Stylistic Genre. Just as the manner of execution that any artist must use depends upon the object which he treats; and as the manner of Poussin is not at all that of Teniers, nor the architecture of a temple that of an ordinary house, nor the music of a tragic opera that of an opera buffa; so also each genre of writing has its own style in prose and in verse. One understands well enough that the style of history is not at all that of a funeral oration; that an ambassador’s memo should not be written like a sermon; that comedy ought not make use of the bold phrasings of an ode, nor the pathetic expressions of a tragedy, nor the metaphors and allegories of the epic.

Each genre has its different nuances: one can reduce them at bottom to two: the simple and the complex. These two approaches, which cover so many others, possess some essential beauties equally common to both; these beauties are the justness and suitability of ideas, elegance, propriety of expression, the purity of language; every writing, whatever its nature may be, demands these qualities. The differences consist in the ideas suited to each subject, in the figures and in the tropes; thus a comedic character will have neither sublime nor philosophical thoughts, a shepherd will have none of the ideas of a conqueror, a didactic epistle will breathe no passion, and in these kinds of writing will one employ no bold metaphors, no pathetic exclamations, no vehement expressions.

Between the simple and the sublime there are several shades, and the art of arranging them contributes to the perfection of both eloquence and poetry. Through this art Virgil sometimes distinguished himself in the eclogue: the verse, Ut vidi! Ut perii! Ut me malus abstulit error!  [1] , would be as beautiful on the lips of Dido as in the mouth of a shepherd, for it is natural, true and elegant, and the sentiment it contains befits all sorts of conditions. But the verse, Castaneaeque nuces mea quas Amaryllis amabat  [2], would not at all suit an heroic figure, since its object is too small for a hero.

We do not understand by this “small” that which is base and gross, for the base and gross is not a style, but a fault.

These two examples evidently shed light on the cases in which one is permitted a mix of styles, as well as on when one must take care to avoid this. Tragedy can lower itself, it even must do so; simplicity often augments grandeur in accord with the precept of Horace: Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri.  [3]

Thus also these two lovely verses of Titus, so natural and tender:

would not be out of place in serious comedy.

But the line of Antiochus, The lonely East – how my weariness should grow! (Racine, Bérénice I.iv), could not at all be spoken by a lover in a comedy, since the beautifully figured expression, The lonely East, belongs to a genre too refined for the simplicity of the laced-boots.

The most damnable and most common fault in the mixing of styles is that of disfiguring the most serious subjects by attempting (one believes) to lighten them through the pleasantries of familiar conversation.

We have already noted in respect of Wit[Wit] that an author who has written on Physics, and who claims that there was a physics writer named Hercules, adds that it was impossible to resist such a powerful philosopher. Another, who has just finished a little book (which he supposes to be both physical and moral) against the use of inoculation, says “that if one used artificial smallpox, death would be cheated.”

This fault derives from a ridiculous affectation. There is another one which is but the result of negligence, namely to sprinkle in with the simple and noble style demanded by history those popular phrases and trivial expressions that good taste rejects. One finds too often in Mezeray, and even in Daniel, who, having written long after the former, ought to have been more exacting, “that a general in his undertakings was hot on the enemy’s heels, kept on his toes, and straightened the enemy’s curls.” On never finds such baseness of style in Livy, Tacitus, Guicciardini or Clarendon.

Let us remark here that an author who has made himself into a genre can rarely change it when he changes object. La Fontaine in his works employs the same style that is so natural to him in his tales and in his fables. Benserade puts into his translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses that pleasant mode that allowed him to succeed at court with this madrigals. Perfection consists in knowing how always to match the style to the matter one treats – but who can be a complete master of his habits and bend his genius to do his bidding?

1. “I saw, I was lost, and madness swept me away.” Eclogues 8.41.

2. “Chestnuts, which my Amaryllis loved.” Eclogues 2.52.

3. “And tragedy sometimes grieves in the language of common folk.” “Ars Poetica,” Epistulae 2.3.95.