II.  Clearness results above all from propriety  in the use of words. But propriety  is capable of more than one interpretation. In its primary sense it means calling things by their right names, and is consequently sometimes to be avoided, for our language must not be obscene, unseemly or mean. Language may be described as mean when it is beneath the dignity of the subject or the rank of the speaker. Some orators fall into serious error in their to avoid this fault, and are afraid of all words that are in ordinary use, even although they may be absolutely necessary for their purpose. There was, for example,  the man who in the course of a speech spoke of "Iberian grass," a meaningless phrase intelligible only to himself. Cassius Severus, however, by way of deriding his affection, explained that he meant Spanish broom. Nor do I see why a certain distinguished orator thought "fishes conserved in brine" a more elegant phrase than the word which he avoided. But while there is no special merit in the form of propriety which consists in calling things by their real names, it is a fault to fly to the opposite extreme. 

    This fault we call  impropriety.... As examples I may cite the Virgilian, "Never could I have hoped for such great woe," or the phrase, which I noted had been corrected by Cicero in a speech of Dolabella's, "To bring death," or again, phrases of a kind that win praise  form some of our contemporaries, such as, "His words fell from the cross." On the other hand, everything that lacks appropriateness will not necessarily suffer from the fault of positive impropriety, because there are, in the first place, many things which have no proper term either in Greek or Latin. For example, the verb iaculari is especially used in the sense of "to throw a javelin," whereas there is no special verb appropriated to the throwing of a ball or a stake. So, too, While lapidare has the obvious meaning of "to stone," there is no special word to describe the throwing of clods or potsherds. Hence abuse or catachresis of words becomes necessary, while metaphor, also, which is the supreme ornament of oratory, applies words to things with which they have strictly no connection. 

    Consequently propriety turns not on the actual term, but on the meaning of the term, and must be tested by the touchstone  of the understanding, not of the ear. The second sense in which word the word propriety is used occurs when there are a number of things all called by the same name: in this case the original term from which the others  are derived is styled the proper term. For example, the word vertex means a whirl of water, or anything else that is whirled in a like manner: then, owing to the fashion of coiling the hair, it comes to mean the top of the head, while finally, from this sense it derives the meaning of the highest point of a mountain. All these things may correctly be called vertices, but the proper use of the term is the first.  So, too, solea and turdus are employed as names of fish, to mention no other cases. The third kind of propriety is found in the case where a thing which serves a number of purposes has a special name in some one particular context; for example, the proper term for a funeral song is naenia, and for the general 's tent augurale.  Again, a term which is common to a number of things may be applied in a proper or special sense to some one of them. Thus we use urbs in the special sense of  Rome, and many other things which may be styled venales besides slaves, and gold and silver are found at Corinth as well as bronze. But the use of such terms implies no special excellence in an orator. 

    There is, however, a form of propriety of speech which deserves the highest praise, that is to say, the employment of words with the maximum of significance, as, for instance, when Cato said that "Caesar was thoroughly sober when he undertook the task of overthrowing the constitution," or as Virgil spoke of a "thin-drawn strain," and Horace of the "shrill pipe," and "dread Hannibal." Some also include under this head that form of  propriety which is derived from characteristics epithets, such as in the Virgilian phrase, "sweet unfermented wine," or "with white teeth." But of this sort of propriety I shall have to speak elsewhere. Propriety is also made to include the appropriate use of words in metaphor, while at times the salient characteristics of an individual comes to be attached to him as proper name: thus Fabius was called "Cunctator," the Delayer, on account of his most remarkable military virtues. Some, perhaps, may think that words which mean more than they actually say deserve mention in connection with clearness, since they assist the understanding. I, however, prefer to place emphasis among the ornaments of oratory, since it does not make a thing intelligible, but merely more intelligible.  

     Obscurity, on the other hand, results from the employment of obsolete words, as, for instance, if an author should search the records of the priests, the earliest treaties and the works of long-forgotten writers with the deliberate design of collecting words that no man who lives understands. For there are persons who seek to gain reputation for erudition by such means as this, in order that they may be regarded as the sole depositories of certain forms of knowledge. Obscurity may also be produced by the use of words which are more familiar in certain districts than in orders, or which are of a technical character, such as the wind called "Atabalus," or a "sack-ship," or in malo cosanum. Such expressions should be avoided if we are pleading before a judge who is ignorant of their meaning, or, if used, should be explained, as may have to be done in the case of what are  called homonyms. For example, the word taurus may be unintelligible unless we make it clear whether we are speaking of a bull, or a mountain, or a constellation, or the name of a man, or the roots of a tree. 

     A greater source of obscurity is, however, to be found in the construction and combination of words, and the ways in which this may occur are still more numerous. Therefore, a sentence should never be so long that it is impossible to follow its drift, nor should its conclusion be unduly postponed by transposition or an excessive use of hyperbaton. Still worse is the result when the order of the words is confused as in the line. 

"In the midmost sea Rocks are there by Italians altars called."

     Again, parenthesis, so often employed by orators and historians, and consisting in the insertion of one sentence in the midst of another, may seriously hinder the understanding of a passage, unless the insertion is short. For example, in the passage where Vergil describes a colt, the words

"Nor fears he empty noises,"

are followed by a number of remarks of a totally different form, and it is only four lines later that the poet returns to the point and says,

" Then, if the sound of arms be heard afar, 

How to stand still he knows not."                  

  Above all, ambiguity must be avoided, and by ambiguity I mean not merely the kind of which I have already spoken, where the sense is uncertain, as in the clause Chremetem audivi percussisse Demean, but also that form of ambiguity which, although it does not actually result in obscuring the sense, falls into the same verbal error as if a man should say visium a se hominem librum scribentem (that he had seen a man writing a book). For although it is clear that the book was being written by the man, the sentence is badly put together, and its author has made it as ambiguous as he could.

   Again, some writers introduce a whole host of useless words; for, in their eagerness to avoid ordinary methods of expression, and allured by false ideals of beauty they wrap up everything in a multitude of words simply and solely because they are unwilling to make a direct and simple statement of the facts: and then they link up and involve one of those long-winded  clauses with others like it, and extend their periods to a length beyond the compass of mortal breath. Some even expend an infinity of toil to acquire this vice, which, by the way, is nothing new: for I learn from the pages of Livy that there was one, a teacher, who instructed his pupils to make all they said obscure.... It was this same habit that gave rise to the famous words of praise, "So much the better: even I could not understand you." Others are consumed with a passion for brevity and omit words which are actually necessary to the sense, regarding it as a matter of complete indifference whether their meaning is intelligible to others, so long as they know what they mean themselves. 

    For my own part, I regard as useless words which make such a demand upon the ingenuity of the hearer. Others, again, succeed in committing the same fault by a verse misuse of figures. Worst of all are...expressions which, though their meaning is obvious enough on the surface, have a secret meaning, as for example in the phrase cum ductus est caectus secundum viam stare, or where the man, who own limbs with his teeth, is said to have lain upon himself. Such are regarded as ingenious, daring and eloquent, simply because of their ambiguity, and quite a number of persons have become infected by the belief that a passage which requires a commentator must for that very reason be a masterpiece of elegance. Nay, there is even a class of hearer who find a special pleasure in such passages; for the fact that they can provide an answer to the riddle fills them with an ecstasy of self-congratulation, as if they had not merely heard the phrase, but invented it.