of cities or of houses she enters with him and makes her abode with him. And after a time they build their nests (to use a wise man’s words103) in that corner of life, and speedily set about breeding, and beget Boastfulness, and Vanity, and Wantonness, no base-born children, but their very own. And if these also, the offspring of Wealth, be allowed to come to their prime, quickly they engender in the soul those pitiless tyrants, Violence, and Lawlessness, and Shamelessness. Whenever a man takes to worshipping what is mortal and irrational104 in him, and neglects to cherish what is immortal, these are the inevitable results. He never looks up again; he has lost all care for good report; by slow degrees the ruin of his life goes on, until it is consummated all round; all that is great in his soul fades, withers away, and is despised.

“If a judge who passes sentence for a bribe can never more give a free and sound decision on a point of justice or honour (for to him who takes a bribe honour and justice must be measured by his own interests), how can we of to-day expect, when the whole life of each one of us is controlled by bribery, while we lie in wait for other men’s death and plan how to get a place in their wills, when we buy gain, from whatever source, each one of us, with our very souls in our slavish greed, how, I say, can we expect, in the midst of such a moral pestilence, that there is still left even one liberal and impartial critic, whose verdict will not be biassed by avarice in judging of those great works which live on through all time? Alas! I fear that for such men as we are it is better to serve than to be free. If our appetites were let loose altogether against our neighbours, they would be like wild beasts uncaged, and bring a deluge of calamity on the whole civilised world.“

I ended by remarking generally that the genius of the present age is wasted by that indifference which with a few exceptions runs through the whole of life. If we ever shake off our apathy105 and apply ourselves to work, it is always with a view to pleasure or applause, not for that solid advantage which is worthy to be striven for and held in honour.
  We had better then leave this generation to its fate, and turn to what follows, which is the subject of the passions, to which we promised early in this treatise to devote a separate work.106 They play an important part in literature generally, and especially in relation to the Sublime.

One problem now remains for solution, my dear Terentianus, and knowing your love of learning I will not hesitate to append it – a problem which a certain philosopher recently put to me. “It surprises me,” he said, “as it doubtless surprises many others too, how it is that in this age of ours we find natures that are supremely persuasive and suited for public life, shrewd and versatile and especially rich in literary charm, yet really sublime and transcendent natures are no longer, or only very rarely, now produced. Such a world-wide dearth of literature besets our times. [2] Are we really to believe the hackneyed view that democracy is the kindly nurse of genius and that – speaking generally – the great men of letters flourished only with democracy and perished with it? Freedom, they say, has the power to foster noble minds and to fill it with high hopes, and with freedom there spreads the spirit of mutual rivalry and eager competition for the foremost place. [3] Moreover, thanks to the prizes which a republic offers, an orator’s intellectual gifts are whetted by practice, burnished, so to speak, by friction, and share, as is only natural, the light of freedom which illuminates the state. But in these days we seem to be schooled from childhood in an equitable slavery, swaddled, I might say, from the tender infancy of our minds in servile ways and practices. We never drink from the fairest and most fertile source of literature, which is freedom, and therefore we come to show a genius for nothing but flattery.” [4] This is the reason, he alleged, that, while all other faculties are granted even to slaves, no slave ever becomes an orator. For his fear of candour **The lack of free-speech (παϱϱησία) seemed to the ancients the greatest evil of slavery. promptly bubbles to the surface and the dungeoned air of one ever accustomed to the cudgel. [5] As Homer says: “Surely half of our manhood is reft by the day of enslavement.” **Odyssey XVII,322. “And so,” my friend adds, “if what I hear is true that not only do the cages in which they keep the pygmies or dwarfs, as they are called, stunt the growth of their prisoners, but their bodies even shrink in close confinement, on the same principle all slavery, however equitable it may be, might well be described as a cage for the human soul, a common prison.” [6] However I took him up and said, “It is easy, my good friend, and it is characteristic of human nature always to find fault with things as they are at the moment. But consider. Perhaps it is not the world’s peace that corrupts great natures but much rather this endless warfare which besets our hearts, yes, and the passions that garrison our lives in these days and make utter havoc of them. It is the love of money, that insatiable sickness from which we all now suffer, and the love of pleasure that enslave us, or rather, one might say, sink our lives, soul and all, into the depths; for love of gold is a withering sickness, and love of pleasure utterly ignoble. [7] Indeed, I cannot discover on consideration how, if we value boundless wealth, or to speak more truly, make a god of it, we can possibly keep our natures free from its evil parasites. In close company with vast and unconscionable Wealth there follows, “step for step,” as they say, Extravagance: and no sooner has the one opened the gates of cities or houses, than the other comes and makes a home there too. And when they have spent some time in our lives, philosophers tell us, they build a nest there and promptly set about begetting children; these are Swagger and Conceit and Luxury, no bastards but their true-born issue. And if these offspring of wealth are allowed to grow to maturity, they soon breed in our hearts inexorable tyrants, Insolence and Disorder and Shamelessness. [8] This must inevitably happen, and men no longer then look upwards nor take any further thought for their good name. And what is the end of this process? Step by step the ruin of their lives is completed, their greatness of soul wastes away from inanition and is no longer their ideal, since they value that part of them which is mortal and consumes away, and neglect the development of their immortal souls. [9] A man who has been bribed for his verdict can no longer give an unbiased and sound judgement on what is just and fair, for the corrupt judge inevitably regards his own interest as fair and just. And seeing that the whole life of each one of us is now governed wholly by bribery and by hunting after other people’s deaths and laying traps for legacies, and we have sold our souls for profit at any price, slaves that we are to our luxury, can we then expect in such a pestilential ruin of our lives that there is left a single free and unbribed judge of the things that are great and last to all eternity? Are we not all corrupted by our passion for gain? [10] Nay, for such as we are perhaps it is better to have a master than to be free. Were we given complete liberty we should behave like released prisoners, and our greed for our neighbours’ possessions would swamp the world in a deluge of evils. [11] “In fact,” I said, “what spends the spirit of the present generation is the apathy in which all but a few of us pass our lives, only exerting ourselves or showing any enterprise for the sake of getting praise or pleasure out of it, never from the honourable and admirable motive of doing good to the world.”

[12] “Tis best to leave this to a guess” **Euripides: Ἠλέϰτϱα, Electra 379. and pass on to the next question, which is that of the Emotions, a topic on which I previously undertook to write a separate treatise, for they seem to me to form part of the subject of writing and especially of sublimity ...
{The rest is lost.}

—Longinus on the sublime. The Greek text edited after the Paris manuscript with introduction, translation, facsimiles and appendices by W. Rhys Roberts. Second edition. Cambridge: University Press, 1907.

—Translated by Herbert Lord Havel. London, New York: Macmillan and Co., 1890.

—On the Sublime by Longinus, translated by W. Hamilton Fyfe. London: Heinemann, 1927.