No More Learning

We went together to pay our visit to Maternus. Upon entering his
study, we found him with the tragedy, which he had read on the
preceding day, lying before him. Secundus began: And are you then so
little affected by the censure of malignant critics, as to persist in
cherishing a tragedy which has given so much offence? Perhaps you are
revising the piece, and, after retrenching certain passages, intend to
send your Cato into the world, I will not say improved, but certainly
less obnoxious. There lies the poem, said Maternus; you may, if you
think proper, peruse it with all its imperfections on its head. If
Cato has omitted any thing, Thyestes [a], at my next reading, shall
atone for all deficiencies. I have formed the fable of a tragedy on
that subject: the plan is warm in my imagination, and, that I may give
my whole time to it, I now am eager to dispatch an edition of Cato.
Marcus Aper interposed: And are you, indeed, so enamoured of your
dramatic muse, as to renounce your oratorical character, and the
honours of your profession, in order to sacrifice your time, I think
it was lately to Medea, and now to Thyestes? Your friends, in the mean
time, expect your patronage; the colonies [b] invoke your aid, and the
municipal cities invite you to the bar. And surely the weight of so
many causes may be deemed sufficient, without this new solicitude
imposed upon you by Domitius [c] or Cato. And must you thus waste all
your time, amusing yourself for ever with scenes of fictitious
distress, and still labouring to add to the fables of Greece the
incidents and characters of the Roman story?


IV. The sharpness of that reproof, replied Maternus, would, perhaps,
have disconcerted me, if, by frequent repetition, it had not lost its
sting. To differ on this subject is grown familiar to us both. Poetry,
it seems, is to expect no quarter: you wage an incessant war against
the followers of that pleasing art; and I, who am charged with
deserting my clients, have yet every day the cause of poetry to
defend. But we have now a fair opportunity, and I embrace it with
pleasure, since we have a person present, of ability to decide between
us; a judge, who will either lay me under an injunction to write no
more verses, or, as I rather hope, encourage me, by his authority, to
renounce for ever the dry employment of forensic causes (in which I
have had my share of drudgery), that I may, for the future, be at
leisure to cultivate the sublime and sacred eloquence of the tragic
muse.


V. Secundus desired to be heard: I am aware, he said, that Aper may
refuse me as an umpire. Before he states his objections, let me follow
the example of all fair and upright judges, who, in particular cases,
when they feel a partiality for one of the contending parties, desire
to be excused from hearing the cause. The friendship and habitual
intercourse, which I have ever cultivated with Saleius Bassus [a],
that excellent man, and no less excellent poet, are well known: and
let me add, if poetry is to be arraigned, I know no client that can
offer such handsome bribes.

My business, replied Aper, is not with Saleius Bassus: let him, and
all of his description, who, without talents for the bar, devote their
time to the muses, pursue their favourite amusement without
interruption. But Maternus must not think to escape in the crowd. I
single him out from the rest, and since we are now before a competent
judge, I call upon him to answer, how it happens, that a man of his
talents, formed by nature to reach the heights of manly eloquence, can
think of renouncing a profession, which not only serves to multiply
friendships, but to support them with reputation: a profession, which
enables us to conciliate the esteem of foreign nations, and (if we
regard our own interest) lays open the road to the first honours of
the state; a profession, which, besides the celebrity that it gives
within the walls of Rome, spreads an illustrious name throughout this
wide extent of the empire.

If it be wisdom to make the ornament and happiness of life the end and
aim of our actions, what can be more advisable than to embrace an art,
by which we are enabled to protect our friends; to defend the cause of
strangers; and succour the distressed? Nor is this all: the eminent
orator is a terror to his enemies: envy and malice tremble, while they
hate him. Secure in his own strength, he knows how to ward off every
danger. His own genius is his protection; a perpetual guard, that
watches him; an invincible power, that shields him from his enemies.

In the calm seasons of life, the true use of oratory consists in the
assistance which it affords to our fellow-citizens. We then behold the
triumph of eloquence. Have we reason to be alarmed for ourselves, the
sword and breast-plate are not a better defence in the heat of battle.
It is at once a buckler to cover yourself [b] and a weapon to brandish
against your enemy. Armed with this, you may appear with courage
before the tribunals of justice, in the senate, and even in the
presence of the prince. We lately saw [c] Eprius Marcellus arraigned
before the fathers: in that moment, when the minds of the whole
assembly were inflamed against him, what had he to oppose to the
vehemence of his enemies, but that nervous eloquence which he
possessed in so eminent a degree? Collected in himself, and looking
terror to his enemies, he was more than a match for Helvidius Priscus;
a man, no doubt, of consummate wisdom, but without that flow of
eloquence, which springs from practice, and that skill in argument,
which is necessary to manage a public debate. Such is the advantage of
oratory: to enlarge upon it were superfluous. My friend Maternus will
not dispute the point.


VI. I proceed to the pleasure arising from the exercise of eloquence;
a pleasure which does not consist in the mere sensation of the moment,
but is felt through life, repeated every day, and almost every hour.
For let me ask, to a man of an ingenuous and liberal mind, who knows
the relish of elegant enjoyments, what can yield such true delight, as
a concourse of the most respectable characters crowding to his levee?
How must it enhance his pleasure, when he reflects, that the visit is
not paid to him because he is rich, and wants an heir [a], or is in
possession of a public office, but purely as a compliment to superior
talents, a mark of respect to a great and accomplished orator! The
rich who have no issue, and the men in high rank and power, are his
followers. Though he is still young, and probably destitute of
fortune, all concur in paying their court to solicit his patronage for
themselves, or to recommend their friends to his protection. In the
most splendid fortune, in all the dignity and pride of power, is there
any thing that can equal the heartfelt satisfaction of the able
advocate, when he sees the most illustrious citizens, men respected
for their years, and flourishing in the opinion of the public, yet
paying their court to a rising genius, and, in the midst of wealth and
grandeur, fairly owning, that they still want something superior to
all their possessions? What shall be said of the attendants, that
follow the young orator from the bar, and watch his motions to his own
house? With what importance does he appear to the multitude! in the
courts of judicature, with what veneration! When he rises to speak,
the audience is hushed in mute attention; every eye is fixed on him
alone; the crowd presses round him; he is master of their passions;
they are swayed, impelled, directed, as he thinks proper. These are
the fruits of eloquence, well known to all, and palpable to every
common observer.

There are other pleasures more refined and secret, felt only by the
initiated. When the orator, upon some great occasion, comes with a
well-digested speech, conscious of his matter, and animated by his
subject, his breast expands, and heaves with emotions unfelt before.
In his joy there is a dignity suited to the weight and energy of the
composition which he has prepared. Does he rise to hazard himself [b]
in a sudden debate; he is alarmed for himself, but in that very alarm
there is a mingle of pleasure, which predominates, till distress
itself becomes delightful. The mind exults in the prompt exertion of
its powers, and even glories in its rashness. The productions of
genius, and those of the field, have this resemblance: many things are
sown, and brought to maturity with toil and care; yet that, which
grows from the wild vigour of nature, has the most grateful flavour.


VII. As to myself, if I may allude to my own feelings, the day on
which I put on the manly gown [a], and even the days that followed,
when, as a new man at Rome, born in a city that did not favour my
pretensions [b], I rose in succession to the offices of quæstor,
tribune, and prætor; those days, I say, did not awaken in my breast
such exalted rapture, as when, in the course of my profession, I was
called forth, with such talents as have fallen to my share, to defend
the accused; to argue a question of law before the centumviri [c], or,
in the presence of the prince, to plead for his freedmen, and the
procurators appointed by himself. Upon those occasions I towered above
all places of profit, and all preferment; I looked down on the
dignities of tribune, prætor, and consul; I felt within myself, what
neither the favour of the great, nor the wills and codicils [d] of the
rich, can give, a vigour of mind, an inward energy, that springs from
no external cause, but is altogether your own.

Look through the circle of the fine arts, survey the whole compass of
the sciences, and tell me in what branch can the professors acquire a
name to vie with the celebrity of a great and powerful orator. His
fame does not depend on the opinion of thinking men, who attend to
business and watch the administration of affairs; he is applauded by
the youth of Rome, at least by such of them as are of a well-turned
disposition, and hope to rise by honourable means. The eminent orator
is the model which every parent recommends to his children. Even the
common people [e] stand at gaze, as he passes by; they pronounce his
name with pleasure, and point at him as the object of their
admiration. The provinces resound with his praise. The strangers, who
arrive from all parts, have heard of his genius; they wish to behold
the man, and their curiosity is never at rest, till they have seen his
person, and perused his countenance.


VIII. I have already mentioned Eprius Marcellus and Crispus Vibius
[a]. I cite living examples, in preference to the names of a former
day. Those two illustrious persons, I will be bold to say, are not
less known in the remotest parts of the empire, than they are at
Capua, or Vercellæ [b], where, we are told, they both were born. And
to what is their extensive fame to be attributed? Not surely to their
immoderate riches. Three hundred thousand sesterces cannot give the
fame of genius. Their eloquence may be said to have built up their
fortunes; and, indeed, such is the power, I might say the inspiration,
of eloquence, that in every age we have examples of men, who by their
talents raised themselves to the summit of their ambition.

But I waive all former instances. The two, whom I have mentioned, are
not recorded in history, nor are we to glean an imperfect knowledge of
them from tradition; they are every day before our eyes. They have
risen from low beginnings; but the more abject their origin, and the
more sordid the poverty, in which they set out, their success rises in
proportion, and affords a striking proof of what I have advanced;
since it is apparent, that, without birth or fortune, neither of them
recommended by his moral character, and one of them deformed in his
person, they have, notwithstanding all disadvantages, made themselves,
for a series of years, the first men in the state. They began their
career in the forum, and, as long as they chose to pursue that road of
ambition, they flourished in the highest reputation; they are now at
the head of the commonwealth, the ministers who direct and govern, and
so high in favour with the prince, that the respect, with which he
receives them, is little short of veneration.

The truth is, Vespasian [c], now in the vale of years, but always open
to the voice of truth, clearly sees that the rest of his favourites
derive all their lustre from the favours, which his munificence has
bestowed; but with Marcellus and Crispus the case is different: they
carry into the cabinet, what no prince can give, and no subject can
receive. Compared with the advantages which those men possess, what
are family-pictures, statues, busts, and titles of honour? They are
things of a perishable nature, yet not without their value. Marcellus
and Vibius know how to estimate them, as they do wealth and honours;
and wealth and honours are advantages against which you will easily
find men that declaim, but none that in their hearts despise them.
Hence it is, that in the houses of all who have distinguished
themselves in the career of eloquence, we see titles, statues, and
splendid ornaments, the reward of talents, and, at all times, the
decorations of the great and powerful orator.


IX. But to come to the point, from which we started: poetry, to which
my friend Maternus wishes to dedicate all his time, has none of these
advantages. It confers no dignity, nor does it serve any useful
purpose. It is attended with some pleasure, but it is the pleasure of
a moment, springing from vain applause, and bringing with it no solid
advantage. What I have said, and am going to add, may probably, my
good friend Maternus, be unwelcome to your ear; and yet I must take
the liberty to ask you, if Agamemnon [a] or Jason speaks in your piece
with dignity of language, what useful consequence follows from it?
What client has been defended? Who confesses an obligation? In that
whole audience, who returns to his own house with a grateful heart?
Our friend Saleius Bassus [b] is, beyond all question, a poet of
eminence, or, to use a warmer expression, he has the god within him:
but who attends his levee? who seeks his patronage, or follows in his
train? Should he himself, or his intimate friend, or his near
relation, happen to be involved in a troublesome litigation, what
course do you imagine he would take? He would, most probably, apply to
his friend, Secundus; or to you, Maternus; not because you are a poet,
nor yet to obtain a copy of verses from you; of those he has a
sufficient stock at home, elegant, it must be owned, and exquisite in
the kind. But after all his labour and waste of genius, what is his
reward?

When in the course of a year, after toiling day and night, he has
brought a single poem to perfection, he is obliged to solicit his
friends and exert his interest, in order to bring together an audience
[c], so obliging as to hear a recital of the piece. Nor can this be
done without expence. A room must be hired, a stage or pulpit must be
erected; benches must be arranged, and hand-bills distributed
throughout the city. What if the reading succeeds to the height of his
wishes? Pass but a day or two, and the whole harvest of praise and
admiration fades away, like a flower that withers in its bloom, and
never ripens into fruit. By the event, however flattering, he gains no
friend, he obtains no patronage, nor does a single person go away
impressed with the idea of an obligation conferred upon him. The poet
has been heard with applause; he has been received with acclamations;
and he has enjoyed a short-lived transport.

Bassus, it is true, has lately received from Vespasian a present of
fifty thousand sesterces. Upon that occasion, we all admired the
generosity of the prince. To deserve so distinguished a proof of the
sovereign's esteem is, no doubt, highly honourable; but is it not
still more honourable, if your circumstances require it, to serve
yourself by your talents? to cultivate your genius, for your own
advantage? and to owe every thing to your own industry, indebted to
the bounty of no man whatever? It must not be forgotten, that the
poet, who would produce any thing truly excellent in the kind, must
bid farewell to the conversation of his friends; he must renounce, not
only the pleasures of Rome, but also the duties of social life; he
must retire from the world; as the poets say, "to groves and grottos
every muse's son. " In other words, he must condemn himself to a
sequestered life in the gloom of solitude.


X. The love of fame, it seems, is the passion that inspires the poet's
genius: but even in this respect, is he so amply paid as to rival in
any degree the professors of the persuasive arts? As to the
indifferent poet, men leave him to his own [a] mediocrity: the real
genius moves in a narrow circle. Let there be a reading of a poem by
the ablest master of his art: will the fame of his performance reach
all quarters, I will not say of the empire, but of Rome only? Among
the strangers who arrive from Spain, from Asia, or from Gaul, who
enquires [b] after Saleius Bassus? Should it happen that there is one,
who thinks, of him; his curiosity is soon satisfied; he passes on,
content with a transient view, as if he had seen a picture or a
statue.

In what I have advanced, let me not be misunderstood: I do not mean to
deter such as are not blessed with the gift of oratory, from the
practice of their favourite art, if it serves to fill up their time,
and gain a degree of reputation. I am an admirer of eloquence [c]; I
hold it venerable, and even sacred, in all its shapes, and every mode
of composition. The pathetic of tragedy, of which you, Maternus, are
so great a master; the majesty of the epic, the gaiety of the lyric
muse; the wanton elegy, the keen iambic, and the pointed epigram; all
have their charms; and Eloquence, whatever may be the subject which
she chooses to adorn, is with me the sublimest faculty, the queen of
all the arts and sciences. But this, Maternus, is no apology for you,
whose conduct is so extraordinary, that, though formed by nature to
reach the summit of perfection [d], you choose to wander into devious
paths, and rest contented with an humble station in the vale beneath.

Were you a native of Greece, where to exhibit in the public games [e]
is an honourable employment; and if the gods had bestowed upon you the
force and sinew of the athletic Nicostratus [f]; do you imagine that I
could look tamely on, and see that amazing vigour waste itself away in
nothing better than the frivolous art of darting the javelin, or
throwing the coit? To drop the allusion, I summon you from the theatre
and public recitals to the business of the forum, to the tribunals of
justice, to scenes of real contention, to a conflict worthy of your
abilities. You cannot decline the challenge, for you are left without
an excuse. You cannot say, with a number of others, that the
profession of poetry is safer than that of the public orator; since
you have ventured, in a tragedy written with spirit, to display the
ardour of a bold and towering genius.

And for whom have you provoked so many enemies? Not for a friend; that
would have had alleviating circumstances. You undertook the cause of
Cato, and for him committed yourself. You cannot plead, by way of
apology, the duty of an advocate, or the sudden effusion of sentiment
in the heat and hurry of an unpremeditated speech. Your plan was
settled; a great historical personage was your hero, and you chose
him, because what falls from so distinguished a character, falls from
a height that gives it additional weight. I am aware of your answer:
you will say, it was that very circumstance that ensured the success
of your piece; the sentiments were received with sympathetic rapture:
the room echoed with applause, and hence your fame throughout the city
of Rome. Then let us hear no more of your love of quiet and a state of
security: you have voluntarily courted danger. For myself, I am
content with controversies of a private nature, and the incidents of
the present day. If, hurried beyond the bounds of prudence, I should
happen, on any occasion, to grate the ears of men in power, the zeal
of an advocate, in the service of his client, will excuse the honest
freedom of speech, and, perhaps, be deemed a proof of integrity.


XI. Aper went through his argument, according to his custom, with
warmth and vehemence. He delivered the whole with a peremptory tone
and an eager eye. As soon as he finished, I am prepared, said Maternus
smiling, to exhibit a charge against the professors of oratory, which
may, perhaps, counterbalance the praise so lavishly bestowed upon them
by my friend. In the course of what he said, I was not surprised to
see him going out of his way, to lay poor poetry prostrate at his
feet. He has, indeed, shewn some kindness to such as are not blessed
with oratorical talents. He has passed an act of indulgence in their
favour, and they, it seems, are allowed to pursue their favourite
studies. For my part, I will not say that I think myself wholly
unqualified for the eloquence of the bar. It may be true, that I have
some kind of talent for that profession; but the tragic muse affords
superior pleasure. My first attempt was in the reign of Nero, in
opposition to the extravagant claims of the prince [a], and in
defiance of the domineering spirit of Vatinius [b], that pernicious
favourite, by whose coarse buffoonery the muses were every day
disgraced, I might say, most impiously prophaned. The portion of fame,
whatever it be, that I have acquired since that time, is to be
attributed, not to the speeches which I made in the forum, but to the
power of dramatic composition. I have, therefore, resolved to take my
leave of the bar for ever. The homage of visitors, the train of
attendants, and the multitude of clients, which glitter so much in the
eyes of my friend, have no attraction for me. I regard them as I do
pictures, and busts, and statues of brass; things, which indeed are in
my family, but they came unlooked for, without my stir, or so much as
a wish on my part. In my humble station, I find that innocence is a
better shield than oratory. For the last I shall have no occasion,
unless I find it necessary, on some future occasion, to exert myself
in the just defence of an injured friend.


XII. But woods, and groves [a], and solitary places, have not escaped
the satyrical vein of my friend. To me they afford sensations of a
pure delight. It is there I enjoy the pleasures of a poetic
imagination; and among those pleasures it is not the least, that they
are pursued far from the noise and bustle of the world, without a
client to besiege my doors, and not a criminal to distress me with the
tears of affliction. Free from those distractions, the poet retires to
scenes of solitude, where peace and innocence reside. In those haunts
of contemplation, he has his pleasing visions. He treads on
consecrated ground. It was there that Eloquence first grew up, and
there she reared her temple. In those retreats she first adorned
herself with those graces, which have made mankind enamoured of her
charms; and there she filled the hearts of the wise and good with joy
and inspiration. Oracles first spoke in woods and sacred groves. As to
the species of oratory, which practises for lucre, or with views of
ambition; that sanguinary eloquence [b] now so much in vogue: it is of
modern growth, the offspring of corrupt manners, and degenerate times;
or rather, as my friend _Aper_ expressed it, it is a _weapon_ in the
hands of ill-designing men.

The early and more happy period of the world, or, as we poets call it,
the golden age, was the æra of true eloquence. Crimes and orators were
then unknown. Poetry spoke in harmonious numbers, not to varnish evil
deeds, but to praise the virtuous, and celebrate the friends of human
kind. This was the poet's office. The inspired train enjoyed the
highest honours; they held commerce with the gods; they partook of the
ambrosial feast: they were at once the messengers and interpreters of
the supreme command. They ranked on earth with legislators, heroes,
and demigods. In that bright assembly we find no orator, no pleader of
causes. We read of Orpheus [c], of Linus, and, if we choose to mount
still higher, we can add the name of Apollo himself. This may seem a
flight of fancy. Aper will treat it as mere romance, and fabulous
history: but he will not deny, that the veneration paid to Homer, with
the consent of posterity, is at least equal to the honours obtained by
Demosthenes. He must likewise admit, that the fame of Sophocles and
Euripides is not confined within narrower limits than that of Lysias
[d] or Hyperides. To come home to our own country, there are at this
day more who dispute the excellence of Cicero than of Virgil. Among
the orations of Asinius or Messala [e], is there one that can vie with
the Medea of Ovid, or the Thyestes of Varius?


XIII. If we now consider the happy condition of the true poet, and
that easy commerce in which he passes his time, need we fear to
compare his situation with that of the boasted orator, who leads a
life of anxiety, oppressed by business, and overwhelmed with care? But
it is said, his contention, his toil and danger, are steps to the
consulship. How much more eligible was the soft retreat in which
Virgil [a] passed his days, loved by the prince, and honoured by the
people! To prove this the letters of Augustus are still extant; and
the people, we know, hearing in the theatre some verses of that divine
poet [b], when he himself was present, rose in a body, and paid him
every mark of homage, with a degree of veneration nothing short of
what they usually offered to the emperor.

Even in our own times, will any man say, that Secundus Pomponius [c],
in point of dignity or extent of fame, is inferior to Domitius Afer
[d]? But Vibius and Marcellus have been cited as bright examples: and
yet, in their elevation what is there to be coveted? Is it to be
deemed an advantage to those ministers, that they are feared by
numbers, and live in fear themselves? They are courted for their
favours, and the men, who obtain their suit, retire with ingratitude,
pleased with their success, yet hating to be obliged. Can we suppose
that the man is happy, who by his artifices has wriggled himself into
favour, and yet is never thought by his master sufficiently pliant,
nor by the people sufficiently free? And after all, what is the amount
of all his boasted power? The emperor's freedmen have enjoyed the
same. But as Virgil sweetly sings, Me let the sacred muses lead to
their soft retreats, their living fountains, and melodious groves,
where I may dwell remote from care, master of myself, and under no
necessity of doing every day what my heart condemns. Let me no more be
seen at the wrangling bar, a pale and anxious candidate for precarious
fame; and let neither the tumult of visitors crowding to my levee, nor
the eager haste of officious freedmen, disturb my morning rest. Let me
live free from solicitude, a stranger to the art of promising legacies
[e], in order to buy the friendship of the great; and when nature
shall give the signal to retire, may I possess no more than may be
safely bequeathed to such friends as I shall think proper. At my
funeral let no token of sorrow be seen, no pompous mockery of woe.
Crown [f] me with chaplets; strew flowers on my grave, and let my
friends erect no vain memorial, to tell where my remains are lodged.


XIV. Maternus finished with an air of enthusiasm, that seemed to lift
him above himself. In that moment [a], Vipstanius Messala entered the
room. From the attention that appeared in every countenance, he
concluded that some important business was the subject of debate. I am
afraid, said he, that I break in upon you at an unseasonable time. You
have some secret to discuss, or, perhaps, a consultation upon your
hands. Far from it, replied Secundus; I wish you had come sooner. You
would have had the pleasure of hearing an eloquent discourse from our
friend Aper, who has been endeavouring to persuade Maternus to
dedicate all his time to the business of the bar, and to give the
whole man to his profession. The answer of Maternus would have
entertained you: he has been defending his art, and but this moment
closed an animated speech, that held more of the poetical than the
oratorical character.

I should have been happy, replied Messala, to have heard both my
friends. It is, however, some compensation for the loss, that I find
men of their talents, instead of giving all their time to the little
subtleties and knotty points of the forum, extending their views to
liberal science, and those questions of taste, which enlarge the mind,
and furnish it with ideas drawn from the treasures of polite
erudition. Enquiries of this kind afford improvement not only to those
who enter into the discussion, but to all who have the happiness of
being present at the debate. It is in consequence of this refined and
elegant way of thinking, that you, Secundus, have gained so much
applause, by the life of Julius Asiaticus [b], with which you have
lately obliged the world.
From that specimen, we are taught to expect
other productions of equal beauty from the same hand. In like manner,
I see with pleasure, that our friend Aper loves to enliven his
imagination with topics of controversy, and still lays out his leisure
in questions of the schools [c], not, indeed, in imitation of the
ancient orators, but in the true taste of our modern rhetoricians.


XV. I am not surprised, returned Aper, at that stroke of raillery. It
is not enough for Messala, that the oratory of ancient times engrosses
all his admiration; he must have his fling at the moderns. Our talents
and our studies are sure to feel the sallies of his pleasantry [a]. I
have often heard you, my friend Messala, in the same humour. According
to you, the present age has not a single orator to boast of, though
your own eloquence, and that of your brother, are sufficient to refute
the charge. But you assert roundly, and maintain your proposition with
an air of confidence. You know how high you stand, and while in your
general censure of the age you include yourself, the smallest tincture
of malignity cannot be supposed to mingle in a decision, which denies
to your own genius, what by common consent is allowed to be your
undoubted right.

I have as yet, replied Messala, seen no reason to make me retract my
opinion; nor do I believe, that my two friends here, or even you
yourself (though you sometimes affect a different tone), can seriously
maintain the opposite doctrine. The decline of eloquence is too
apparent. The causes which have contributed to it, merit a serious
enquiry. I shall be obliged to you, my friends, for a fair solution of
the question. I have often reflected upon the subject; but what seems
to others a full answer, with me serves only to increase the
difficulty. What has happened at Rome, I perceive to have been the
case in Greece. The modern orators of that country, such as the priest
[b] Nicetes, and others who, like him, stun the schools of Mytelene
and Ephesus [c], are fallen to a greater distance from Æschines and
Demosthenes, than Afer and Africanus [d], or you, my friends, from
Tully or Asinius Pollio.


XVI. You have started an important question, said Secundus, and who so
able to discuss it as yourself? Your talents are equal to the
difficulty; your acquisitions in literature are known to be extensive,
and you have considered the subject. I have no objection, replied
Messala: my ideas are at your service, upon condition that, as I go
on, you will assist me with the lights of your understanding. For two
of us I can venture to answer, said Maternus: whatever you omit, or
rather, what you leave for us to glean after you, we shall be ready to
add to your observations. As to our friend Aper, you have told us,
that he is apt to differ from you upon this point, and even now I see
him preparing to give battle. He will not tamely bear to see us joined
in a league in favour of antiquity.

Certainly not, replied Aper, nor shall the present age, unheard and
undefended, be degraded by a conspiracy. But before you sound to arms,
I wish to know, who are to be reckoned among the ancients? At what
point of time [a] do you fix your favourite æra? When you talk to me
of antiquity, I carry my view to the first ages of the world, and see
before me Ulysses and Nestor, who flourished little less than [b]
thirteen hundred years ago. Your retrospect, it seems, goes no farther
back than to Demosthenes and Hyperides; men who lived in the times of
Philip and Alexander, and indeed survived them both. The interval,
between Demosthenes and the present age, is little more than [c] four
hundred years; a space of time, which, with a view to the duration of
human life, may be called long; but, as a portion of that immense
tract of time which includes the different ages of the world, it
shrinks into nothing, and seems to be but yesterday. For if it be
true, as Cicero says in his treatise called Hortensius, that the great
and genuine year is that period in which the heavenly bodies revolve
to the station from which their source began; and if this grand
rotation of the whole planetary system requires no less than twelve
thousand nine hundred and fifty-four years [d] of our computation, it
follows that Demosthenes, your boasted ancient, becomes a modern, and
even our contemporary; nay, that he lived in the same year with
ourselves; I had almost said, in the same month [e].


XVII. But I am in haste to pass to our Roman orators. Menenius Agrippa
[a] may fairly be deemed an ancient. I take it, however, that he is
not the person, whom you mean to oppose to the professors of modern
eloquence. The æra, which you have in view, is that of [b] Cicero and
Cæsar; of Cælius [c] and Calvus; of Brutus [d], Asinius, and Messala.
Those are the men, whom you place in the front of hour line; but for
what reason they are to be classed with the ancients, and not, as I
think they ought to be, with the moderns, I am still to learn. To
begin with Cicero; he, according to the account of Tiro, his freedman,
was put to death on the seventh of the ides of December, during the
consulship of Hirtius and Pansa [e], who, we know, were both cut off
in the course of the year, and left their office vacant for Augustus
and Quintus Pedius. Count from that time six and fifty years to
complete the reign of Augustus; three and twenty for that of Tiberius,
four for Caligula, eight and twenty for Claudius and Nero, one for
Galba, Otho, and Vitellius, and finally six from the accession of
Vespasian to the present year of our felicity, we shall have from the
death of Cicero a period of about [f] one hundred and twenty years,
which may be considered as the term allotted to the life of man. I
myself remember to have seen in Britain a soldier far advanced in
years, who averred that he carried arms in that very battle [g] in
which his countrymen sought to drive Julius Cæsar back from their
coast. If this veteran, who served in the defence of his country
against Cæsar's invasion, had been brought a prisoner to Rome; or, if
his own inclination, or any other accident in the course of things,
had conducted him thither, he might have heard, not only Cæsar and
Cicero, but even ourselves in some of our public speeches.

In the late public largess [h] you will acknowledge that you saw
several old men, who assured us that they had received more than once,
the like distribution from Augustus himself. If that be so, might not
those persons have heard Corvinus [i] and Asinius? Corvinus, we all
know, lived through half the reign of Augustus, and Asinius almost to
the end. How then are we to ascertain the just boundaries of a
century? They are not to be varied at pleasure, so as to place some
orators in a remote, and others in a recent period, while people are
still living, who heard them all, and may, therefore, with good reason
rank them as contemporaries.


XVIII. From what I have said, I assume it as a clear position, that
the glory, whatever it be, that accrued to the age in which those
orators lived, is not confined to that particular period, but reaches
down to the present time, and may more properly be said to belong to
us, than to Servius Galba [a], or to Carbo [b], and others of the same
or more ancient date. Of that whole race of orators, I may freely say,
that their manner cannot now be relished. Their language is coarse,
and their composition rough, uncouth, and harsh; and yet your Calvus
[c], your Cælius, and even your favourite Cicero, condescend to follow
that inelegant style. It were to be wished that they had not thought
such models worthy of imitation. I mean to speak my mind with freedom;
but before I proceed, it will be necessary to make a preliminary
observation, and it is this: Eloquence has no settled form: at
different times it puts on a new garb, and changes with the manners
and the taste of the age. Thus we find, that Gracchus [d], compared
with the elder Cato [e], is full and copious; but, in his turn, yields
to Crassus [f], an orator more polished, more correct, and florid.
Cicero rises superior to both; more animated, more harmonious and
sublime. He is followed by Corvinus [g], who has all the softer
graces; a sweet flexibility in his style, and a curious felicity in
the choice of his words. Which was the greatest orator, is not the
question.

The use I make of these examples, is to prove that eloquence does not
always wear the same dress, but, even among your celebrated ancients,
has its different modes of persuasion. And be it remembered, that what
differs is not always the worst. Yet such is the malignity of the
human mind, that what has the sanction of antiquity is always admired;
what is present, is sure to be condemned. Can we doubt that there have
been critics, who were better pleased with Appius Cæcus [h] than with
Cato? Cicero had his adversaries [i]: it was objected to him, that his
style was redundant, turgid, never compressed, void of precision, and
destitute of Attic elegance. We all have read the letters of Calvus
and Brutus to your famous orator. In the course of that
correspondence, we plainly see what was Cicero's opinion of those
eminent men. The former [k] appeared to him cold and languid; the
latter [l], disjointed, loose, and negligent. On the other hand, we
know what they thought in return: Calvus did not hesitate to say, that
Cicero was diffuse luxuriant to a fault, and florid without vigour.
Brutus, in express terms, says, he was weakened into length, and
wanted sinew. If you ask my opinion, each of them had reason on his
side. I shall hereafter examine them separately. My business at
present, is not in the detail: I speak of them in general terms.


XIX. The æra of ancient oratory is, I think, extended by its admirers
no farther back than the time of Cassius Severus [a]. He, they tell
us, was the first who dared to deviate from the plain and simple style
of his predecessors. I admit the fact. He departed from the
established forms, not through want of genius, or of learning, but
guided by his own good sense and superior judgement. He saw that the
public ear was formed to a new manner; and eloquence, he knew, was to
find new approaches to the heart. In the early periods of the
commonwealth, a rough unpolished people might well be satisfied with
the tedious length of unskilful speeches, at a time when to make an
harangue that took up the whole day, was the orator's highest praise.
The prolix exordium, wasting itself in feeble preparation; the
circumstantial narration, the ostentatious division of the argument
under different heads, and the thousand proofs and logical
distinctions, with whatever else is contained in the dry precepts of
Hermagoras [b] and Apollodorus, were in that rude period received with
universal applause. To finish the picture, if your ancient orator
could glean a little from the common places of philosophy, and
interweave a few shreds and patches with the thread of his discourse,
he was extolled to the very skies. Nor can this be matter of wonder:
the maxims of the schools had not been divulged; they came with an air
of novelty. Even among the orators themselves, there were but few who
had any tincture of philosophy. Nor had they learned the rules of art
from the teachers of eloquence.

In the present age, the tenets of philosophy and the precepts of
rhetoric are no longer a secret. The lowest of our popular assemblies
are now, I will not say fully instructed, but certainly acquainted
with the elements of literature. The orator, by consequence, finds
himself obliged to seek new avenues to the heart, and new graces to
embellish his discourse, that he may not offend fastidious ears,
especially before a tribunal where the judge is no longer bound by
precedent, but determines according to his will and pleasure; not, as
formerly, observing the measure of time allowed to the advocate, but
taking upon himself to prescribe the limits. Nor is this all: the
judge, at present, will not condescend to wait till the orator, in his
own way, opens his case; but, of his own authority, reminds him of the
point in question, and, if he wanders, calls him back from his
digression, not without a hint that the court wishes to dispatch.


XX. Who, at this time, would bear to hear an advocate introducing
himself with a tedious preface about the infirmities of his
constitution? Yet that is the threadbare exordium of Corvinus. We have
five books against Verres [a]. Who can endure that vast redundance?
Who can listen to those endless arguments upon points of form, and
cavilling exceptions [b], which we find in the orations of the same
celebrated advocate for Marcus Tullius [c] and Aulus Cæcina? Our
modern judges are able to anticipate the argument. Their quickness
goes before the speaker. If not struck with the vivacity of his
manner, the elegance of his sentiments, and the glowing colours of his
descriptions, they soon grow weary of the flat insipid discourse. Even
in the lowest class of life, there is now a relish for rich and
splendid ornament. Their taste requires the gay, the florid, and the
brilliant. The unpolished style of antiquity would now succeed as ill
at the bar, as the modern actor who should attempt to copy the
deportment of Roscius [d], or Ambivius Turpio. Even the young men who
are preparing for the career of eloquence, and, for that purpose,
attend the forum and the tribunals of justice, have now a nice
discriminating taste. They expect to have their imaginations pleased.
They wish to carry home some bright illustration, some splendid
passage, that deserves to be remembered. What has struck their fancy,
they communicate to each other: and in their letters, the glittering
thought, given with sententious brevity, the poetical allusion that
enlivened the discourse, and the dazzling imagery, are sure to be
transmitted to their respective colonies and provinces. The ornaments
of poetic diction are now required, not, indeed, copied from the rude
obsolete style of Accius [e] and Pacuvius, but embellished with the
graces of Horace, Virgil, and [f] Lucan. The public judgement has
raised a demand for harmonious periods, and, in compliance with the
taste of the age, our orators grow every day more polished and
adorned. Let it not be said that what we gain in refinement, we lose
in strength. Are the temples, raised by our modern architects, of a
weaker structure, because they are not formed with shapeless stones,
but with the magnificence of polished marble, and decorations of the
richest gilding?


XXI. Shall I fairly own to you the impression which I generally
receive from the ancient orators? They make me laugh, or lull me to
sleep. Nor is this the case only, when I read the orations of Canutus
[a], Arrius, Furnius, Toranius and others of the same school, or
rather, the same infirmary [b]; an emaciated sickly race of orators;
without sinew, colour, or proportion. But what shall be said of your
admired Calvus [c]? He, I think, has left no less than one and twenty
volumes: in the whole collection, there is not more than one or two
short orations, that can pretend to perfection in the kind. Upon this
point there is no difference of opinion. Who now reads his
declamations against Asitius or Drusus? His speeches against Vatinius
are in the hands of the curious, particularly the second, which must
be allowed to be a masterpiece. The language is elegant; the
sentiments are striking, and the ear is satisfied with the roundness
of the periods. In this specimen we see that he had an idea of just
composition, but his genius was not equal to his judgement. The
orations of Cælius, though upon the whole defective, are not without
their beauties. Some passages are highly finished. In those we
acknowledge, the nice touches of modern elegance. In general, however,
the coarse expression, the halting period, and the vulgarity of the
sentiments, have too much of the leaven of antiquity.

If Cælius [d] is still admired, it is not, I believe, in any of those
parts that bear the mark of a rude illiterate age. With regard to
Julius Cæsar [e], engaged as he was in projects of vast ambition, we
may forgive him the want of that perfection which might, otherwise, be
expected from so sublime a genius. Brutus, in like manner, may be
excused on account of his philosophical speculations. Both he and
Cæsar, in their oratorical attempts, fell short of themselves. Their
warmest admirers acknowledge the fact, nor is there an instance to the
contrary, unless we except Cæsar's speech for Decius the Samnite [f],
and that of Brutus for king [g] Dejotarus. But are those performances,
and some others of the same lukewarm temper, to be received as works
of genius? He who admires those productions, may be left to admire
their verses also. For verses they both made, and sent them into the
world, I will not say, with more success than Cicero, but certainly
more to their advantage; for their poetry had the good fortune to be
little known.

Asinius lived near our own times [h]. He, seems to have studied in the
old school of Menenius and Appius. He composed tragedies as well as
orations, but in a style so harsh and ragged, that one would think him
the disciple of Accius and Pacuvius. He mistook the nature of
eloquence, which may then be said to have attained its true beauty,
when the parts unite with smoothness, strength, and proportion. As in
the human body the veins should not swell too high, nor the bones and
sinews appear too prominent; but its form is then most graceful, when
a pure and temperate blood gives animation [i] to the whole frame;
when the muscles have their proper play, and the colour of health is
diffused over the several parts. I am not willing to disturb the
memory of Corvinus Messala [k]. If he did not reach the graces of
modern composition, the defect does not seem to have sprung from
choice. The vigour of his genius was not equal to his judgement.


XXII. I now proceed to Cicero, who, we find, had often upon his hands
the very controversy, that engages us at present. It was the fashion
with his contemporaries to admire the ancients, while he, on the
contrary, contended for the eloquence of his own time. Were I to
mention the quality that placed him at the head of his rivals I should
say it was the solidity of his judgement. It was he that first shewed
a taste for polished and graceful oratory. He was happy in his choice
of words, and he had the art of giving weight and harmony to his
composition. We find in many passages a warm imagination, and luminous
sentences. In his later speeches, he has lively sallies of wit and
fancy. Experience had then matured his judgement, and after long
practice, he found the true oratorical style. In his earlier
productions we see the rough cast of antiquity. The exordium is
tedious; the narration is drawn into length; luxuriant passages are
not retouched with care; he is not easily affected, and he rarely
takes fire; his sentiments are not always happily expressed [a], nor
are the periods closed with energy. There is nothing so highly
finished, as to tempt you to avail yourself of a borrowed beauty. In
short, his speeches are like a rude building, which is strong and
durable, but wants that grace and consonance of parts which give
symmetry and perfection to the whole.

In oratory, as in architecture, I require ornament as well as use.
From the man of ample fortune, who undertakes to build, we expect
elegance and proportion. It is not enough that his house will keep out
the wind and the rain; it must strike the eye, and present a pleasing
object. Nor will it suffice that the furniture may answer all domestic
purposes; it should be rich, fashionable, elegant; it should have gold
and gems so curiously wrought, that they will bear examination, often
viewed, and always admired. The common utensils, which are either mean
or sordid, should be carefully removed out of sight. In like manner,
the true orator should avoid the trite and vulgar. Let him reject the
antiquated phrase, and whatever is covered with the rust of time; let
his sentiments be expressed with spirit, not in careless,
ill-constructed, languid periods, like a dull writer of annals; let
him banish low scurrility, and, in short, let him know how to
diversify his style, that he may not fatigue the ear with a monotony,
ending for ever with the same unvaried cadence [b].


XXIII. I shall say nothing of the false wit, and insipid play upon
words, which we find in Cicero's orations. His pleasant conceits about
the _wheel of fortune_ [a], and the arch raillery on the equivocal
meaning of the word _verres_ [b], do not merit a moment's attention. I
omit the perpetual recurrence of the phrase, _esse videatur_ [c],
which chimes in our ears at the close of so many sentences, sounding
big, but signifying nothing. These are petty blemishes; I mention them
with reluctance. I say nothing of other defects equally improper: and
yet those very defects are the delight of such as affect to call
themselves ancient orators. I need not single them out by name: the
men are sufficiently known; it is enough to allude, in general terms,
to the whole class.

We all are sensible that there is a set of critics now existing, who
prefer Lucilius [d] to Horace, and Lucretius [e] to Virgil; who
despise the eloquence of Aufidius Bassus [f] and Servilius Nonianus,
and yet admire Varro and [g] Sisenna. By these pretenders to taste,
the works of our modern rhetoricians are thrown by with neglect, and
even fastidious disdain; while those of Calvus are held in the highest
esteem. We see these men prosing in their ancient style before the
judges; but we see them left without an audience, deserted by the
people, and hardly endured by their clients. The truth is, their cold
and spiritless manner has no attraction. They call it sound oratory,
but it is want of vigour; like that precarious state of health which
weak constitutions preserve by abstinence. What physician will
pronounce that a strong habit of body, which requires constant care
and anxiety of mind? To say barely, that we are not ill, is surely not
enough. True health consists in vigour, a generous warmth, and a
certain alacrity in the whole frame. He who is only not indisposed, is
little distant from actual illness.

With you, my friends, the case is different: proceed, as you well can,
and in fact, as you do, to adorn our age with all the grace and
splendour of true oratory. It is with pleasure, Messala, that I see
you selecting for imitation the liveliest models of the ancient
school. You too, Maternus, and you, my friend, Secundus [h], you both
possess the happy art of adding to weight of sentiment all the dignity
of language. To a copious invention you unite the judgement that knows
how to distinguish the specific qualities of different authors. The
beauty of order is yours. When the occasion demands it, you can expand
and amplify with strength and majesty; and you know when to be concise
with energy. Your periods flow with ease, and your composition has
every grace of style and sentiment. You command the passions with
resistless sway, while in yourselves you beget a temperance so truly
dignified, that, though, perhaps, envy and the malignity of the times
may be unwilling to proclaim your merit, posterity will do you ample
justice [i].


XXIV. As soon as Aper concluded, You see, said Maternus, the zeal and
ardour of our friend: in the cause of the moderns, what a torrent of
eloquence! against the ancients, what a fund of invective! With great
spirit, and a vast compass of learning, he has employed against his
masters the arts for which he is indebted to them. And yet all this
vehemence must not deter you, Messala, from the performance of your
promise. A formal defence of the ancients is by no means necessary. We
do not presume to vie with that illustrious race. We have been praised
by Aper, but we know our inferiority. He himself is aware of it,
though, in imitation of the ancient manner [a], he has thought proper,
for the sake of a philosophical debate, to take the wrong side of the
question. In answer to his argument, we do not desire you to expatiate
in praise of the ancients: their fame wants no addition. What we
request is, an investigation of the causes which have produced so
rapid a decline from the flourishing state of genuine eloquence. I
call it rapid, since, according to Aper's own chronology, the period
from the death of Cicero does not exceed one hundred and twenty years
[b].


XXV. I am willing, said Messala, to pursue the plan which you have
recommended. The question, whether the men who flourished above one
hundred years ago, are to be accounted ancients, has been started by
my friend Aper, and, I believe, it is of the first impression. But it
is a mere dispute about words. The discussion of it is of no moment,
provided it be granted, whether we call them ancients, or our
predecessors, or give them any other appellation, that the eloquence
of those times was superior to that of the present age. When Aper
tells us, that different periods of time have produced new modes of
oratory, I see nothing to object; nor shall I deny, that in one and
the same period the style and manners have greatly varied. But this I
assume, that among the orators of Greece, Demosthenes holds the first
rank, and after him [a] Æschynes, Hyperides, Lysias, and Lycurgus, in
regular succession. That age, by common consent, is allowed to be the
flourishing period of Attic eloquence.

In like manner, Cicero stands at the head of our Roman orators, while
Calvus, Asinius, and Cæsar, Cælius and Brutus, follow him at a
distance; all of them superior, not only to every former age, but to
the whole race that came after them.