IV. 4.

REFINEMENT

Refinement is that pruning which removes all grossness to give grace of style. It results in sentiments which leave much unexpressed, and the same may be said of the diction. Because of this its nature, some call it the pure or terse style (tersus). An example of refinement in the humble style is the following: 'The mother clasps the body of her luckless son, and calls the gods and the stars cruel.' In the moderate style let this be an example: 'He, with his hollow shell consoling the sickness of love, sang of you, sweet bride, by himself on the desert shore; of you when day was dawning, of you when it was passing away.' In the grand style is the following: 'But Evander no force can hold; he comes into the midst. When the bier is lowered, he throws himself on Pallas, there he clings weeping and groaning, and through excess of sorrow it is only hardly at last that a passage is forced for his voice.'

V. 3.

COMPARISON OF HOMER AND VIRGIL

The epithets of Homer are often cold, puerile, or pointless. Thus, what point is there in calling tearful Achilles 'fleet-footed?' On the other hand, when our poet calls Aeneas father, as he frequently does, the epithet has the same appropriateness as when applied to Jupiter: men venerate Jupiter, as Porphyry says, because he is the father of the entire human race, so Aeneas because the father of the Roman people. This relationship is explicitly stated in the passage: 'After him father Aeneas, the author of the Roman line.' Moreover, since Virgil wished to ingratiate his work with Augustus, it was desirable to touch upon the deeds of the emperor. This accounts for much that appears on the shield, and for such passages in Books 1, 3, and 6, as: 'And on the shores of Actium we celebrate the games of Troy.' But all that aside, we know that Augustus arrogated the epithet 'father' to himself, for we have a coin with the inscription Augustus Pater. So we might defend other passages in Virgil, some of which Macrobius has pitched upon and torn to pieces with the worst of judgment.

In the Sixth Book of the Odyssey occurs the following passage, already quoted once: 'I supplicate thee, O queen, whether thou art a goddess or a mortal! If indeed thou art a goddess of them that keep the wide heaven; to Artemis, then, the daughter of great Zeus, I mainly liken thee, for beauty and stature and shapeliness.' How much more distinguished is the corresponding passage in Virgil, where first doubt is expressed, and then confidence: 'Oh! by what name shall I call thee-virgin?' This speech shows her character. Then the cause of the uncertainty is revealed: 'for thy countenance is not mortal.' This clause shows her

appearance. The next is still stronger: 'and the tones of

thy voice are more than human'; and then there is a repetition of the assertion: 'ah, thou art a goddess surely.' He then expresses religious veneration, and avoids offense by modestly doubting whether she is 'Phoebus' sister, or one of the race of nymphs.' For you must know that it was impious to call a god or goddess by any other than his right name, and implied an unanswered prayer, a point on which Livy informs us. This explains why the name of the tutelary god of Rome was secret and unspoken. Finally he likens her to Diana, for he plainly means Diana when he speaks of 'Phoebus' sister.'

In the Fourteenth Book of the Iliad, Hera entreats Sleep to cause Jove to slumber, and as an incentive promises him a seat on which he may sit at festivals. Poor Sleep! who prior to this time was forced like a soldier to take his meals standing: 'Sleep, lord of all gods and of all men.' Now the natural philosophers themselves will not hold this to be the law of nature, for who would say that the Prime Mover, the First Cause, sleeps? Yet Homer's words are, ‘of all the gods.' Since sleep is given to repair vitality, if the Homeric gods must sleep, they are also subject to death. From such gods Homer himself could not receive good health. Juno further adds: 'Nay come, and I will give thee one of the younger of the Graces, to wed and to be called thy wife, even Pasithea, that even thou longest for all thy days.' It does not please me to have the Graces given in marriage to Sleep, for grace need never sleep.

Again, oviéμeva (to be wed) is a shameful word to put in Juno's mouth, for oav (to wed) sometimes means the venereal act itself, as in the reference to the mother of Gorgythion, in the Eighth Book of the Iliad.

Our poet is more happy in saying 'that in return for such favor as this, she may pass all her years with thee, and make thee the father of a lovely race.' She does not promise simply the delights of love, which are bestial, but offspring, for which marriage was instituted. Moreover the proposal of Hera is nugatory: 'If ever thou didst hear my word,

obey me again even now, and I will be grateful to thee always'; but our Juno more winsomely appeals to Aeolus, since she courts his good-will by recognizing his power: 'For thee the father of gods and king of men has appointed both to calm the waves, and again to lift them with the wind.'

In Homer, Sleep replies to Hera; Aeolus, in Virgil. Sleep says: 'Hera, goddess queen, daughter of mighty Kronos, say the thing that is in thy mind; my heart bids me fulfil it, if fulfil it I may, and if it may be accomplished.' Surely this is altogether commonplace, for any clever person could make a promise of that sort. Not so ours: 'Thy work, O queen, is to discover what thou choosest; it is my duty with zeal to perform what thou dost command.' For men can talk of doing what they 'may,' but duty is the divine law of the gods, whose divinity is fate. 'Thy commands are fate.' How chaste, how noble, how simple, the thought! 'Thine it is to order, mine to obey.'

The tempest in the Fifth Book of the Odyssey, passages from which we have quoted above, is finely worded, but in other respects is inferior to the corresponding passage in our epic. Homer says: 'With that he gathered the clouds and troubled the waters of the deep, grasping his trident in his hand; and he roused all storms of all manner of winds, and shrouded in clouds the land and the sea: and down sped night from heaven. The East Wind and the South Wind clashed, and the stormy West, and the North, that is born in the bright air, rolling onward a great wave.' Divine language this, I say, but only an imperfect description of a tempest. Virgil perfectly combines brilliant diction and adequate description: 'And lo! the winds, as though in formed line, rush forth where a passage is allowed them (you hear the very rushing in the words used), and blow with a blast across the world. In an instant they swoop upon the sea, and East, and South, and gusty South-west together lash up the whole main from its lowest depths, and roll to the shore huge billows. Then follow the shouts of the sailors, and the creaking of the cables. Suddenly the

clouds rob the eyes of the Trojans of sky and light together; sable night broods o'er the deep.'

In Homer's description, the 'clashing' of the winds signifies motion only, but here the business of the winds is given; there the clouds were 'gathered,' here they 'lash up the whole main from its lowest depths;' there Poseidon 'shrouded in clouds the land and the sea,' here 'suddenly the clouds rob the eyes of the Trojans of sky and light together.' Further, Zephyr is not a violent wind, deserving to be called 'stormy' and especially is this true in Greece. Then the epithet 'born in the bright air' seems inconsistent with the expression 'shrouded in clouds,' and demands a good deal of explanation. Although the North Wind brings clear weather, in the Odyssey it is an ill wind, bearing clouds. Surely this is not pleasing. Virgil adds a consummate touch in the expression, 'the poles thunder.' He does not say that the 'sky' thunders. Then you get, do you not, the impression of thunder and lightning together, when he adds that 'the firmament glitters with frequent flashes.' The very thinness in the sound of the successive words (crebris micat ignibus aether) visualizes the cleft in the air. Finally, how much suffering is implied in the potent words 'all', 'threatens,' and 'instant' ('all nature threatens the mariners with instant death')! Homer was satisfied with his few details, but not so that divine poet, who secures a certain universality by his minuteness.

Virgil now adds the wind hitherto omitted: 'Roaring from the North came a squall, striking the sail full, lifting the waves to heaven. The oars are shivered, then the prow swings round, exposed to the waves is the side of the ship; close in a mass comes on it a precipitous mountain-billow.' You have the sail, the prow, the side of the ship, and the immense wave. This wave the poet does not ostentatiously name, as do our later Latin poets, but he defines it by using the figure of a mountain.

For the rest, the picture is one of varied detail: 'Some of the ships hang on the crest of the waves; beneath others