Chapter III: The Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries (2)

The Middle Ages, however, were constrained to grapple with their problem as it arose. They had, as we have seen, been constant to _Artes Poeticæ_ dealing with Latin: at last they had begun to face the more difficult question, how to construct and regulate their own growing vernacular prosody. No doubt, in these latter attempts, the mechanical prescriptions of the Provençal and French _Arts_ appear more frequently than the philosophical-scientific consideration of poetical capacities visible in the _De Vulgari_; but there is no reasonable fault to find with this. Nor can it be reasonably contested that the extreme variety, licence, and (if any one likes the word) irregularity of the greater modern prosodies have given wider range to individual poetical development than was allowed by the prosodies of the ancients. Here, as elsewhere, uniformity rather than variety was probably the aim, and is certainly the achievement, of the Classics. For one individual and all but inimitable thing, like the Æschylean modulation of the chorus (so different from the grave but less throbbing music of Sophocles, and from the Euripidean tune) or like the Lucretian Hexameter, we find a dozen resemblances; and, with elaborate combinations like the Alcaic or Sapphic, the result is, as in the parallel case of our Spenserian, or the Jonson-Herbert-_In Memoriam_ quatrain with enclosed rhyme, mainly uniform. But the greater or less licence of equivalent substitution in the staple English lines—the octosyllable and decasyllable, for instance—admits of the impression of a singular personal stamp, and, unless rejected by the mistake of the individual or the moment, has rarely failed to produce it.

Still one returns, and must necessarily return, to the admission that, to justify the claims here put forward as to the critical importance of the Middle Ages, one cannot go to their own explicit and deliberate exercises in criticism. To apply Johnson’s not quite inspired remark on Fielding and Richardson, they neither did, nor in all probability could, explain the mechanism of the timepiece. But they told the time of day with unerring accuracy; and their records of it have been neglected, and will be neglected by succeeding ages, only at the peril—which has already sometimes led to actual shipwreck—of miscalculating the whole literary reckoning. When the critics of the Renaissance, followed more or less blindly by those of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, either contumeliously or in the sheer generous mistake of desire for improvement, turned their backs, as far as they could, on the products of Mediæval literature, they not merely shut themselves out from a vast volume of delight, they not only mistook disastrously the value of many individuals, but they recklessly deprived themselves once more—and with far less excuse and greater loss than had resulted from the similar refusal of the later Greeks—of an inestimable opportunity for Comparison. And so they once more barred for themselves the one gate and highway to really universal criticism of literature.

For the great, the immense, value of the literature of the Middle Ages consists in its freshness and independence, and the consequent fashion in which new literary bents and faculties of the human mind were manifested. The Greeks had, at any rate so far as we know, neither the advantage nor the disadvantage of any precedent literature before them; but their spirit of theory and of philosophising, while it helped to concentrate and intensify the peculiar virtue of their product, tended also to narrow and stereotype their range. Latin suffered from the double drawback of system and model. And modern literature itself has not, with all its achievements, been able to free itself from the inevitable consequences of ancestry. It is a great deal too literary; it has, in almost all cases, the obsession of the library, and the printed book, upon it. It is deliberate, preoccupied, interested; it has all sorts of cants, prejudices of education or emancipation, purposes, reminiscences, unacknowledged and often unconscious trammels and twitches. Its fountains are very rarely of living water; they are fed from carefully constructed and collected reservoirs, if not by positive distillation from the great sea of older literature.

Now, with all their slavish docility, all their writing in schools and groups and batches, all their adoption of tags and texts, the Middle Ages and their literature present a spectacle which is exactly the reverse of this. The authors have the appearance of following; they are really straying, each at the dictation of his own tastes and instincts only. You may as well try to teach a cat to do anything in any but her own way as a mediæval writer. When he copies a Romance, he will change the names if he does nothing else: but probably he will do much else, writing it in sixains if his model is in couplets, in decasyllabics if his original is octosyllabic, and so forth. Nothing shall induce him to keep historical distinctions or philosophical differences. His hero[614] shall be as beautiful as “Paris of Troy, _or_ Absalom, _or_ Partenopex”; his story of Alexander shall blend sober history and the wildest fiction, with a coolness which is only not reckless because it does not see anything to reck. Formal restrictions of the minor kind, prosodic and other, he will observe devoutly, because they come naturally to him and are of his own devising; but any restrictions of literary theory he utterly ignores. His Muse will wear no stays, though she does not disdain ornaments.

Footnote 614:

As is actually the case with Floire or Florice, the lover of
Blanchefleur.

The reward of this obedience to Nature was signal. In the first place the Middle Ages created, or practically created, the STORY. Of course there were stories before; of course the _Odyssey_ would be the best story in the world if, of the main elements of Romance—Passion and Mystery—one were a little more developed, and is almost the best story in the world as it is. Of course there are capital _fabliaux_ in Herodotus, fine apologues in Plato, good things of other kinds elsewhere. But the ancients not only hampered themselves by almost always telling their longer stories in verse, but seldom knew how to manage them in verse or prose. The _Iliad_ is such a bad story that it has tempted the profanity of those who would make it not one but a dozen stories; the _Æneid_ is a story, dull _à dormir debout_ as such, with some good rambling and fighting, a great descent to Hades, a capital boxing-match, not a bad regatta, and a famous but borrowed episode of passion. Out of Herodotus, till we come to the very verge of the classical period with Apuleius and Lucian, it is almost impossible to find a Greek, quite impossible to find a Roman, who knows how to tell a story at all. The exquisite substance of mythology receives no due honour from the story-teller as such. Read Ovid (who had as much of the story-telling spirit in him as any ancient except Herodotus), and then turn to what is often the mere doggerel and jargon of the mediæval Latin story-tellers in prose and verse. The gift, no matter whether it came from the East or from the West, from the North or from the South, from the Heaven above or the earth beneath, or rose a new Aphrodite from the Atlantic sea, is here and is not there.

Without this gift of story-telling there could not have appeared—though it would not by itself have been enough to produce—the greater gift of the Romance. It would be as unnecessary as it would be foolish to enter here into the secular and truceless war as to the origin, the nature, and so forth of this famous thing. It is sufficient to observe, once more, that the thing is here and is not there, except almost by accident. And the gift of the Romance—in that wide historical sense in which it could be, and was, in the Middle Ages applied to almost every manner of subject—was a gift to literature so inestimable that perhaps no other has ever quite equalled it. At once, with that nonchalance (they called it _nonchaloir_) in which no time has ever equalled these Ages, they swept away the Doctrine of the Subject, with all the cants and heresies which pullulate round its undoubtedly noble articles of original faith. Romance was perfectly prepared to deal with any subject, from religion to stag-hunting, from chronology to love. It depended no doubt on the individual craftsman whether the result was good or bad; but the method has, in the right hands, triumphed over the most intractable materials, added charm to the most commonplace, made the most grotesque acceptable. Could anything be thinner and more ordinary than the subject of _Floire et Blanchefleur_? Can anything be more charming, not merely than its most perfect outcome in _Aucassin et Nicolette_, but even than the diffuser and less happily phrased verse-forms? In the Arthurian Legend the success is greater still. Romance takes a dim personality, and a handful of cacophonous place-names, out of a suspicious compilation of pseudo-history, and spins it, in a single lifetime, into a story the most elaborate, the most artful, the most variedly interesting, the fullest of meaning (if men _must_ have meaning) in the whole literary world.

Even to Dante it did not occur to subject the methods and the results of this new and potent kind to such an examination as that which Aristotle had partly given to the older literature. Nor, at that time and in those circumstances, was even Dante likely to have led such an inquiry to a good end. The Middle Ages, while consciously abandoning, almost or altogether, the old aim at Action, had not arrived at the modern command of Character. They worked at and by mediate things—Incident, Atmosphere, Description, Manners, Passion—and they made all these and others subserve a Romantic Unity of plot which, instead of being circular like the Classical Unity, was calculated for indefinite prolongation, not merely in straight line, but after the manner of a tree, with branches and inarchings skyward, earthward, and horizontal. The scheme admitted adornments of various kinds, which must have been difficult if not impossible to reconcile with the more sober and exacting classical model. It permitted a much greater indulgence of the resort to the methods of other arts, especially painting, than classical literature had, until its latest days, thought proper. It paid very little attention to mere probability. All these points invited the comparative critic, but they did not find him. In three respects, however, the difference between classical and mediæval Imitation or Representation was almost more striking than in any other, and all of these presented the most tempting opportunities for criticism. These were the attitude of the new literature to Religion, its attitude to the passion of Love, and its use of an implement which, though by no means unknown to Classical literature, had been more sparingly used therein, the method of Allegory.

On the first point it would be very easy to enlarge beyond the widest toleration of this treatise; it is here only necessary to point out how delicate, and how important, are the new duties prescribed to the critic of mediæval literature in regard to it. The “blinded Papist” view (which makes itself felt even in some observations of such a man as Scott now and then) may not be so common as it once was, but it is not entirely obsolete. And it may be doubted whether that to which it has given place—a philosophical pity, contemptuous or sympathising, for “superstition” generally—is not even more hampering, while there can be no doubt of the hamper imposed on the yet earlier Renaissance by the superior contempt which it felt for mediæval childishness and ignorance. In this literature, and in the romantic branch of it more particularly, allowance has to be made at every moment, in every respect and condition, for the omnipresence of an elaborate creed which nobody doubted, with which everybody indeed was so saturated and familiar that he could jest with it and at it, as one jests with and at a best-beloved and best-known person and friend. It supplies subject, it affects treatment, it colours phrase and image. Although it is very easy to underrate the amount of actual religious feeling in antiquity, yet this feeling, at its noblest and sincerest, was unquestionably of an entirely different character from that of the “Ages of Faith.” Take, at their best and strongest, the sincere fetichism of the ancient equivalent of the “charcoal-burner,” the beautiful mythology of the poet, the sublime mysticism of the Platonist, and the exalted if slightly Pharisaical morality of the better Stoic—combine them with all the art of the student of development. But you will not succeed in making anything in the least like the creed of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, with Christ, or rather with the Virgin and the Devil, fighting perpetually for Mansoul, with Angels and Deadly Sins under their command, with a miracle possible at every moment, Death and Fortune ruling affairs subject to, but not always interfered with by, the higher influences, the Sacraments to be resorted to at will or neglected at peril, Purgatory to be faced or anticipated and won through, Hell or Heaven for final goal. It is almost impossible to allow too much in degree (though it is extremely possible to allow wrongly in kind) for the influence which this ever-present set of thoughts, beliefs, feelings, which was absent from antiquity and present in the Middle Ages, had upon the literary utterance of the latter. The unnatural gloom and the half-inarticulate gaiety which have been discovered in this literature (the latter at least as truly as the former), its occasional irrationality, as we are pleased to call it (perhaps “irrationalism” would be a better word), its shuddering attraction for the horrible and loathsome, its delight in dream, its quaint and almost flighty revulsions and contrasts—all are due to this.

Equally a commonplace, and yet still more important to, and still more neglected by, criticism, is the attitude of the Middle Ages to Love—which is very mainly conditioned by their attitude to Religion. The not infrequent, though very idle, debate as to whether the Venus of chivalry was Urania or Pandemos is, of course, best avoided by the frank acknowledgment that she was (as indeed Her Divinity always has been) both. The distinction from antiquity, and its influence upon literature, do not lie in the least in this direction, or in the fact of the mixture, but in its nature and character. With exceptions, of course, the tone of antiquity in literature, as to love and to its objects, is either the tone of slightly unreal philosophising, or the tone of the naughty story, or that of half-paraded, half-confessing contempt. The two former require no treatment here; the latter is important. Love and its objects are, to an average serious man of letters of the Classics when not a subject for conventional escapades, a rather regrettable incident attached to humanity, something not in the least _spoudaion_, something only not among the _parerga_ of life because it is almost impossible to avoid them, something useful, not unpleasant, rather better than a constitutional or a bath, but affording a much less worthy employment than talking in a porch, or declaiming in a school. This is undeniably the average attitude of the average man of letters of old. That of his mediæval brother need hardly be described; but its causes come within our view. You have to reckon, not merely with the cult of the Virgin, as has often been done, but with the whole Christian (especially mediæval-Christian) theory of morals and of sin. Why excite yourself about actions indifferent at best, always rather below the attention of a serious man, and at worst leading to unpleasant and dubious consequences? Excitement becomes easy when the consequence of a moment’s guilty indulgence may be the Inferno for eternity. Nay, from a less purely selfish point of view there are reasons enough. Imagination—the real Imagination of Apollonius or Philostratus, not the mere image-furnishing faculty of the ancients generally—had “come to town,” and brought a transformed Love with her. The sense of mystery, of miracle, of the invisible, grafted itself upon the strongest of the merely physical instincts, and the result pervaded literature. The trumpery subject, proper for comedy, for epic episodes, for a carefully kept-under seasoning to tragedy, for light trifles, became, with Religion, the subject of nearly all poetry, and of not a little prose, and made its influence felt in all manner of ways. It even, although the Middle Age was confessedly not strong in character, paved the way to that last grace, thanks to the fancy of the time for rehandling the same subjects and persons. Trace Briseis-Briseida, a fashion-plate in Dares, a slave-girl in Benoist, to the Cressida of Chaucer and of Henryson; trace Guanhumara, a handsome Roman damsel of good family and nothing more, down to the complex woman and Queen of the complete _Lancelot_, and you will see how character-drawing arose.

But undoubtedly one of the greatest, and perhaps the most characteristic, of the influences of the love-motive on literature, and the development of literary methods through this and other motives, is the mediæval use of Allegory. The thing, of course, is not new—nothing ever is in the strict sense. It may actually have dwelt upon the banks of Nile: it certainly did on those of Ilissus and Tiber. But the very strong prominence of it in the Scriptures, and in ecclesiastical writings generally, could not fail to develop it in the younger vernaculars; and its alliance (a dangerous one no doubt, but a real and natural) with Imagination could not long be missed. Many ingenious and industrious hands have traced its origin from Homer to Claudian, and from Claudian to the _Romance of the Rose_. How it thence coloured all literature is sufficiently known. But no critic has even yet exhausted, nor are a hundred critics likely to exhaust, the subtle and innumerable ramifications of its literary influence and manifestations.

These things and others showed themselves no doubt mainly in the Romance—the chief, the most characteristic, and, so far as anything is original, the most original of the literary products of the Middle Ages. But the Romance was far indeed from being the only new development in literary morphology that the period had to offer. Until nearly its closing time, no great change or advance was made in History, though the artificial speech, which ancient exaggerations of oratory had imposed on the historian, was to a great extent dropped, and the purview of the writer was insensibly widened in other directions. But the immense cultivation of the short tale—first in verse, then in prose—was a matter closely connected, but by no means identical, with the progress of Romance itself. And, as in another matter glanced at above, the restless character of the time, and its constant tendency to reproduce with slight alteration, had, here also, a great influence. In all these alterations the arts and crafts of the future novelist and dramatist were insensibly exercising themselves. But the drama itself demands at least a glance. That the modern play owes nothing to the mediæval is the foolishest of critical delusions; but it would hardly be rash to say that the mediæval drama owes nothing to the ancient. When the horror with which (for not such very bad reasons) the Church regarded stage plays altogether had been a little relaxed, the natural and the artificial dramas followed entirely different lines. Hroswitha’s work, and _Christus Patiens_, and the rest, have absolutely nothing to do with Miracle or Mystery or Farce, which are the romance and the short story thrown, according to the natural histrionic bent of man, into presentation by personages instead of by continuous narration. And the laws which they developed, and by which they helped the greater and more genuine modern drama to be what it was, were natural likewise, and had nothing to do with Aristotle or with Horace, with Plato or with Aristophanes.

This would by itself have sufficed to give the new drama a very different nature, and therefore a most important comparative critical influence, when contrasted with the old. The Greek drama (which the Roman more or less slavishly copied) may have had its infancies; but we possess it only in its riper age. Nor is it even possible that these infancies, granting their existence, could have shown anything like the multiform influences which betray themselves in the mediæval drama. Both may have been originally liturgic; but there is such an infinite difference in the complexity of the liturgies! Both may have been preceded by epic and perhaps lyric; but in other respects the Greek drama was certainly among the first—as the mediæval drama was nearly the last—to take rank among literary kinds. And these differences, putting others aside, would have accounted, in great part, for the singularly undulating and diverse character which (in company, no doubt, with an imperfection as great as the diversity) distinguished the new drama from the splendid, but somewhat narrow, perfection of the old. Even in the stock types, in the Vices and Fools of the new form, there was little or nothing of the fixed character of the Roman—we can say little of the Greek—"comedy of art."

And so, not merely in more kinds of literature than one, but in every kind of literature, with hardly a single exception, the Middle Ages provided their successors with the material for an entirely new Calculus of Critical Variations—for a complete redressing of whatever positive errors or mere relative gaps had existed in the older criticism, by reason of the absence of opportunities for observation.

II

Nor can it be regarded as any great drawback to the critical position of the Renaissance to which we are coming—and the grounds and data of which it is desirable to survey in advance, by way of retrospect over the contents of the present volume—that this immense provision of new critical material was not accompanied by many, or indeed (with the one great exception, soon to be known, but to be hardly in the least heeded) any, accomplished exercises in critical method. For these, as has been pointed out, were not likely to have been very good; and, good or bad, they were nearly sure to have been neglected, or to have done positive harm by way of mere reaction. Moreover, it was easily and perfectly open to the Renaissance to create for itself in this department. By its recovery—no longer in half-measure, and less than half-light, but in full—of the literature of antiquity, it had been put in possession, not merely of the other great masses of literary material, but of quite admirable examples of critical method itself. Quintilian, Horace, Cicero, the Greek and Latin Rhetoricians, were among its inherited possessions, and it had certainly had the _Poetics_, though little attention had for a long time been paid to them. But they were soon put before it afresh: and, what is more, the discovery of Longinus also was soon made. Horace, with his arbitrary rules, and his enforced, but probably not at all unwelcome, abstinence from any dry exhibition of material and examples, was no doubt, with all his merits, a very dangerous mentor. But with Aristotle, Quintilian, and Longinus at hand as preceptors of method, and practically all then existing literature, classical and mediæval, at hand as storehouse of matter, a man of the mid-sixteenth century had only himself to blame if he did not hit upon at least the main and general articles of the critical Catholic Faith. He might not anticipate the magnificent and almost unbelievable new developments of literature which were actually to take place, in the three western countries of Europe, within a very few years; but he would have been none the worse critic for that. The critic is, by his profession, not in the least bound to be a prophet. But he had every document necessary to correct the chief shortcomings of the ancients, to enlarge the classification of literary kinds, to rearrange the nature, degrees, and methods of the literary assault on the senses and the soul.

It would be undue anticipation to discuss what he did instead of this; or to give in detail the positive influences which worked upon him in preferring his actual alternative. But it is matter of undoubted history that he did not do what he might have done, and it is matter of relevance here to give the reasons, as far as they are retrospective, why he did not do it.

To a considerable extent the explanation, and if not the justification, the excuse, of his failure lie in a well-known and constantly repeated phenomenon which, on this particular occasion, showed itself with unusual, indeed with elsewhere unexampled, distinctness and power. Every age and every individual (it has been said often, but can never be said too often), unless it or he is a mere continuation of predecessors, is unjust to these predecessors. Examples are not necessary; the merest moment’s thought will supply them in profusion. But there were numerous and powerful conditions and forces which made this injustice certain to be more violent and more lasting here than in almost any other case. No known “dispensation” exists historically of anything like the same length, the same intensity, the same uniformity as that which characterises in all things, and certainly not least in matters literary, the thousand years of the Middle Age at its widest stretch. And this would of itself be sufficient to bring about a reaction of corresponding violence and duration. But to this general aspect of the whole period must be added the particular aspect of its final stage. Except in Italy (which had never been intensely or characteristically mediæval, and which had practically ceased to be so, in any sense not external, soon after Dante’s time) the fifteenth century had been a period of decadence, or of transition, or of stagnation, in almost every European country. It is possible, though it is not probable, that minds in which the critical spirit was reawakening might have taken a juster view of things if the fresh examples then before them, to be compared with Homer, Lucretius, Thucydides, had been Dante, Chaucer, Froissart. But there was some excuse for an indignant pooh-poohing of the mere possibility of comparison, when the persons, to be compared immediately with the great writers of antiquity, were the dreary and bombastic _rhétoriqueurs_ of the French, or the shambling versifiers of the English, fifteenth century.

The Renaissance, moreover, was likely to be led wrong by that constant delusion of matter, that fatal attraction towards the subject, which, as this _History_ endeavours to show, has led Criticism wrong a dozen times for once that it has led her right. The mediæval forms of literature were identified, allied, in fact saturated, with certain beliefs and modes of thought—scholastic philosophy, Catholic religion, aristocratic politics. To the pure Platonist on the one hand and the thorough-going Aristotelian on the other, to the reformer on the one hand and the freethinker on the other, to the democrat on the one hand and the believer in Machiavellian statecraft on the other, all these things were partly horrible, partly idiotic, altogether to be shaken off and refused. The natural, but in the main irrational and frivolous, weariness of an old fashion was supplemented, inspirited, made far more vehement and dangerous, by the deliberate and reasoned, if not reasonable, antipathy to, and revolt against, an old faith. It has been acknowledged already that the _Morte d’Arthur_ would have fared as badly with Augustine as it did with Ascham; but the moral provocation would not have been aggravated to Augustine, as it was perhaps to Ascham, certainly to more thorough-going Protestants than he, by the distinct connection between the Graal Legend and the doctrine of Transubstantiation.

Accordingly, the Renaissance indulged itself, and left to its successors, the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (different as they were from itself in many ways), an amount of “unintelligent scorn” of the past which, if it does credit to nothing else, does credit at least to the vigour and intensity of the time. Sometimes this scorn was vocal and argumentative, as in Ascham himself, in Du Bellay, in others. More often, and with a subtler mischief still, it was silent, implicit, apparently exchanged for mere negligence. The childish things were simply put away, despatched to the lumber-room, and left there. And it was this negligence, rather than the scorn, which did harm to the criticism of the periods that followed. It does not do the critic unmitigated harm to take the wrong side now and then; he exercises himself at his weapons, he can acquire dexterity in them, and very often (Dryden is a notable example) he teaches himself orthodoxy in the very act of fighting for the heterodox. But when he allows himself to ignore, great gulfs or smaller pits open for him at once. That is what he can never afford to do; that is the cause of all the errors which have beset his kind, from the beginning of critical things until the present day. One of the most excellent and admirable of librarians once replied to a childish question of the present writer, “What do you do with the rubbish?” “It is rather difficult, you see, to know what is rubbish to-day; and quite impossible to know what will be rubbish to-morrow.” And while this is more especially true of the critic, who can with safety pass nothing, at least unexamined, as rubbish, his case is more dangerous still than that of the librarian, who has but to arrange what he has got in orderly fashion, and prepare plentiful shelves for what is coming.

With the critic, as we have seen, it is different. He must always generalise at his peril, and subject to the upset of his generalisations by fresh discoveries. But he can at least be careful of the “without prejudice,” and he can at least neglect nothing that is within his reach, in his processes of observation and comparison. The earlier Greek critics erred, as we have seen, partly because of a necessary and guiltless deprivation. But their venial sin became more of a mortal one, when they not only assumed that there was nothing save what they knew in Greek, but deliberately ignored the opportunities, not of sovereign but of considerable efficacy, which were offered them by Latin. The Latin critics erred, partly by the same assumption, and partly by converting the despite of Latin into a slavish and unintelligent adoration of Greek, and not always the best Greek. The Middle Age was innocent, as hardly indulging in criticism at all. But the Renaissance critics at first committed, and to far too great an extent handed on, a combination of the sins of their classical teachers. They assumed the stationary state of literary kinds and qualities, as both Greeks and Romans had done; they adulated classical literature, like the Romans in regard to Greek; they despised mediæval literature, like the Greeks in relation to Latin. And, as we shall see, they had their reward.

But I should be sorry to end not merely a chapter but a Book, not merely a Book but a volume, without a _caveat_ against possible misconstruction of the words “fault,” “error,” “sin,” “mischief,” “misfortune,” and the like, which have just been used, not merely in this context, but throughout the volume itself. There have been, I believe, persons unfortunate enough to be dissatisfied with the moral and physical government of the universe—persons who have sadly pronounced it “a crank machine” in many ways. These things are not my trade. But, in matters literary, I must plead guilty to being something of an optimist. Not that I think all literature good—that is not precisely the conclusion to which a thirty years’ practice of criticism brings one. In the critical land, as in the _pays des amours_, the shore where one always loves is a shore of which it must be said that _on ne la connaît guère_. There is, indeed, a certain critical delight in reading even the worst books, so long as they are positively and not merely negatively bad—but that is another matter.

The point on which I am contented to be called a critical Pangloss is this, that I have hardly the slightest desire to alter—if I could do so by the greatest of all miracles, that of retro-active change—the literary course of the world. No doubt things might have been better still—one may there agree with the pious divine on his strawberry. But one may also be perfectly contented with the actual result. I have endeavoured to show that, however we may feel bound to pronounce Greek literature incomplete in this or that department, and still more Greek criticism imperfect in its assumptions and of questionable adequacy in its methods, yet Greek criticism was the criticism which was wanted, to register and to preserve the qualities which have made Greek literature perhaps the most indispensable possession among the now goodly list of the literatures of the world. I have endeavoured further to show that the two conflicting strains or streams in Latin criticism correspond, in a manner “necessary and voluptuous and right,” on the one hand, to the ordered correctness and _venustas_ which are the notes of the Latin spirit on its Academic side; on the other, to the under-current of half-barbaric gorgeousness which there, as elsewhere, now and again asserted itself—with no small benefit to the world’s letters.

And so, also, in this chapter and the Book which precedes it, I have tried to show that the immense provision of new kinds of literature by the Middle Age, side by side with its almost total abstinence from criticism, was the best thing that could have happened. Nor is it impossible that, if we are able to pursue the inquiry, we shall find that the new differentia of the Renaissance period and that which followed to the Romantic revival—the curious fact that almost all its criticism went one way, while almost all its best creation went dead in the teeth of that criticism—has again worked mainly if not wholly for good. But this is for the future. _Si laisse ore à tant li contes à parler!_

INDEX.

Academics, the, 66. Acatalepsy (the Pyrrhonist doctrine of agnosticism), 64. Accius or Attius, L. (_b._ 170 A.C., _d._ (?)), tragic poet, 326. _Achilleid_, the, 269, 410. Achilles Tatius (_fl. c._ 500 A.D. (?)), novelist, 119 _note_, 180. _Acyrologia_ = “improper or inexact expression,” 338. Addison, 83, 118. _Ad Herennium_, 213, 217. Adrianus (_d. c._ 192 A.D.), rhetorician, 95. _Æneid_, the, see Virgil. _Ærumna_, objections to, 251 and _note_, 297. Æschylus (_b._ 525 A.C., _d._ 456), tragic poet, 22, 39, 112, 133, 155, 206, 308. Æsopus, (? ?), fabulist, 409. _Æthiopica_, the, 180, 181. Afranius, L. (_fl. c._ 100 A.C.), Roman comic poet, 311. _Africa_, Petrarch’s, 462. African euphuism, 362. _Against the Dogmatists_, 64-66. _Agave_, the, of Statius, 255 and _note_. _Agon_, the contentious or argumentative part of a speech, 101. C (12th cent.), moralist, &c., in verse, 411, 414 _note_, 466. Albinovanus Pedo (_fl. c._ 1 A.D.), poet, 310, 311. Albinus, _see_ Alcuin. Albucius, Silius (_fl._ 1st cent. A.C.), declaimer, &c., 238, 360, 432. Alcæus (_fl. c._ 600), poet, 133 _note_. Alcidamas (_fl._ end of 5th cent. A.C.), rhetorician, 45. Alcuin? (or Albinus?) (_b. c._ 735, _d._ 804), theologian and rhetorician, 375-377. Aldhelm (_b. c._ 650 A.D., _d._ 709), poet and divine, 400 _note_. Alexander (2nd cent. P.C.?), rhetorician, 102, 105. Allegory, its appearances in, and influences on, Criticism, 10-12, 67-70, 300, 301, 392 _sq._ ἁμαρτία. (1) The peculiar tragic “sin” on which Aristotle’s idea of tragedy partly hinges, 34 _sq._ (2) “Fault” generally in the critical sense; but in this ἁμαρτία is perhaps commoner, 44 _sq._, 168, 285, Bk. II. chap. iii. _passim_. _Amblysia_, “blunting” or “toning down,” 338. Ammæus (correspondent of Dion. Hal.), 129 _sq._ Amplification (_auxesis_), rhetorical term, sometimes for “raising,” sometimes for “varying,” the subject, 164. _Ampulla_, 271 and _note_. _Anabasis_, the, 309, 318. Anacreon (_c._ 560 A.C.–480), poet. Criticism of him in the Anthology, 82. ἀναίσχυντος (“anæschyntos”), “the shameless one.” One of the artificial distinctions of case in which the plaintiff seems impudent, 347. ἀνασκευή, refutation, one of the subject divisions of the Progymnasmata, 92 _sq._ _Anatomy of Melancholy, the_, 144 _note_, 194. Anaxagoras (_fl._ 5th cent. A.C.), philosopher, criticised Homer? 11. Anaximenes of Lampsacus (_fl._ 4th cent. A.C., with Alexander, 334), historian and rhetorician, 17 _note_. ἀντέγκλημα. Acceptance and vindication: “justification,” 98. Anthology, the Greek, literary epigrams of, 81-86, 147. —— the Latin, 344, 345. _Anti-Claudianus_, 410, 414 _note_. Antimachus of Colophon (or Claros) (_fl. c._ 400 A.C.), poet, 20 _note_, 85 _note_, 133, 307 _note_. _Antimetathesis_ = “putting the reader in the place of an actor or spectator by vivid narrative,” 157. Antiphanes (_fl._ 4th cent. A.C.), middle comic poet, 25 and _note_. Antoninus Pius (Emperor, 138-161 A.D.), 272, 273. Aper, M. (character in _Dial. de Clar. Orat._), 280 _sq._ ἀφελής, simple, plain, 99 _sq._ Aphthonius (_fl. c._ 315 A.D.), rhetorician, 90, 92, 93. Apollinaris, see Sidonius. Apollodorus of Pergamus (_fl._ 1st cent. A.C.), rhetorician, 302. _Apollonius, Life of_, 119-121, 388. Apollonius Rhodius (_fl. c._ 200 A.C.), 307, 318, 338. _Apology_, the Platonic, 237. _Apparebit repentina_ (hymn), 404. Appian (_fl._ 2nd cent. P.C.), historian, 178. Apsines (_fl. c._ 235? or _c._ 300?), rhetorician, 105. Apuleius (_fl._ 2nd cent. P.C., _b. c._ 130), novelist, &c., 151, 321, 352, 353, and _note_. Aquila Romanus, rhetorician, 346. Aquilius Regulus, M. (_fl. c._ 100), orator, 272 _note_, 357. ἀρχαῖοι, οἱ. In Arist., &c., “the early philosophers”; in Photius, &c., “the classics” generally. Uncertain when this latter use came in. MSS. of Dion. Halicarn. have in the same pass, some this word and some παλαιοί, 186. Archaism, 45. _Architrenius_, 410 and _note_, 414. Arellius Fuscus (_fl._ just before C.), rhetorician, 236. Argentarius, Marcus (?), epigrammatist and declaimer, 86, 234. Aristarchus (_fl. c._ 150 A.C.), critic and grammarian, 74-76, 85, 214. Aristides of Smyrna (P. Aelius A. Theodorus) (_b._ 117 A.D., _d. c._ 180), rhetorician, 82(?), 105(?), 109, 113-116, 183. —— the _Rhetoric_ of, 105. Aristophanes (_b. c._ 444 A.C., _d. c._ 380; Plays, 425-388; _Frogs_, 405), comic poet, 9, 17, 21-23, 30, 82, 146, 147, 294. —— and Menander, Plutarch’s comparison of, 143. —— of Byzantium (_fl. c._ 264), critic, 74-76. —— (4th cent. A.C.) (client of Libanius), 122. —— the Scholiasts on, 76. Aristotle (_b._ 384 A.C., _d._ 322), philosopher, Bk. I. chap. iii. (for headings see Contents), 5, 83 _note_, 130, 136, 155, 166, 173, 185, 192, 193, 224, 226, 241, 290, 294, 295, 306, 309, 444. Armstrong, 167, 296. Arnold, Matthew (_b._ 1822, _d._ 1888), poet and critic, 23, 55, 62 _note_, 146, 320. Arrian (_fl._ 2nd cent. P.C.), historian, 178, 179, 270. Arruntius, L., name of two persons, father and son, one consul 22 A.C., the other 6 A.D. Either might be the person referred to by Seneca, 238. _Ars Poetica_ of Horace, 221 _sq._ Arthur and Arthurian Legend, 423 _note_ and _sq._, 475, 483. Ascham, Roger, 213, 483. _Ataraxia_ (the Epicurean calm), 63, 64. Athenæus (_fl. c._ 230 A.D.), 144, 145 _note_, 186. _Athetesis_ = “marking as spurious,” 80. Atticism, 315. Atticus, Herodes (Tib. Claudius) (_b. c._ 104 A.D., _d._ 180), rhetorician, 323. —— T. Pomponius (_b._ 109 A.C., _d._ 32), friend of Cicero, 214. Attius, see Accius. _Atys_ or _Attis_, the, 305. _Aucassin et Nicolette_, 475. Augustinus, Aurelius (St Augustine) (_b._ 354 A.D., _d._ 430), rhetorician, theologian, and bishop, 349, 377-380, 401, 483. Augustus, the Emperor (_b._ 63 A.C., _d._ 14 A.D.), his epigram on Fulvia and Martial’s praise of it, 258. Aulic, the, in language, 425 _sq._ Aungervyle, see Bury. Aurelius, Marcus (M. A. Antoninus) (_b._ 121 A.D., Roman Emperor, 161, _d._ 180), 62 and _note_, 246 _note_. Ausonius, D. Magnus (_b. c._ 310 A.D., consul 379, _d. c._ 390), poet, professor, and prefect, 342, 343, 387. Avienus or Avianus (_fl. c._ 300 A.D. ?), fabulist, 409.

Bacchylides (_fl. c._ 470 A.C.), poet, 168. _Bailiff of Love_, the (_Le Bailli d’Amour_), 455 and _note_. Bassus, see Cæsius Bassus and Saleius Bassus. Bede, the Venerable (_b. c._ 673, _d._ 735), presbyter, historian, &c., 374, 375, 402-405. Bentley (?) on Philostratus, 119. Blair, Dr Hugh, vi, 154 _note_. “Blunder,” Aristides’ defence of his, 115, 116. Boccaccio, Giovanni (_b._ 1313, _d._ 1375), poet, tale-teller, and scholar, 417, 457-464. Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus (_b. c._ 470 A.D., _d. c._ 524), statesman and philosopher, 390, 406, 462. Bolognese dialect, 424, 425. Bossuet, 199. Boswell, 271 _note_. _Broad Stone of Honour_, the, 372. Browne, Sir T., quoted, 118. rowning, Mr, 226, 424 _note_. _Brunellus_, 414 _note_. _Brutus_, the, 218, 219. Burke, his “Amplification,” 164, 165. Burton, R., 119; the _Anatomy_, 144 _note_. Bury, Richard of, 455, 456 and _note_. Butcher, Prof. S. H., his _Aristotle’s Theory of Poetry and Fine Art_, 31 _note_ and Bk. I. ch. iii. notes, _passim_. Butler, S., on Rhetoric, 43.

_Cacozelon_ = “affected excess,” 297 and _note_. Cæcilius Statius (_d._ 168 A.C.), comic poet, 213 _note_, 324. Cæcilius (_fl. c._ 1 A.D. ?), rhetorician, 73, 138, 153 _sq._, 186 _note_, 302. Cælius, M. C. Rufus (_d._ 48 A.C.), orator, 312. Cæsar, C. Julius (_b._ 100 A.C., _d._ 44), 312. Cæsius Bassus (_d._ 78 A.D.), poet, 253 _note_. Callimachus (_fl._ 240-260 A.C.), poet, 273. Calvus, C. Licinius Macco (_b._ 82 A.C., _d. c._ 46), poet and orator, 312. “Cambridge the Everything,” 271 and _note_. Campbell, George (18th cent. divine and rhetorical writer), Preface, p. vi; 295 _note_. _Can Grande, Letter to_, 441, 442. “Canons” of writers, 213 _note_. _Canzone_, the, Bk. III. ch. ii. _passim_. Capella, see Martianus C. Cardinal, the, in language, 425 _sq._ _Carmina Burana_, 377 _note_, 405 _note_. Cassiodorus, Magnus Aurelius (_b. c._ 468 A.D., _d. c._ 568), statesman and polyhistor, 349, 391, 406. Cassius Severus (_b. c._ 50 A.C., _d._ 33 A.D.), orator and lampooner, 236. Castor (_fl. c._ 150 A.C.), rhetorician, 102. Cato, Dionysius (_fl._ 2nd cent. P.C. ?), moralist, 409. Catullus, Valerius (_b. c._ 87 A.C., _d. c._ 47), poet, 212, 258, 265, 267, 273, 294, 311, 317, 356. Causeret, M. C., 220. Caxton, 464, 465. Celtic Rhetoric, Early, 467 _note_. “Centimeters,” 404 and _note_. Cento, the, 343, 401. Châtillon, Gautier of (12th cent.), poet, 410. Chaucer, Geoffrey (_b._ 1340 ?, _d._ 1400), poet, 5, 55, 390 _note_, 450-452, 470. Chirius Fortuniatianus, see Curius F. Chœrilus of Samos (_fl._ 5th cent. A.C.), epic poet, 20. _Choragia_, 25 _note_. Chorus, the, Dion Chrysostom, 112-113. _Chreia_ (χρεία), the Rhetorical “use” or maxim, often of a figurative character, 91 _sq._ Chrysostom, Dion, see Dion Chrysostom. Cicero, M. Tullius (_b._ 106 A.C., _d._ 43 A.C.), orator, 5, 165, 186, 212, 213-221, 229 _note_, 270, 289, 294, 302, 312, 314, 333, 384. Cinna, C. Helvius (_d._ 44 A.C.), poet, 264, 265. Claudian—Claudius Claudianus (_fl. c._ 400 A.D.), poet, 83, 383, 393, 409 _sq._ —— (friend of Sidonius), 383. _Cléomadès_, 455 and _note_. Cocheris, M., 414 _note_, 455 _note_. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834), “logician, metaphysician, bard,” and critic, 5, 23, 118, 174, 419 _note_, 436, 438. Comedy, Greek, Criticism of Literature in, 21-26; Aristotle on, 32; Aristides on, 115, 116; general ancient views of, 294. _Comento_, Boccaccio’s, on Dante, 458 _sq._ “Commatic,” 386 and _note_. _Commedia, Divina, La_, Bk. III. ch. ii., _passim_. Commodianus (3rd cent. P.C.?), bishop and versifier, 364 and _#note:f454_. “Common” syllables, Martial on, 263 and _note_. Comparison in relation to criticism, 241. Composition in relation to Rhetoric and Criticism, 129 _sq._, 304. _Confessions_, the, of St Augustine, 378-380. _Consolatio Philosophiæ_, 390. _Constructionis Elatio_, 428 _sq._ _Contention of Phyllis and Flora_, the, 377 and _note_. _Controversies_, the, of Seneca the Elder, 334 _sq._ _Convito_, Dante’s, 417, 441-443. Cope, E.M., his ed. of the _Rhetoric_, 40 _note_, 46. Corax (_fl._ 5th cent. A.C.), traditional founder of rhetorical teaching, 16, 17 _note_. Corbinelli, Jacopo, 417. Corneille, Pierre (_b._ 1606, _d._ 1684), 5. Cornelius Severus (_fl. c._ 1 A.D.), poet, 235, 310 and _note_. Courthope, Mr W. J., 457 _note_, 462 _note_. Cowper, 460. Crabbe, 166. Crates of Mallos (_fl._ 2nd cent. A.C.), grammarian and critic, 74, 85. Critic, Quintilian’s sketch of the duty of the, 292, 293. “Cross-poems,” 396 _sq._ _Crotchet Castle_, 372. Ctesias (_fl. c._ 480 A.C.), physician and historian, 178. Cumberland on Philostratus, 119. Curial, the, in language, 425 _sq._ Curiatius Maternus (_fl. c._ 100?), 280 _sq._ Curius (or Chirius) Fortunatianus (_fl. c._ 450 A.D.), rhetorician and lawyer, 346, 347. Cynics, the, 62. Cyril of Alexandria (bishop 412-444 A.D.), 177. Cyrus (date?), rhetorician, 102 _note_.

Dante, Alighieri (Dantes Aligerus) (_b._ 1265, _d._ 1321), poet. The _De Vulgari Eloquio_, Bk. III. chap. ii. See Contents. Also 5, 133, 172, 173, 354, 404, 406, 416-446, 462. Dares Phrygius (probably no such person, book written _c._ 11th-12th cent. P.C. (?)), fabulous historian of Troy, 392, 410. Darmesteter, Madame, 453, 454. _De Admiranda Vi Demosthenis_, 129 _sq._ _De Antro Nympharum_, 68-70. _De Causis corruptæ Eloquentiæ_, 280 _sq._ Declamations, 230 _sq._, 279 _sq._ _De Compositione_, 129 _sq._ _De Dictamine Rhythmico_, see _Dictamen_. _De Genealogia Deorum_, 457 _sq._ _De Herodote Malignitate_, 142, 143. _De Interpretatione_, 89, 103, 104. _De Inventione_ (Longinus), 105-107. —— (Cicero), 217. Deinarchus (_b. c._ 361 A.C., _d. c._ 280), Attic orator, 129 _sq._ δεινὸς and δεινὸτης, how used, 97, 129. _Deipnosophistæ_, 144, 145 _note_. Delille, 167, 296. Demetrius Phalereus (_b. c._ 345 A.C., _d._ (?)), statesman and orator, 71, 89, 103, 104, 196. Democritus of Abdera (_b. c._ 460 A.C., _d._ 361), philosopher and humourist, 14, 15. Demosthenes (_b. c._ 385 A.C., _d._ 322), orator, 129, 165, 166 _sq._, 187 _note_, 277, 294, 312. _De Nuptiis Philologiæ et Mercurii_, 349-354, 377. _De Optimo Genere Oratorum_, 218. _De Oratore_, 217, 218. De Quincey, 121 _note_, 244 _note_, 296. Deschamps, Eustache (_b._ 1328, _d._ 1415), poet, &c., 454. _De Vulgari Eloquio_, 406, 416-446. _Dialogus de Claris Oratoribus_, 279 _sq._, 317 _note_, 357. _Dictamen_, the, 407 _sq._ Diction, see under Aristotle, Dionysius, Longinus, Quintilian, Dante. —— Poetic, see Aristotle, Dante, Wordsworth. Diderot, 119. διήγημα, a story of a real event introduced into a speech, 90 _sq._ (διήγησις is the setting forth of the circumstances of the case). Diogenes Laertius (_fl._ 2nd cent. P.C.), historian of philosophy, 14, 15 and _notes_, 89. Dion Cassius (_b._ 155 A.D.), historian, 180. Dion Chrysostom (_b. c._ 50 A.D., _d. c._ 117), rhetorician, 108-113, 195, 231. Dionysius of Halicarnassus (_b._ (?) came to Rome _c._ 29 A.C., _d._ 7 A.C.), rhetorician, historian, and critic, 5, 23, 70, 72, 96, 108, 127-137, 155 and _note_, 156 _note_, 185, 195, 219, 289, 444. —— of Thrace (_fl. c._ 80 A.C.), grammarian, 65. _Disertus_, 274 _note_. Dobson, Mr Austin, 271 _note_. Domitian—Martial on his modesty, 261, 262; Statius on his horse, 269; Quintilian on the poetry he would have written if he had written any, 311. Douglas, Gavin (_b. c._ 1474, _d._ 1522), bishop, poet, and translator, 268, 406, 464-466. Doxopater (11th cent. (?)), rhetorician, 97; (13th cent. (?)), 188. “Drink to me only with thine eyes,” 119. Dryden, John (_b._ 1631, _d._ 1700), poet and critic, 5, 23, 48, 56, 156 _note_.

“Earinos,” 263. Eberhard of Bethune (_fl. c._ 1200?), author of _Labyrinthus_ (?), 406. Education, Plutarch on, 139 _seq._ Egger, Émile, his _Essai sur l’Histoire de la Critique chez les Grecs_ (1st ed., 1850), 6, Bk. I., _notes_, _passim_. _Eikones_, the, of Philostratus, 119. εἰσφορὰ νόμου, the “introduction” and discussion of law. One of the Progymnasmata, 91 _sq._ ἔκφρασις, a set description intended to bring person, place, picture, &c., vividly before the mind’s eye. It is found largely in the Epideictic rhetoricians, and still more largely in the Greek Romances, 119 _note_. Elevation, 46. Empedocles (_fl. c._ 444 A.C.), philosopher, his fragments, 13, 14, 156. Empiricus, see Sextus Empiricus. Ennius, Q. (_b._ 239 A.C., _d._ 169), poet, 213 _note_, 310, 324, 401. _Epanodos_ = “deliberate repetition,” 303. Epicheireme (form of rhet. argument), 100 and _note_. Epictetus (_fl. c._ 100 A.D.), philosopher, 62. Epicurean, the, 62 _sq._ Epicurus (_b. c._ 342 A.C., _d._ 270), philosopher, 63. Epideictic (the third kind of oratory—the rhetoric of display), Bk. I., chap, iv., _passim_. ἐπιμέλεια, rhetorically and critically = “exactness,” 99 and _note_. _Epistle to Can Grande_, 441, 442. _Epistola ad Pisones_, 221 _sq._ Erinna (_fl. c._ 612 A.C.), poetess, criticisms on her “Distaff,” 82-85. ἑρμηνεία (_interpretatio_), used in Rhet. rather ambiguously. Generally, as in the treatise of Dem. Phal. (103 _sq._), it is nearly equivalent to “Theory of Prose Style.” _Interpretatio_ in Latin is also used of a particular Fig. = _conduplicatio_, “explaining the thing over again, in different words.” _Espinette Amoureuse, L’_, 454. _Ethopœia_, “character-drawing.” This, which was one of the subjects of the Progymnasmata, is sometimes used generally, sometimes for a special technical exercise in making speeches suited to characters and situations (Aphth. distinguishes it from _eidolopœia_, and includes both in _prosopopœia_), 90 _sq._ = Quintilian’s “ethology,” 292. _Etymologiæ_ of Isidore, 400 _sq._ Eunapius (_b._ 347 A.D.), sophist, 181. “Euphemesis,” a Fulgentian word = “ritual” (?), 395. _Euphues_ and Euphuism, 139, 389, 394. Eupolis (_b. c._ 446 A.C., _d. c._ 411), comic poet, 166. εὕρεσις = _inventio_, the _devising_ of topics, arguments, &c., suitable to the case; what the orator adds of his own to the facts and the law, 99 _sq._ Euripides (_b._ 480 A.C., _d._ 406), dramatist, 22, 24, 112, 133, 211, 308. _Excellentia vocabulorum_, 428 _sq._ _Expositio Virgiliana_, 392-396.

Fable, the, 90, 401. Faultlessness, 168 _sq._, 285 _sq._ Favorinus (_fl. c._ 120 A.D.), rhetorician, 323, 327, 328. Ferrers-Howell, Mr, 417 _note_ and _sq._ “Figures,” 43, 53, 102, 103 (and Bk. I. ch. iv. _passim_), 156 _sq._, 166 _sq._, 291 (Bk. II. ch. iii. _passim_), 360 _sq._, 374 _sq._, 432. _Filocopo_, the, 457, 463. _Filostrato_, the, 457, 463. Flaccus (a critical friend of Martial), 260, 262. —— poets, see Horace and Valerius. _Floire et Blanchefleur_, 463, 475. Florentine Dialect, 421 _sq._ _Florida_, the, 363 and _note_. Foix, Gaston de, 455. Forms, the artificial, of French poetry, 449. Fortunatianus, see Curius. Fortunatus, see Venantius. “Four, the,” Aristides’ speech for, 115, 116. “Frigidity,” 43, 156. _Frogs_, The, 6, 21-23, 270 _note_. Froissart, 453-455. Fronto, M. Cornelius (consul, 146 A.D.), rhetorician, 288 _note_. Fulgentius, Fabius Planciades (6th cent. P.C.), 392-396, 459.

Galliambic metre, 305 and _note_. Garland, or de Garlandia, John, see John of G. Gascoigne, George (_b._ 1525 (?), _d._ 1577), 86, 471. Gautier, Théophile, 62 _note_ Gellius, Aulus (_fl. c._ 150 A.D.), grammarian and man of letters, 186, 322-329. Geoffrey of Vinsauf, see Vinsauf. Georgius Choeroboscus (4th and 5th cent. P.C.), rhetorician, 103. Georgius Pachymeres (_b. c._ 1242, _d. c._ 1310), Byzantine historian and rhetorician, 95. _Gesta Romanorum_, the, 187, 394. Gibbon, 384 and _note_. Gifford on Philostratus, &c., 116. _Gnomæ_, “sentences,” “maxims,” 91 and _note_, 298. Gorgias of Athens (_fl._ 1st cent. A.C.), rhetorician, 346. Gorgias of Leontini (_fl._ 5th cent. A.C. at Athens, 427), rhetorician and sophist, 16, 45, 159, 160. γοργότης, rhetorical and critical term = “nervousness,” “poignancy,” &c., 99. Gracchus, Sempronius (_b. c._ 160 A.C., _d._ 121), demagogue, his style, 229 _note_, 325. Grammar, Quintilian on, 291, 292; in Martianus, 353. Grammarians, the Greek, the Roman, 361, 362. _Grammatica_ (and “grammar”), Dante’s meaning of, 419 _sq._ _Grammaticus_ = more than mere “grammarian,” 343. Grand Style, the, 336. _Graphica lexis_, written as opposed to spoken style (_v._ Aristotle, _Rhetoric_, iii. 12. 1), 201, 202. _Gryll Grange_, 381 _note_. Guest’s _English Rhythms_, 405.

Hall (17th cent. translator of Longinus), 154. Halliwell, J. O., 407. Hardie, Professor, Preface, 263 _note_, 305 _note_. Havell, Mr H. L., 153 _note_. Hawes, Stephen (_fl. c._ 1500), poet, 406. Heine, H., 202. Heliodorus (_fl. c._ 400 A.D.), bishop and novelist, 180, 181. Hermagoras (_fl_. 1st cent. A.C.), rhetorician and teacher of Cicero, 349, 377. Hermogenes (_fl. c._ 170), rhetorician, 89-92, 97-100, and Bk. I. ch. iv. _passim_, 196. Herodian (Aelius Herodianus) (2nd cent. P.C.), rhetorician and grammarian, 103. Herodotus (_b._ 484 A.C., _d. c._ 406), historian, 130 _sq._, 142, 143, 178-180, 296, 312. _Heroica_, or _Heroic Dialogue_ of Philostratus, 120. Herondas (?) (“Herodes”) (? 3rd cent. A.C.), mimiambic poet, 273. Herrick, 324 _note_. Hildebrand of Padua, 424 _note_. Hillard, Miss K., 441 _note_ and _sq._ Himerius (_fl._ 4th cent. P.C.), sophist and rhetorician, 125 _note_, 183. Hippolytus, the Latin, 247. _Hirsuta_ = “shaggy words,” Dante on, 429 _sq._ _History, How to Write_, 147, 148. Homer, Criticism of, 10-12, 27, 49, 50, 79-81, 82-87, 100, 130 _sq._, 156 _sq._, 206, 307, 343, 410, 463. —— and Plato, Max. Tyrius on, 117, 118. —— scholia on, 78-81. _Homeric Allegories_, 187. _Homeric Problems_ (Aristotle’s), 49, 50, 185 _note_. _Homeric Questions_ (Porphyry’s), 68-70. “Homilies” of Doxopater, 97; of Longinus, 187; Isidore’s use of the word, 402 _note_. Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) (_b_. 65 A.C., _d._ 8 A.C.), poet, 212, 221-230, 258, 294, 301, 311, 356, 360 _sq._, 432. Hugo, Victor, 202, 365. _Hyperbaton_ = “alteration of order for rhetorical purposes,” 137. Hyperides (_b. c._ 390? A.C., _d._ 322), orator, 169. _Hypodiæresis_ = “distribution of indictment,” 98. Hypotheses, not admitted, 6.

Iamblichus the romancer (_fl. c._ 100 A.D.), 176, 180;
_not_ Iamblichus the philosopher (_fl. c._ 300 A.D.)
Ideas, the Platonic, their bearing on criticism, 18 _sq._, 67 _sq._;
rhetorical sense of, 99 _sq._