Introductory

In his preface to Some Oxford Compositions (Oxford University Press, 1949) Mr. T. F. Higham quotes with apparent approval the statement that ‘Mr. H. M. Butler was constantly haunted by the conviction that each metre had, more or less, a personality of its own’. Many years of Sixth-form teaching, and more recently the privilege of examining for the Oxford and Cambridge Schools Examination Board's Higher Certificate, have led the writer of this article not only to share Mr. Butler's conviction but also to realize that far too many pupils labour at verse composition without that sufficient knowledge of the underlying principles by which verse-making can become so fascinating a pursuit. It is believed that with this knowledge boys would not only maintain their deep interest in versification, on which they almost invariably enter with enthusiasm, but also—and this is far more important—would find, as the seven authors of Some Oxford Compositions have found, that they were not merely engaged in an elegant accomplishment but using one of the best means to a higher standard of scholarship.

This essay is written with the further conviction that the boy who has gained some knowledge of the inner ‘personality’ of Vergil's hexameter line—a personality that determines, as Mr. Butler claimed, both its spirit and its form—will have very little difficulty in learning to appreciate more fully all except the more recondite metres both in Latin and in Greek.

In the following paragraphs the majority of the quotations from Vergil have been taken from Aeneid, book iv; it is hoped that this will simplify the task of looking up the references; will encourage a closer study of a book which is not greatly dependent on the other books of the Aeneid for its full appreciation; and, most of all, will lead pupils to make a similar close study of one or more of those other books.

It is frequently remarked of the κοινή Greek of the Gospels that it bears distinct traces of Hebrew and Aramaic influence, conscious or unconscious. The average reader of the Gospels may often wonder just which of the many linguistic oddities he encounters are common to all or most forms of κοινή and which are the genuine Hebraisms or Aramaisms; he can, if of a heroic cast of mind, learn Hebrew for this one purpose (a plan which will commend itself to few), or he can read various weighty tomes, from those of Wellhausen and Burney, who see Aramaic influence everywhere, to those of Moulton and Milligan, who minimize that influence wherever possible, to that of Lagrange, who placidly pursues a via media. But he would probably prefer a brief essay which tries to sum up the main facts without a footnote, without an appendix, and without an axe to grind.

First, influence on syntax. Every κοινή scholar would agree that one of the commonest Semitisms in the Gospels is the initial position of the verb in the sentence. In both Hebrew and Aramaic the verb almost invariably appears first: ‘the king saw the man’ would (though in the Hebrew right-to-left order in which the first becomes last and the last becomes first) be expressed as ra'ah (verb) hammelech (subject) 'eth (sign of the accusative) ha'ish (object). Obviously the average Aramaic-speaking Jew would write εἶεν ὁ βασιλεύς τòν ἄνλpα. Now it is perfectly true that there is nothing un-Greek in the position of ενεν here; but it is the frequency of the occurrence, not the fact, which is significant; the initially placed verb meets us on every page of the Gospels—examples are unnecessary.

The Gracchi in literature as in all else mark a turning-point in Roman history; they brought one epoch to a close and inaugurated a fresh one; and by their choice of means to effect their end they unwittingly determined the direction of events for the following century. In order to be able to appreciate the literature as a reflection and a phenomenon of its society, we must first briefly consider the effects of the Gracchi upon political life, and then the effects of that political life upon Roman society. The Gracchi set out to solve certain problems; but owing to the twist that they gave to Roman history, those problems fell into the background, to be supplanted by a problem of politics which absorbed all the energies of the governing class to the exclusion of the problems which should have been their main concern and responsibility.

The problems that confronted the State at the time of the Gracchi were many; they were social, economic, political, and administrative problems of vast complexity that required wisdom, patience, and, above all, goodwill for their solution. By this time real political power was wielded by a comparatively small number of families, grouped round leading men; they had come to believe that they governed by divine right, and while the better among them were aware of their responsibilities, there were many to whom the emoluments of government were reason enough for restricting the profits of empire among the smallest number. During the second century the attitude of the governing class had become conservative, opposed to any change which might alter the existing organization or deprive them of some of their great power.

A Recurrent motif in Latin poets is the assertion that somebody would follow somebody else anywhere, to the world's end if need be. This mannerism is worth notice for its curious persistence over a long period, and it is amusing to observe the details, the places which suggest themselves to the writers as dangerous or remote.

The series seems to begin with Catullus (II. 1–4): he has two cronies who will follow him wherever he goes, whether east to Parthia or Hyrcania and the Sacae beyond, or—presumably on another line, by sea—to the Arabs and the uttermost Indians, litus ut longe resonante Eoa tunditur unda, or south to the Nile, or north over the high Alps to the Rhine and the far-western Britons, just then being invaded by Julius Caesar. In fact the poet went east only to Bithynia, and nothing is known of journeys in other directions. (One scholar has even questioned whether he really came home all the way on his ‘yacht’, as poem 4 is generally understood to say.)1

Propertius is extravagant: with his friend he would scale the fabulous mountains of the north wind or go south to Ethiopia and beyond, whatever he may conceive to be there— cum quo Rhipaeos possim conscendere montes ulteriusque domo vadere Memnonia.2 With his lady he would go mare per longum and endure anything (iii. 22. 9). A love-sick girl is made to write to her soldier, who is supposed to have seen the world from Britain and the wintry Getae to a generously large and elastic eastern frontier: if service regulations allowed, she would be with him, and Scythian mountains and frozen waters would not stop her: as it is, she can only look for his whereabouts on a map, e tabula pictos ediscere mundos.