Volume 5 — Translated from Le Correspondant Lectures and Public Conferences Among the Ancients.

I.

Nil sub sole novum; there is nothing absolutely new under the sun. Apart from the sciences and their application, our age differs less than we suppose from the ages that preceded it. Fancying ourselves pure Frenchmen of the nineteenth century, we discern upon a nearer view numerous traits of resemblance to the contemporaries of Pliny and Plutarch.

"Who will deliver us from Greek and Roman shackles?" cried the author of Gastronomie, in a fit of witty ill-humor. It is to be feared that for many a long year we are condemned to imitate the Latins and Athenians whom we love to slander even while copying them. What matter how unconsciously we borrow from them? Many things besides the game that made the amusement of our infancy may be considered renovations of Greek originals. Fashions, customs, pleasures even, are ours, not by right of invention, but of inheritance; and what we take for new is sometimes merely the old refurbished.

If there be a novelty, for the mass of the people who do not pride themselves on erudition, it is to be found in the lectures or conferences, to which the public is bidden every winter. Tested first successfully in Paris, through the enterprise of a few private individuals, they afterward, favored by the influence of higher powers, reached the provinces—invaded them, I should have said, if the word had not an offensive signification, far from my thoughts. It is surprising to watch the rapid development of this custom, exhibited as it is in the fact that since the second year a thousand chaires have sprung up in various parts of France. Modest townships, no less than great cities, have their course of lectures, and one peruses with interest the list of lecturers, [Footnote 55] some of whom are accustomed by profession to communicating their ideas to an audience, while others essay for the first time the public expression of their opinions.

In the ranks of volunteer instructors (without mentioning professors, who are naturally called to assume such a position) lawyers elbow physicians, the Catholic priest finds himself next to the Protestant minister, and officers march abreast with men of letters. Nay more: women too are seen taking part in these manly exercises, anxious to prove good the equality of their sex with ours.

'Tis undeniably an odd spectacle to unaccustomed eyes, and there is no lack of discussion and outcry upon the matter. But one need only read a few pages from the pen of ancient authors to discover that what startles us to-day as a thing without precedent, had passed into a well-known custom in the earliest ages of Christianity. It is into the subject of lectures and conferences among the ancients that I propose to inquire, as a topic offering interest if not profit to those who like to compare antiquity with our own times.

II.

Nowadays, thanks to the printing-press, which multiplies thought and scatters it to the four winds of heaven, an author can enter into communication with the public without going beyond the threshold of his study. But among the ancients, when every copy of a work was painfully executed by hand, who can estimate the pains, fatigue, and expense that went to build up an incomplete publicity? What wonder then that an historian like Herodotus introduced his book to public notice by reading it aloud to the crowds assembled for the Olympic games, or that the people paused to listen to him for days together? The author entered without delay upon the enjoyment of his glory—the public into possession of a masterpiece. Later, we learn that Prodicus, the sophist of Ceos, went from city to city, reciting his allegory of Hercules between Virtue and Pleasure, and engraving it upon the memory of all Greece.

Other similar instances might be cited, but merely as exceptions to the customs anterior to the Christian era; nor was it in Greece but at Rome that public lecturing first became a popular usage.

In the reign of Augustus, when eloquence had become pacifice (or narrow-minded, as the bitter spirits who pined for ancient laxity would have said), Asinius Pollio, having been transformed from a republican into a courtier without sacrificing his love of letters, bethought himself to replace the oratorical combats, for ever banished from senate and forum, by establishing a school of declamation, and assemblies whither authors should resort to read their works in public.[Footnote 56] It was erecting a stage for the exhibition of wits who longed for notoriety, and the plan could not fail to succeed. Augustus, in harmony, on this occasion, with popular desire, lent a hearty consent to the innovation. Not only did he sit among the audience without giving evidence of weariness or ennui, but he took an active part in the literary exercises, reading in person, or letting; Tiberius read for him, various compositions of his own.[Footnote 57]

Without doubting that Augustus really enjoyed these intellectual entertainments, I believe the encouragement of a harmless literature to have been in accordance with his policy. Every pursuit that could turn aside the Romans from too importunate an interest in state affairs was favorably received. What time remained for meddling in public matters to any man occupied with polishing poetical phrases or rounding rhetorical periods? The chair replaced the tribune advantageously. While bread and circus games satisfied the lower classes, distractions and diversions of a nobler stamp were provided for more enlightened minds. In both cases the conduct of Augustus was actuated by the same motive. So well did public lectures second his designs that be might perhaps have introduced the fashion if it had not already existed. Under the circumstances his countenance only was required to elevate what seemed like a modish caprice to the dignity and durability of an imperial institution. Even the most suspicious and distrustful of this prince's successors forbore to disturb an amusement so conducive to their own advantage. The least favorably inclined were contented with depriving the assemblies of their presence, and others esteemed it an honor to be counted among the most attentive listeners. Nero especially, imperial artist and metromaniac, seems to have honestly regarded these exercises as one of the glories of his reign.

Every one who fancied himself a man of talent (and illusions upon such points are common to the literary world in all ages) was glad to win renown by exhibiting the fruits of midnight toil. With few exceptions, all authors claimed the public ear: Lucan to recite his Pharsalia; Silius Italicus, his Punic War; Statius, his Thebald, Achilleïd, and Silvae; Pliny, his Panegyric of Trajan.[Footnote 58] I mention those authors only whose writings have remained to us; but many others sought to charm a Roman audience. The list would be long, of lecturers whose names, without their works, have come down to posterity; orators of whom Pliny has introduced a large number to us in enumerating his personal friends. Princes followed the contagious example of Augustus. Claudius and Nero enjoyed the display or their acquirements;[Footnote 59] Domitian recited poems which he certainly never wrote; but what matter for that? he liked to give himself the airs of a poet, and of a successful poet, we may be sure. Nero, at least, did not solicit applause in borrowed plumes. In short, no verses were too bad to seek a hearing. A mania for reading and writing raged abroad. Horace satirizes this madness, but after Horace's own sweet, graceful fashion. Juvenal exclaims with wrathful bitterness: "Am I for ever to be a listener? Shall I never retaliate, (I who have been) so often teased with the Theseïd of husky Codrus? One man recites his comedies with impunity, and another his elegies. Shall huge Telephus consume my day unpunished; or Orestes, full to the extremest margin of the book, written even on the reversed pages, and not finished then?" [Footnote 60]

The time for retaliation came at last. A desire seized him during the reign of Adrian to bring forward the satires so long kept under lock and key, and to emulate those whom he had ridiculed. He bored no one, it is true, but none the less fatal were the results to himself: Several passages, cordially received by the public, and invidiously interpreted among courtiers, seemed to contain hostile allusions to an imperial favorite; and the emperor, under pretext of appointing the poetic octogenarian to a military command, sent the satirist to the extreme recesses of Egypt to finish his days in honorable exile. [Footnote 61]

The subjects of Roman lectures were exceedingly various; sometimes serious and long-winded poems like those we have mentioned; sometimes comedies; but oftener short poems, light and trifling, or sweet and tender, according to the poet's vein. On exceptional occasions, some eloquent voice, disdaining vulgar platitudes, aroused, with its noble accents, genuine Roman sentiments; as on that day, in the Augustan era, when Cornelius Severus deplored the death of Cicero and cursed his assassin in the glorious lines that have been preserved to us. [Footnote 62]

We notice as a singular fact that a lecturer endowed with a fine voice, would sometimes content himself with reading passages from some ancient poet, Ennius, for example; and with success too, if he read with taste. [Footnote 63] But this was too low an aim to satisfy ambition. Men desired fame and applause for themselves, and cared little to offer any works but their own to the public.

No style was banished from these assemblies. One day an audience listened to dialogues, or to philosophical and moral dissertations; on the next, some lawyer, already well known to fame through important law-suits, claimed a hearing. The lawyer who had gained his client's cause before the tribunal, came to argue in behalf of his own intellect before the public, [Footnote 64] caring more, perhaps, to win in the second suit than in the first. History, too, seems to have held an important place in lectures, nor did the speaker limit himself to events long since gone by. Rome within a few years had lost several distinguished men, whose death Titinius Capito commemorated. [Footnote 65] Strictly speaking, it might be considered a funeral oration, intended to console friends and relatives without wounding any individual. But the intrepid lecturer ventured upon volcanic soil, and portrayed the history of recent years with so great liberty of speech that, at the close of the first assembly, he was surrounded and urged to silence: why wound the feelings of auditors who blushed to hear of acts they had not blushed to commit? [Footnote 66]

Probably he had reference to those informers who were expiating under Trajan the favor and prosperity they had enjoyed under Domitian. That they deserved scorn, there can be no doubt; but is it always easy to pass just and impartial judgment upon contemporaries? Does not history run a chance of resembling one of those retrospective reviews, before which, after a change of rulers, the men of to-day lay complaints against the men of yesterday?

Occasionally the choice of subjects was even more remarkable. The orator Regulus, whom Pliny (usually so full of good will toward the subjects of his criticism) unceasingly pursued with scornful hatred, loses his only son. Not content with bestowing upon him magnificent obsequies, in which, to strike all eyes with the spectacle of pompous woe, be sacrifices, upon the funeral pile, the nightingales, parrots, dogs, and horses that the child had loved; he would perpetuate his son's memory and spread abroad the proofs of his own grief. Portraits and images wrought in wax, or copper, or marble, ivory, silver, or gold—the most varied works of painter or sculptor, suffice him not. It occurs to him that he himself is an artist—a word-artist, and now or never his powers should be utilized. His son's life and death would be an admirable text for a lecture. Quick to the work! Great griefs are mute, says Seneca, but Regulus thinks otherwise; and in a few days he gives forth to a numerous assembly an address which cannot fail to do credit to his literary talents and his paternal sentiments. The comedy (for what else can we call it?) met with success. So fine a piece was not composed to delight a single audience, and Regulus, being rich enough to pay the expenses of glory, addressed a sort of circular to the magistrates of every important town throughout Italy and the provinces, begging them to select their best declaimer and confide to him the reading of this precious work of art. The wish of Regulus was gratified. [Footnote 67]

Pliny's letter, giving these curious details, shows also that the fashion of recitations had spread beyond Rome. Testimony to the same effect abounds in ancient authors. Few cities were without public lectures. In imitation of Italy, the practice was adopted in Africa, Gaul and Spain. Of Greece I do not speak, for Greece is par excellence the land of literary recreations, and we will go thither all in good time.

III.

It would appear from various texts that Rome at least had certain seasons for lectures: the months of April and August, and sometimes of July, being especially selected, no doubt because affairs before the tribunals were then less frequent. Authors took advantage of these periods of leisure to supplant the magistrates. But that each aspirant might have his turn, meeting succeeded meeting. "Poets abound this year," writes Pliny; "we have had recitations almost every day this month." Innocent satisfaction of a mind enjoying the triumph of good taste and literature in these exhibitions, or osentationes, as they were termed by severe judges! Seneca advises his pupil Lucilius not to stoop to objects so paltry. One would suppose that the frequency of public lectures would have led to the erection of a public edifice—of an amphitheatre especially devoted to these exercises. We find, however, that such a thing was never thought of, and that each lecturer was expected to provide his platform as best he could. Poor poets, a never-failing race, spoke in public squares or at the baths. [Footnote 68] Petronius in his Satyricon depicts the old poet Eumolpus declaiming anywhere and everywhere, in the streets or under peristyles, spouting his verses to every comer, at the risk of being driven away by the wearied crowd or of driving them away, a circumstance not more flattering to a poet. Eumolpus is but a fictitious personage, but he is no doubt drawn from life. Petronius describes what he has often witnessed; and even if we could doubt this, Horace and Juvenal would bear witness to the fidelity of the portrait.

Even when the crowd was attentive, these meetings in the open air had their inconveniences. Apuleius was to speak in Carthage, and great was his reputation. The people crowded and pushed and hustled to get a front place. So far so good, for what can be pleasanter than to see one's fellow creatures suffocated in one's honor? Apuleius began in his finest tones, the lecture marched apace, the most striking point was reached, enthusiasm stood on tip-toe—when, alas for the vanity of human hopes! a pelting shower fell upon all this success, dampening eloquence, putting the excited audience to flight, and sending the orator home wet to the skin, with his triumph changed to disaster. [Footnote 69]

Accidents of this nature rarely occurred, at least to men of reputation like Apuleius, for addresses were usually delivered under cover in a hall. A suitable apartment was easily found by any one who could afford to hire one. Sometimes, too, a friend would kindly lend his house, as for instance Titinius Capito, who liked to render services of this kind. "His mansion," says Pliny, "belongs to all those who have addresses to deliver." A simple dining-room sufficed for the occasions when only a few persons were expected; but these were exceptional. [Footnote 70] The place of meeting being selected, seats and benches were placed for the audience. A stage was erected for the lecturer, raised above the public, so that none of his gestures might be lost, and that he might judge correctly of the effect produced. The audience consisted of men only, it being contrary to received customs that a woman should appear in a lecture room. But an ingenious plan was devised by which literary Roman ladies could enjoy the entertainment. One part of the hall was sometimes curtained off with draperies, and behind this shelter, a woman could listen at her ease, without wounding conventional ideas. [Footnote 71]

The lecture was announced several days in advance, and ceremonious invitations were issued to friends and personages of distinction. This precaution proved useful in securing an audience, and fulfilled at the same time a duty of politeness, the neglect of which implied indifference to the courteous usages of the time. While slaves were carrying invitations through the city, the host remained at home, and, in order to make his voice clearer and more flexible, enveloped his throat in woolen cloths, and imbibed soothing beverages.

The great day comes at last. The benches are filled. The lecturer only is wanting. He appears, and at sight of him a murmur of satisfaction passes round the hall. He takes the chair, often surrounded by his best friends, who sit beside him to encourage him with their presence and to enjoy his success. [Footnote 72] In order to appear in full lustre, he has arrayed himself in a new white toga, dressed his hair and beard carefully, and placed upon his finger a ring adorned with a precious stone. He unrolls a manuscript; utters a few modest phrases in apology for his temerity, asking of course the indulgence of the audience, but soliciting their justice also, since he seeks before all things an exact criticism, revealing the defects in his work, that he may correct them. This preamble being well received, he enters upon the discourse. In reading he tries to give effect to the words by a varied intonation of voice, by turns of his head and movement of his eyes. Soon faint cries of "Excellent perfect!" arise in various parts of the hall to charm his ear; but he feigns not to hear them. He pauses, remarking, "I am afraid all this bores you. Perhaps I ought to suppress a few passages, lest you should be wearied." But the audience are too polite to admit that a short lecture would not displease them. "Oh! no, no, skip nothing; we do not wish to lose a word." He proceeds, only to go through the same farce a little later. "I have already abused your patience; it is time to stop and release you from the remainder." "Read on, read on! it is charming to hear you." He reads to the end; the admiration grows, rises, bubbles over! where will it end? Thunders of applause follow, and the lecturer is inwardly overjoyed, but his modesty never deserts him. "Enough friends, enough!" he murmurs, "This is too much," Of course the transports are redoubled, and our lecturer returns home, believing himself a Virgil, a Sallust, or a Cicero.

We have described here a successful lecture; but not always, it must be confessed, did the hero of the occasion carry away with him impressions so agreeable. Sometimes an author had to renounce the pleasure of reading his own composition, because of a weak or unpleasing voice, leaving the task of delivery to a reader, near whom he sat, accompanying the recitation with glance and gesture. [Footnote 73]

Then, too, there were a thousand petty mishaps, impossible to foresee or avoid, one of which sufficed to spoil the occasion. Passierus Paulus, a Roman knight, was addicted to the composition of elegiac verses; a family peculiarity, it would seem, as he counted Propertius among his ancestors. One day, among the numerous assemblage of invited guests, sat Javolenus Priscus, a friend of the poet, though a little crazy. Paulus opened the recitation of his elegies with one commencing: "Priscus, you order me—" "I! faith! I ordered nothing," cried the crack-brained Javolenus, amid explosions of laughter from the audience. Behold Passierus Paulus greatly disconcerted! The absurdity of Javolenus had thrown a cloud over the entertainment, which proves, observes Pliny, that not only should a lecturer be himself of sane mind, but he should take care that his listeners be so too.

Paulus grieved over the ill success of his lecture; not so Claudius when an accident chanced to trouble the course of his recitation. He was at the first pages of the address, when a remarkably stout auditor cracked and brought to the ground a bench with his weight. The assembly roared with laughter. The good-natured emperor was not in the least annoyed; and, when silence was at last reestablished, he broke it again and again with peals of merriment, carrying the audience along with him, at the thought of the fat man's downfall.

But a graver difficulty presented itself occasionally in the unwillingness of the public to partake of the feast of reason prepared for their enjoyment. The frequency and length of these lectures, which would last sometimes through two or three meetings, had tired many people, who came no more, except under protest, saying with Juvenal (iii. 9), "No desert but would be more endurable than Rome in lecturing times." Pliny bemoans this falling off and sees therein a grievous sign for literature—decline and decay. "The guests," he says, "stand about public places amusing themselves with frivolous talk. From time to time they send to ask if the lecturer has arrived, or if the preface is over, or the lecture far advanced. Then they go in, but slowly and with regret. Nor do they remain to the close. One slips out adroitly; another stalks unceremoniously away with his head in the air. It is said that, in our fathers' time, Claudius, while walking through his palace one day, heard a great noise, and, on asking the cause, was told that Nonianus was reading one of his works. The prince went immediately to join the assembly; but to-day prayers and entreaties will not induce the most unoccupied man to come, or, if he does come, it is only to complain of having lost a day because he has not lost it." [Footnote 74]

To go away before the close was a mark of ill breeding, as Pliny demonstrates; an infringement of that code of proprieties to which auditors were expected to adapt themselves. Attention was, of course, required, but many other things were prescribed. The excellent Plutarch, who seems to have shared Pliny's weakness for this kind of exercise, was at the pains to compose a treatise for his disciples upon the art of listening. "In a listener," he says, "a supercilious air, a severe face, wandering eyes, a stooping attitude, legs carelessly crossed, nay, more, a wink or nod, a word in a neighbor's ear, an affected smile, a sad and dreamy look, indecent yawns, and all other things of that nature, are reprehensible defects to be scrupulously avoided." [Footnote 75]

Elsewhere he cites with approbation the conduct of Rusticus Arulenus: "One day when I was making a public address in Rome, Arulenus sat among the audience. In the middle of the conference, a soldier brought him a letter from the emperor. A profound silence prevailed in an instant, and I myself paused to give him time to read the despatches. This he declined to do, and only opened his letter when the address was ended and the audience had dispersed; conduct which won for him the admiration of every one." Of every one, and especially, I imagine, of Plutarch, who must have been flattered, indeed, to see that so grand a personage would not let his attention wander even to state affairs.

Plutarch at least exacts of his audience only what may be called good breeding. In this he agrees with Epictetus, who, while advising his disciple not to attend the public readings of poets and orators (believing, in his austere philosophy, that time might be better employed), recommends him, if he must go, to preserve decency and gravity, not indulging in boisterous and disorderly demonstrations, or wounding his host by giving evidence of weariness. But Pliny is not satisfied with this. In maintaining a religious attention at the lecture, the listener had fulfilled only half his duties, the other half being applause. To leave without exhibiting lively satisfaction was simply significant of boorish ill breeding. We find Pliny in despair when one of his friends has not obtained the meed of praise he had a right to expect from the audience. "For my own part," he says, "I could not refuse my esteem and admiration to those who interest themselves in literary labors." Before the lecture, he predicts in all sincerity the most startling success; and at its close, pronounces upon it in equally good faith a pompous eulogium. [Footnote 76]

Sometimes the facile admiration borders on simplicity. Sentius Angurinus reads a poem, and the benevolent critic exclaims, "In my judgment, there has been nothing better done for years;" giving a specimen of the lines, that the reader may pass his own judgment. It is a little piece in which he, Pliny, is compared to Calvus and Catullus and ranked, of course, above both, without taking into consideration that he has the wisdom of a Cato into the bargain. "What delicacy!" cries the tickled critic, "what nicety of expression what vivacity!" Of course, who would not see charms in a madrigal containing these pleasant sentiments about one's self? It would be fastidious indeed to fail in admiration of such a production.

Sentius loudly proclaims the poetic talent of Pliny; and Pliny reciprocates with the announcement that Sentius is one of those rare geniuses who do honor to their age. It was an exchange of good offices—a mutual adulation in which the lecturer of to-day received back all that he had generously lavished about him yesterday. Vanity more than the love of letters found its meed in this interchange of courtesies.

We have already seen that on one side the disdain of serious thinkers, and on the other public satiety, had ended by injuring the success of these exhibitions. Solitude reigned about the lecturer, but should he on that account desert his post? It was an extreme case not to be easily met, but necessity is ingenious. New plans were invented for filling the hall. If an audience would not come, an audience must be hunted up—recruited at any cost. Clients and freedmen were borrowed from personal friends to fill the benches. One orator gathered together a troop of famished wretches and gave them a plentiful dinner. The guests, having eaten and rejoiced, were fired with gastric gratitude, and vigorously clapped the poems of their Amphitryon. This trade was carried on every day, and those who said their admiration for a good dinner were called by the expressive name of laudicoeni. Others bought applause cash down; but at a low price, if they were not particular as to quality; contented, for instance, with servants, who could be had for three denarii apiece. At this rate, persons of low estate could drive a lucrative business by hiring out their services. A more simple method, however, than that of paying listeners by the day, was making use of debtors if one had any; for what debtor, with any sense of duty, could help attending the lectures of his creditors?

An audience collected thus did not trouble themselves much about listening, but no matter for that if they would but applaud; and applaud they did, and all the more vigorously in proportion to their inattention, as Pliny tells us, and we may well believe. All that the orchestra needed was a leader to give the signal to his docile troop, at the fine points, and to regulate the degrees of enthusiasm. Applause was no mere trade; it had risen to the dignity of a science. A skilful manager could provide every suitable emotion, from a discreet and low-voiced approbation up to passionately tumultuous enthusiasm. First came murmurs of pleasure, starts of gratified surprise and involuntary exclamations, followed by a silence no less flattering. Gradually the excitement got beyond control, and manifested itself by stamping of feet; by cries, nay, howls; to use the words of Pliny, ululatus large supersunt. Togas were shaken; benches trembled beneath the blows of trampling feet. Persons who sat near the lecturer, and could take such a liberty, ran to embrace him in token of gratitude at the delight he had afforded them. If perchance the speaker was an emperor, respect did not allow them to kiss his sacred lips, but only to pour forth expressions of gratitude. The joy would become so universal, as we see in the case of Nero, that the senate decreed solemn thanksgiving to be offered to the gods; and the verses of the prince, graven in golden letters on the walls of the capitol, to be dedicated to Jupiter, as the noblest offering earth could consecrate to heaven. [Footnote 77]

IV.

We see by Pliny's lamentations that lectures in his day were not in vogue as they had been formerly. But it must be remembered that, even when lectures were at the height of popularity, they attracted only the cultivated class, so-called; that is to say, the minority. The Roman people did not pride themselves upon a marked taste for refined intellectual pleasures, finding more fascination in spectacles and circus games. Statius, according to contemporary accounts, appears to have been the poet most eagerly sought; but numerous as was the audience that thronged to hear him, there is little doubt, that, if some famous gladiator had appeared in the arena, Statius would have stood a fair chance of addressing empty benches. While the seats of the small lecture-room filled slowly with hardly earned auditors, the amphitheatre steps were never vast enough to accommodate the struggling multitude.

Only in Greece do we find a nation truly sensitive to purely intellectual enjoyments. There the simple artisan understood and appreciated philosophers, poets, and orators. The art of eloquence never left him indifferent, and he would leave his trade to run to a discourse as to a feast. With this disposition, what seemed to the Romans a pastime for the few, was the chief interest of many members of Greek society. Public speaking was but an accident in the lives of Pliny and his friends, while to the clever men of Athens or Alexandria it became a profession. Anyone who believed himself gifted with eloquence became a sophist or rhetor, and with a little tact and assurance could count upon that kind of success which is measured by a numerous audience. Some distinction between these two classes of men, the sophist and the rhetor, should be made here. The former claimed to have succeeded the philosophers, with the right to teach the people, and to develop the commonplaces of politics, morals, and even of religion. They made themselves preachers to the populace, and sometimes to princes, as, for instance, when we find Dion Chrysostom holding forth concerning the duties of royalty in Trajan's palace. Rhetors, on the other hand, were professors of eloquence. Their avowed aim was to please, but, while less proud in pretensions than the sophists, they were in reality equally presumptuous, assuming to teach art not only by explaining its roles, but also by offering in their own compositions finished models of rhetoric, in the genuine belief that they had garnered up the heritage of Demosthenes and Eschines. As all pretensions belong together, the sophist often combined his duties with those of the rhetor; witness the Dion above mentioned.

This race of public speakers lingered about the towns of Greece, and also of Asia Minor, Egypt, and Lybia. Then, finding these limits too narrow, they burst beyond them and invaded the Latin countries.

About the time of the Antonines, that is to say, when exhausted Roman genius seemed doomed to barrenness, there came a renaissance of Greek letters. Many Romans preferred Greek to Latin for writing, and not merely as a caprice or literary foppishness, loving to deck itself in public with the riches of a foreign language. Marcus Aurelius converse with himself in Greek in the memoirs where be makes his examination of conscience. Why should we wonder that an audience should most readily collect in Rome to listen to some elegant rhetorician from the East?

The reputation to be gained from public speaking was too enviable to admit of delay in its acquisition. All persons did not even wait for manhood before claiming the attention of the public. Far from pleading youth as an excuse, they gloried in it. Hermogenes of Tarsus made his début at fifteen, as Marcus Aurelius tells us in his travels. "In me," says Hermogenes haughtily, "you see an orator who has had no master, an orator to whom years are still wanting." A sterile precocity it proved to be, making him, according to his enemies, an old man among youths, and a youth among old men.

Emulation fired women also. Many, and among their number young girls, undertook to speak in public, and spoke effectively too, and with success. History has left us the names of several of these muses, as the Greeks sometimes called them. The muses did not reveal themselves too visibly to their worshippers. A large curtain veiled them from the audience, lest their beauty should make too dazzling an impression. No longer as at Rome did draperies shelter the woman from the public; it was the public screened from feminine attractions.

In Italy we have seen that poets were among the most eager aspirants for recognition; but among the Greeks prose held public attention almost exclusively, for a reason which we hope to make clear. The crowd rushed to hear sophists and rhetors. Of historians there is no call to speak. The name was claimed by some, but on weak pretensions. They babbled of military art without understanding its first rules, and of geography while transplanting towns and rivers from one country to another. They took dragons stamped upon the Parthian standards for veritable dragons, of monstrous dimensions, fastened to pikes and destined to be launched upon the enemy, and to strangle and devour him. To give more credibility to these accounts, they assure us that, perched upon a tree, they themselves had seen the monsters and witnessed the frightful carnage. Elsewhere we learn that a general slew twenty-seven Armenians by uttering one cry, or (a statement no less remarkable) that, in a grand battle fought in Media, the Romans had only two dead and nine wounded, while the enemy lost (observe the exactness of the calculation) 70,236 men. [Footnote 78] And many more such tales indulged in by Greek historians,

and detailed to credulous hearers. It is true that these authors of rare imagination laid great stress upon fine language, if not upon veracity, striving to gain distinction as polished writers. Lucian, however, who had heard them, believed as little in their eloquence as in their truthfulness, and laughed unmercifully at rhetors disguised as historians.

On another point the Greeks differed from the Romans. With the exception of these written recitations, they did not read their orations. While in Rome we find public lectures, in Greece we have conferences or oral exercises. The theme was no doubt contemplated in private, and ideas were brought forward which habit had made familiar to the orator, but he spoke without manuscript gaining in vivacity of delivery and gesture by this liberty of action. Pliny complains of the inconvenience of reading an address: "Since neither hand nor eye is free, on which a declaimer should especially rely, what wonder that the attention wanders?" The Greek threw off all fetters, and spoke at once to eye and ear; unlike the lecturer who read his address, seated, in a voice whose inflections were monotonous in comparison to the modulations we are now about to describe. Our actor, for the platform was in fact a stage to him, was wont to call violent gesticulation to the aid of speech. He paced up and down in agitation, smiting his thighs, perspiring and panting. Again, if the subject demanded calmness and tranquillity, his actions grew melodious as a song to charm the audience, throwing into the sweet, harmonious language of Greece new suavity and unknown grace. When Adrian of Tyre spoke, it was like the warbling of a nightingale, and even those who were ignorant of Greek came to listen. Herodias Atticus had more variety of tone than flutes and lyres; and, supreme above all, Varus possessed a voice so flexible that one could have danced to it, as to the sound of musical instruments. [Footnote 79]

One can fancy with what facility the fervid Greek imagination lent itself to this enthusiasm. The state of religious belief contributed to bring spirits under the dominion of eloquence. The ancient faith was singularly weakened among pagan nations; and the priests who offered sacrifice to the deities of Olympus never dreamed of giving instruction to the people whom they gathered together in the temples. Men feel the need of moral teaching, however faulty may be their practice. They thirst for it, and seek it, though perhaps not at its true source. If pure waters are denied them, they draw from troubled streams. Preaching, which had been neglected by the ministers of paganism, was taken up by sophists. One had but to show himself abroad, manifesting a desire to speak, and straightway a circle gathered about him. To a renowned orator who wished to be silent, the privilege of silence was denied; speech was not his to refuse. As, for example, when Dion Chrysostom came as a spectator to the Olympic games, hardly was he recognized before they forced him to address them; when, taking for his theme the god they celebrated, he discoursed upon the attributes of Jupiter.

Another peculiarity of the time was that an emperor even did not disdain to inculcate virtue in public, guided, we may boldly assert, by no impulse of vanity, but by a more generous motive than that of exhibiting his eloquence. Marcus Aurelius, for it is of him we are speaking, was going to war with the Marcomanni. It was feared, and with too good cause, that he might die on this expedition, and he was implored earnestly, and without flattery, to address the people, and leave to them, by way of farewell, the moral precept that had guided his own career. He consented, and for three days in succession his people learned, from the imperial philosopher, duty as he himself understood and practised it. A curious and touching spectacle it must have been to see a sovereign regarding the instruction of his subjects as one of the functions of royalty. In unveiling his great soul, Marcus Aurelius revealed to his people the secret of an administration judged previously only by its beneficial effects; and left to his successors a model that was to find, alas! few imitators.[Footnote 80]

V.

In all ages, even the most degraded, a few souls have found a source of happy inspiration in moral truth. Whether among such self-appointed guides in spiritual matters there were many really worthy of their mission, we may be permitted to doubt. The instance, Lucian (I do not speak of Christians, whose veracity might be doubted), shows the conduct of these teachers of virtue to have been little in accordance with their language. Morality was in danger of being stricken with sterility under such tillage, but the field remained fertile though ill cultivated.

What can eloquence accomplish if the matter itself of eloquence be wanting? All cannot be orators for the choosing, nor even all who are endowed by heaven with those precious gifts that make an orator. There must be great interests to defend and great questions to debate. Place Demosthenes or Mirabeau in a chair of rhetoric, and what would they do with their genius? A time came when there was no call but for school harangues; when professors trained their pupils in reading and speaking upon hackneyed themes familiar to every classroom. That such exercises may be useful for children of fifteen years of age, I will not deny; but here we have masters of eloquence descanting upon these venerable subjects, and impersonating Alexander or Themistocles, Miltiades, Menelaus, or Priam. They were scholars whose schooling was never ended. Gray heads betokened no emancipation from childish leading-strings, and death found them far removed from the maturity of manly oratory.

Would you know the subjects that attracted a delighted audience? A Lacedaemonian urging the Greeks to destroy trophies raised during the Peloponnesian war; or a Scythian conjuring his countrymen to abandon the life of cities for a wandering existence. One while we have Athenians wounded in Sicily praying for death at the hands of their companions; again, Demosthenes justifying himself against Demades for receiving Persian gold; with a hundred such trite themes, preserved to us by the complaisant biographers of the rhetors. It is unlucky that they have not transmitted for our edification any of these marvellous harangues entire, but we know enough of them to be sure that the style then in vogue was that sonorous Asiatic eloquence, pompous and commonplace in tone, compared by Dionysius of Halicarnassus to a courtesan entering an honest household to drive thence the mother of the family. Demosthenes is not to be recognized in the flowery declamation put into his mouth in common with other great personages. There were usages of style and rhetorical receipts, adapted to all circumstances, serviceable for none.

The glory of ancient Greece was another text on which rhetors loved to exercise their skill. They consoled themselves for achieving no exploits by celebrating those of their ancestors; boasting of victories only when the day of victory was long gone by. One orator was pleasantly nicknamed Marathon from his inability to pronounce any discourse without referring to the warriors killed at Marathon. Platea, Salamis, and Mycale had become rhetorical commonplaces. "Why," asks Plutarch sadly, "why recall triumphs that serve only to inspire us with useless pride? We should propose only imitable examples. Are we not like children walking about in their fathers' shoes?"

The eulogium of a city, a god, or some grand personage afforded matter for ample development. Socrates tells us that speech makes trifles important and great things trifling. This false definition of eloquence was received as a precept, as an axiom. Panegyrists no longer confined their commendation to heroes and great men, but pleaded the cause of the tyrant Phalaris or the cowardly Thersites. One vaunted the merits of long hair, another of bald heads. The praises were sung of parasites, parrots, gnats, and fleas. "In tenui labor," said Virgil, when about to sing of bees; but he could add, "at tenuis, non gloria;" for who can help admiring the labors of these intelligent republicans? The rhetor promised himself no less glory in celebrating the almost invisible wonders of the flea. This kind of discourse received a name which may be translated "paradoxical or unsustainable causes." Yet, strange to say, clever men did not disapprove of such topics. Aulus Gellius considers them suited to awaken talent, to sharpen wit, and inure it to difficulties. [Footnote 81]

To bring something out of nothing is a success of which one may justly be proud. But rhetors, like conquerors, possessed an insatiable ambition. They wished to astonish the world with new feats of prowess, and possibility has no limits for adventurous and valiant spirits. To speak without preparation, sagely, long-windedly, without error or hesitation, being the noblest triumph attainable by man, improvisation became the exercise par excellence. [Footnote 82] There stood the orator, erect and tranquil, sure of himself and of his powers, waiting until the audience should throw him the text selected for his dissertation. The word given, he plunged into the discourse; words flowed in a self-supplying stream, pure and abundant; and periods unrolled themselves with admirable facility. No obstacle was insuperable; the stream flowed on and on, straying perchance into side channels here and there; but the listener followed its wanderings contentedly, for the paths were flowery and came quickly to a termination. Phrases ready for all times, and served up on all occasions, with a facility that knew neither pause nor obstruction—such was the supreme merit or the age. But if we may believe certain cavillers, it often sufficed to bring to the work audacity, to push on boldly, careless of ideas, prompt in the creation of new and odd expressions, regardless of solecisms, and anxious to avoid but one thing—silence. [Footnote 83] To acquire this noble art, one needed little study. Ignorance was no longer an obstacle, for it gave greater intrepidity and audacity. "Would you have your son a good orator," says an epigram of the Anthology, "do not let him learn his letters." [Footnote 84]

We feel far removed from the time when Demosthenes thought it no blot on his glory that his orations smelt of the oil! Greece has ever loved words. Take away her eloquence, and she remains gossiping and loquacious. If I may be allowed the comparison, she is like the princess in the fairy story, dropping pearls from her lips. The true pearls being exhausted, only waxen pearls remained.

And now, having proved an absence of apparent labor to be a condition of success in these exhibitions, we can understand why poets did not resort thither for the recitation of their works. Improvisations in verse had not then been invented, but the enthusiasm they would have excited one may easily fancy.

Spoiled by public favor, these fluent geniuses could not fail to hold their own merits in high estimation. We will not take literally Lucian's assertion that they set themselves above Demosthenes: "Who was your orator of Paeania compared to me? Must I conquer all the ancients one by one?" [Footnote 85] But they frequently speak in magnificent terms of their own talents, elated at the tricks of the tongue so thoroughly mastered. Praise them as one would, their self-praise was louder still. The sophists hid their vanity more skillfully perhaps, affecting sober vestments and an air of austerity, but it was merely a stage trick suited to the character to be sustained. Sometimes, in order to produce a better effect on their hearers, they appeared clad in the skins of wild beasts, with hair and beard dishevelled, or wearing simply an old tunic and carrying a wallet and staff. [Footnote 86] The rhetor was more dainty in his toilette; his garments were of a white stuff woven with flowers, brought from the looms of Tarentum, and so fine in texture as to show the outlines of the form through its gauzy tissue. He wore Attic sandals like those of women, covered here and there, or a Sicyonian buskin decorated with white fringe. He did not disdain those external signs of luxury that betoken rank; and went from town to town followed by numerous servants leading horses and packs of hounds. One in particular drove a chariot with silvered reins, and, passing lingeringly along the ranks of spectators on his way to the chair, allowed them to contemplate his gorgeous robe covered with diamonds. [Footnote 87]

Philostratus, the biographer and fervent admirer of the sophists, remarks concerning one among them (the only one to whom he accords the praise) that he was always modest, and never spoke boastingly of himself. The vanity of many of them was simply ludicrous. Philagrius, newly arrived in Athens, was indignant because a young man had ventured to ask his name, and shuddered at the idea of meeting an individual unacquainted with Philagrius. In an assembly he let fall an expression that shocked the ear of a purist. "Who authorizes the use of that word?" asked the critic. "Philagrius," was the haughty answer. Words sufficed that day to express his sentiments, but it was not always so. One day an auditor presumed to fall asleep, an act of irreverence soon detected by the orator. He paused, stupefied to perceive that the audience were not all ears to hear him. Then, eager to avenge the wound inflicted on literature in his person, he descended from the stage, approached the unhappy sleeper, and roused him with a vigorous cuff. This severe but merited reproof was not without a certain eloquence; and we imagine that never again was anyone caught napping during the discourses of the irascible Philagrius. [Footnote 88]

A Phoenician rhetorician arrived in Attica. "With me," he explained to his audience, "literature comes to you a second time from Phoenicia." Polemon, the Carian, speaking for the first time in Athens, opened his address thus: "Athenians, you are said to be good judges. I shall ascertain the truth of the report by your manner of receiving my discourse." Forewarned is forearmed. The audience were to applaud Polemon under pain of appearing dull in Polemon's eyes. His genius, according to his own estimate, placed him above the rank of kingdoms, on a level with kings and even with gods. And as a great man must die after a fashion of his own, he had himself buried alive, in his old age, lest years should impair his success. Hie weeping friends delayed to seal the stone over the cavern. "Close the tomb," he called out from below—"Close the tomb. Let it not be said that the sun beheld Polemon silent." [Footnote 89]

VI.

Did worshippers so convinced of their own merit recognize and honor the gifts of others? We shall see that they could mutually esteem and praise each other. Herodius Atticus had been declaiming at the Olympic games: "You are a second Demosthenes," he was told. "I would rather be a second Polemon," was the reply. An odd desire, and one that showed the bad taste of that day; but it expressed homage to a rival. Herodius in his turn saw his superiority recognized in the exclamation of another rhetor: "We are small change (menue monnaie) beside you." [Footnote 90] But these instances of modesty are rare. They were usually indisposed to yield the palm of eloquence so generously. Jealous one of another, they regarded all praise not personal to themselves as so much stolen from them. Their self-esteem was equalled only by their disdain of all rivals. Lucian gives a recipe of a method often employed to injure a rival. "Ridicule every other orator. Has he talent? Affect to believe that the sentiments are not his own; that he decks himself in borrowed spoils. Is he commonplace? Think him odious. Come late to his exhibitions. It will make you conspicuous. Choose a moment of silence to utter a eulogium in singular language, calculated to distract and startle the audience. Your exaggerated praises will disgust them with the object of your praise and make them stop their ears. Almost invariably smile scornfully, and never appear pleased with what is said." [Footnote 91]

Meantime the orator, seeing his success threatened, was wont to meet the skilful attack with a defence no less skilful. He managed his resources prudently, gathering about him devoted friends to assist in the manoeuvres. Under all circumstances he must count upon these faithful satellites. Marcus Aurelius was to attend the exercises of Aristides. "Will you let me bring my disciples?" asked the prudent rhetor. "Certainly," said the emperor, "if it is customary." "And will you allow them to shout and applaud with all their might?" added Aristides ingenuously. "Oh! certainly," replied Marcus Aurelius, laughing, "that depends entirely upon yourself." When the master spoke, the scholars must stamp enthusiastically. If he were about to fail, they must reach out a helping hand, and give him by applause the time to recover his self-possession.

Happy he who could count among his admirers some high and puissant celebrity; for who can fail to discern the grandeur of an oration stamped with the approbation of an imposing authority? When Heliodorus declaimed, the emperor, holding him in great affection (who was that emperor, by the way? The historian does not tell us, but no matter!), regarded with an air of irritation anyone disinclined to applaud the speaker. And the laggards took the hint, we may be sure, and adapted their impressions thenceforth to the emotions of royalty. [Footnote 92]

But when an orator had reached the highest rank in the city, it is not to be supposed that his reign was free from rivalry. Combatants came from a distance to compete with him. Many lecturers, and by no means the least brilliant, have a taste for travelling, and would extend their reputation in any direction where there are ears to listen to them. Knights errant of the rhetorical art wandered from province to province, seeking adversaries and flinging challenges as they went. If victories heralded their approach, the crowd ran to greet them, and the most illustrious citizens met them at the city gates.

Conceive the uneasiness and agitation of the unlucky sophist or rhetor thus disturbed in the possession of his glory. He had labored long to attain the position of eminence, now threatened by the approaching aspirant. O nothingness of glory! A single day might suffice to destroy the edifice of many years. What was to be done? To refuse the challenge was to declare himself vanquished. Rather death than such humiliation!

Death might follow a similar struggle. Niger, the famous declaimer, had swallowed a fishbone which stuck in his throat. There came a stranger to pronounce a public harangue, and Niger, fearing that his silence might be construed into a desire to fly from the lists, declaimed in his turn, with the fishbone still in his throat. The effort caused an inflammation so violent as to result in his death.[Footnote 93]

The time having arrived for the new speaker to be heard, he opened his address with a eulogium of the audience, as the exordium best calculated to ensure success. "In this place one should bend the knee," [Footnote 94] cried one of these orators, as if struck with a religious awe of the city where he was to speak. We have two declamations of Lucian's that give a good idea of the precautions peculiar to the trade. "The chosen of every city are before me, the flower of Macedonia. This assemblage consists not of an ignorant rabble, but of orators, historians, and sophists of the highest distinction." This satirical Lucian was not sparing of compliments to his Macedonian public; what was left for the Athenians? "I have long desired an audience such as this. What approbation could I look for after passing through your city without obtaining a hearing?" Then follows the panegyric of the city, endowed not only with especial magnificence, but with more men of power and talent than fell to the lot of any other city. He exalts their benevolence and affability, and likens himself to the Scythian Anacharsis, so fascinated with the charms of Athens as to be unable to tear himself away.[Footnote 95]

I spoke just now of knights errant. Do you remember in accounts of the tournament the disguised cavalier who enters the lists and is recognized by the weight of his blows? The champions of rhetoric were sometimes the heroes of similar adventures.

Hippodromus of Larissa landed at Smyrna, and, following the crowd, entered a hall where one Megistias had drawn together an audience. Hippodromus was in travelling gear. Approaching Megistias, he said: "Change clothes with me. Lend me your mantle for a moment." The other looked at him to see if he might be a maniac; but the exchange was made. "And now give me a subject of declamation," continued Hippodromus. They gave him one, which he treated so skilfully that Megistias exclaimed with surprise: "But who are you?" "I am Hippodromus the Thessalian." In a few moments the report of the illustrious rhetor's arrival had spread through the town, and the whole population rushed to see and hear him. [Footnote 96]

Again the challenger would be some great celebrity. Anatolius, prefect of the praetorium, and gifted with remarkable eloquence, announced his speedy arrival at Athens, challenging all speech-makers to an encounter, and proposing one of the most difficult questions capable of discussion by trained intelligences. Great agitation ensued. Anatolius was a formidable judge, both by his science and by his exalted position in the state. Eunapus tells us that Greece trembled more on that occasion than at the approach of the Persians. He was Prohaeresius, the great Prohaeresius, victor in every battle, to whom Rome was to erect a statue bearing the inscription: Rome, queen of the world, to Prohaeresius, king of eloquence. The Greeks decreed even a grander title to him. He was no mere mortal; he was Mercury disguised in human form. One day when he had finished speaking, the people gathered round him and kissed his hands and feet, nay, licked his breast, as if he had been in very deed a god. And would you know by what manifestation of power he had deserved this idolatry? After improvising a long discourse, he had forthwith repeated it word for word, without missing a single syllable. The prodigy could not be denied, for reporters had been provided for the occasion, who had noted down every expression. [Footnote 97]

These transports on the part of the public, these passionate demonstrations, bordering sometimes on delirium, are so foreign to our habits that we should be inclined to suspect exaggeration in the recital of Eunapus, if many other authorities did not testify also to the ecstasies excited in the populace by eloquence. Habits of mind are, perhaps, harder to eradicate than those of the soul, and Christianity succeeded in introducing austere ideas in the spiritual life without immediately curing this excessive love of eloquence. Applause was heard sometimes in churches, and St. John Chrysostom had to impose silence more than once upon his hearers, who clapped him, forgetful of the sanctity of the place in their enthusiasm for the orator.

We have seen the bright side of the subject, but every medal has two sides. Without speaking of the jealousies and enmities inherent to the profession, can one be sure of being equal to one's self every day and all day? You appear before an imposing assembly; all eyes are fixed upon you. Let emotion seize you, a little lapse of memory, a slight absence of mind, and you are lost. The thought is enough to intimidate the most intrepid rhetor. And it was a misfortune not without example. Herodius Atticus, on one occasion, stopped short in the presence of the emperor, and thought for an instant of drowning himself in the Ister. A similar accident happened to Heraclides, who took the accident more philosophically, and sought consolation for his disgrace in abusing improvisation, and composing a work in praise of labor. [Footnote 98]

And who can count on the good nature of his audience? Listeners have a certain malice of their own at times, as Philagrius once discovered to his cost. He had composed a discourse in Asia, and learned it by heart. On arriving in Athens, he presented himself before the amateurs and burst forth into improvisation. By a wonderful coincidence, they had given him precisely the subject which he had so carefully treated. Philagrius, sure of his ground, began boldly, and wandered on like one led by the moment's inspiration. He grew diffusive and pathetic; but, strange to relate, as the discourse proceeded, the audience gave evidence of merriment, first by subdued tittering, finally by uproarious bursts of laughter. Philagrius paused in wrath and amazement. To calm this excitement, his hearers produced a copy of the address which he had repeated without altering a sin

The abuse of this false eloquence could not fail in the end to produce disgust. Serious men began to ask themselves if these brilliant exercises were true oratorical art or merely a vain tissue of words. A few even of those who had yielded to the fascination began to look pityingly on declaimers. Lucian lavished satire upon them, but the trade was still prosperous in his day. Synesius, coming later, spared them as little. From him we learn their misery as well as their presumption. We see that the palmy days of the profession had passed away.

"I will not wander from door to door, attracting the townspeople with the promise of a charming speech. O sad profession! Speaking for the crowd; attempting the impossible in trying to please so many different minds! The stage orator, no longer belonging to himself, is in truth a slave to the public, subject to the caprice of every individual. If an auditor begins to laugh, the sophist is lost. He dreads a morose visage; too close attention seems to him to imply criticism, a restless turning of the head to signify weariness. And yet he surely merits indulgent masters who sacrifices sleep at night, spends his days in toil, consuming himself, as it were, with hunger and fatigue, in order to compose a fine address. He comes before the disdainful crowd to charm their ears, concealing his indisposition with an affectation of health. Having bathed the day before, he presents himself to the public at the appointed time, blooming, dimpling, displaying every grace. He turns to the audience, wreathed in smiles, joyous in appearance, but torn with secret pangs. He chews gum to make his voice clear and strong, for even the most serious sophist lays great stress upon a fine voice, and lavishes upon it much ill-concealed care. In the middle of the oration, he pauses to ask for a beverage, previously prepared. A servant offers it, and he drinks, moistening his throat, the better to pronounce his melodious sentences. But the poor wretch cannot with all this gain the good will of his hearers. The audience await the final clause impatiently, that they may laugh in liberty. They would gladly see him with out-stretched arm and parted lips, preserving the attitude and silence of a statue: then, when worn out with weariness, they could escape." [Footnote 100]

But of all the perils that menaced their very existence, sophists and rhetoricians had most cause to dread the growing strength of Christianity. The new religion proposed to its disciples, as the aim of life, an object far more elevated than the pleasures of eloquence. It was no longer a question of noble words, but of noble actions. What were intellectual satisfactions in comparison to the joys of conscience? The Christian sought the eloquence that should teach him his duties, and the sophist with uncertain and contradictory answers was no longer an authority. He must appeal to the priest for precepts of unfailing, unchanging wisdom. Let some solitary, in repute for sanctity and for familiarity with the things of God, leave his desert for a moment to mingle among men, and the crowd rushed to greet him. St. John Chrysostom proudly contrasts the entrance of a monk with that of a sophist. A few days more, and the revolution was consummated. Sophists saw no one following them, while the troop of the faithful, that is to say, the entire nation, pressed upon the steps of the humble monk. A preacher of the gospel, even if recommended only by soundness of doctrine and morality, was sure of seeing listeners seated at the foot of the pulpit. But preachers who think only of the triumph of the faith attain the true glory of oratory, that of arousing emotion. Not only may a great thought come from the heart, but the expression with which it is given forth. Why listen to elegant but empty amplifications in schools, when in a neighboring basilica one could enjoy a magnificent oration, whose brilliancy should remain untarnished through fifteen centuries? No rhetor, but a young priest from Antioch, received from contemporary admirers as well as from posterity the glorious name of Chrysostom—Golden Mouth. The church is fertile in orators as in martyrs. Christianity did not smother eloquence. She assigned to it new destinies; regenerating, or rather (for it existed no longer) resuscitating it.

VII.

And now we ask ourselves, what good and what evil these exercises have done? The mischief is not far to seek. It is exhibited in every page of the present article. Invented by vanity, these literary and philosophical exhibitions had seldom any better object than the satisfaction of vanity; hence their vitality and duration, but also their sterility.

But does this imply that they answered no useful end? By no means. I do not believe with Ovid, a great amateur of public lectures, as it appears (perhaps he used them himself), that they excite poetic genius. [Footnote 101] His contemporaries Horace and Virgil had no need of the stimulant of public praise in the composition of their masterpieces. Pliny saw another advantage in lectures, as giving a writer the opportunity to consult the public, and to invite criticism with the view of correcting defects. [Footnote 102] But an audience thus convoked is no severe and judicious Aristarchus, overlooking no defect, [Footnote 103] but forever crying "Correct." It is there to approve, and any lack of commendation is generally criticised by the author as a want of good manners. Pliny's friends applauded him, and Pliny, with singular simplicity, confessed himself charmed with their good taste. [Footnote 104] What is he thinking of when he speaks of the free judgment of auditors, and yet complains of those who deny him applause? In fact, he says, whether you are the inferior, equal, or superior of the lecturer, you have an interest in praising him whom you surpass or who equals or surpasses you. Your superior, because you merit no praise if he deserves none; your equal or inferior, because the glory lavished upon him tends to raise your reputation. With this convenient theory criticism loses its rights. We need not wonder that Lucan, [Footnote 105] whose brilliant defects are easily pardoned, allowed himself to be elated by the boisterous applause accorded to his Pharsalia; or that, comparing his age and débuts with those of Virgil, be exclaimed! "My friends, am I so far behind the great?" [Footnote 106] Seneca wisely decided that nothing had injured literature so much as popular acclamations. [Footnote 107]

Far from thinking, as Pliny does, the system of lectures a finishing school, I believe the author to be confirmed in his defects by applause and adulation. But I agree with Pliny as to the efficiency of these assemblies in preserving and propagating a taste for intellectual things. Mental labor, even when bestowed on trivial matters, is of use in fostering intelligence. Rhetors and sophists were generally inferior orators and philosophers, but they deserve our thanks for their fidelity to study and to the preservation of literary traditions. But for them the maturity of Christian eloquence might have been long delayed. We must remember that Basil, Gregory, Chrysostom, Augustine, and Ambrose had passed through their schools before entering the church. The disciples effaced their masters, while profiting by lessons received from them.

And, turning to a different view of the subject, it is no matter of indifference to continue beyond the usual period assigned to serious labors one's devotion to literature, so softening and humanizing in its influence on the heart. This especially applies to a nation, unprovided by religion or morality with any remedy against evil instincts. To write little verses and polish periods is no great affair, I confess; but it is better than wallowing in low and sometimes cruel sensuality, like the rabble. In point of religious and moral convictions, the Greeks had fallen to a level with the Romans. But one thing elevated them: an untiring love of poetry, eloquence, and philosophy. In default of the reality, they pursued its shadow. Ixion, so say their mythologists, embraced only the phantom of Juno. True; but, while striving to win this phantom, he had not stooped to base and ignoble loves. The astute and polished Greek avoided that barbarism which engulfed the coarse, unlettered Roman.

We must not forget that Christian preaching has been served to a limited extent, but yet effectively, by habits introduced by sophists. The first comers freely explained their doctrines in public places without exciting surprise. Every system received a hearing. Stoics, epicureans, and cynics all sought to win converts to their various theories. Beneath the mantle of philosophy, the Christian could mingle with the crowd, and, while teaching a morality hitherto unknown, prepare the way for novel doctrines. When St. Paul arrived in Athens, that city where all men, strangers or citizens, were occupied only with hearing or uttering something new, [Footnote 108] the multitude at first mistook the apostle for some wandering sophist, and lent him an attentive ear so long as he did not openly shock their preconceived ideas. Peregrinus, whose life and death Lucian gives us, became a cynic after having been a Christian, and continued to address the people. Lucian does not clearly mark the change nor the distinction between the two systems of instruction, which seem to him equally strange. A similar confusion must have often arisen, not in the minds of Christians turned philosophers (there were fewer apostasies than conversions), but of philosophers who became Christians.

Our study is ended. I had merely thought of writing a chapter on literary history, without seeking in the past an attack or a defence of the present. It is difficult to compare two periods justly. Our lectures and conferences differ in many respects from those in vogue among the ancients, but who can deny the various points of resemblance? If we wish, as everyone indeed must wish, to secure a durable and legitimate success to the system, we must remember it is not established merely for the recreation and diversion of the public, like the theatre or the concert-room, but also and above all for their instruction. It is a question of education. I would have the lecture, whether literary or scientific, given in an attractive style, not after the severe, didactic fashion or a cours de faculté; but it should be distinctly a lecture, so that the hearer may carry away with him some profitable ideas with the memory of an agreeable hour. In my humble opinion, it is only on these conditions that the system of public conferences will obtain not merely a passing popularity, but freedom of the city. If this be true, are we to encourage authors to read their unpublished works, poems, dramas, odes, romances, or what not? In these days there are other roads to publicity, and it is not by a single hearing that intellectual works are to be judged. Still less must it be allowed (for even improbabilities should be anticipated) that an author, speculating in fame, should announce his arrival on such a day and hour: "To speak about what? I have not the least idea, but no matter! I shall speak, and you will have seen and heard me." A mere matter of curiosity, making one think of the tight rope.

Another danger is, that conferences may become a sort of intellectual gymnasium, only good for the development of suppleness and agility of mind. Hitherto, in running over the lists of subjects under discussion, we have met none of the frivolous and insignificant themes that rhetors revelled in handling. The titles at least announce a serious purpose. We should be glad to attribute the merit of this to the wisdom of the choosers, but the thought suggests itself that the administrative control may deserve part of the praise. It is well known that no one can deliver lectures without especial permission, and a especial approval of the subject of his address. It is also well known that certain orators find it impossible to obtain this permission. Whether this exercise of authority has inconveniences as well as advantages is a question we will not here investigate. But there is one among the conditions imposed on public lectures that must suit every sensible person, the restrictions with regard to age. It is not difficult to find young persons who, mistaking temerity for talent, are eager for an opportunity to display their presumptuous ignorance. Can we even be quite certain that among those who have passed their twenty-fifth year there may not be some who would do well to preserve a discreet silence? "Weigh carefully the burdens your shoulders are to bear," said Horace to the Romans of his day. The precept is old, but sound even now. Remember, all you who present yourselves for public speaking, that it is not merely an honor, but a responsibility also. Consult your strength. Neither diploma nor certificate of capacity is demanded of you. Do not, however, imagine that no quality is needed to fit you for this professorship (for the post is nothing less than a professorship) except unbounded self-confidence. The least we can ask is that those who would teach us should be well informed themselves. Good sense, ever successful in the end, would do justice sooner or later to all such vain pretensions; but meantime the oft-deluded public might have learned to avoid the recreation prepared for them. We earnestly desire the long life and prosperity of the system, and therefore trust that no lecturers likely to injure it should be tolerated. Is our wish to be fulfilled? The future must answer.