A Dialogue Concerning Oratory, Or The Causes Of Corrupt Eloquence by Cornelius Tacitus

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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 aera 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 AEschines 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 aera? 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 aera, which you have in view, is that of [b] Cicero and
Caesar; of Caelius [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 Caesar back from their
coast. If this veteran, who served in the defence of his country
against Caesar'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 Caesar 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 Caelius, 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 Caecus [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 aera 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.

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