Book 1

I have often thought long and hard about whether the power of speaking and the keen pursuit of eloquence have brought men and communities more good or more harm. For when I consider the losses our own commonwealth has suffered, and gather in my mind the ancient disasters of the greatest states, I see that no small part of these misfortunes was brought on by men of great eloquence; yet when I set out to recover from the records of literature those events removed from our own memory by their antiquity, I find that many cities have been founded, very many wars extinguished, the firmest alliances and the most sacred friendships formed, not only by reason of the mind but more readily by eloquence. And indeed, as I reflect long upon this, reason itself leads me above all to the view that wisdom without eloquence does communities little good, but eloquence without wisdom is most often a great harm and never a benefit. Therefore, if a man, neglecting the most upright and honourable pursuits of reason and duty, spends all his effort upon the practice of speaking, he is reared to be useless to himself and ruinous to his country; but the man who so arms himself with eloquence that he can not attack the interests of his country but defend them, he seems to me a citizen most useful and most loyal both to his own and to the public interest.

And if we wish to consider the origin of this thing which is called eloquence—whether it be an art, a study, a kind of practice, or a faculty derived from nature—we shall find that it sprang from the most honourable causes and proceeded from the best principles. For there was once a time when men wandered at large over the fields after the manner of beasts and sustained their lives on wild fare, doing nothing by reason of the mind but managing most things by the strength of the body. As yet no account was taken of divine religion or of human duty; no one had seen lawful marriage, no one had looked upon children certainly his own, no one had learned what advantage there was in equitable law. And so, through error and ignorance, blind and reckless desire, mistress of the mind, abused the strength of the body, those most ruinous henchmen, to satisfy itself. At this time a certain man—great, no doubt, and wise—recognized what material there was, and what great opportunity for the highest achievements lay hidden in the minds of men, if only someone could draw it out and make it better by instruction. By a certain method he gathered into one place men who were scattered over the fields and hidden away in woodland shelters, and brought them together; and leading them into every useful and honourable course of life, though at first they cried out against it because of its strangeness, then because of reason and eloquence listened with greater attention, he made them gentle and tame out of wild and savage creatures.

To me at least it seems that wisdom could not have accomplished this—the sudden turning of men from their old habits and their transfer to different modes of life—if it had been silent or destitute of the power of speech. Consider further: once cities had been founded, how could it ever have come about that men learned to keep faith and to maintain justice, to obey others of their own free will, and to think it right not only to undertake labours for the common good but even to lay down their lives—unless men had been able to persuade by eloquence of what they had discovered by reason? Surely no one, when he could do most by force, would have been willing to surrender his strength to the rule of law and to put himself on a level with those whom he might have surpassed, and of his own free will to give up a most pleasant habit which by long usage had by then taken on the force of nature—unless he had been moved by weighty and agreeable speech. In this way, then, eloquence seems first to have arisen and to have advanced further, and afterwards to have been employed, with the greatest benefit to mankind, in the highest affairs of peace and war. But once a certain facility, a corrupt imitator of virtue, had attained an abundant power of speech without any regard for duty, then malice, relying on talent, grew accustomed to overthrowing cities and undermining the lives of men.

And since I have spoken of the beginning of this good, let me explain the origin of this evil too. It seems to me most probable that there was a time when men inarticulate and unwise were not in the habit of taking part in public affairs, nor did great and eloquent men come forward to plead private cases; but while the most important matters were administered by the most eminent men, I suppose there were others, not without cleverness, who took up the petty disputes of private persons. In these disputes, since men often grew accustomed to standing for falsehood against the truth, constant practice in speaking bred audacity, so that of necessity those better men were compelled, on account of the wrongs done to their fellow citizens, to resist the bold, and each to bring help to his own connections. And so, since in speaking the man who, abandoning the pursuit of wisdom, had acquired nothing for himself but eloquence often seemed an equal and sometimes even a superior, it came about that, in the judgment both of the multitude and of himself, he was thought worthy to govern the state. From this it followed, not unjustly, that when rash and audacious men had come to the helm of the commonwealth, the greatest and most miserable shipwrecks occurred. By these things eloquence drew upon itself so much hatred and ill will that the most gifted men, as though escaping from some violent storm into harbour, withdrew from the seditious and turbulent life into some quiet pursuit. And so it seems to me that afterwards the other upright and honourable studies, cultivated in leisure by the best men, shone forth, while this one was abandoned by most of them and fell into disuse at the very time when it ought to have been retained far more firmly and increased more zealously.

For the more unworthily the rashness and audacity of foolish and wicked men violated a thing most honourable and most upright, to the greatest detriment of the commonwealth, the more zealously should those men have been resisted and the commonwealth looked to. This did not escape our own Cato, nor Laelius, nor—to speak truly—their disciple Africanus, nor the Gracchi, grandsons of Africanus; in these men there was the highest virtue, and authority enlarged by the highest virtue, and eloquence, which was both an ornament to these qualities and a safeguard to the commonwealth. Therefore in my own judgment eloquence ought to be pursued no less, even though certain men abuse it both in private and in public; rather, it ought to be pursued the more vigorously, lest the wicked should have very great power, to the great detriment of the good and the common ruin of all—especially since this is the one thing which most of all bears upon every matter, private and public alike, by which life is made safe, honourable, distinguished, and at the same time pleasant. For from this very great benefits come to the commonwealth, if wisdom, the guide of all things, is at hand; from this come praise, honour, and dignity to the men who have attained it; from this too the surest and safest protection is provided for their friends. And to me indeed it seems that men, though in many respects lowlier and weaker than the beasts, surpass them above all in this, that they can speak. Therefore it seems to me a splendid thing for a man to have attained excellence over other men in the very respect in which men surpass the beasts. And since this is brought about not by nature and practice alone, but is also acquired by a certain art, it is not out of place to see what those men say who have left us some precepts on the subject. But before we speak of the rules of oratory, it seems right to speak of the nature of the art itself, of its function, its end, its material, and its parts. For once these things are known, the mind of each man will be able more easily and readily to consider the very method and course of the art.

There is a certain science of civic life which consists of many great matters. A great and ample part of it is artful eloquence, which they call rhetoric. For we do not agree with those who think that political science has no need of eloquence, and we strongly disagree with those who think it is wholly contained in the power and art of the rhetorician. Therefore we shall place this oratorical faculty in such a class as to say that it is a part of political science. The function of this faculty seems to be to speak in a manner suited to producing persuasion; its end is to persuade by speech. Between function and end there is this difference, that in the function we consider what ought to be done, in the end what ought to be effected. As we say that the function of the physician is to treat in a manner suited to healing, and his end to heal by treatment, so too we understand what we should call the function and what the end of the orator when we say that what he ought to do is his function, and that for the sake of which he ought to do it we call his end.

We call the material of an art that with which the whole art and the faculty produced by the art is concerned. As if we should say that the material of medicine is diseases and wounds, because all medicine is concerned with these, so the matters with which the art and faculty of oratory is concerned we name the material of the art of rhetoric. Some have reckoned these matters more, others fewer. For Gorgias of Leontini, almost the earliest rhetorician, held that the orator could speak best on all subjects whatever; he seems to assign to this art an unlimited and boundless material. Aristotle, however, who furnished this art with very many aids and ornaments, held that the function of the rhetorician was concerned with three classes of subjects: the demonstrative, the deliberative, and the judicial. The demonstrative is that which is devoted to the praise or blame of some particular person; the deliberative, which, set in political debate, involves the expression of an opinion; the judicial, which, set in a court of law, involves accusation and defence, or claim and rejection. And, as our own opinion holds, the art and faculty of the orator is to be regarded as concerned with this threefold material.

For Hermagoras certainly seems neither to attend to what he says nor to understand what he promises, when he divides the orator's material into "cause" and "question," and says that a cause is a matter which involves a controversy set in speech, with the introduction of definite persons—which we too say is assigned to the orator (for we place under it the three parts we mentioned before: the judicial, the deliberative, the demonstrative). But he calls a "question" that which involves a controversy set in speech without the introduction of definite persons, of this kind: Is there any good besides the honourable? Are the senses trustworthy? What is the shape of the universe? What is the size of the sun? Such questions everyone, I think, readily understands to be far removed from the orator's function; for to assign to the orator, as though they were some trifling matters, those questions on which we know the highest talents of the philosophers have been spent with the greatest labour, seems great madness. But if Hermagoras had possessed in these matters a great faculty acquired by study and training, he would seem, relying on his own knowledge, to have laid down something false about the orator's art, and to have set forth not what the art can do but what he himself could do. As it is, the man's power is such that one would sooner take rhetoric from him than grant him philosophy—not that I think the art he published was written by him most faultily; for in it he seems to have collected and arranged matters chosen with ingenuity and care from the ancient treatises, and to have contributed something new himself. But it is of very little importance to the orator to talk about the art, which is what he did, and of the very greatest importance to speak by the art, which we all see he was least able to do.

The material, then, of the art of rhetoric seems to us to be that which we have said seemed so to Aristotle; and its parts are those which most authorities have named: invention, arrangement, expression, memory, and delivery. Invention is the devising of matters true or probable, which may render a cause persuasive; arrangement is the distribution of the matters discovered into their proper order; expression is the fitting of suitable words to the matter discovered; memory is the firm grasp by the mind of the matters and words belonging to the invention; delivery is the regulation of voice and body in keeping with the dignity of the matters and words. Now, having briefly settled these things, we shall put off to another time those discussions by which we might show the nature, end, and function of this art; for they require many words and do not so greatly pertain to the description of the art and the handing down of its rules. But we hold that one who writes a treatise on the art of rhetoric ought to write about the two remaining matters, the material of the art and its parts. And to me indeed it seems that the material and the parts should be treated together. Therefore let invention, which is the chief of all the parts, be considered above all, in every kind of cause—what it ought to be.

Every matter which involves some controversy set in speech and debate contains a question either of fact, or of name, or of kind, or of procedure. This question, then, from which the cause arises, we call the "issue." The issue is the first clash of the cases, arising from the rejection of the charge, in this manner: "You did it"—"I did not do it," or "I did it lawfully." When there is a controversy of fact, since the case is established by conjectures, the issue is called conjectural. When there is a controversy of name, since the meaning of the term must be defined in words, the issue is called definitional. When the question is what kind of thing the matter is, since the controversy concerns both the nature and the kind of the act, the issue is called general (qualitative). But when the case turns on this, that either the wrong person seems to be conducting the action, or not against the person he should, or not before the proper persons, or not at the proper time, or under the proper law, on the proper charge, with the proper penalty, the issue is called translative, because the action seems to need transfer and change. And one of these must fall upon every kind of cause; for in any matter upon which it does not fall, there can be no controversy. Therefore it is not even fit to be considered a cause.

A controversy of fact can be assigned to all the tenses. For one can inquire what has been done, in this manner: Did Ulysses kill Ajax? and what is being done, in this manner: Are the people of Fregellae well disposed toward the Roman people? and what will be done, in this manner: If we leave Carthage unharmed, will any harm come to the commonwealth? There is a controversy of name when there is agreement about the fact, and the question is by what name that which was done should be called. In this class there must necessarily be a controversy of name because there is disagreement about the matter itself—not because the fact is in doubt, but because what was done seems one thing to one person and another to another, and therefore each calls it by a different name. Therefore in cases of this kind the matter must be defined in words and briefly described, as, for instance, if someone has stolen a sacred object from a private place, whether he is to be judged a thief or a temple-robber; for when this is in question, it will be necessary to define both, what a thief is and what a temple-robber is, and by one's own description to show that the matter under discussion ought to be called by another name than that which our opponents use.

There is a controversy of kind when it is agreed what has been done, and it is settled by what name what was done ought to be called, and yet the question is how great, of what character, and in general of what quality it is, in this manner: is it just or unjust, useful or useless, and all those questions in which the inquiry is what quality belongs to the thing that was done, without any controversy of name. To this class Hermagoras assigned four subdivisions: the deliberative, the demonstrative, the juridical, and the negotial. This error of his—no slight one, as we think—seems to deserve censure, but briefly, lest, if we pass it over in silence, we be thought to have failed to follow him without reason, or, if we dwell upon it too long, we be thought to have introduced delay and hindrance into the rest of our precepts. If deliberation and demonstration are kinds of causes, they cannot rightly be considered parts of some kind of cause; for the same thing can be a kind to one person and a part to another, but it cannot be a kind and a part of the same thing. But deliberation and demonstration are kinds of causes. For either there is no kind of cause at all, or only the judicial, or the judicial and the demonstrative and the deliberative. To say there is no kind of cause, when he says there are many causes and gives precepts for them, is madness; but how can the judicial alone exist, when deliberation and demonstration are neither alike to each other nor like the judicial kind, but differ from it very greatly, and each has its own end to which it ought to be referred? It remains, then, that there are three kinds of causes.

But if the parts of a kind of cause cannot rightly be so considered, much less rightly will the parts of a part of a cause be so considered. Now every issue is a part of a cause; for the cause is not fitted to the issue, but the issue to the cause. But demonstration and deliberation cannot rightly be considered parts of a kind of cause, because they are themselves kinds; much less rightly, then, will they be considered parts of that thing which is here called a part. Again, if the issue itself and any part of it is a rejection of the charge, then whatever is not a rejection of the charge is neither an issue nor a part of an issue; deliberation and demonstration are neither an issue nor a part of an issue. But he himself holds that the issue is a rejection of the charge; he must therefore hold that demonstration and deliberation are neither an issue nor a part of an issue. And he will be pressed by this same argument whether he calls the issue the first confirmation of the accuser's case or the first plea of the defendant's; for all the same difficulties will follow him.

Again, a conjectural cause cannot at the same time, in the same respect and the same kind, be both conjectural and definitional. Nor can a definitional cause at the same time, in the same respect and the same kind, be both definitional and translative. And in general no issue or part of an issue can at once contain both its own force and that of another within it, because each one is considered in itself and by its own nature simply; when a second is added, the number of issues is doubled, but the force of the issue is not increased. But a deliberative cause is wont, at the same time, in the same respect and the same kind, to have a conjectural, a general, a definitional, and a translative issue—one, or sometimes several. Therefore it is itself neither an issue nor a part of an issue. The same is wont to happen in demonstration. These, then, as we said before, are to be considered kinds of causes, not parts of any issue. This issue, then, which we call general, seems to us to have two parts, the juridical and the negotial. The juridical is that in which the nature of equity and right, or the principle of reward or punishment, is inquired into; the negotial is that in which it is considered what is lawful according to civil custom and equity;

and the men we call jurists are thought to preside over this kind of inquiry among us. And the juridical itself is divided into two parts, the absolute and the assumptive. The absolute is that which contains in itself the question of right and wrong; the assumptive is that which of itself supplies nothing firm for the defence, but borrows from outside some support for the case. Its parts are four: confession (concession), shifting of the charge, retort of the charge, and comparison. Concession is when the defendant does not defend what was done, but begs to be pardoned. This is divided into two parts: purgation and entreaty. Purgation is when the act is admitted, but the guilt is removed. This has three parts: ignorance, accident, and necessity. Entreaty is when the defendant confesses that he has done wrong, and done wrong deliberately, and yet begs to be pardoned; a kind of plea which can very rarely occur. The shifting of the charge is when the defendant tries to remove from himself and from his own fault and power onto another the charge brought against him. This can be done in two ways: if either the cause or the act is transferred to another. The cause is transferred when it is said to have been done by another's force and power; the act, when another is said to have had the duty or the power to do it. The retort of the charge is when the act is said to have been done lawfully because someone first provoked it by a wrong. Comparison is when it is maintained that some other act, right or useful, was the reason for which the one charged is said to have been committed.

In the fourth issue, which we call translative, there is a controversy of that issue when the question is who, or against whom, or in what manner, or before whom, or by what right, or at what time one ought to bring an action, or when in general some change or invalidation of the action is at stake. Hermagoras is thought to be the discoverer of this issue—not because earlier orators did not often make use of it, but because the writers on the art before him did not notice it nor count it among the issues. But after it had been discovered by him, many found fault with it; and these, I think, are hindered not so much by ignorance (for the matter is plain) as by envy and a certain disposition to disparage. And so we have set forth both the issues and their parts; but examples of each kind we shall set forth more conveniently when we provide an abundance of arguments for each of them; for the method of arguing will be clearer when it can at once be fitted both to the kind and to an example of a cause.

Once the issue of the cause has been found, it is well at once to consider whether the cause is simple or compound; and if it is compound, whether it is compounded of several questions or of some comparison. It is simple when it contains in itself one absolute question, in this manner: Shall we declare war on the Corinthians, or not? It is compounded of several questions when more things than one are inquired into, in this manner: Shall Carthage be destroyed, or restored to the Carthaginians, or shall a colony be settled there? It involves comparison when, by way of contrast, the question is which is preferable, or what is most expedient, in this manner: Shall an army be sent into Macedonia against Philip, to bring aid to our allies, or shall it be kept in Italy, so that the greatest possible forces may be at hand against Hannibal? Next we must consider whether the controversy is one of reasoning or of writing; for a controversy of writing is that which arises from the character of a written document. Its kinds, which are distinct from the issues, are five. For sometimes the words themselves seem to be at variance with the writer's intention; sometimes two or more laws are at variance with one another; sometimes what is written seems to signify two or more things; sometimes from what is written something else is inferred which is not written; sometimes the meaning of a word is in question, as in the definitional issue—in what it consists. Therefore we name the first kind "from the letter and the intent," the second "from contrary laws," the third "ambiguity," the fourth "inference (ratiocinative)," the fifth "definitional."

But the controversy is one of reasoning when the whole question rests not on a written text but on some process of argument. And so, when you have considered the kind of cause—when you have understood whether it is simple or compound, and have seen whether it has a controversy of writing or of reasoning—you must next see what the question, the reason, the point for decision, and the foundation of the cause are; all of which must proceed from the issue. The question is that controversy which is generated by the clash of the cases, in this manner: "You did not act lawfully"—"I acted lawfully." Now the clash of the cases is that in which the issue consists. From it, then, arises the controversy which we call the question, namely: Did he act lawfully? The reason is that which contains the cause, and which, if it were taken away, would leave no controversy in the cause—in this manner, to take, for the sake of instruction, an easy and familiar example: if Orestes were accused of matricide, unless he should say "I acted lawfully, for she had killed my father," he has no defence; and once this reason is taken away, the whole controversy is taken away too. The reason of his case, then, is that she had killed Agamemnon. The point for decision is the controversy which arises from the invalidation of the reason. For let the reason which we set forth a little before be put before us: "for she," he says, "had killed my father"; "but," the opponent will say, "it was not right for the mother to be slain by you, her son; for her deed could have been punished without crime on your part." From this rebuttal of the reason arises that crowning controversy which we call the point for decision. It is of this kind: Was it right for Orestes to kill his mother, since she had killed his father?

The foundation is the firmest argument of the defender, and the most fitted to the point for decision: as if Orestes should wish to say that his mother's disposition toward his father, toward himself and his sisters, toward the kingdom, and toward the reputation of their race and family was such that her own children above all had a duty to exact punishment from her. And in the other issues, indeed, the points for decision are found in this way; but in the conjectural issue, because there is no reason—for the fact is not admitted—the point for decision cannot arise from the rebuttal of a reason. Therefore the question and the point for decision must be the same: "It was done"—"It was not done"—"Was it done?" And however many issues or parts of issues there are in a cause, so many questions, reasons, points for decision, and foundations must be found. Then, once all these have been found in the cause, the several parts of the whole cause must finally be considered. For it is not the case that whatever is to be said first should also be attended to first; the reason being that those things which are said first, if you wish them strongly to agree and cohere with the cause, must be drawn from those which are to be said later. Therefore, when the point for decision, and the arguments which ought to be found bearing on the point for decision, have been carefully discovered by art and thoroughly worked over by care and thought, then at last the other parts of the speech are to be arranged. These parts seem to us to be six in all: the exordium, the narrative, the partition, the confirmation, the refutation, and the conclusion. Now, since the exordium ought to be first, we too shall first give precepts on the method of beginning.

The exordium is a passage which suitably prepares the hearer's mind for the rest of the speech: which will happen if it has rendered him well-disposed, attentive, and receptive. Therefore, whoever wishes to make a good beginning to his cause must first carefully understand the kind of his cause. There are five kinds of causes: the honourable, the surprising (discreditable), the lowly, the doubtful, and the obscure. The honourable kind of cause is that to which the hearer's mind is favourable at once, without any speech of ours; the surprising is that from which the minds of those who are to hear are alienated; the lowly is that which is disregarded by the hearer and seems to deserve no great attention; the doubtful is that in which either the point for decision is uncertain, or the cause partakes both of honour and of baseness, so that it gives rise both to good will and to offence; the obscure is that in which either the hearers are dull or the cause is involved in matters too difficult to understand. Therefore, since the kinds of causes are so different, it is necessary to begin in a different way in each kind. The exordium, then, is divided into two parts, the introduction (direct opening) and the insinuation (subtle approach). The introduction is a passage which clearly and at once renders the hearer well-disposed, or receptive, or attentive. The insinuation is a passage which, by a certain dissimulation and circuitous approach, secretly steals into the hearer's mind.

In the surprising kind of cause, if the hearers are not altogether hostile, it will be possible to gain their good will by an introduction. But if they are strongly alienated, it will be necessary to resort to insinuation. For if peace and good will are openly sought from men who are angry, not only are they not obtained, but the hatred is increased and inflamed. In the lowly kind of cause, however, in order to remove contempt, it is necessary to make the hearer attentive. If the doubtful kind of cause has an uncertain point for decision, one must begin from the point for decision itself. But if it partakes partly of baseness and partly of honour, it will be fitting to capture good will, so that the cause may seem to be transferred into the honourable kind. But when the cause is of the honourable kind, the introduction may either be omitted, or, if it is convenient, we may begin from the narrative, or from a law, or from some very firm argument of our own speech; or if we choose to use an introduction, we must employ the means of producing good will, so that what already exists may be increased. In the obscure kind of cause we must by the introduction make the hearers receptive. Now, since it has been stated what things the exordium ought to accomplish, it remains to show by what methods each of them may be accomplished.

Good will is procured from four sources: from our own person, from that of our opponents, from that of the judges, and from the cause. From our own person, if we speak of our deeds and services without arrogance; if we dispel the charges brought against us and any less than honourable suspicions cast upon us; if we set forth the misfortunes that have befallen us or the difficulties that threaten us; if we make use of prayer and humble, suppliant entreaty. From the person of our opponents, if we bring them into hatred, or envy, or contempt. They will be brought into hatred if some foul, arrogant, cruel, or malicious deed of theirs is set forth; into envy, if their power, influence, wealth, and connections are set forth, and their arrogant and intolerable use of these, so that they seem to rely on these things rather than on their cause; into contempt, if their idleness, negligence, sloth, lazy pursuits, and luxurious leisure are set forth. From the person of the hearers good will will be captured, if their brave, wise, and gentle deeds are set forth, so that no excessive flattery is shown, and if it is pointed out how honourable is the esteem in which they are held, and how great the expectation of their judgment and authority; from the cause, if we exalt our own case by praising it, and depress our opponents' case through contempt.

We shall make the hearers attentive if we show that the matters we are about to speak of are great, novel, and incredible, or that they pertain either to all men, or to those who are listening, or to certain distinguished men, or to the immortal gods, or to the highest interest of the commonwealth; and if we promise that we shall briefly demonstrate our case, and set forth the point for decision, or the points for decision, if there are several. We shall make the hearers receptive if we set forth openly and briefly the substance of the cause, that is, the point on which the controversy turns. For when you wish to make a hearer receptive, you must at the same time make him attentive; for the man who is most ready to listen most attentively is the most receptive. Now it seems we must next speak of how insinuations are properly handled. Insinuation, then, is to be used when the kind of cause is surprising—that is, as we said before, when the hearer's mind is hostile. This comes about chiefly from three causes: either there is some baseness in the cause itself, or something seems already to have been impressed upon the hearer by those who spoke before, or the opportunity to speak is given at a time when those who ought to listen are already worn out with listening. For from this last circumstance too, no less than from the first two, the hearer's mind is sometimes turned against the orator.

If baseness in the cause produces offence, one must either substitute, for the man at whom offence is taken, another man who is liked; or for the matter at which offence is taken, another matter which is approved; or a man for a matter, or a matter for a man, so that the hearer's mind may be drawn from what it hates to what it likes; and you must conceal that you are going to defend what you are believed to be defending; then, when the hearer has now become milder, you must enter step by step upon the defence, and say that what your opponents think outrageous seems outrageous to you also; then, when you have softened the listener, you must show that none of these things concerns you, and deny that you will say anything about your opponents, neither this nor that, so as neither openly to wound those who are liked, and yet, doing this covertly, to alienate the hearers' good will from them as far as you can; and you must bring forward the judgment or authority of certain men in a similar matter, worthy of imitation; then show that the same, or a like, or a greater, or a lesser matter is at issue in the present case.

But if the speech of your opponents seems to have won the belief of the hearers—which will be easy to recognize for one who understands by what means belief is produced—you ought either to promise that you will speak first about that point which your opponents thought their strongest and which the hearers approved most, or to begin from the opponent's statement, and especially from what he said most recently, or to make use of hesitation, with an air of astonishment, as to what to say first or to which point above all you should reply. For when the hearer sees that the man whom he thought confounded by the opponents' speech is ready to speak against them with a most steadfast spirit, he generally judges that he himself rather assented rashly than that the other is confident without cause. But if weariness has alienated the hearer's interest from the cause, it is well to promise that you will speak more briefly than you had prepared to do, and that you will not imitate your opponent. If the matter allows, it is not useless to begin with something novel or amusing, either something arising on the spur of the moment—such as some noise or shout—or something already prepared, which contains an apologue, or a fable, or some piece of ridicule; or, if the dignity of the matter takes away the opportunity for jesting, it is not amiss to throw in at once something sad, novel, or terrible. For just as satiety and disgust at food are relieved by something rather bitter or softened by something sweet, so the mind, wearied with listening, is restored by astonishment or renewed by laughter. And these, in general, are the things which seemed worth saying separately about the introduction and the insinuation; now it seems right to give briefly one precept common to both. The exordium ought to have very much of weighty thought and of dignity, and to contain in itself all those things which pertain to dignity; for this reason, that what most commends the orator to the hearer ought to be done best of all. It ought to have very little of brilliance, gaiety, and elaborate neatness; for from these arises a certain suspicion of contrivance and artificial pains, which most of all takes away credit from the speech and authority from the orator.

These are the surest faults of exordia, which it will be necessary to take the greatest care to avoid: the commonplace, the interchangeable, the convertible, the long, the detached, the transferable, and that which is contrary to the precepts. The commonplace is that which can be fitted to several causes, so as to seem appropriate. The interchangeable is that which can equally well suit this side of a cause and its opposite. The convertible is that which can, with slight alteration, be used by the opponent for the contrary side. The long is that which is drawn out with more words or thoughts than is enough. The detached is that which is not drawn from the cause itself, nor attached to the speech like some member of the body. The transferable is that which accomplishes something other than the kind of cause demands: as if one should make the hearer receptive when the cause requires good will, or use an introduction when the matter requires insinuation. That which is contrary to the precepts is that which accomplishes none of the things for the sake of which the precepts about exordia are handed down; that is, which renders the hearer neither well-disposed, nor attentive, nor receptive, or—than which surely nothing is worse—does the opposite. And about the exordium enough has now been said.

The narrative is the setting forth of things done, or as though done. There are three kinds of narrative. One kind is that in which the cause itself and the whole basis of the controversy is contained; another, in which some digression beyond the cause is introduced, for the sake of disparagement, or comparison, or amusement not foreign to the matter under discussion, or amplification. The third kind is removed from civil causes, and is spoken and written for the sake of amusement, together with not unprofitable practice. Of this last there are two parts, one of which is concerned chiefly with matters, the other with persons. That which is set in the exposition of matters has three parts: the legend, history, and the realistic plot. A legend is that in which things neither true nor probable are contained, of this kind: "Huge winged serpents, yoked to a chariot . . ." History is an event done, removed from the memory of our own age; of this kind: "Appius declared war upon the Carthaginians." A realistic plot is a fictitious matter which nevertheless could have happened—of this kind, in Terence: "For after he had passed out of boyhood . . ." But that narrative which is concerned with persons is of such a kind that in it, together with the matters themselves, the conversations and the dispositions of the persons can be perceived, in this manner: "He came to me often, crying: 'What are you doing, Micio? Why are you ruining the young man for us? Why does he love? Why does he drink? Why do you supply the means for these things, and indulge him in excessive finery? You are too foolish.' He himself is too harsh, beyond what is fair and good." In this kind of narrative there ought to be much liveliness, made up of variety of matters, diversity of dispositions, gravity, gentleness, hope, fear, suspicion, longing, dissimulation, error, pity, the reversals of fortune, unexpected misfortune, sudden joy, and a pleasant outcome of events. But these ornaments will be taken from the precepts which will later be given about expression.

Now it seems we must speak of the narrative which contains the exposition of the cause. It ought, then, to have three qualities: that it be brief, that it be clear, and that it be plausible. It will be brief if the beginning is taken from the point where it is necessary, and is not fetched from the very first; and if, where it is enough to have stated the sum of a matter, the details of it are not stated—for often it is enough to say what was done, so that you need not narrate how it was done; and if the narration does not proceed further than is needful; and if you do not pass off into any other matter; and if it is so told that sometimes, from what has been said, what has not been said may be understood; and if not only what is harmful, but even what is neither harmful nor helpful, is passed over; and if each single thing is said once; and if the narration does not begin again from the point at which it last left off. And the imitation of brevity deceives many, so that, while they think themselves brief, they are exceedingly long, since they take pains to say many things briefly, not to say altogether few things and no more than necessary. For to most people that man seems to speak briefly who speaks thus: "I came up to the house. I called the slave. He answered. I asked for his master. He said he was not at home." Here, although he could not have stated so many things more briefly, yet, because it was enough to have said "He said he was not at home," he becomes long by the multitude of matters. Therefore in this kind too the imitation of brevity must be avoided, and we must refrain from a multitude of unnecessary matters no less than of words.

The narrative can be clear if, as each thing was first done, so it is first set forth, and the order of events and times is preserved, so that things are narrated as they were done, or as they might seem to have been done. Here we must consider that nothing be said confusedly, nothing intricately, that there be no passing off into another matter, no fetching from the very first, no extending to the end, and that nothing pertaining to the matter be passed over; and in general, the precepts which concern brevity are to be observed in this kind too. For often a matter is too little understood by the length rather than by the obscurity of the narrative. And clear words too must be used; about which kind of thing we must speak in the precepts on expression. The narrative will be plausible if those things appear in it which are wont to appear in reality; if the dignities of the persons are preserved; if the motives of the deeds are evident; if there seem to have been the means of doing them; if it is shown that the time was suitable, the space sufficient, the place opportune for the very matter about which the narration is made; if the matter is fitted both to the nature of those who act, and to the custom of ordinary men, and to the opinion of those who hear. And by these methods it can be made probable.

But besides this it will be necessary to consider that the narrative be not interposed either when it is harmful or when it does no good; or be not told out of place, or otherwise than the cause demands. It is harmful when the exposition of the very deed done meets with great offence, which it will be necessary to soften by arguing and pleading the cause. When this happens, it will be necessary to scatter the parts of the deed done, member by member, throughout the cause, and to fit each at once to its proper argument, so that the remedy may be at hand for the wound and the defence may at once mitigate the odium. The narrative does no good when, the matter having been set forth by our opponents, it is of no concern to us to narrate it again or in another way; or when those who are listening grasp the matter so well that it is of no concern to us to inform them otherwise. When this happens, the narrative must be entirely omitted. It is told out of place when it is not set in that part of the speech where the matter demands; about which kind of thing we shall treat when we speak of arrangement, for this belongs to arrangement. It is not told as the cause demands when either that which helps the opponent is set forth clearly and ornately, or that which helps our own side is stated obscurely and carelessly. Therefore, to avoid this fault, everything must be turned to the advantage of our own cause: passing over the contrary points which can be passed over, touching lightly upon those which must be stated, and narrating our own carefully and distinctly. And about the narrative enough seems to have been said; let us pass next to the partition.

A partition rightly made in a cause renders the whole speech clear and lucid. It has two parts, each of which greatly serves to open up the cause and to establish the controversy. One part is that which shows what is agreed upon with the opponents and what is left in controversy; from which something definite is set before the hearer, on which he ought to keep his mind fixed. The other is that in which a brief, distributed exposition is made of those matters of which we are going to speak; from which it comes about that the hearer holds in his mind certain definite matters, on the statement of which he understands that the speech will be concluded. Now it seems we must briefly say how each kind of partition should be used. The partition which shows what is agreed upon and what is not ought to incline that which is agreed upon to the advantage of one's own cause, in this manner: "That the mother was killed by her son is agreed between me and my opponents." Likewise on the contrary side: "That Agamemnon was killed by Clytemnestra is agreed." For here each man both stated what was agreed upon and yet looked to the advantage of his own cause. Then what is in controversy must be set down in the statement of the point for decision;

how this is to be found has been said before. The partition which contains a distributed exposition of the matters ought to have these qualities: brevity, completeness, and fewness. Brevity is when no word is taken up except the necessary one. This is useful in this kind for the reason that the hearer's mind is to be held by the matters themselves and the parts of the cause, not by words or extraneous ornaments. Completeness is that by which we embrace in the partition all the kinds of matter which fall within the cause and of which we must speak, so that no useful kind is left out, or introduced too late outside the partition—which is the most faulty and disgraceful thing. Fewness is preserved in the partition if the kinds of matters themselves are set down, and not confusedly involved with their parts. For a kind is that which embraces several parts, as "animal." A part is that which falls under a kind, as "horse." But often the same thing is a kind to one and a part to another. For "man" is a part of "animal," but a kind in relation to "Thebans" or "Trojans." This distinction is introduced rather carefully, so that, with the relation of kinds and parts made clear, fewness of kinds may be preserved in the partition. For he who makes a partition thus: "I shall show that through the desire, the audacity, and the avarice of our opponents all misfortunes have come upon the commonwealth," has failed to understand that, having set down a kind in the partition, he has mixed in a part of the kind. For desire is, doubtless, the kind of all the passions, and of this kind avarice is without doubt a part.

This, then, must be avoided: that you should not set down in the same partition, as though it were some different and dissimilar part, that of which you have already set down the kind. But if several parts should fall under some kind, when it has been set down simply in the first partition of the cause, it will be distributed most conveniently at the time when we come to explain it in the pleading of the cause, after the partition. And this too pertains to fewness: that we should not say we are going to demonstrate more things than is enough, in this manner: "I shall show that our opponents both could do, and wished to do, and did do, what we charge"; for it is enough to show that they did it. Or that, when there is no partition in the cause, when something simple is in question, we should nevertheless use distribution—which can very rarely occur. And there are also other precepts of partitions which do not so greatly pertain to this oratorical use, which are found in philosophy, from which we have transferred these very ones that seemed appropriate—none of which we found in the other treatises. And it will be necessary to remember these precepts about partition throughout the whole speech, so that each part may be carried through in order, as it was set forth in the partition, and that, when all have been explained, the matter may be concluded, in such a way that nothing be brought in afterwards except the conclusion. In Terence the old man in the Andria makes a partition briefly and aptly of what he wishes the freedman to learn: "In this way you will learn both my son's life and my own plan, and what I wish you to do in this matter." And so, just as he proposed in the partition, so he narrates: first his son's life, "For after he had passed out of boyhood . . ."; then his own plan, "And now I am taking pains . . ."; then what he wishes Sosia to do, which he put last in the partition, he says last: "Now it is your task . . ." Therefore, just as here he approached each part first in turn and made an end of speaking when all were finished, so it pleases us both to approach the several parts and, when all are finished, to conclude. Now it seems we must give precepts on the confirmation next, as the order itself demands.

The confirmation is that by which, by arguing, the speech adds credit, authority, and support to our cause. This part has definite precepts, which will be divided according to the several kinds of causes. Nevertheless it does not seem amiss first to set forth, in a mixed and confused way, a kind of forest and undifferentiated material of all the arguments, and afterwards to hand down how each kind of cause ought to be confirmed by the arguments drawn from it through all the methods of arguing. All matters are confirmed by argument either from that which is assigned to persons or from that which is assigned to actions. To persons we hold these things assigned: name, nature, manner of life, fortune, condition, disposition, pursuits, purposes, deeds, accidents, and speeches. The name is that which is given to each several person, by which each is called by his own proper and definite designation. Nature itself it is difficult to define;

but it is easier to enumerate those parts of it which we need for this treatment. These are partly in the divine, partly in the mortal class. Of the mortal, again, one part is reckoned in the human class, another in that of beasts. And the human class is considered both in respect of sex—whether male or female—and of nation, country, kinship, and age. As to nation: Greek or barbarian; country: Athenian or Spartan; kinship: from what ancestors, from what blood-relations; age: boy or youth, more advanced in years or old. Besides these, the advantages and disadvantages given by nature to mind or body are considered, in this manner: whether one is strong or weak, tall or short, handsome or deformed, swift or slow, keen or rather dull, of good memory or forgetful, courteous or uncouth, modest, patient, or the reverse; and in general, those things given by nature to mind and body will be considered. For the things acquired by effort pertain to the "condition," about which we must speak later. In manner of life one must consider with whom, by what custom, and under whose direction one has been brought up; what teachers of the liberal arts one has had, what instructors in living; what friends one keeps; in what occupation, gainful pursuit, or craft one is engaged; in what way one manages one's household; what one's domestic habits are. In fortune it is inquired whether one is slave or free, wealthy or poor, a private person or one in office: if in office, rightly or wrongfully; whether fortunate, famous, or the reverse; what children one has. And if the inquiry is about one no longer living, it will be necessary to consider also by what manner of death he was affected.

By "condition" we mean a constant and complete perfection of mind or body in some respect, such as the acquisition of virtue or of some art, or any knowledge, and likewise some advantage of body not given by nature but obtained by study and effort. Disposition is a momentary alteration of mind or body from some cause, such as joy, desire, fear, distress, sickness, weakness, and others found in the same class. A pursuit is an occupation of the mind, constant and vehemently applied to some object with great pleasure, such as that of philosophy, poetry, geometry, literature. A purpose is a deliberate plan of doing or not doing something. Deeds, accidents, and speeches are to be considered in respect of three tenses: what one did, what happened to one, what one said; or what one does, what happens to one, what one says; or what one will do, what will happen to one, what speech one will use. These, then, are the things which seem assigned to persons.

As to the things assigned to actions, some are connected with the action itself, some are considered in the conduct of the action, some are adjuncts of the action, and some follow the action. Connected with the action itself are those things which always seem fixed to the matter and cannot be separated from it. The first of these is a brief summary of the whole action, which contains the substance of the deed, in this manner: "the killing of a parent," "the betrayal of one's country"; then the motive of this summary, by which it is inquired why, and for what reason, and for the sake of what the deed was done; then the things which were done continuously before the deed, up to the action itself; then what was done in the very performance of the action; then what was done afterwards.

In the conduct of the action—which was the second topic of those assigned to actions—the following will be inquired into: place, time, manner, occasion, and means. The place in which the deed was done is considered with regard to the opportunity it seems to have offered for carrying out the action. And this opportunity is sought from the magnitude, the distance, the remoteness, the nearness, the solitude, the crowdedness, the nature of the place itself and of its neighbourhood and of the whole region; and also from these attributions: whether the place is or was sacred or profane, public or private, another's or belonging to the very person concerned.

Time—that is, what we now mean by it; for to define it in a general sense is difficult—is a certain portion of eternity, with some definite designation of a yearly, monthly, daily, or nightly space. In this both past times are considered: both those things which, either through age, have become obsolete or seem incredible, so that they are now reckoned among fables; and those things which, though done long ago and removed from our memory, nevertheless produce belief that they have been truly handed down, because there are sure records of them in writing; and those things which have been done recently, which most people can know; and likewise those which are at hand at present and are happening at this very moment; and those which follow, in which it can be considered what will be sooner and what later. And likewise, in observing time generally, its length must be considered. For often it is necessary to measure the action against the time, and to see whether either the magnitude of the action or the multitude of matters could be carried through in that time.

The occasion is a portion of time having in itself a suitable opportunity for doing or not doing something. Therefore it differs from time in this: for in kind both are understood to be the same, but in "time" a space is in some manner indicated, which is observed in years, or in a year, or in some part of a year, while in "occasion" a certain opportunity for doing something, joined to a space of time, is understood. Therefore, though it is the same in kind, it becomes something else, which differs, as we said, in a certain part and aspect. It is divided into three kinds: the public, the common, and the individual. The public is that which the whole community for some reason frequents, such as games, a festal day, war. The common is that which befalls all at about the same time, such as harvest, vintage, heat, cold. The individual is that which for some reason is wont to befall someone privately, such as marriage, sacrifice, a funeral, a banquet, sleep.

The manner is that in which it is inquired in what way and with what intent the deed was done. Its parts are prudence and imprudence. The account of prudence is sought from those things which one did secretly, openly, by force, or by persuasion. Imprudence, however, is referred to purgation, whose parts are ignorance, accident, and necessity, and to a disposition of mind, that is, to distress, anger, love, and the rest which are found in a like class. Means are those things by which something is more easily done, or without which something cannot be accomplished. By an "adjunct of the action" is understood that which is greater, and that which is less, and that which is equally great, and that which is similar to the action under discussion, and that which is contrary, and that which is disparate, and the kind, the part, and the result. The greater, the less, and the equally great are considered from the force, the number, and the form of the action, just as from the stature of the body.

The similar is judged from a comparable appearance, or from a nature that can be compared and likened. The contrary is that which, set in a different kind, is most distant from the same thing to which it is called contrary, as cold to heat, death to life. The disparate is that which is separated from some matter by the prefix of a negation, in this manner: "to be wise" and "not to be wise." The kind is that which embraces some parts, as "desire." The part is that which falls under a kind, as "love," "avarice." The result is the outcome of some action, in which it is wont to be inquired what has come, comes, or will come of each thing. Therefore in this class, in order that it may be conveniently gathered in the mind beforehand what will come about, it must be considered what is wont to come of each thing, in this manner: from arrogance, hatred; from insolence, arrogance.

The fourth part of those things which we said were assigned to actions is the consequence. In this are inquired those things which follow the action performed: first, what name it is fitting to give to what was done; then who are the originators and inventors of that deed, and who, finally, are the approvers and rivals of its authority and invention; then whether there is any law, custom, agreement, judgment, science, or art concerning that matter or that kind of matter; then its nature—whether it commonly happens, or rarely and exceptionally; afterwards, whether men have been wont by their authority to approve such deeds or to take offence at them; and the other things which are wont to follow some deed in like manner, either at once or after an interval. Then, finally, attention must be paid to whether any of those things follow which are placed among the elements of honour or of advantage; about which we must speak more distinctly in the deliberative kind of cause. And these, in general, are the matters we have mentioned as assigned to actions.

Now every argument which is drawn from those topics which we have mentioned ought to be either probable or necessary. For—to describe it briefly—an argument seems to be something discovered from some class, showing some matter either probably or demonstrating it necessarily. Those things are demonstrated necessarily which cannot be or be proved otherwise than is stated, in this manner: "If she has given birth, she has lain with a man." This kind of arguing, which deals with necessary demonstration, is handled in speaking chiefly by the dilemma, or by enumeration, or by simple inference.

The dilemma is that in which, whichever you grant, you are confuted, in this manner: "If he is wicked, why do you employ him? If he is good, why do you accuse him?" Enumeration is that in which, several things being set forth and the rest invalidated, the one remaining is necessarily established, in this manner: "He must have been killed by this man either for the sake of enmity, or fear, or hope, or the favour of some friend; or, if none of these is the case, he was not killed by this man; for a crime cannot be undertaken without a motive: if there was neither enmity nor any fear nor hope of any advantage, and the death of that man did not concern any friend of this one—it remains, then, that he was not killed by this man." Simple inference is composed of a necessary consequence, in this manner: "If you say that I did that thing at that time, and yet at that very time I was beyond the sea, it remains that I not only did not do what you say, but could not even have done it." And it will be necessary to see carefully that this kind cannot in any way be refuted, so that the confirmation may not merely have the form of an argument and a certain likeness of necessary inference, but the argument itself may rest on a necessary principle.

The probable is that which generally is wont to happen, or which rests on opinion, or which has in itself some likeness to these, whether it be false or true. In the class of what generally is wont to happen, the probable is of this kind: "If she is a mother, she loves her child; if he is greedy, he disregards an oath." In that which rests on opinion, the probabilities are of this kind: "Punishments are prepared for the impious in the lower world; those who devote themselves to philosophy do not believe that there are gods." Likeness is observed chiefly in contraries, in parallels, and in those matters which fall under the same principle. In contraries, in this manner: "For if it is fitting that those who have done harm unintentionally should be pardoned, those who have done good of necessity ought not to be thanked." From a parallel, thus:

"For as a place without a harbour cannot be safe for ships, so a mind without good faith cannot be steadfast for friends." In those matters which fall under the same principle, the probable is considered in this manner: "For if it is not disgraceful for the Rhodians to lease out the harbour-tax, neither is it disgraceful for Hermocreon to contract for it." These things are sometimes true, in this way: "Since there is a scar, there was a wound"; sometimes probable, in this manner: "If there was much dust on his shoes, he must have been coming from a journey." Now everything probable that is taken for an argument is—to distribute it into certain parts—either a sign, or a credible thing, or a precedent (judgment), or a comparable thing.

A sign is that which falls under some sense and indicates something which seems to have proceeded from it, which either preceded, or occurred in the action itself, or followed afterwards, and yet needs testimony and weightier confirmation, such as blood, flight, pallor, dust, and the like. The credible is that which, without any witness, is established by the opinion of the hearer, in this manner: "There is no one who does not desire his children to be safe and happy." The precedent is a matter approved by the assent, or the authority, or the judgment of someone or of several. It is observed in three kinds: the religious, the common, and the approved. The religious is that which men under oath have judged according to the laws. The common is that which all men have commonly approved and followed, of this kind: that one should rise before one's elders, that one should pity suppliants. The approved is that which men, when it was doubtful how it ought to be regarded, have settled by their own authority: as the deed of the elder Gracchus, which the Roman people, who made him consul after his censorship, although as censor he had done something without the knowledge of his colleague, thereby approved.

The comparable is that which contains, in different matters, some similar principle. Its parts are three: the figure (analogy), the comparison, and the example. The figure is a passage demonstrating a likeness of bodies or natures. The comparison is a passage comparing one matter with another by likeness. The example is that which confirms or invalidates a matter by the authority or fortune of some man or affair. Examples and descriptions of these will be made known in the precepts on expression. And the source of confirmation, as opportunity allowed, has now been laid open, and demonstrated no less clearly than the nature of the matter permitted. But how each issue, and each part of an issue, and every controversy, whether it rests on reasoning or on writing, ought to be handled, and what arguments suit each, we shall state one by one in the second book, concerning each several kind. For the present we have only scattered, in a confused and mixed way, the elements, modes, and parts of arguing; afterwards we shall, in a distinct and selective manner, arrange from this abundance what suits each kind of cause.

And while every argument can be discovered from these topics, to adorn what has been discovered and to mark it off into definite parts is both most delightful and supremely necessary, and most neglected by the writers on the art. Therefore it seemed right that I too should speak of this instruction in this place, so that to invention the method of arguing might be joined. And this whole topic must be considered with great care and diligence, because the matter is not only of great usefulness, but the difficulty of teaching it is also very great.

Every argument, then, must be handled either by induction or by reasoning (deduction). Induction is a discourse which, by means of matters not in doubt, wins the assent of the person with whom it is carried on; by which assent it brings it about that some doubtful matter is approved by him on account of its likeness to those matters to which he has assented. For example, in Aeschines the Socratic, Socrates shows that Aspasia conversed with the wife of Xenophon and with Xenophon himself: "Tell me, I pray, wife of Xenophon, if your neighbour had better gold than you have, would you prefer hers or your own?" "Hers," she said. "What, if she had clothing and the rest of a woman's adornment of greater value than you have, would you prefer your own or hers?" She answered, "Hers, of course." "Come then," she said, "what if she had a better husband than you have, would you prefer your own husband or hers?" Here the woman blushed.

But Aspasia began a conversation with Xenophon himself. "I pray, Xenophon," she said, "if your neighbour had a better horse than yours is, would you prefer your own horse or his?" "His," he said. "What, if he had a better farm than you have, which farm would you, after all, prefer to have?" "The better one, of course," he said. "What, if he had a better wife than you have, would you prefer your own or his?" And here Xenophon too himself fell silent. Then Aspasia said: "Since each of you has failed to answer me that one thing alone which I alone wished to hear, I myself will say what each of you is thinking. For you, woman, wish to have the best husband, and you, Xenophon, most of all wish to have the choicest wife. Therefore, unless you bring it about that there be no better man and no choicer woman on earth, you will surely always most greatly long for that which you think best." Here, since assent was given to matters not in doubt, it came about, on account of the likeness, that even that which would seem doubtful, if anyone inquired into it separately, was granted as certain on account of the method of questioning.

Socrates used this manner of discourse very much, for the reason that he himself wished to bring forward nothing to persuade, but preferred to draw some conclusion from what his interlocutor had granted him, which the other had necessarily to approve from what he had already conceded. In this kind it seems we must first lay down this precept: that what we introduce by way of likeness should be such that it must be granted. For from that which we shall ask to have granted to us must not be doubtful as our doubtful point. Next, that which the induction is made to confirm must, we must see, be like those matters which we have introduced before as though not doubtful; for it will profit us nothing to have had something granted us before, if it is unlike that for the sake of which we wished it granted first. Then we must see that the hearer does not perceive whither those first inductions tend and at what conclusion they are going to arrive.

For the man who sees that, if he rightly assents to the matter about which he is first asked, he must necessarily grant that other matter too which displeases him, generally, either by not answering or by answering badly, does not allow the questioning to proceed further. Therefore by the method of questioning he must be led, unawares, from what he has granted to what he does not wish to grant. But the conclusion must either be passed over in silence, or be granted, or be denied. If it is denied, either the likeness of those matters which were granted before must be shown, or another induction must be used. If it is granted, the argument must be concluded. If it is met with silence, an answer must be elicited; or, since silence imitates confession, the argument must be concluded just as if it had been granted. So this kind of arguing becomes threefold: the first part consists of one or more likenesses; the second of that which we wish granted, for the sake of which the likenesses were employed; the third of the conclusion, which either confirms the concession or shows what is inferred from it.

But because to some it will not seem to have been demonstrated clearly enough unless we add some example from the civil kind of cause, it seems we should use an example of this kind too—not because the precept differs, or this is to be used otherwise in conversation than in pleading, but to satisfy the wishes of those who cannot recognize in one place what they have seen in another, unless it is pointed out. Therefore in this cause, which is well known among the Greeks—when Epaminondas, the general of the Thebans, since he did not hand over the army to the man who had succeeded him by law as commander, and, having kept the army for a few days contrary to the law, utterly defeated the Spartans—the accuser will be able to use argument by induction, when he defends the letter of the law against its intent, in this manner:

"If, judges, what Epaminondas says the framer of the law intended were to be written into the law, and this exception added—'except in case someone should fail to hand over the army for the sake of the commonwealth'—would you permit it? I think not. What, if you yourselves were to order this same exception to be written into the law, for the sake of his honour, without the people's command—a thing most remote from your scruple and your wisdom—would the Theban people permit it to be done? Surely it would not permit it. Then, what it is impious to write into the law, would it seem right to you to follow as though it were written? I know your understanding; it cannot seem so, judges. But if the framer's intent cannot be corrected in writing either by him or by you, see whether it be not far more unworthy that what cannot even be changed by a word should be changed in fact and by your judgment." And about induction enough seems to have been said for the present.

Now let us next consider the force and nature of reasoning. Reasoning is a discourse which draws something probable from the matter itself, which, when set forth and recognized in itself, confirms itself by its own force and reason. Those who have thought this kind ought to be considered more carefully, while following the same practice in speaking, have disagreed somewhat in their method of teaching. For some have said it has five parts, others have thought it could be divided into no more than three parts. It seems not amiss to set forth their controversy along with the reasoning of each side. For it is brief, and not of such a kind that either side is thought to say nothing at all, and this topic seems to us by no means to be neglected in speaking.

Those who think it ought to be divided into five parts say that first it is fitting to set forth the substance of the argument, in this manner: "Those things which are managed by design are managed better than those which are conducted without design." This they count the first part; and they hold that it ought next to be confirmed by various reasons and in the most copious words possible, in this manner: "That household which is governed by design is furnished and equipped with all things better than that which is managed rashly and without any design. An army over which a wise and skilful general is set is in all respects more conveniently governed than one which is managed by the folly and rashness of someone. The same is the case with a ship. For that ship completes its course best which has the most skilful helmsman."

When the proposition has been confirmed in this way, and two parts of the reasoning have passed, in the third part they say one must assume, from the force of the proposition, that which one wishes to show, in this manner: "But nothing of all things is managed better than the whole universe." To this assumption, in the fourth place, they further add another confirmation, in this manner: "For the risings and settings of the constellations preserve a certain fixed order, and the yearly changes not only always come about in the same way from a kind of necessity, but are also adapted to the advantages of all things; and the alternations of day and night, never changed in any respect, have never done any harm: all of which are signs that the nature of the universe is governed by no ordinary design." In the fifth place they introduce the conclusion, which either infers only that which is gathered from all the parts, in this manner: "By design, therefore, the universe is governed"; or, having drawn the proposition and assumption together briefly into one place, adds what is inferred from these, in this manner: "But if those things are managed better which are managed by design than those which are managed without design, and nothing of all things is managed better than the whole universe, then by design the universe is governed." So they hold the argument to be of five parts.

But those who think it of three parts do not think the argument ought to be handled otherwise, but they find fault with the division of these others. For they deny that the confirmations of the proposition and of the assumption ought to be separated from them, and they hold that neither the proposition is complete nor the assumption perfect, in their view, which is not confirmed by a proof. Therefore what those others count as two parts, the proposition and the proof, seems to them one part, the proposition; which, if it is not proved, is not the proposition of an argument. Likewise what is called by those others the assumption and the proof of the assumption, the same seems to them the assumption alone. So it comes about that the same argument, handled in the same way, seems to some of three parts, to others of five parts. Hence it happens that the matter pertains not so much to the practice of speaking as to the theory of teaching.

To us, however, that division seems more convenient which is distributed into five parts, which all those derived from Aristotle and Theophrastus have chiefly followed. For just as that former kind of arguing, which is taken by way of induction, was handled chiefly by Socrates and the Socratics, so this, which is polished by reasoning, was practised most by Aristotle and Theophrastus, and then by those rhetoricians who have been thought the most elegant and most artful. But why we approve that division more, it seems we must say, lest we be thought to have followed it rashly; and we must say it briefly, lest in matters of this kind we linger longer than the principle of teaching demands.

If in a certain argument it is enough to use the proposition and there is no need to add a proof of the proposition, but in another argument the proposition is weak unless a proof is added, then the proof is something separate from the proposition. For that which can be both joined to and separated from something cannot be the same as that to which it is joined and from which it is separated. But there is a certain argument in which the proposition does not need a proof, and another in which it avails nothing without a proof, as we shall show. The proof, then, is separate from the proposition. And what we have promised will be shown in this manner: a proposition which contains in itself something evident, which must necessarily stand fast among all men, it is of no use to wish to prove and confirm. Such a one is of this kind:

"If, on the day on which that murder was committed at Rome, I was at Athens on that day, I could not have been present at the murder." Because this is evidently true, it is of no use to prove it. Therefore the assumption ought at once to be made, in this manner: "But I was at Athens on that day." If this is not established, it needs proof; and when this has been brought in, the conclusion follows. There is, then, a certain proposition which does not need proof. For what is the use of showing that there is a certain one which does need it, since this is easily evident to anyone? But if this is so, from this and from what we had proposed it is inferred that the proof is something separate from the proposition. But if this is so, it is false that the argument is no more than threefold.

In a like manner it is clear that the other proof too is separate from the assumption. If in a certain argument it is enough to use the assumption and there is no need to add a proof to the assumption, but in another argument the assumption is weak unless a proof is added, then the proof is something separate, outside the assumption. But there is a certain argument in which the assumption does not need a proof, and another in which it avails nothing without a proof, as we shall show. The proof, then, is separate from the assumption.

And we shall show what we have promised, in this manner: an assumption which contains a truth evident to all needs no proof. Such a one is of this kind: "If one ought to wish to be wise, it is fitting to apply oneself to philosophy." Here the proposition needs proof; for it is not evident, nor does it stand fast among all men, because many think that philosophy is of no benefit, and very many even that it is harmful. The assumption is evident; for it is this: "But one ought to wish to be wise." Because this is perceived of itself and is understood to be true, it is of no use to prove it. Therefore the argument must at once be concluded. There is, then, a certain assumption which does not need proof; for that a certain one does need it is evident. The proof, then, is separate from the assumption. It is false, therefore, that the argument is no more than threefold.

And from these things this is now evident: that there is a certain argument in which neither the proposition nor the assumption needs proof—of this kind, to set down something definite and brief by way of example: "If wisdom is to be sought above all, folly is to be avoided above all; but wisdom is to be sought above all; therefore folly is to be avoided above all." Here both the proposition and the assumption are evident; therefore neither needs proof. From all these things this is evident: that the proof is sometimes added and sometimes not added. From which it is recognized that the proof is contained neither in the proposition nor in the assumption, but that each, set in its proper place, holds its own force as something fixed and proper to it. But if this is so, they have divided rightly who have distributed the argument into five parts.

There are, then, five parts of that argument which is handled by reasoning: the proposition, by which that topic is briefly set forth from which all the force of the reasoning ought to flow; the proof, by which what has been briefly set forth, confirmed by reasons, is made more probable and clearer; the assumption, by which that which, drawn from the proposition, serves to demonstrate the point, is assumed; the proof of the assumption, by which what has been assumed is confirmed by reasons; the conclusion, by which what is gathered from the whole argument is briefly set forth. The argument which has the most parts consists of these five parts; the second has four parts; the third, three; then there is one of two parts; which is in dispute.

As to whether it can consist of even a single part, it may seem possible to someone. Of those, then, which are settled we shall set down examples; of those which are doubtful we shall bring forward reasons. The five-part argument is of this kind: "All laws, judges, ought to be referred to the advantage of the commonwealth, and they ought to be interpreted according to the common benefit, not according to the letter that is in the writing. For our ancestors were of such virtue and wisdom that, in writing the laws, they proposed to themselves nothing else but the safety and advantage of the commonwealth. For they did not themselves wish to write what would be harmful, and, if they had written it, they understood that, once it was perceived, the law would be repudiated. For no one wishes the laws to be preserved for the sake of the laws, but for the sake of the commonwealth, since all think the commonwealth best administered by the laws. Therefore, for the very reason that the laws ought to be observed, it is fitting that all that is written should be interpreted toward that end: that is, since we serve the commonwealth, let us interpret according to the advantage and benefit of the commonwealth. For as one ought to think that nothing proceeds from medicine except what looks to the advantage of the body, since for its sake it was established, so one should judge that nothing proceeds from the laws except what is conducive to the commonwealth, since for its sake they were framed.

Therefore in this trial too cease to scrutinize the letter of the law, and consider the law, as is just, according to the advantage of the commonwealth. What was more advantageous to the Thebans than that the Spartans should be crushed? For whom was it more fitting that Epaminondas, the general of the Thebans, should take thought than for the victory of the Thebans? What was it fitting for him to hold dearer or more precious than the great glory of the Thebans, than so bright and adorned a trophy? Was he, forsooth, to neglect the letter of the law and consider the framer's intent? But this surely has been sufficiently considered: that there is no law which has not been written for the sake of the commonwealth. He thought it, therefore, the greatest madness that what had been written for the sake of the safety of the commonwealth should not be interpreted according to the safety of the commonwealth. But if it is fitting that all laws be referred to the advantage of the commonwealth, and this man benefited the safety of the commonwealth, surely he cannot by the same deed both have looked to the common fortunes and have failed to obey the laws."

An argument consists of four parts when we either propose or assume without a proof. This one ought to do when either the proposition is understood of itself, or the assumption is evident and needs no proof. With the proof of the proposition passed over, the argument is handled in four parts, in this manner: "Judges, you who judge under oath according to the law, ought to obey the laws. But you cannot obey the laws unless you follow what is written in the law. For what surer testimony of his intent could the framer of the law leave than that which he himself wrote with great care and diligence? But if the writing did not exist, we should greatly require it, that from it the framer's intent might be known; nor yet would we permit Epaminondas, not even if he were outside the court, to interpret for us the intent of the law—much less now should we suffer this man, when the law is at hand, to interpret the framer's intent, not from what is written most plainly, but from what suits his own cause. But if you, judges, ought to obey the laws, and cannot do this unless you follow what is written in the law, why do you not judge that this man has acted against the law?"

But with the proof of the assumption passed over, the four-part argument will be made thus: "Those who have time and again deceived us through trust ought not to have their word believed. For if we suffer any harm through their treachery, there will be no one but ourselves whom we can rightly accuse. And to be deceived once is unfortunate; a second time, foolish; a third time, disgraceful. But the Carthaginians have very often by now deceived us. It is therefore the greatest madness to place hope in the trustworthiness of those by whose treachery you have so often been deceived."

With both proofs passed over, it becomes three-part, in this way: "Either we must fear the Carthaginians, if we leave them unharmed, or we must destroy their city. But fear them indeed we ought not. It remains, then, that we destroy their city." There are, however, those who think that sometimes the conclusion can be dispensed with, when what is inferred from the reasoning is evident; and that, if this be done, the argument becomes two-part as well, in this manner: "If she has given birth, she is not a virgin; but she has given birth." Here it is enough to propose and to assume: since what is inferred is evident, the matter does not need a conclusion. But to us it seems that every reasoning ought to be concluded, and that the fault which displeases those men should be greatly avoided—namely, that we should not bring into the conclusion what is evident.

And this can be done if the kinds of conclusions are understood. For we shall either conclude by drawing the proposition and assumption together into one, in this manner: "But if it is fitting that all laws be referred to the advantage of the commonwealth, and this man benefited the safety of the commonwealth, surely he cannot by the same deed both have looked to the common safety and have failed to obey the laws"; or so that the sense is inferred from the contrary, in this manner: "It is therefore the greatest madness to place hope in the trustworthiness of those by whose treachery you have so often been deceived"; or so that only what is inferred is brought in, in this manner: "Let us therefore destroy the city"; or so that what necessarily follows that which is inferred is brought in. This is of the following kind: "If she has given birth, she has lain with a man; but she has given birth." This is inferred: "She has therefore lain with a man." If you do not wish to bring this in, and instead bring in what follows—"She has therefore committed incest"—you will both have concluded the argument and have avoided the evident conclusion.

Therefore in long arguments one ought to conclude by drawings-together or by the contrary, in short ones to set forth only what is inferred, and in those in which the outcome is evident to use the consequence. But if some shall think that an argument can consist of even a single part, they will be able to say that it is often enough to make an argument in this manner: "Since she has given birth, she has lain with a man"; for this, they say, needs neither proof nor conclusion. But to us they seem to err through the ambiguity of the term. For the word "argument" signifies two things, since both something probable or necessary discovered with reference to some matter is called an argument, and the artful working-out of that discovery is so called.

When, therefore, they bring forward something of this kind—"Since she has given birth, she has lain with a man"—they bring forward a discovery, not a working-out; but we are speaking of the parts of the working-out. That reasoning, therefore, will have nothing to do with this matter; and by this distinction we shall repel the other objections too which will seem to stand in the way of this division, if anyone should think that sometimes the assumption can be removed, or the proposition. For these, if they have anything probable or necessary, must in some way move the hearer. But if only this were regarded, and it made no difference how that which had been devised was handled, then it would by no means be thought that there is so great a difference between the highest orators and the mediocre.

But it will be very necessary to vary the speech; for in all things sameness is the mother of satiety. This can be done if we do not always enter upon the argument in the same way. For, first of all, it is fitting to make distinctions by the very kinds—that is, to use now induction, now reasoning; then, in the argument itself, not always to begin from the proposition, nor always to make use of all five parts, nor to polish the parts in the same way; but now to begin from the assumption, now from one or the other proof, now from both, now to use this, now that, kind of conclusion. That this may be perceived, let us write—on any example of those which have been set forth—how easy it is to do; one may make the trial.

And about the parts of an argument enough seems to have been said by us; but we wish it understood that we know well that arguments are also handled in philosophy by many other methods, and obscure ones, about which there is an established and definite system; but these seemed to us to be foreign to oratorical use. As for those things which we think pertain to speaking, we do not affirm that we have attended to them more conveniently than others; we do promise that we have written them up more thoroughly and carefully. Now, as we have determined, we shall proceed in order to the rest.

The refutation is that by which, by arguing, the confirmation of our opponents is dissolved or weakened. This will use the same source of invention which the confirmation uses, for the reason that from the same topics from which any matter can be confirmed, from those same topics it can be invalidated. For nothing is to be considered in all these except that which is assigned to persons or to actions. Therefore the invention and the working-out of arguments must be transferred to this part of the speech too from those things which have been taught before. Nevertheless, that some instruction may be given for this part as well, we shall set forth the modes of refutation; and those who observe them will be able more easily to dissolve or weaken the things that are said against them.

Every argument is refuted if either something—one thing or several—of those things which have been taken is not granted, or, when these are granted, the conclusion is denied to follow from them, or if the very kind of the argument is shown to be faulty, or if against a firm argument another, equally firm or firmer, is set. Something of those things which are taken is not granted, when either what they call credible is denied to be of that kind, or what they think comparable is shown to be dissimilar, or a precedent is turned to the other side, or the judgment is altogether disapproved, or what our opponents have said to be a sign is denied to be of that kind, or a dilemma is refuted either on one side or on both, or an enumeration is shown to be false, or a simple inference is demonstrated to contain something false. For everything that is taken for arguing, whether as probable or as necessary, must necessarily be taken from these topics, as we have shown before.

What has been taken as credible will be weakened if either it is plainly false, in this manner: "There is no one who would not prefer money to wisdom"; or it has something credible from the contrary side too, in this manner: "Who is there who is not more eager for duty than for money?"; or it is altogether incredible, as if someone who is agreed to be greedy should say that he had neglected the greatest sum of money for the sake of some moderate duty; or if what happens in certain matters or persons is said to befall all, in this way: "Those who are poor hold money dearer than duty; in a place which is deserted, a murder must have been committed; how could a man have been killed in a frequented place?"; or if what rarely happens is denied to happen at all, as Curio for Fulvius: "No one can fall in love at a single glance, nor in passing by."

What is taken as a sign will be weakened from the same topics from which it is confirmed. For in a sign it must first be shown to be true; then to be a sign proper to the matter under discussion, as blood to a murder; then that what ought not to have been done was done, or what ought to have been done was not done; finally, that the person under inquiry knew the law and custom of that matter. For these are the things assigned to a sign; which we shall open up more carefully when we speak separately of the conjectural issue itself. Therefore each one of these will, in refutation, be shown either not to be a sign, or to be too slight a one, or to stand for our side rather than our opponents', or to be stated altogether falsely, or to be capable of being drawn to another suspicion too.

But when something is introduced as comparable, since it is handled chiefly by likeness, in refuting it will be fitting to deny that what is compared is like that with which it is compared. This can be done if it is shown to be different in kind, nature, force, magnitude, time, place, person, or opinion; and if it is shown in what class that which is brought forward by likeness, and in what class this for the sake of which it is brought forward, ought to be reckoned. Then we shall show in what one matter differs from the other; from which we shall teach that one ought to judge differently about that which is compared and about that with which it is compared. Of this faculty we have most need when the very argument which is handled by induction is to be refuted. But if some precedent is brought in, since it is confirmed chiefly from these topics—the praise of those who judged; the likeness of the matter under discussion to that about which judgment was given; and by mentioning that the judgment was not only not blamed but approved by all; and by showing that what is brought forward was more difficult and important to judge than what is now at issue—it will be necessary to weaken it from the contrary topics, if the matter, true or probable, allows. And it will be necessary to observe carefully that what was judged has nothing to do with the matter at issue; and we must see that the matter not be brought forward in which there was offence, so that judgment may seem to be passed on the very man who judged.

But one must take care that, when many things have been judged otherwise, some solitary or rare judgment not be brought forward. For thus, by these means, the authority of a judgment can most be weakened. And these things, indeed, which are taken as probable, ought to be tried in this manner. But those things which are stated as necessary, if perhaps they merely imitate a necessary argument and are not really of that kind, will be refuted thus. First, the dilemma, which, whichever you grant, ought to confute you: if it is true, it will never be refuted; but if false, in two ways, either by conversion or by the invalidation of one of its parts, in this manner: "For if he is modest, why do you accuse one who is upright? But if he possesses a shameless cast of mind, why do you accuse one who esteems being so charged of little account?" Here, whether you say he is modest or not modest, he thinks it must be granted that you deny he should be accused. This is refuted by conversion thus: "Nay rather, he must be accused. For if he is modest, you may accuse him; for he will not esteem being so charged of little account. But if he possesses a shameless cast of mind, you may still accuse him; for he is not upright."

But by the invalidation of one part it will be refuted in this manner: "But if he is modest, corrected by your accusation he will withdraw from his error." An enumeration is recognized as faulty if we either state something passed over which we should be willing to grant, or something weak is numbered in which can either be denied or for which there is no reason why we cannot honourably grant it. Something is passed over in enumerations of this kind: "Since you have that horse, either you must have bought it, or you possess it by inheritance, or you received it as a gift, or it was born to you at home, or, if none of these is the case, you must have stolen it: if you neither bought it, nor did it come by inheritance, nor was it given, nor born at home—you must therefore have stolen it."

This is conveniently refuted if it can be said that the horse was captured from the enemy, the sale of which booty was not held; and when this is brought in, the enumeration is weakened, since that has been introduced which was passed over in the enumeration. But in the other way it will be refuted if either something is said on the contrary—that is, if, for the sake of example, to keep to the same case, it can be shown that it came by inheritance—or if that last item is not disgraceful to grant; as if someone, when his opponents have said, "You either wished to lay an ambush, or you complied with a friend, or you were carried away by desire," should confess that he complied with a friend.

A simple inference is refuted if what follows does not seem necessarily to cohere with what preceded. For this: "If he draws breath, he lives; if it is day, it is light," is of such a kind that the latter seems necessarily to cohere with the former. But this: "If she is a mother, she loves; if she once erred, she will never be corrected," will fittingly be refuted in such a way that it is shown that the latter does not necessarily cohere with the former. This kind, and the other necessary kinds, and in general every argument and its refutation, contains a certain greater force and extends more widely than is here set forth; but the knowledge of that art is of such a kind that it cannot be joined to some part of this art, but itself requires, separately, a long time and a great and arduous study. Therefore those matters will be explained by us at another time and for another purpose, if there be opportunity; now it will be necessary for us to be content with these precepts of the rhetoricians, for oratorical use. When, therefore, something of those things which are taken is not granted, it will be weakened thus.

But when, these being granted, the conclusion is not made from them, these things will have to be considered: whether something other is concluded than is stated, in this manner: if, when someone says that he set out for the army, another should wish to use against him this argument: "If you had come to the army, you would have been seen by the military tribunes; but you were not seen by them; you did not, therefore, set out for the army." Here, when you have granted the proposition and the assumption, the conclusion is to be weakened.

For something other has been inferred than was being forced. And now, that the matter might be more easily understood, we have set down an example endowed with a plain and gross fault; but often a fault more obscurely placed is approved as true, when either you remember too little what you have granted, or you have granted something ambiguous as certain. If you have granted something ambiguous in the sense in which you yourself understood it, and your opponent should wish to adapt it to another sense through the conclusion, it will be necessary to show that the conclusion is made not from what you yourself granted, but from what he assumed, in this manner: "If you need money, you do not have money; if you do not have money, you are poor; but you need money—for otherwise you would not give your effort to trade; therefore you are poor." This is refuted thus: "When you said, 'If you need money, you do not have money,' I understood this: 'If through want you are in destitution, you do not have money,' and therefore I granted it; but when you assumed this, 'But you need money,' I took it as, 'But you wish to have more money.' From which concessions this is not inferred: 'You are therefore poor'; but it would be inferred if I had first granted you this too, that whoever wished to have more money does not have money."

But often they think you have forgotten what you have granted, and therefore that which is not inferred is brought into the conclusion as though it were inferred, in this manner: "If the inheritance was coming to him, it is probable that he was killed by him." Then they prove this in very many words. Afterwards they assume: "But the inheritance was coming to him." Then it is inferred: "He, therefore, killed him"; which from the things they had taken is not inferred. Therefore one must observe carefully both what is taken and what is inferred from these. But the very kind of the argument will be shown to be faulty for these reasons: if either there is a fault in it itself, or it is not adapted to the point that is undertaken. And there will be a fault in itself if it is wholly false, if it is common, if vulgar, if trifling, if far-fetched, if it has a bad definition, if it is controversial, if evident, if not granted, if disgraceful, if offensive, if contrary, if inconsistent, if self-opposing.

It is false in which there is a plain lie, in this manner: "He cannot be wise who neglects money; but Socrates neglected money; therefore he was not wise." It is common which makes no more for our opponents than for us, in this manner: "Therefore, judges, because I had a true case, I pleaded briefly." It is vulgar which, if it were now granted, could be transferred to another improbable matter too, as this: "If he did not have a true case, he would not have entrusted himself to you, judges." It is trifling which is either spoken after the time, in this manner: "If it had come into his mind, he would not have done it"; or which wishes to cover a plainly disgraceful matter with a slight defence, in this manner: "When all sought you out, while your kingdom flourished, I left you; now, when you are deserted by all, in the greatest danger, I alone prepare to restore you."

It is far-fetched which is sought further than is enough, of this kind: "But if Publius Scipio had not bestowed his daughter Cornelia upon Tiberius Gracchus, and begotten the two Gracchi from her, such great seditions would not have arisen; therefore this misfortune seems to be ascribed to Scipio." Of this kind is that lament too: "Would that the fir-beams, felled by axes in the Pelian grove, had not fallen to the ground!"—for it is fetched further back than the matter demanded. The definition is bad when it either describes things common, in this manner: "A seditious man is one who is a bad and useless citizen"—for this describes the force of a seditious man no more than of an ambitious one, of a slanderer, of any wicked man—; or states something false, in this way: "Wisdom is the understanding of how to acquire money"; or contains something neither weighty nor great, thus: "Folly is an immense desire for glory." This is indeed folly, but defined in some one part, not in its whole kind. It is controversial in which, to demonstrate something doubtful, a doubtful cause is brought forward, in this manner: "Ho, you gods, who have the power of stirring the things above and below, do you reconcile peace among yourselves and bring concord together?"

It is evident about which there is no controversy: as if someone, when he accuses Orestes, should make it plain that the mother was killed by him. It is not granted when that which is being magnified is in controversy, as if someone, when he accuses Ulysses, should dwell most on this: that it was unworthy that Ajax, a most brave man, was killed by a most cowardly man. It is disgraceful which seems unworthy on account of some dishonourable matter, either by the place in which it is said, or by the man who says it, or by the time at which it is said, or by those who hear, or by the matter under discussion. It is offensive which wounds the will of those who hear: as if someone, before Roman knights eager to be judges, should praise the judiciary law of Caepio.

It is contrary which is said contrary to what those who hear have done: as if someone, speaking before Alexander of Macedon against some stormer of cities, should say that there is nothing more cruel than to destroy cities, when Alexander himself had destroyed Thebes. It is inconsistent which is said differently by the same man about the same matter: as if someone, having said that he who has virtue needs nothing for living well, should afterwards deny that one can live well without good health; or that he stands by a friend out of good will, but hopes that some advantage will come to himself.

It is self-opposing which in some part stands in the way of the very cause, as if someone should magnify the force, the resources, and the good fortune of the enemy when he is exhorting the soldiers to fight. If some part of the argument is not adapted to the point undertaken, it will be found in one of these faults: if, having promised more, one demonstrates fewer; or if, when one ought to show the whole, one speaks of some part, in this manner: "The race of women is greedy; for Eriphyle sold her husband's life for gold"; or if one does not defend that which is being accused, as if someone, when he is accused of bribery, should defend himself as being strong of hand; or as Amphion in Euripides, who, having reviled music, praises wisdom; or if a matter is reviled on account of a man's fault, as if someone should blame learning on account of the faults of some learned man; or if someone, when he wishes to praise a man, speaks of his good fortune, not of his virtue; or if one so compares one matter with another that he does not think he praises the one unless he reviles the other;

or if he so praises the one that he makes no mention of the other; or if, when the inquiry is about a definite matter, the speech is framed about the general, as if someone, when certain men are deliberating whether they should wage a war or not, should praise peace altogether, instead of demonstrating that that particular war is inexpedient; or if a false reason for some matter is given, in this manner: "Money is a good thing, for the reason that it most of all makes life happy"; or a weak one, as Plautus: "To chastise a friend for a deserved fault is a thankless deed; but in the course of life it is useful and profitable; for I shall today soundly chastise my friend for a fault he has deserved"; or the same reason, in this manner: "Avarice is an evil; for the desire of money has afflicted many with great misfortunes"; or one too little suited, in this manner: "The greatest good is friendship; for there are very many delights in friendship."

The fourth mode of refutation was that by which, against a firm argument, one equally firm or firmer is set. This kind will be employed chiefly in deliberations, when we grant that something said on the contrary side is fair, but demonstrate that what we defend is necessary; or when we admit that what they defend is useful, but demonstrate that what we say is honourable. And these are the things we have thought ought to be said about refutation.

Hermagoras next places digression, then the final conclusion. In this digression he thinks one ought to introduce a passage removed from the cause and from the point for decision itself, which contains either praise of oneself or blame of one's opponent, or leads off into another cause, from which he draws some confirmation or refutation, not by arguing but by amplifying through a kind of enlargement. If anyone thinks this is a part of the speech, he may follow him. But it has not pleased us to count it in, because we are displeased to digress from the cause except through a commonplace; about which kind we must speak later. As for praises and blames, it pleases us that they be treated not separately, but be interwoven in the arguments themselves. Now we shall speak about the conclusion.

The conclusion is the close and finishing of the whole speech. It has three parts: the recapitulation, the indignation (rousing of resentment), and the appeal to pity. The recapitulation is that by which matters scattered and diffusely stated are gathered into one place and, for the sake of remembrance, brought under one view. If this is always handled in the same way, it will be plainly understood by all to be handled by a certain artifice; but if it is done in various ways, it will be able to avoid both this suspicion and satiety. Therefore one ought sometimes to do as most do, on account of its ease—to touch upon each single matter and so to pass briefly over all the arguments; and sometimes—which is more difficult—to state what parts you have set forth in the partition, of which you promised to speak, and to bring back to memory by what reasons you have confirmed each several part; and sometimes to ask of those who hear what it is that they ought to wish demonstrated to them, in this manner: "This we have taught, this we have made plain." So at the same time the hearer's memory will return, and he will think there is nothing besides which he ought to require.

And in these kinds, as has been said before, one ought sometimes to go over one's arguments separately, sometimes—which is more artful—to join one's own with the contrary ones; and when you have stated your own argument, then to show how you have dissolved what was brought against it. So by a brief comparison the hearer's memory of both the confirmation and the refutation will be renewed. And these things one ought to vary by other modes of delivery too. For sometimes you may recapitulate in your own person, so as to remind what and in what place you have said each thing; sometimes you may introduce some person or thing and assign the whole recapitulation to it. A person, in this manner: "For if the framer of the law should arise and ask of you thus why you hesitate—what could you say, when this and this has been demonstrated to you?" And here, as in our own person, it will be possible at one time to go over all the arguments singly, at another to refer them to the several kinds of the partition, at another to ask of the hearer what he requires, at another to do these things by comparison of one's own and the contrary arguments.

A thing will be introduced if the speech is assigned, by way of recapitulation, to some object of this kind—a law, a place, a city, a monument—in this manner: "What? If the laws could speak, would they not make this complaint before you: 'What more do you require, judges, when this and this has been made plain to you?'" In this kind too it will be possible to use all the same modes. And this common precept is given for recapitulation: that from each several argument, since the whole cannot be stated again, that be chosen which is weightiest, and each single point be passed over as briefly as possible, so that the memory, not the speech, may seem to be renewed. Indignation is a passage by which it is brought about that great hatred is stirred up against some man, or grave offence against some matter. In this kind we wish it first to be understood that indignation can be handled from all those topics which we have set down in the precept on confirmation. For from those things which are assigned to persons or to actions, any amplifications and indignations can arise; but nevertheless let us consider those things which can be taught separately about indignation.

The first topic is taken from authority, when we mention how great a concern that matter was to those whose authority ought to be weightiest: to the immortal gods—which topic is taken from lots, from oracles, soothsayers, portents, prodigies, responses, and the like; likewise to our ancestors, kings, states, nations, the wisest men, the senate, the people, the framers of laws. The second topic is that by which it is shown, with amplification through indignation, to whom that matter pertains—whether to all, or to the greater part, which is most atrocious; or to our superiors, such as those from whose authority the indignation is taken, which is most unworthy; or to those equal to us in spirit, fortune, body, which is most unfair; or to inferiors, which is most arrogant. The third topic is that by which we ask what would come about if others should do the same; and at the same time we show that, if this be granted to this man, there will be many imitators of the same audacity;

from which we shall demonstrate what evil will come about. The fourth topic is that by which we show that many are eagerly awaiting what shall be decided, so that from what is granted to one, they may understand what is permitted to themselves too in such a matter. The fifth topic is that by which we show that other matters wrongly settled can, when the truth is understood, be changed and corrected; but that this is a matter which, if it be once judged, can neither be changed by another judgment nor corrected by any power. The sixth topic is that by which it is demonstrated that the deed was done deliberately and of set purpose, and this is added: that pardon ought not to be granted for a voluntary crime, while it is sometimes fitting to make concession to imprudence. The seventh topic is that by which we feel indignation, saying that the deed was foul, cruel, wicked, tyrannical—done by force,

by violence, by wealth; a thing most remote from the laws and from equal justice. The eighth topic is that by which we demonstrate that the crime under discussion is not common, nor wont to be committed even by the most audacious men; and that it is remote even from savage men and barbarous nations and monstrous beasts. These will be the things said to have been done cruelly against parents, children, spouses, blood-relations, suppliants; and next, if any such things are brought forward against elders, against guests, against neighbours, against friends, against those with whom one has spent one's life, against those among whom one was brought up, against those by whom one was educated, against the dead, against the wretched and those deserving pity, against famous men, the noble and those who have held honours, against those who could neither harm another nor defend themselves, such as children, old men, women; from all of which, indignation keenly aroused will be able to stir up the greatest hatred against him who has violated any of these.

The ninth topic is that by which this matter under question is compared with other faults which are agreed to be faults, and thus, by contrast, it is shown how much more atrocious and unworthy is that which is under discussion. The tenth topic is that by which we gather together everything that was done in the performance of the deed and everything that followed after the deed, with indignation and accusation of each single point, and set the matter before the eyes of the one before whom we speak, as vividly as possible in words, so that what is unworthy may seem to him unworthy just as if he had himself been present and seen it before his eyes. The eleventh topic is that by which we show that the deed was done by one by whom it least ought to have been, and by one who, if another were doing it, would have had a duty to prevent it. The twelfth topic is that by which we feel indignation that this has befallen us first, and has never happened to anyone before.

The thirteenth topic is when it is shown that insult is joined to injury; by which topic hatred is stirred up against pride and arrogance. The fourteenth topic is that by which we ask of those who hear that they apply our injuries to their own affairs: if it concerns children, that they think of their own children; if women, of their wives; if old men, of their fathers or parents. The fifteenth topic is that by which we say that the things which have befallen us are wont to seem unworthy even to our enemies and foes. And indignation, in general, will be most weightily drawn from these topics.

The appeal to pity is a passage seeking the pity of the hearers. In this one must first render the hearer's mind gentle and merciful, that he may the more easily be moved by the appeal. This must be done by those commonplaces through which the power of fortune over all men and the weakness of mankind are shown; and when such a passage is delivered weightily and sententiously, the spirit of men is greatly humbled and disposed to pity, when in another's misfortune it considers its own weakness.

Then the first topic of pity is that by which it is shown in what blessings men have been and in what evils they now are. The second, which is distributed according to times, is that by which it is demonstrated in what evils they have been, and are, and will be. The third is that by which each single misfortune is lamented, as in the death of a son the delight of his boyhood, love, hope, comfort, his upbringing, and whatever can be said by way of appeal in any like kind of misfortune. The fourth is that by which base, lowly, and ignoble things are set forth, and things unworthy of one's age, birth, former fortune, honour, or services, which they have suffered or are about to suffer. The fifth is that by which all the misfortunes are set, one by one, before the eyes, so that he who hears may seem to see, and may be led to pity by the very fact itself, as if he were present, not by words alone.

The sixth is that by which it is shown that one is in misery beyond all expectation, and that, when one was expecting something, one not only did not attain it but fell into the greatest miseries. The seventh is that by which we turn to those very ones who hear, and ask that, when they see us, they remember their own children or parents or someone who ought to be dear to them. The eighth is that by which it is said that something was done which ought not to have been, or not done which ought to have been, in this manner: "I was not present, I did not see, I did not hear his last word, I did not receive his last breath." Likewise: "He died in the hands of his enemies, he lay disgracefully unburied in a hostile land, long mangled by wild beasts; in death he was deprived even of the common honour."

The ninth is that by which the speech is referred to mute and inanimate things, as if you should adapt to a horse, a house, a garment the words of someone, by which the spirit of those who hear and have loved someone is greatly moved. The tenth is that by which want, weakness, and loneliness are demonstrated. The eleventh is that by which a charge is made to bury one's children or parents or one's own body, or some matter of that kind. The twelfth is that by which separation from someone is lamented, when you are parted from one with whom you most gladly lived, as a parent from a son, a brother from a close friend. The thirteenth is that by which we complain with indignation that we are ill-treated by those by whom it least befits—by kinsmen, friends, to whom we have done kindness, whom we thought would be our helpers; or that we are ill-treated by those by whom it is unworthy—by slaves, freedmen, clients, suppliants. The fourteenth is that which is taken by way of entreaty, in which those who hear are merely begged, in humble and suppliant speech, to feel pity. The fifteenth is that by which we show that we lament not our own fortunes, but those of those who ought to be dear to us. The sixteenth is that by which we show that our own spirit is merciful toward others, and yet that it is great and lofty and patient of misfortunes, and will be so, if anything should happen; for often virtue and magnificence, in which there is gravity and authority, avail more to stir pity than humility and entreaty. But when their spirits have been moved, one ought not to linger longer in the appeal to pity. For, as the rhetorician Apollonius said, nothing dries more quickly than a tear. But since we seem to have said enough about all the parts of the speech, and the size of this volume has proceeded rather far, what follows next we shall say in the second book.