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

by Dionysius of Halicarnassus

  These few words on a wide subject are merely examples of the countless other things which could be added if one wished to treat fully all the aspects of appropriateness. But I have one obvious remark to make of a general nature. When the same men in the same state of mind report occurrences which they have actually witnessed, they do not use a similar style in describing all of them, but in their very way of putting their words together imitate the things they report, not purposely, but carried away by a natural impulse. Keeping an eye on this principle, the good poet and orator should be ready to imitate the things of which he is giving a verbal description, and to imitate them not only in the choice of words but also in the composition. This is the practice of Homer, that surpassing genius, although he has but one metre and few rhythms. Within these limits, nevertheless, he is continually producing new effects and artistic refinements, so that actually to see the incidents taking place would give no advantage over our having them thus described. I will give a few instances, which the reader may take as representative of many. When Odysseus is telling the Phaeacians the story of his wanderings and of his descent into Hades, he brings the miseries of the place before our eyes. Among them, he describes the torments of Sisyphus, for whom they say that the gods of the nether world have made it a condition of release from his awful sufferings to have rolled a stone over a certain hill, and that this is impossible, as the stone invariably falls down again just as it reaches the top. Now it is worth while to observe how Homer will express this by a mimicry which the very arrangement of his words produces: —

  There Sisyphus saw I receiving his guerdon of mighty pain:

  A monster rock upheaving with both hands aye did he strain;

  With feet firm-fixed, palms pressed, with gasps, with toil most sore,

  That rock to a high hill’s crest heaved he.

  Here it is the composition that brings out each of the details — the weight of the stone, the laborious movement of it from the ground, the straining of the man’s limbs, his slow ascent towards the ridge, the difficulty of thrusting the rock upwards. No one will deny the effect produced. And on what does the execution of each detail depend? Certainly the results do not come by chance or of themselves. To begin with: in the two lines in which Sisyphus rolls up the rock, with the exception of two verbs all the component words of the passage are either disyllables or monosyllables. Next, the long syllables are half as numerous again as the short ones in each of the two lines. Then, all the words are so arranged as to advance, as it were, with giant strides, and the gaps between them are distinctly perceptible, in consequence of the concurrence of vowels or the juxtaposition of semi-vowels and mutes; and the dactylic and spondaic rhythms of which the lines are composed are the longest possible and take the longest possible stride. Now, what is the effect of these several details? The monosyllabic and disyllabic words, leaving many intervals between each other, suggest the duration of the action; while the long syllables, which require a kind of pause and prolongation, reproduce the resistance, the heaviness, the difficulty. The inhalation between the words and the juxtaposition of rough letters indicate the pauses in his efforts, the delays, the vastness of the toil. The rhythms, when it is observed how long-drawn-out they are, betoken the straining of his limbs, the struggle of the man as he rolls his burden, and the upheaving of the stone. And that this is not the work of Nature improvising, but of art attempting to reproduce a scene, is proved by the words that follow these. For the poet has represented the return of the rock from the summit and its rolling downward in quite another fashion; he quickens and abbreviates his composition. Having first said, in the same form as the foregoing,

  but a little more,

  And atop of the ridge would it rest —

  he adds to this,

  some Power back turned it again:

  Rushing the pitiless boulder went rolling adown to the plain.

  Do not the words thus arranged roll downhill together with the impetus of the rock? Indeed, does not the speed of the narration outstrip the rush of the stone? I certainly think so. And what is the reason here again? It is worth noticing. The line which described the downrush of the stone has no monosyllabic words, and only two disyllabic. Now this, in the first place, does not break up the phrases but hurries them on. In the second place, of the seventeen syllables in the line ten are short, seven long, and not even these seven are perfect. So the line has to go tumbling down-hill in a heap, dragged forward by the shortness of the syllables. Moreover, one word is not divided from another by any appreciable interval, for vowel does not meet vowel, nor semi-vowel or mute meet semi-vowel — conjunctions the natural effect of which is to make the connexions harsher and less close-fitting. There is, in fact, no perceptible division if the words are not forced asunder, but they slip into one another and are swept along, and a sort of great single word is formed out of all owing to the closeness of the junctures. And what is most surprising of all, not one of the long feet which naturally fit into the heroic metre — whether spondee or bacchius — has been introduced into the line, except at the end. All the rest are dactyls, and these with their irrational syllables hurried along, so that some of the feet do not differ much from trochees. Accordingly nothing hinders the line from being rapid, rounded and swift-flowing, welded together as it is from such rhythms as this. Many such passages could be pointed out in Homer. But I think the foregoing lines amply sufficient, and I must leave myself time to discuss the remaining points.

  The aims, then, which should be steadily kept in view by those who mean to form a charming and noble style, alike in poetry and in prose, are in my opinion those already mentioned. These, at all events, are the most essential and effective. But those which I have been unable to mention, as being more minute and more obscure than these, and, owing to their number, hard to embrace in a single treatise, I will bring before you in our daily lessons, and I will draw illustrations in support of my views from many good poets, historians, and orators. But now I will go on to add to this work, before concluding it, the remainder of the points which I promised to treat of, and the discussion of which is as indispensable as any: viz. what are the different styles of composition and what the usual distinguishing mark of each is. I will include some mention of those who have been eminent in them, and will also add examples from each author. When the treatment of these points is completed, I must proceed to dispose of certain difficulties very generally felt: what it can be that makes prose appear like a poem though retaining the form of prose, and verse like prose though maintaining the loftiness of poetry; for almost all the best writers of prose or poetry have these excellences in their style. I must do my best, then, to set forth my views on these matters also. I will begin with the first.

  CHAPTER XXI. THREE MODES, OR STYLES, OF COMPOSITION

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

  CHAPTER XXII. AUSTERE COMPOSITION

  The characteristic feature of the austere arrangement is this: — It requires that the words should be like columns firmly planted and placed in strong positions, so that each word should be seen on every side, and that the parts should be at appreciable distances from one another, being separated by perceptible intervals. It does not in the least shrink from using frequently harsh sound-clashings which jar on the ear; like blocks of building stone that are laid together unworked, blocks that are not square and smooth, but preserve their natural roughness and irregularity.

  It is prone for the most part to expansion by means of great spacious words. It objects to being confined to short syllables, except under occasional stress of necessity.

  In respect of the words, then, these are the aims which it strives to attain, and to these it adheres. In its clauses it pursues not only these objects but also impressive and stately rhythms, and tries to make its clauses not parallel in structure or sound, nor slaves to a rigid sequence, but noble, brilliant, free. It wishes them to suggest nature rather than art, and to stir emotion rather than to reflect character. And as to periods, it does not, as a rule, even attempt to compose them in such a way that the sense of each is complete in itself: if it ever drifts into this accidentally, it seeks to emphasize its own unstudied and simple character, neither using any supplementary words which in no way aid the sense, merely in order that the period may be fully rounded off, nor being anxious that the periods should move smoothly or showily, nor nicely calculating them so as to be just sufficient (if you please) for the speaker’s breath, nor taking pains about any other such trifles. Further, the arrangement in question is marked by flexibility in its use of the cases, variety in the employment of figures, few connectives; it lacks articles, it often disregards natural sequence; it is anything rather than florid, it is aristocratic, plain-spoken, unvarnished; an old-world mellowness constitutes its beauty.

  This mode of composition was once zealously practised by many authors in poetry, history, and civil oratory; pre-eminently in epic poetry by Antimachus of Colophon and Empedocles the natural philosopher, in lyric poetry by Pindar, in tragedy by Aeschylus, in history by Thucydides, and in civil oratory by Antiphon. At this point the subject would naturally call for the presentation of numerous examples of each author cited, and possibly the discourse would have been rendered not unattractive if bedecked with many such flowers of spring. But then the treatise would probably be felt to be excessively long — more like a course of lectures than a manual. On the other hand, it would not be fitting to leave the statements unsubstantiated, as though they were obvious and not in need of proof. The right thing, no doubt, is after all to take a sort of middle course, neither to exceed all measure, nor yet to fall short of carrying conviction. I will endeavour to do so by selecting a few samples from the most distinguished authors. Among poets it will be enough to cite Pindar, among prose-writers Thucydides; for these are the best writers in the austere style of composition. Let Pindar come first, and from him I take a dithyramb which begins —

  Shed o’er our choir, Olympian Dominations,

  The glory of your grace,

  O ye who hallow with your visitations

  The curious-carven place,

  The heart of Athens, steaming with oblations,

  Wide-thronged with many a face.

  Come, take your due of garlands violet-woven,

  Of songs that burst forth when the buds are cloven.

  Look on me — linked with music’s heaven-born glamour

  Again have I drawn nigh

  The Ivy-wreathed, on earth named Lord of Clamour,

  Of the soul-thrilling cry.

  We hymn the Babe that of the Maid Kadmeian

  Sprang to the Sire throned in the empyrean.

  By surest tokens is he manifested: —

  What time the bridal bowers

  Of Earth and Sun are by their crimson-vested

  Warders flung wide, the Hours.

  Then Spring, led on by flowers nectar-breathing,

  O’er Earth the deathless flings

  Violet and rose their love-locks interwreathing:

  The voice of song outrings

  An echo to the flutes; the dance his story

  Echoes, and circlet-crowned Semele’s glory.

  That these lines are vigorous, weighty and dignified, and possess much austerity; that, though rugged, they are not unpleasantly so, and though harsh to the ear, are but so in due measure; that they are slow in their time-movement, and present broad effects of harmony; and that they exhibit not the showy and decorative prettiness of our day, but the austere beauty of a distant past: this will, I am sure, be attested by all readers whose literary sense has been tolerably developed. I will attempt to show by what method such results have been achieved, since it is not by spontaneous accident, but by some kind of artistic design, that this passage has acquired its characteristic form.

  The first clause consists of four words — a verb, a connective, and two appellatives. Now the mingling and the amalgamation of the verb and the connective have produced a rhythm which is not without its charm; but the combination of the connective with the appellative has resulted in a junction of considerable roughness. For the words ἐν χορόν are jarring and uneuphonious, since the connective ends with the semivowel ν, while the appellative begins with one of the mutes, χ. These letters by their very nature cannot be blended and compacted, since it is unnatural for the combination νχ to form part of a single syllable; and so, when ν and χ are the boundaries of adjacent syllables, the voice cannot be continuous, but there must necessarily be a pause separating the letters if each of them is uttered with its proper sound. So, then, the first clause is roughened thus by the arrangement of its words. (You must understand me to mean by “clauses” not those into which Aristophanes or any of the other metrists has arranged the odes, but those into which Nature insists on dividing the discourse and into which the disciples of the rhetoricians divide their periods.)

  The next clause to this — ἐπί τε κλυτὰν πέμπετε χάριν θεοί — is separated from the former by a considerable interval and includes within itself many dissonant collocations. It begins with one of the vowels, ε, in close proximity to which is another vowel, ι — the letter which came at the end of the preceding clause. These letters, again, do not coalesce with one another, nor can ι stand before ε in the same syllable. There is a certain silence between the two letters, which thrusts apart the two elements and gives each a firm position. In the detailed arrangement of the clause the postposition of the appellative part of speech κλυτάν to the connectives ἐπί τε with which the phrase opens (though perhaps the first of these connectives should rather be called a preposition) has made the composition dissonant and harsh. For what reason? Because the first syllable of κλυτάν is ostensibly short, but actually longer than the ordinary short, since it is composed of a mute, a semi-vowel, and a vowel. It is the want of unalloyed brevity in it, combined with the difficulty of pronunciation involved in the combination of the letters, that causes retardation and interruption in the harmony. At all events, if you were to remove the κ from the syllable and to make it ἐπί τε λυτάν, there would be an end to both the slowness and the roughness of the arrangement. Further: the verbal form πέμπετε, subjoined to the appellative κλυτάν, does not produce a harmonious or well-tempered sound. The ν must
be firmly planted and the π be heard only when the lips have been quite pressed together, for the π cannot be tacked on to the ν. The reason of this is the configuration of the mouth, which does not produce the two letters either at the same spot or in the same way. ν is sounded on the arch of the palate, with the tongue rising towards the edge of the teeth and with the breath passing in separate currents through the nostrils; π with the lips closed, the tongue doing none of the work, and the breath forming a concentrated noise when the lips are opened, as I have said before. While the mouth is taking one after another shapes that are neither akin nor alike, some time is consumed, during which the smoothness and euphony of the arrangement is interrupted. Moreover, the first syllable of πέμπετε has not a soft sound either, but is rather rough to the ear, as it begins with a mute and ends with a semi-vowel. θεοί coming next to χάριν pulls the sound up short and makes an appreciable interval between the words, the one ending with the semi-vowel ν, the other beginning with the mute θ. And it is unnatural for a semi-vowel to stand before any mute.

  Next follows this third clause, πολύβατον οἵ τ’ ἄστεος ὀμφαλὸν θυόεντα ἐν ταῖς ἱεραῖς Ἀθάναις οἰχνεῖτε. Here θυόεντα which begins with θ, being placed next to ὀμφαλὸν which ends in ν, produces a dissonance similar to that previously mentioned; and ἐν ταῖς ἱεραῖς which opens with the vowel ε, being linked to θυόεντα which ends with the vowel α, interrupts the voice by the considerable interval of time there is between them. Following these come the words πανδαίδαλόν τ’ εὐκλέ’ ἀγοράν. Here, too, the combination is rough and dissonant. For the mute τ is joined to the semi-vowel ν; and the interval between the appellative πανδαίδαλον and the elided syllable which follows it is quite an appreciable gap; for both syllables are long, but the syllable which unites the two letters ε and υ, consisting as it does of a mute and two vowels, is considerably longer than the average. At any rate, if the τ in the syllable be removed and πανδαίδαλον εὐκλέ’ ἀγοράν be read, the syllable, falling into the normal measure, will make the composition more euphonious.