The truth is, Vespasian , now in the vale of years, but always open to the voice of truth, clearly sees that the rest of his favourites derive all their lustre from the favours, which his munificence has bestowed; but with Marcellus and Crispus the case is different: they carry into the cabinet, what no prince can give, and no subject can receive. Compared with the advantages which those men possess, what are family-pictures, statues, busts, and titles of honour? They are things of a perishable nature, yet not without their value. Marcellus and Vibius know how to estimate them, as they do wealth and honours; and wealth and honours are advantages against which you will easily find men that declaim, but none that in their hearts despise them. Hence it is, that in the houses of all who have distinguished themselves in the career of eloquence, we see titles, statues, and splendid ornaments, the reward of talents, and, at all times, the decorations of the great and powerful orator.
IX. But to come to the point, from which we started: poetry, to which my friend Maternus wishes to dedicate all his time, has none of these advantages. It confers no dignity, nor does it serve any useful purpose. It is attended with some pleasure, but it is the pleasure of a moment, springing from vain applause, and bringing with it no solid advantage. What I have said, and am going to add, may probably, my good friend Maternus, be unwelcome to your ear; and yet I must take the liberty to ask you, if Agamemnon or Jason speaks in your piece with dignity of language, what useful consequence follows from it? What client has been defended? Who confesses an obligation? In that whole audience, who returns to his own house with a grateful heart? Our friend Saleius Bassus is, beyond all question, a poet of eminence, or, to use a warmer expression, he has the god within him: but who attends his levee? who seeks his patronage, or follows in his train? Should he himself, or his intimate friend, or his near relation, happen to be involved in a troublesome litigation, what course do you imagine he would take? He would, most probably, apply to his friend, Secundus; or to you, Maternus; not because you are a poet, nor yet to obtain a copy of verses from you; of those he has a sufficient stock at home, elegant, it must be owned, and exquisite in the kind. But after all his labour and waste of genius, what is his reward?
When in the course of a year, after toiling day and night, he has brought a single poem to perfection, he is obliged to solicit his friends and exert his interest, in order to bring together an audience , 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 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 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 ; 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 , 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 is an honourable employment; and if the gods had bestowed upon you the force and sinew of the athletic Nicostratus ; 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 th
e 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 , and in defiance of the domineering spirit of Vatinius , 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 , 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 now so much in vogue: it is of modern growth, the offspring of corrupt manners, and degenerate times; or rather, as my friend Aper expressed it, it is a weapon in the hands of ill-designing men.
The early and more happy period of the world, or, as we poets call it, the golden age, was the æra of true eloquence. Crimes and orators were then unknown. Poetry spoke in harmonious numbers, not to varnish evil deeds, but to praise the virtuous, and celebrate the friends of human kind. This was the poet’s office. The inspired train enjoyed the highest honours; they held commerce with the gods; they partook of the ambrosial feast: they were at once the messengers and interpreters of the supreme command. They ranked on earth with legislators, heroes, and demigods. In that bright assembly we find no orator, no pleader of causes. We read of Orpheus , 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 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 , 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 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 , 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 , in point of dignity or extent of fame, is inferior to Domitius Afer ? 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 , 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 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 , 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 , 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 , 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 . 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 Nicetes, and others who, like him, stun the schools of Mytelene and Ephesus , are fallen to a greater distance from Æschines and Demosthenes, than Afer and Africanus , 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.
Complete Works of Tacitus (Delphi Classics) (Delphi Ancient Classics Book 24) Page 9