Principia Rhetorices

PRINCIPLES OF RHETORIC. CHAPTER ONE. — The Duty of the Orator. The duty of the orator is, in a proposed civil question only, first to understand it itself, whether it is general or specific, simple or compounded from several parts, absolute or comparative. Then, having understood it, to find in it the topics that correspond to the division, and to adapt to these either moral or natural sentiments. Next, to judge the things found, to reject those that have occurred too inappropriately: then, to those things which he has examined by judgment, to give a fixed order. For although many relevant things have been found, yet unless they are placed, according to their quality and magnitude, in certain and legitimate positions, they will either be harmful or will not greatly benefit. After the arrangement, the rhetorician must apply the explanation of things to the ordering. This consists of two parts, the quality and the quantity of the structure of words. All these things memory undertakes, which both most of the Greeks, and Marcus Tullius in the first place, affirm to be necessary for the orator, in this way, as I think: "I come now to the treasury of all things, memory; which unless it is applied as the guardian of things found and ordered, we understand that everything, even if it is most brilliant, will perish in the orator." Delivery will follow memory, a matter which seems to Demosthenes to be either the first or the only one among the oratorical duties; it consists of two things, the movement of the body and the sound of the voice. It is enough to have touched upon these things only summarily, which are the duties of the orator. It remains to see what the end is.

CHAPTER II. — What Is the End of the Orator. The end is, I believe, in all things that to which everything is referred, for the sake of which all other things are done: it is called τέλος by the Greeks. This is also what is sought in nearly all the disputations of philosophers, what is the end of living well: virtue, or pleasure? Different persons have therefore approved different ends of the orator's proper duty. For it has seemed to some that the summit of the orator's duty consists in speaking well, to others in speaking correctly, to others in persuading. Moreover, those who thought that speaking well or truly is the end of the orator's duty do not, however, deny that the end of these very things is to persuade: so that the end of the orator's duty is to speak well; the end of speaking well is to persuade. Therefore, by a kind of consensus of all, the end of the orator's duty is to persuade. Because this seemed able to slip into calumny (for the orator does not always persuade; nor, if he sometimes cannot persuade, does he lose the faculty and name of orator), Hermagoras added, to escape calumny, that the end of the orator's duty is to persuade, insofar as the condition of things and persons allows. Another calumny arises from the same word "persuading," invented indeed by Plato, much discussed in the Gorgias, but afterwards much more impudently frequented by certain technicians disparaging Hermagoras.

They deny, indeed, that persuasion is the proper end of the orator's office, but rather common to nearly all: for mathematicians persuade concerning those things which have fallen into their knowledge; and physicians persuade concerning those things which are contained in their art; craftsmen also and shopkeepers, and any others of this sort, can plausibly persuade anyone concerning what they do, as if they act by reason: therefore it is not a complete end, which has only commonality and lacks propriety: the act of persuading is common to many, and for that reason persuasion is not the proper end of the orator's office. To this calumny also Hermagoras very fittingly stood in the way. For he said that it is the office of the orator to persuade, insofar as the condition of things and persons permits, at least in civil questions: for the questions of physicians and philosophers and others of this sort are placed outside the civil rule, which the Greeks call πολιτική.

CHAPTER III — On Civil Questions, and the Difference between General and Specific Ones. Now civil questions are those whose consideration can fall within a common conception of the mind, which the Greeks call *koinē ennoia*. But that you may more easily understand what this very condition is which we wish to have demonstrated, all things whatsoever that are of such a kind that it would be shameful not to know them, and which even the ignorant, as if we knew them, yet with pretense we put forward before ourselves, whenever they are called into doubt, they produce a civil question. What I mean is of this sort: if the weight of some object is asked, if you do not seem to know how many pounds it is, there is no cause for shame; if its length, if you do not seem to know how many feet it is, there is no cause for shame; and so with other things of this kind, which it would be long to enumerate. And therefore, whenever they come into doubt, although they make a question, yet they cannot make a civil one. But when it is asked whether something is just or unjust, honorable or dishonorable, praiseworthy or blameworthy, deserving of reward or punishment, useful or useless, and if there are any such things, no one, even placed outside all art and knowledge, would blush if he seemed not to know these things.

Hence it is that all people are persuaded, or at least do not hesitate to persuade others, that they can conceive in their mind the distinction between just and unjust, honorable and dishonorable, and the other things we mentioned above; and therefore the doubts that arise concerning such matters are called civil questions, as if they were not the property of a few but common to all. Since this is so, and since they can be perceived by a common conception of the mind, the questions that can be grasped are called and are civil, and it is in these that the orator must engage and persist. There are two primary and, as it were, general modes of civil questions, one of which is called by the Greeks *thesis*, the other *hypothesis*. We cannot give a name to the former except the Greek one, nor to the latter either, except that we seem to have given one: we have indeed given one; we call it *controversia*, a name that can fall upon both, for in each there is a question, that is, a controversy. Moreover, the meaning is declared from the compound name itself, and it is something that is, that is, a species under that genus. A thesis is a matter that admits of rational consideration without the definition of a person. A hypothesis, or *controversia* (to use an improper term), is a matter that admits of rational contention with the definition of a person. They will be better explained by an example: a thesis is a question of this sort, whether one should sail, whether one should philosophize; a hypothesis is a question of this sort, whether one should decide a duel.

There are those who also accuse Hermagoras on this account; and Apollodorus especially, who denies that hypothesis is anything other than thesis, and that the distinction of persons is of any importance, although Hermagoras seems to have distinguished these two kinds of questions. For the question of hypothesis is no less infinite and unbounded than that of thesis. For when it is asked whether Orestes should be punished, it is not the person that makes the question, but the deed; and it makes no difference whether it is asked thus: whether a matricide should be punished. If this is so, then hypothesis and thesis would not differ at all. To this, our authors reply: first, that the quality of persons brings a difference to questions, and that it often happens even in hypotheses, that is, controversies, that some things seem to be left unpunished or punished, honored or dishonored, not so much from the quality of the things as from the quality of the person. Secondly, that these two kinds of questions also differ in this: that in thesis there is a consideration of what a thing is like, in hypothesis a contention; and as great as is the difference between consideration and contention, so great is the difference between thesis and hypothesis. Thirdly, that in thesis it is asked what all ought to do; in hypothesis, what one or another or a few, certainly a defined number of men, ought to do. And also this difference occurs: that in thesis, as if ignorant, we ask what is best to be done; in hypothesis, as if knowing, we defend.

Then, every thesis concerns the future; hypothesis rarely, indeed never except concerning the past, or that which is already being done, makes a question: for no one can become a defendant unless he has done something or is said to have done it, nor can he seek a reward or something of this kind unless he has already deserved it, or claims to have deserved it. To this point they oppose defendants of tyranny and treason, and of commanded poisoning, and whatever else can be devised in the same manner: in which zeal for accusing they are mistaken. For even in the case of one who is a defendant for treason, the question is not about a future matter, that is, about the treason itself, but about whether he undertook the plan of treason, which certainly preceded; and likewise concerning tyranny, whether he contemplated tyranny; and concerning parricide, whether it was committed; and concerning poisoning. Therefore, in hypothesis the question always arises either from the past or from the present; in thesis, on the contrary, never except from the future: if these things are so, the diversity of each is sufficiently declared.

CHAPTER IV — What Are the Circumstances That Create a Controversy Now, since enough has been said about the difference between general and special questions, and the thesis has been separated from the hypothesis, so that they might differ in both matter and name, it seems to follow that we should say what it is that creates a hypothesis, that is, a controversy. It is, therefore, the circumstance of things, which Hermagoras calls it, without which no controversy whatsoever can exist. What this is, however, can be grasped more easily by division than by definition. The parts of circumstance, then, are seven, which Hermagoras calls , Theodorus calls them elements: because from their combination questions arise, just as we see that from the combination of letters, nouns and verbs are formed. But whether they are called one or the other more correctly, let us, setting aside the dispute over the name, say what they themselves are. They are, therefore, these: who, what, when, where, why, in what manner, by what means. The Greeks call them . Now, from the gathering together of all or most of these, either a rational question or a legal one is formed. But, of course, the property of each must be expressed. "Who" has the significance of person, which is regarded in two ways: by name and by quality. By name, in this way: Who? Camillus, Gaius Marius, Lucius Sulla. By quality: Who? a rich man, a poor man, a general.

Now, the definite consideration lies in names, the indefinite in qualities of persons, when nothing beyond the name is included in the appellation; but in quality, both fortune, and age, and condition, and discipline, and other things which are infinite in number. What, has the significance of the thing which seems to have been done, said, or thought by someone, or to be done, said, thought, or to be about to be done, said, or thought, whether good or bad, honorable or dishonorable, just or unjust, useful or the contrary, necessary or trivial, great or little used or new. When, has the significance of time; for instance, by day and by night, on a sacred or an irreligious day: also from circumstances, which sometimes give their own quality to time, such as in a time of war or peace, in sedition or concord, in freedom or domination; and whatever else can fall in the same way. Where, has the significance of place; for instance, in the city or outside, in a sacred place or a profane one, on land or at sea. Why, signifies the cause of doing, or saying, or thinking, a thing (in my opinion) especially necessary for constructing a question. In what manner, has the significance from the demonstration of the deed, or what is, or will be; for instance, secretly, openly, by force, by deceit; and whatever else is similar, falling in the same way.

which we call supports, have a demonstration of those things through which something is said to have been done; such as a noose, a sword, poison, letters, a messenger, instructions, a slave, an accomplice, an assassin. Of these articles, as I said above, the rational attacks of either all or most of them will produce a civil question. CHAPTER V. — Rational questions arise in four ways. Rational questions, which Hermagoras calls them: for I think it better to name them thus than verbal; because they are named by the technical writers not from the meaning of a word, but from reason, although sometimes the word signifies either a word or reason: therefore, rational questions arise in four ways. For in these it is asked: whether it is, what it is, what kind it is, or whether it should be brought into judgment. Where it is asked whether it is, Hermagoras calls that genus of question: we can call it conjecture. Likewise Theodorus, that is, concerning substance. For nothing can seem to have been done which did not have substance, nor anything future which will not have substance. Some have called this genus of question from the fact that through it it is asked whether it is. The second rational question is that which Hermagoras calls the limit; Theodorus, that is, concerning property; some, what it is; a few, concerning the same and the other. The third rational question all call by one name: quality. Concerning the fourth, there is great contention, which we spoke of above concerning bringing into judgment.

For many deny that it exists, when they are doing that, lest the matter be able to come into question. But among all, the authority of Hermagoras excels, who thinks that it is both a question, and in the first place necessary, and is much agitated in the forum, and is to be employed even in statutory cases at the very first encounter, if the condition of the case permits. For nothing is so much the concern of those against whom a judgment is sought as to decline the judgment. Moreover, this very declination of judgment has some appearance of a judgment. For if the matter were so conducted that whenever someone did not wish a cause for judgment, this were in his own power, there would be no question. But now, since there always exist those who hinder, that very contention whereby one calls to judgment, the other refuses judgment, creates a question, which type of controversy Hermagoras calls, our few call reproach, most have called transfer, both parties certainly following reason. Those who said reproach, evidently because when it is especially brought into judgment, the cause is reproached and as it were withdrawn; those who said transfer, because the defendant does not altogether exclude the action, but excuses himself from the present condition of the action, transfers it to another kind of judgment, either already established or future.

CHAPTER VI — On the Four Legal Questions. There are also four other questions, which the inventors call legal. They are: the written and the will, which they call; what we call the conflict of contrary laws; ambiguity, which they call; collection, which they call. But we will treat these a little later more diligently, so that the meaning of each is expressed more clearly, and species are added to genera. Meanwhile, it seems to me that I must state by what articulations and what kinds of knots every question is bound, so that it comes to its perfect form. CHAPTER VII — By What Articulations a Question is Measured. There is some statement which the Greeks call: it is split into two parts, and one part of it is, and the other is, we can call the verbal accusation, that is, the word by which the crime is charged; for example, You struck, you betrayed, you killed. But what they call, we call the denial of that crime which the accuser's word has charged; for example, I did not strike, I did not betray, I did not kill. From these two, the statement and the response, or the charge and the denial, a question is born in the middle, in this way: The charge is, You killed; the denial, I did not kill; the question, whether he killed. But to depart now from the conjectural mode: the charge is, You killed wrongfully; the denial, I did not kill wrongfully; the question, whether he killed wrongfully.

Or in some legal status: the intention is, "You were not permitted to do this by law"; the denial is, "I was permitted to do it by law"; the question is, "Was it permitted to do this by law?" Some have called this a question, as we have said up to now; some have named it a status, evidently because in it both the beginning of the question and its sum total consist. For first, from a distance, when it is said on one side that the deed was done, and on the other that it was not done, there is no conflict, but rather a rehearsal of a future conflict. Then, when they have come closer and almost to blows, a middle question intervenes in the mutual altercation and contention: whether the deed was done or not. In this each party stands firm, abandoning what they previously said. Hence the name status was imposed on this question. The same thing Theodorus calls, using a metaphor, the head, from the principal part of the body: because in this embrace of the two things that have been said on each side, it becomes, as it were, a kind of head of the whole controversy. A consequence of this place is the issue, or the equivalent, or even more necessary, by which it is shown what the cause is, what the containing is, and what is contended about. Hermagoras calls the cause; the containing, that about which the contention is. The cause, therefore, is that which, unless it has preceded, a controversy cannot arise. What I say is this: A son is disowned by his father; there is no controversy for that reason, because no cause has preceded why he should be disowned by his father. Finally, let us add the cause, and immediately a controversy is produced.

He swore that he would not take a wife, and he is disinherited. That which he swore has been done, that is, the reason why he incurs disinheritance. Or the *continens* is that which seems to be brought forward for refuting, that is, for rebutting the reason, as in this subject matter: A soldier who had sworn that he would desert, the emperor kills, and is accused of murder. For here, that is, the reason for the trial is that he killed; for he would not be accused unless he had killed. The *continens* is that on account of which he said he killed, namely the soldier's oath, that he had sworn he would desert. This Hermagoras sometimes calls *continens*, from the fact that the entire defense of a case is contained by it, sometimes he calls it, as it were, the cause of the cause: for just as the reason for the accusation is that he killed the soldier, so the reason for the killing is that the soldier swore that he would desert. Now since we know what the *causa* is, what the *continens* is, let us also see what that is about which the dispute is, that is, what the *status* is. But it is nothing other than the examination of the *continens*. What I say is of this sort (for I think it best to persist in the same controversy, so that what we hand down may be clearer): there is that the emperor killed the soldier; there is that by which the accused strives, that is, the reason on account of which he says he killed; there is that the soldier swore he would desert; there is the examination of this very thing which the accused brought forward for his defense.

In this it is asked whether there was another reason for the emperor to kill the soldier: and this is pre-texted, so that it seems that he was not killed because he swore, but because of some reason of enmity or jealousy. This point can also be handled in this way, whether even if he swore, this was nevertheless a just cause why he ought to have been killed: and the whole perfection, which is brought forward, is called *thesis*. Yet it sometimes happens that in one controversy not all these points are treated simultaneously, but they are often revolved and handled in turn; as in this controversy: Ulysses is accused under the law of the republic for killing the suitors. For here there is the point that he killed them; that he killed those who were plundering his goods and plotting against the chastity of his wife; there is the point whether, even if this thing preceded, he killed them for another reason which he pretends? or whether, even if they deserved very badly of him, he ought to have killed them uncondemned? Then to this *thesis*, Ulysses brings forward another point, by which he says he killed them by the command of Minerva. Then to this very point there is the *status*, by which we ask whether he killed because of the command of Minerva, and whether in such a matter he ought not to have obeyed even Minerva. Now the proper place of the accuser, of the defender, and common to both.

CHAPTER VIII.—Modes of Controversies. Next, I think it should be said in how many ways and in what manner a controversy arises. Although it is not even proper to call them controversies which have no status, but are irrational. They occur in four modes: one, when something is missing from the circumstance; what the force of circumstance is, as we said above; that is, when something is lacking from the questions, or the cause, or the person, or the place, or some of those things by which we defined circumstance. This kind of asystaton cannot fall into scholastic material, for the reason that no theme can exist when a circumstance is lacking. In reality, however, it sometimes happens that one of these is missing, and through the imprudence of the actor the case is brought to judgment in a ruined state. The second mode of asystaton is what they call 'antistrophe'. But if we cannot give a Latin name, we should nevertheless understand its force: for when the same things are said on both sides, and are distinguished by nothing, not even a small thing, yet this kind, because of the equality of both sides, involves a status. For example, two young men who had beautiful wives met each other by night; they accuse each other of adultery: for whatever one side says, the other must necessarily say. It is likely that you wanted to commit adultery, because you are a young man. It is also likely that you wanted to, because you are a young man. It is likely because I have a beautiful wife.

You too are plausible, because I also have a beautiful wife. The proximity afforded you the opportunity. And the same proximity afforded you the opportunity. Why at night against me? Why did you, however, fall upon me? There is nothing to be distinguished; and therefore whichever of them either accuses the other, accuses himself; or if he clears himself, he defends the one whom he seems to accuse. The third is the asystatic type, which the Greeks call, that is, according to the other side, when there is no defense for the defendant, and either no color is found in the fact, or a color of little probability is found. Whence also Democrates, my teacher, was accustomed to say that even those controversies in which a color is long sought have no status. But he was more consistent; we, if anything is brought forward for the defense that is even moderately probable, admit it. But if the cause is evidently confessed, as is proper, we will explode it according to heteromery. Sometimes questions arise, especially in truth, which grant the greatest facility to the accuser, none to the defendant: but we call these not controversies, but commonplaces; for in these there is not proof of the crime, but an expression of an unexpressed and evident misdeed. The fourth is the mode of asystaton or the most obscure, so much so that it sometimes creeps up even on learned men. For it has some appearance of a probable and consistent matter. It is of this sort, in which the judge cannot explore the reason for the sentence to be delivered: this the Greeks call.

Let us supply an example: A man was demanding interest from another as if on a loan of money; the other admitted that he had received the money, but as a deposit, and therefore wished to return the principal without interest. While the case was pending, a law concerning new tablets was passed: the one suing demands it back as if it were a deposit, the other retains it as if it were a loan. For I do not see what there is here that the judge can follow in delivering a sentence, since the same plaintiff sometimes says he lent it, sometimes that he deposited it; and the other sometimes says he received it as a deposit, sometimes as a loan; and neither uses his own former statement, but each uses the other’s past statement. (Chapter IX. — On the Figures of Controversies. It also seems to pertain not a little to the matter to know the figures of controversies, by which they differ from one another, which is more evident, how we treat each. There are therefore four themata, that is, figures of controversies: what we can call of good opinion; what we can call of opinion confused from both good and bad; what we can call of bad opinion; although some, speaking Greek carelessly, take paradoxon for those things which are of good opinion. Whence even the common people call Olympic victors and other victors of sacred contests paradoxoi, led more by custom than by reason: for, as I think, it is what it is, that is, contrary to good opinion.

Finally, although we might prefer to accept other common meanings of this term, nevertheless in this place, as many new terms are coined by technicians and mathematicians as well as by philosophers, we ought to take it not so much according to the usual custom of usage as according to the condition of the precept. The fourth is the species of controversy which is called in Greek, which we call not, as is commonly thought, of bad opinion, but of no opinion, that is, lowly and base. But these will become clear through the examples set forth. A controversy of this sort is one in which both the person and the matter are honorable; for example, Scipio, after defeating the Carthaginians, asks as a reward to watch the games crowned with laurel: and the person of Scipio is honorable, and what is sought is not dishonorable. Another is one in which the dishonor of the matter stains the honor of the person; for example, if the same Scipio were to ask, under the name of a reward, for the death of Tiberius Asellius: for the person of the petitioner is honorable; but what is sought is dishonorable. Or conversely, if a disinherited man has acted bravely, and asks, under the name of a reward, to return to his father's house: the person who asks, the disinherited man, is dishonorable; the matter he asks for, to return to his father's house, is honorable.

This is a type of controversy, as I defined above, in which both the matter and the person are dishonorable, for example, a defendant on a charge of unchastity has performed a brave deed and seeks, as a reward, the death of his accuser: for the person of the petitioner is dishonorable, since he was a defendant on a charge of unchastity, even if he has detracted something from his disgrace by acting bravely; and the thing he seeks is wicked. There is a type of controversy, whether in opinion or both, that is low and sordid. A poor man was selling clothes; another poor man came forward who claimed them, saying they had been stolen from him; the seller said he had stripped those clothes from a caught adulterer. They accuse each other, one of adultery, the other of theft. For here both the persons of the poor men are humble, and the matters which seem to have created the question are base—the claiming and recognition of clothes; and although the crime of adultery, which is not base, has intervened, nevertheless, because the humble and sordid elements are more numerous, they claim the character of the whole controversy for themselves.

CHAPTER X. — What Utility the Recognition of Figures of This Kind Brings To distinguish these figures of controversy, however, is useful for many other things, but especially for this: that we may be able to find a manner of prefacing, that is, of producing an introduction, that is congruent with the quality of the matter. For the same species of introduction ought to be in the theme, and its own form is to be assigned to each. Now first, in the genus of matter that is honorable, Hermagoras denies that one should preface: for if we are accustomed to preface for the sake of goodwill or attentiveness in a theme of good opinion, such as that of Scipio, "These before whom we are to speak are well-disposed," but it is in no way relevant to prepare what is already prepared. But it seems far otherwise to me, and I say this with respect to so great a man: for authority is not always to be regarded, especially when it is overcome by reason. I think, therefore, that nothing prevents us from prefacing in the honorable genus of matter. For nothing, I believe, is wrong in making well-disposed judges more well-disposed by prefacing, just as when we see offense taken by adversaries, we try to increase that offense by speaking. Finally, we see that the aulete and the citharode and other such artists, although they do not promise a speech, nevertheless preface before their performance. And altogether, an oration that begins from the matters themselves without an introduction is curt and headless.

We also use principles in controversies of good opinion, but somewhat shorter and more straightforward, and confident and full of dignities, without boasting, however, lest the matter breed ill will: as is that passage in Marcus Tullius against the assembly of Metellus, in which he seems to exult: "For thus, I think, I will pursue the fleeing man, since it is not permitted to engage with one who resists." Which he would certainly never have dared to say so magnificently in the exordium at once, unless both the actor's own person were honorable and the matter he was about to speak of were not base. And likewise in another place, when he spoke about the punishment of the conspirators: "I see, Conscript Fathers, that the faces and eyes of all of you are turned toward me," and so forth. All these things are of such a kind that the actor seems justly to trust both in his own splendor and in these matters about which he is about to speak, as if they were most honorable. Many exordia of this kind are found in Gaius Gracchus, who was of so much nobler spirit, which, if spoken by Merucius or someone from the Canmensis crowd, no one would endure. In the *oxýs* (sharp) kind of material, we must use a certain moderation when we begin, so that we both increase the baseness that underlies it and the dignity that is in the matter or person, either by illustrating it, or by mixing both in such a way that the baseness of one part is covered by the honorableness of the other. Yet not with as much boasting as in that superior kind of material, but as if with a certain confident modesty.

If there is disgrace in the matter, we will divert the judge as much as possible to the dignity of the person. If in the person, we will take refuge in the dignity of the matter, as if from a dangerous place to a safer one, but yielding summarily and lightly, so that we seem rather to despise suspicion of fear than to be afraid. We will labor, however, to have both dignities of the matter and the person confused, so that we seem to have more confidence in honesty than fear of that disgrace. But to make this type of beginning clearer, I will give an example which Marcus Tullius had when he spoke for Marcus Scaurus. For there was a controversy: he who relied on the dignity of the person of Marcus Scaurus was pressed by the disgrace of the charge concerning extortion. The orator immediately confused both in the beginning in such a way that he covered the disgrace of the charge with the dignity of the person; yet not too lavishly, nor exultantly, but so as to express even some suspicion of fear. "It was most to be desired for Marcus Scaurus, judges, that having undertaken no one's hatred, without offense and annoyance," and so forth.

one, that is, in a theme of bad opinion, where both the person and the dignity are equally burdened, longer introductions must be used, and effort must be devoted to clearing away suspicions, and one must speak humbly, both in sentiments and in words, even approaching flattery, and complaint as if of a falsely imputed crime and false infamy contrived against us through envy, with the whole body also bent more submissively to modesty, with a downcast face and eyes fixed on the ground; and not those things sharply, but, if we can, even with simulated fear. In the humble kind of subject matter, the introductions ought to be closest to conversation; neither with sentiments sought from on high, nor with words adorned beyond measure, nor with a weightier structure, but as if loose and simple. The force of all the sentiments, however, which we apply to these introductions, ought to be such that it recalls the matter from particularity to commonality, and says that the vindication of that matter concerns everyone: because the smaller each thing is, the more frequently and more often it can occur among many. And that one ought not so much to regard the magnitude of things and persons, as the principle of equity and inequity, truth and falsehood: for the force of these is the same in the smallest as in the greatest. Such introductions are more frequent in Demosthenes in those books which are inscribed *Idiotici*, and more so in Lysias, and in some of our ancient authors. Certainly Marcus Tullius, when he spoke for Archias, did not begin otherwise.