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and such as pleases all times equally. And although there may be found
some men of so corrupt a nature that they despise beauty, nevertheless
they are but few. And even these may be recalled to truth by reason,
since false beauty though it may for a while have its admirers cannot
long hold them, for nature itself which cannot be erased will
gradually beget in them a distaste for it. For, as Cicero so notably
says, time that erases the fictions of opinion only confirms the
judgements of nature.[1]

If we may apply this maxim to literature we may say that that is truly
beautiful which agrees both with the nature of things themselves and
with the inclinations of our senses and of our soul. And since in a
work of literature one takes account of sound, diction, and idea, the
agreement of all these with nature in its two aspects is required for
beauty. Hence we will take these up one by one, beginning with sound.

ON SOUND

_How seldom it charms in echoing the sense, how commonly by sweetness.
Its natural measure in the ear._

We have assigned the first division of natural beauty to sound, which
we distinguish from diction in that propriety and force of meaning are
looked to in this; in sound it is the pleasantness or harshness that
is regarded, flattering or offending the ear, or it is a kind of
imitation of the subject-matter--sad things recited tearfully, excited
rapidly, or harsh harshly. This is common enough in the spoken word;
in writing, however, with which we are chiefly concerned here, it is
uncommon, though Vergil sometimes quite happily represents the sound
of things themselves, their swiftness and slowness, in the sound of
his verse. When you hear, for example, the well-known _procumbit humi
bos_, do you not seem to hear the blunt sound of the falling bull? Or
when you read the line _Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula
campum_,[2] doesn't the sound of running horses strike your ears? But
this effect, as I said, is uncommon, and hardly to be found in any
other poet than Vergil. Thus the chief potentiality of sound, and the
most common, lies in charming the ear. It is a slight beauty, yet it
is of nature, and for this reason especially agreeable to all classes
of people. For there is scarcely any person so uneducated as not to
be naturally displeased at what is incomplete and botched, or not to
perceive what is full, ordered, and defined. Hence Cicero says justly
in the _Orator_:

The ear, or