Chapter 2

And Homer, too, who was praised for this by Horace:

Speak to me, Muse, of him, when Troy had fallen, Who saw the ways of many and their cities.

But Statius begins badly, and sweeps the reader away too suddenly in these verses:

Fraternal arms, and alternate rule by hate Profane contested, and the guilt of Thebes I sing, moved by the fiery Muse.

Claudian is even more at fault, and thrusts these bombastic lines on our unprepared attention:

The horses of Hell's rapist, the stars blown By the Taenarian chariot, chambers dark Of lower Juno ...

But this rule should particularly be observed in the use of adjectives, which are always ill-joined with their noun when they disaccord with the impression the reader has in his mind. I have seen the opening of Lucan censured on this point:

Wars through Emathian fields, wars worse than civil, And crime made legal is my song.

The critics urge that the epithet _worse than civil_ could justly be employed after the depiction of the slaughter at Pharsalia, but that here it is out of order and suddenly attacks the reader who was thinking of no such thing. It offends against the precept of Horace:

Not smoke from brightness is his aim, but light He gives from smoke.[5]

_In what way diction should answer to man's inner nature. First, the grounds of the natural disaffection with unusual diction: how far this should be observed._

But it is not sufficient that diction answer to the subject-matter unless it also answers to the nature of man, in which may be discerned a kind of aversion to obsolete, low, and inappropriate words. I prefer to call this aversion a natural one rather than a result of opinion, though it is in a way based on opinion. For although the feeling that a particular word is more in common use and more civilized than another is purely a matter of men's judgement, nevertheless it is as natural to be displeased by the unusual and inappropriate as it is to be pleased with the usual and proper. Whatever is contrary to reason offends by the very fact that it is seen to lack reason. Certainly, to leave aside familiar terms and to search out unusual ones is wholly foreign to reason. However, there is added to this natural source of offense another that proceeds from opinion. Since such words are commonly condemned, there is associated with them a certain distaste and contempt such that it is scarcely possible to pronounce them without immediately arousing the associated feelings.

Consequently, the intelligent writer will willingly comply with usage so as not to give grounds for displeasure--whether this displeasure springs from nature or opinion. Though he is aware that usage is unstable and changes day by day, nevertheless he will prefer rather to please at one time than never. He will be careful, however, in his written work not to make use of the current jargon, especially of the French court and women's circles, or of any locutions that are not yet generally received. For the life of such expressions is too short to be bound into a lasting work--not to speak of the detestable affectation which detracts from the weight and dignity of the writing.

To conclude, there is a beauty and charm in propriety and elegance of diction which is not to be scorned, though it is but of a time, and, since it rests on opinion, by which usage is determined, will pass away with a change of opinion. Hence those who write not for an age but for all time should try to attain something else, something that has no admixture of opinion: Such is the agreement of words with nature, which we will now explain.

_The inner and more intimate agreement of words and nature._

If one wishes to look deeply into the nature of the human mind and to search out its inner sources of delight, he will find there something of strength conjoined with something of weakness, and out of this circumstance arises variety and irregularity. The mind's vexation with a continual relaxation derives from its strength, while from its weakness stems the fact that it cannot bear a continual straining. Hence it is that nothing pleases the human mind very long, nothing that is all of one piece. So in music it rejects a wholly perfect harmony, and for this reason musicians deliberately intercalate discordant sounds--what are technically called dissonances. So, finally, it happens that physical exercise, even if it was at first undertaken for pleasure, becomes a torture when continued without interruption.

This point has its pertinence to literature, the more so since in that field nature reveals the greatest delicacy and cannot long endure what is lofty and excited. Yet on the other hand, whatever creeps close to earth and never lifts its head is, if it be prolonged, wearisome. To stand, to rest, to rise up, to be thrown down, this is what every reader or listener desires, and from this derives the driving necessity for variety, for the mingling of the majestic and slight, excited and calm, high and low. But it may seem that this consideration has little pertinence to the epigram, which is brief and so in less need of variety. However, I need not apologize for introducing these more general considerations since others of more immediate pertinence to the course of our discussion are derived from them, and particularly the question of the discriminate use of metaphors, which are of considerable effect in adorning or vitiating poetry.

For if we consider attentively why men are pleased with metaphors we will find no other reason than that already stated: the weakness of nature which is wearied by the inflexibility of truth and plain statement and must be refreshed by an admixture of metaphors which depart somewhat from the truth. This gives the clue to the proper and legitimate use of metaphors; they are to be employed specifically, as musicians employ discordant sounds, to relieve the distaste of perfect harmony. But how frequently and at what point they should be introduced is a matter of considerable caution and skill. One warning will suffice for the present: that metaphors, hyperboles, and whatever varies from the plain and natural way of saying something should not be sought for their own sakes but as a kind of relief for nauseated nature. They are to be accepted on grounds of necessity, and consequently a good deal of moderation must be observed in their use. Thus Quintilian rightly says, "A sparing and opportune use of these figures gives lustre to speech; frequent use obscures and fills with disgust."[6] You will discover this fault often in many epigrams, especially in those of contemporary writers as I shall show by several examples later on. However, lest this doctrine should issue in too strict an austerity of diction, it should be noted that only those expressions are to be taken as metaphors that are remote from ordinary usage and offer the mind a double idea. Hence if a metaphor is so commonplace that it no longer has a figurative connotation and suggests nothing other than the notion itself for which it is used, then it should be numbered among proper rather than metaphorical expressions and does not fall in that class of tropes whose too frequent use is here censured.

_On a too metaphorical style. Certain epigrams rejected for this reason._

Though poets are granted a greater indulgence in the use of tropes, nevertheless they have their own mean, or, as Cicero says, their own modesty, and there is ever an especial ornament to be derived from simplicity. Consequently those writers stray pretty far from beauty for whom, as it were, all nature plays the ham to the point that they say nothing in an ordinary way, imagine nothing in the way in which it is perceived outside of poems, but instead elevate, debase, alter, and clothe everything in a theatrical mask. For this reason we have excluded from this anthology a number of epigrams as too metaphorical: for example, these two by Daniel Heinsius, a man otherwise eminent in scholarship and letters:

Driver of light, courier of the bright pole, Surveyor of the sky, and hour-divider, Servant of time, circler perpetual, Cleanser of earth, disperser of the clouds, Ever your chariot, fiery four-in-hand, You curb fast; you who bear on the bright day Steal from the world once more your countenance And of your glowing hair conceal the flame; Tomorrow from the arms of Tethys you Return once more: but night has sealed my sun.

By my _sun_ he means Douza. And again:

Sweet children of the night, brothers of fire, Small cohorts, citizens of the fiery pole, Who wandering through the cloudless fields of air Lead the soft choruses with a light foot When our tired bodies are stretched softly out And gentle sleep invades our conquered sense, Why now as then through the enamelled halls From the recesses, still, and the clear windows Of the gold arch bear off his hallowed face? Farewell, at last; you shall not see your Douza.[7]

In these epigrams, apart from the metaphors heaped up _ad nauseam_, and each of them harsh and absurd, a keen critic has noted another fault: namely, that nothing is more distant from the spirit of a man grieving and mourning for the death of a friend--and this is what Heinsius intended to depict--than such a wantonness of epithets. And so much for diction.

_Truth, the primary virtue of ideas. How great a fault there is in untruth. Thence, of false epigrams._

We take up now the question of ideas, and postulate again that these too must conform both to the subject and to men's character. Ideas agree with the subject if they are true, if they are appropriate, and if they so to speak get into the insides of the thing. They are in accord with men's character if they fit in with natural aversions or desires.

The primary virtue of ideas is truth. Whatever is false is at variance with external reality, nor is there any beauty in falsity except in so far as it pretends to truth. From this you may gather that truth is the source of beauty, falsity of ugliness. The latter, in fact, is out of keeping not only with reality but also with human nature. For we possess an innate love of truth and an aversion to falsehood, so that what delights us when it seems to be true becomes disagreeable and unpleasant when its falseness is made manifest. This principle applies to those learned men whom we have mentioned several times now, and has led to the exclusion from this anthology of many epigrams in which the point rests on a falsehood: for example, there is the well-known one by Grotius, though simply as a poem it is noble enough:

_On Joan of Arc, who is called "La pucelle d'Orleans"_

French Amazon of never-dying fame, Virgin untouched by men and by men feared, Nor Venus in her eyes nor young Desire But Mars and Terror and the bloody Weird-- France owes the Salic Law to her alone, And hers is the true king on the true throne. Let none lament her death who was all fire And never, or by fire alone, should die.[8]

I have ventured to cite this that the reader may see quite clearly what is involved in this kind of falsehood and how much it is repugnant to nature: namely, that something is alleged the contrary of which might as plausibly be affirmed. For Grotius might have written no less foolishly:

Justly lament her death: she who was fire Should not by fire but by cold water die.

Actually, if we wish to get to the bottom of this fault we will find that men are not led to it by nature but driven to it by lack of skill. For they would not fly to the refuge of falsehood for any other reason than that they are not vigorous enough to elicit beauty from the subject itself. Truth, indeed, is limited and defined, but the realm of lies is unlimited and undefined. Hence the one offers difficulties for invention, the other is obvious and easy, and for that reason also is to be scorned.

Moreover, falsehood occurs not only in propositions but also in the delineation of feeling, as, for instance, when feelings are ascribed to a character other than those which nature and the subject-matter demand. You will find this fault in an epigram by Vulteius, which was for this reason rejected:

I viewed one day the marble stone That hides a man in sin well-known. I sighed and said, "What is the point Of such expense? This tomb might serve To house kings and the blood of kings That now conceals a villainous corpse." I burst in tears that copiously Flowed from my eyes down both my cheeks. A stander-by took me to task In some such words, I think, as these: "Aren't you ashamed, be who you may, To mourn the burial of this plague?" But I replied, "My tears are shed For the lost tomb, not his lost head."[9]

It was surely foreign to nature to represent a man weeping copiously because a villain and scoundrel had been buried in a noble tomb, for the funeral honors paid to scoundrels excite anger and indignation rather than pity and tears. The poet, consequently, adopted an erroneous feeling when he wept where he should have been angry and wrathful.

_On mythological epigrams._

Untruth, then, is a considerable fault, one that is quite widespread and one that embraces many sub-divisions. Under this category falls especially the use of mythological propositions, the common vehicle of poets when they have nothing to say. We have rejected many epigrams that are faulty in this kind, as, for example, Grotius on the Emperor Rudolph, which is too crowded with myths:

Not Mars alone has favored you, Invincible, At whom as enemy barbarian standards shake, But the Divine Community with gifts adore you, And with this in especial from the wife of Zephyr: She to the Dutch Apelles did perpetual spring Ordain, and meadows living by the painter's hand. Alcinous' charm is annual, and Adonis' gardens, Nor do the Pharian roses bloom long in that air; Antique Pomona of Semiramis has boasted, And yet deep winter climbs the summit of her roof. How shall your honors fail? The garlands that you wear Beseem Imperial triumph, which time may not touch.[10]

I know there are other things to be censured in this epigram, but I note here only that one fault which it was quoted to illustrate.

_On puns._

To the same general category may be referred most puns, the point of which usually rises from some untruth. For example, in Sannazaro's well-known epigram:

Happy has built twin bridges on the Seine: Happy the Seine may call her Pontifex.[11]

If you take _Pontifex_ in the sense of "builder of bridges" the thought is true, but pointless; consequently, for there to be a point the word _Pontifex_ must be taken in the sense of "Bishop", and in this sense it will be false that the Pontifex is happy. Similarly, in another epigram of some reputation:

They say you're treating Cosma for his deafness, And that you promised, French, a definite cure; But you can't bring it off for all your deftness: He'll hear ill of himself while tongues endure.[12]

Take _audire_ as referring to the sense of hearing and the thought is false, since that physical defect is curable; take it as referring to a good reputation, and the thought will again be false and inept, for it is false and inept that a doctor will labor in vain to cure a defect of the ears because he cannot medicine to a diseased reputation.

All puns are embarrassed by such faults, while on the other hand their charm is quite thin, or rather nonexistent. Formerly, it is true, in an earlier age there was some praise for that kind of thing, and so Cicero and Quintilian are said to have derived polished witticisms from the device of double-meaning; now, however, it is rightly held in great contempt, so much so that men of taste not only do not hunt for puns but even avoid them. They are, one must admit, more bearable, or at least less objectionable when they come spontaneously; but anyone who brings out ones he has thought up or indicates that he himself is pleased with them is quite properly judged to be inexperienced in society. Hence it is that epigrams whose elegance is derived from puns are held of no account. For since verses are only composed by labor and diligence he is justly considered to be a weak and narrow spirit who wastes time in fitting such trivial wit into verse. One should add, too, that there is another disadvantage in puns, that they are so imbedded in their own language that they cannot be translated into another. For these reasons we have admitted few punning epigrams into this anthology, and those only as examples of a faulty kind.

_On hyperbolical ideas._

In the category of false ideas must be reckoned the hyperbolical. These are not false in a given word, for we dealt with this above, but false in the whole train of thought. Of this kind is that epigram of Ausonius, the absurdity of which is unbearable:

Riding in state, as on an elephant, Faustus fell backwards off a silly ant; Abandoned, tortured to the point of death By the sharp hooves, his soul stayed on his breath And his voice broke: "Envy," he cried, "begone! Laugh not at my fall! So fell Phaethon."[13]

Ausonius was imitating in this epigram the Greeks, who were quite open to this sort of bad imitation, as may be seen in their Anthology which is stuffed full of such hyperboles. A good many fall into the same fault either because their talent is weak or because they write for the unskilled--a consideration which should move those who have no compunction about reading, let alone praising, the silly tales of Rabelais which are filled with stupid hyperboles.

_On debatable and controvertible ideas._

Furthermore, debatable and double-edged ideas, about which the reader is in doubt whether they be false or true, fall under the same category of falseness. For this doubtfulness, since it takes away all pleasure, removes also the beauty. For this reason I have never approved the conclusion of Martial's epigram:

Equal the crime of Antony and Photinus: This sword and that severed a sacred head-- The one head laurelled for your triumphs, Rome! The other eloquent when you would speak. Yet Antony's case was worse than was Photinus': One for his master moved, one for himself.[14]

The reader is bothered by a sort of quiet annoyance that the poet should so confidently take a dubious idea for a certain one. He might easily argue against the poet that on the contrary it seemed to him that a man who commits a crime for his master is more at fault than one who commits it for himself, and he could support his position with rational arguments. For one who sins for his own advantage is driven to his deed by such emotions as rage, lust, and fear, and these as they diminish the power of willing in like measure diminish the magnitude of the offence. But one who effects a crime at another's behest comes coldly to the deed, a fact that convicts him of a far greater depravity. One could allege these and similar lines of argument against Martial's position, and could reverse the sense of his distich so that it read no less irrationally:

Yet Antony's case was better than Photinus': One for his master moved, one for himself.

Hence this whole category of controvertible ideas lacks literary merit and should be studiously avoided by those who aim at beauty, which in the last analysis is to be found in truth alone, and in truth of such a sort that as soon as it is proposed the reader recognises as true and accepts it.

_The second virtue of ideas, that they should agree with the inner nature of the subject; and thence on ideas foreign and accidental to the subject._

The second virtue of ideas with respect to the subject-matter is that they should agree with its inner nature: that is, that they should be elicited out of the very inners of the subject and not far-fetched or drawn from external accidents which are only the accompaniments of things. By this rule we have been delivered from numerous frigid epigrams, of which I subjoin a few examples:

Foreign and far-fetched is Owen's on a lyre:

That there is concord in so diverse chords Discordant mankind some excuse affords.[15]

As if nothing were more pertinent for making men ashamed of their discords than the concord of strings on a lyre.

From concomitant accidents, and not from the very heart of the subject itself, is drawn this epigram of Germanicus Caesar, though the verses are otherwise sufficiently polished:

The Thracian boy at play on the stiff ice Of Hebrus broke the waters with his weight And the swift current carried him away, Except that a smooth sherd cut off his head. The childless mother as she burned it said: "This for the flames I bore, that for the waves."[16]

Certainly the mother had a deeper and more native cause of grief than that her son was destroyed partly by water and partly by fire; she would have grieved no less had he perished wholly in water or wholly in fire. The whole reason for grief, then, ought not be sought in such a slight circumstance, which was an accompaniment of and not the grounds for grief.

Negative descriptions labor under the same fault, namely those in which are enumerated not what the endowments of the subject are but what they are not. This is justly censured in one of Barlaeus' epigrams, which is in other respects quite polished:

Of royal Bourbon blood, by whose aid once Belgium believed that God inclined to her; For sceptered fathers famed, more famed for war, And by Astraea's doom of rare renown; Whom War as general, Peace lauds unarmed, To whom so many lands and seas are slaves; Neither the fleece drinking barbarian dye I send you, nor Sidonian artifice, Nor Indian ivory, Dalmatian stone, Nor the choice incense that delights grave Jove, Nor warring eagles, no, nor cities stormed, Nor plundered canvas from the conquered sea; Louis, I give you Christ as King and Lord, Titles not foreign to the ones you bear: For I would send you, greatest of all kings, Than which I cannot more, I send you God.[17]

Surely it is a long way around to enumerate what you will not give the King in order to make clear how slight your gift is. Besides, the conclusion is harsh in that a book about Christ is called God and Christ, as if Christ and a book about him were the same thing. But this is a commonplace absurdity of what one may call the dedicatory _genre_, in which writers almost always speak of their book as if there were no difference between the book itself and its subject: thus, if they write about Caesar or Cato, "Caesar and Cato," they say, "prostrate themselves before you;" If about Cicero, "Look," they say, "Cicero addresses you and takes you as patron:" all of which are correctly to be reckoned in the category of false statements.

_In what way ideas are to be made agreeable to men's character. On avoiding offense; and, first, on obscenity._

The harmony of idea and subject is a matter fairly easy to understand, but the attuning of idea and men's character is more difficult to grasp and requires more painstaking treatment. For in this inquiry the whole scope of human nature must be thoroughly examined, and our silent inclinations and aversions must be laid open so that we will know how to avoid the one and comply with the other. For it cannot be that anything should please that offends nature, or anything displease that complies with natural inclinations. We will touch briefly on some of these points, but only on those that suffice to our purposes.