[Footnote 73: Pliny the Younger, Letters, viii. 1; ix. 34.]
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]
[Footnote 74: Pliny the Younger, Letters, i. 13; iii. 18.]
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]
[Footnote 75: How to Listen, 13.]
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]