"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]
[Footnote 100: Synesius, Dion]
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]
[Footnote 101: Pont. iv. 2.]
[Footnote 102: Letters, v, 3; vii. 17.]
[Footnote 103: Horace, Poetic Art, 445.]
[Footnote 104: Letters, iii. 18.]