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