<GetPassage xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0" xmlns="http://chs.harvard.edu/xmlns/cts">
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                <requestUrn>urn:cts:latinLit:phi1002.phi001.perseus-eng2:8.3.21-8.3.34</requestUrn>
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            <reply>
                <urn>urn:cts:latinLit:phi1002.phi001.perseus-eng2:8.3.21-8.3.34</urn>
                <passage>
                    <TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><text xml:lang="eng"><body><div n="urn:cts:latinLit:phi1002.phi001.perseus-eng2" type="translation" xml:lang="eng"><div n="8" type="textpart" subtype="book"><div n="3" type="textpart" subtype="chapter"><div n="21" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> Again, our style need not always dwell on the heights: at times it is
                            desirable that it should sink. For there are occasions when the very
                            meanness of the words employed adds force to what we say. When Cicero,
                            in his denunciation of Piso, <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">Fr.</hi> 100. </note> says, <quote>When your
                                whole family rolls up in a dray,</quote> do you think that his use
                            of the word <hi rend="italic">dray</hi> was accidental, and was not
                            designedly used to increase his audience's contempt for the man he
                            wished to bring to ruin? The same is true when he says elsewhere,
                                <quote>You put down your head and butt him.</quote>
                     </p></div><div n="22" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> This device may also serve to carry off a jest, as in the passage of
                            Cicero where he talks of the <quote>little sprat of a boy who slept with
                                his elder sister,</quote>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">pro. Cael.</hi> xv. 36. </note> or where he
                            speaks of <quote>Flavius, who put out the eyes of crows,</quote>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">pro Mil.</hi>
                                xi. 25. Our equivalent is <quote>catch a weasel
                                asleep.</quote>
                        </note> or, again, in the <hi rend="italic">pro
                                Milone,</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">pro Mil.</hi> xxii. 60. <hi rend="italic">Rufio,</hi> a slave name = red head. </note> cries, <quote>Hi,
                                there! Rufio!</quote> and talks of <quote>Erucius
                                Antoniaster.</quote>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> From
                                the lost <hi rend="italic">pro Vareno.</hi>
                           <quote>Erucius, Antonius'
                                    ape.</quote>
                        </note> On the other hand, this practice becomes
                            more obtrusive when employed in the schools, like the phrase that was so
                            much praised in my boyhood, <quote>Give your father bread,</quote> or in
                            the same declamation, <quote>You feed even your dog.</quote>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> A declamation turning on the
                                law that sons must support their parents. </note> But such tricks do
                            not always come off, </p></div><div n="23" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> especially in <pb n="v7-9 p.225"/> the schools, and often turn the laugh
                            against the speaker, particularly in the present day, when declamation
                            has become so far removed from reality and labours under such an
                            extravagant fastidiousness in the choice of words that it has excluded a
                            good half of the language from its vocabulary. </p></div><div n="24" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> Words are <hi rend="italic">proper, newly-coined or metaphorical.</hi>
                            In the case of <hi rend="italic">proper</hi> words there is a special
                            dignity conferred by antiquity, since old words, which not everyone
                            would think of using, give our style a venerable and majestic air: this
                            is a form of ornament of which Virgil, with his perfect taste, has made
                            unique use. </p></div><div n="25" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> For his employment of words such as <hi rend="italic">olli,</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> Archaic for <hi rend="italic">illi.</hi>
                        </note>
                        <hi rend="italic">quianam,</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">Because.</note>
                        <hi rend="italic">moerus,</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> Archaic for
                                    <hi rend="italic">murus (Aen.</hi> x. 24.). </note>
                        <hi rend="italic">pone</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">Behind.</note> and <hi rend="italic">pellacia</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> Deceitfulness ( <hi rend="italic">Aen.</hi> ii. 90). </note> gives his work that
                            impressive air of antiquity which is so attractive in pictures, but
                            which no art of man can counterfeit. But we must not overdo it, and such
                            words must not be dragged out from the deepest darkness of the past. <hi rend="italic">Quaeso</hi> is old enough: what need for us to say <hi rend="italic">quaiso?</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">quaeso</hi> = pray, <hi rend="italic">oppido</hi> quite, exactly. </note>
                        <hi rend="italic">Oppido</hi> was still used by my older contemporaries, but I fear
                            that no one would tolerate it now. At any rate, <hi rend="italic">antegerio,</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">Quite,
                                very.</note> which means the same, would certainly never be used by
                            anyone who was not possessed with a passion for notoriety. </p></div><div n="26" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> What need have we of <hi rend="italic">acrumnosum?</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">Wretched.</note> It is surely
                            enough to call a thing <hi rend="italic">horridum. Reor may</hi> be
                            tolerated, <hi rend="italic">autumo</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">Assert.</note> smacks of tragedy, <hi rend="italic">proles</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">Offspring.</note> has become a rarity, while <hi rend="italic">prosapia</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">Stock,
                                family.</note> stamps the man who uses it as lacking taste. Need I
                            say more Almost the whole language has changed. </p></div><div n="27" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> But there are still some old words that are endeared to us by <pb n="v7-9 p.227"/> their antique sheen, while there are others that we
                            cannot avoid using occasionally, such, for example, as <hi rend="italic">nuncupare</hi> and <hi rend="italic">fari:</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">Name, speak.</note> there are
                            yet others which it requires some daring to use, but which may still be
                            employed so long as we avoid all appearance of that affectation which
                            Virgil <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">Catal.</hi> ii. </note> has derided so cleverly: <quote rend="blockquote"><quote><l part="N"> Britain's Thucydides,
                                            <milestone n="28" unit="section"/> whose mad Attic brain
                                        </l><l part="N">Loved word-amalgams like Corinthian
                                        bronze,</l><l part="N">First made a horrid blend of words
                                        from Gaul,</l><l part="N">Tau, al, min, sil and God knows
                                        how much else,</l><l part="N">Then mixed them in a potion
                                        for his brother!</l></quote></quote> This was a certain
                            Cimber who killed his brother, </p></div><div n="29" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> a fact which Cicero recorded in the words, <quote>Cimber has killed his
                                brother German.</quote>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">Phil.</hi> XI. vi. 14. A pun on the two meanings
                                of <hi rend="italic">gemanus,</hi> brother and German. </note> The
                            epigram against Sallust is scarcely less well known: <quote rend="blockquote"><quote><l part="N">Crispus, you, too, Jugurtha's
                                        fall who told,</l><l part="N">And filched such store of
                                        words from Cato old.</l></quote></quote>
                     </p></div><div n="30" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> It is a tiresome kind of affectation; any one can practise it, and it is
                            made all the worse by the fact that the man who catches the infection
                            will not choose his words to suit his facts, but will drag in irrelevant
                            facts to provide an opportunity for the use of such words. The coining
                            of new words is, as I stated in the first book, <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">I. v. 70</note> more permissible in Greek, for
                            the Greeks did not hesitate to coin nouns to represent certain sounds
                            and emotions, and in truth they were taking no greater liberty than was
                            taken by the first men when they gave names to things. </p></div><div n="31" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> Our own writers have ventured on a few attempts at composition and
                            derivation, but have not met with <pb n="v7-9 p.229"/> much success. I
                            remember in my young days there was a dispute between Pomponius and
                            Seneca which even found its way into the prefaces of their works, as to
                            whether <hi rend="italic">gradus eliminate</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> Sc. <quote>moves his steps beyond the
                                    threshold.</quote>
                        </note> was a phrase which ought to have been
                            allowed in tragedy. But the ancients had no hesitation about using even
                                <hi rend="italic">expectorate</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><quote>banishes from his heart.</quote></note>
                            and, after all, it presents exactly the same formation as <hi rend="italic">exanimat.</hi>
                     </p></div><div n="32" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> Of the coining of words by expansion and inflexion we have examples,
                            such as the Ciceronian <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">De Nat. D.</hi> I. xxxiv. 95. </note>
                        <hi rend="italic">beatitas</hi> and <hi rend="italic">beatitudo,</hi>
                            forms which he feels to be somewhat harsh, though he thinks they may be
                            softened by use. Derivatives may even be fashioned from proper names,
                            quite apart from ordinary words, witness <hi rend="italic">Sullaturit</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"><hi rend="italic">a Att.</hi> IX. x. 6. <quote>Desires to be a
                                    second Sulla.</quote>
                        </note> in Cicero and <hi rend="italic">Fimbriatus</hi> and <hi rend="italic">Figulatus</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> Metamorphosed into Figulus.
                                Presumably refers to Clusinius Figulus, see VII. ii. 26. </note> in
                            Asinius. </p></div><div n="33" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> Many new words have been coined in imitation of the Greeks, <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">See II. xiv. 2.</note> more
                            especially by Verginius Flavus, some of which, such as <hi rend="italic">queens</hi> and <hi rend="italic">essentia,</hi> are regarded as
                            unduly harsh. But I see no reason why we should treat them with such
                            contempt, except, perhaps, that we are highly self-critical and suffer
                            in consequence from the poverty of our language. Some new formations do,
                            however, succeed in establishing themselves. </p></div><div n="34" type="textpart" subtype="section"><p> For words which now are old, once were new, and there are some words in
                            use which are of quite recent origin, such as <hi rend="italic">reatus,</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">The condition
                                of an accused person.</note> invented by Messala, and <hi rend="italic">munerarius,</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified">The giver of a gladiatorial show.</note>
                            invented by Augustus. So, too, my own teachers still persisted in
                            banning the use of words, such as <hi rend="italic">piratica,
                                musica</hi> and <hi rend="italic">fabrica,</hi> while Cicero regards
                                <hi rend="italic">favor</hi> and <hi rend="italic">urbanus</hi> as
                            but newly introduced into the language. For in a letter to Brutus he
                            says, <hi rend="italic">eum amorer et eum, ut hoc</hi>
                        <pb n="v7-9 p.231"/>
                        <hi rend="italic">verbo utar, favored in consilium
                                advocabo,</hi>
                        <note anchored="true" place="unspecified"> This letter
                                is lost: <quote>I will call that love and that favour, if I may use
                                    the word, to be my counsellors.</quote>
                        </note>
                     </p></div></div></div></div></body></text></TEI>
                </passage>
            </reply>
            </GetPassage>