A Professor of Public Speaking (6-10)

But you must not make the same mistake. Experience will convince you that nothing can prevent you from arriving as a public speaker, in a single day, and not a full day at that, by flying across the mountains from Persia to Egypt!

I wish first of all to paint you a picture in words, like Cebes of old, and show you both the roads; for there are two that lead to Lady Rhetoric, of whom you seem to me exceedingly enamoured. So let her be sitting upon a high place, very fair of face and form, holding in her right hand the Horn of Plenty, which runs over with all manner of fruits. Beside her imagine, pray, that you see Wealth standing, all golden and lovely. Let Fame, too, and Power stand by; and let Compliments, resembling tiny Cupids, swarm all about her on the wing in great numbers from every side. If you have ever seen the Nile represented in a painting, lying on the back of a crocodile or a hippopotamus, such as are frequent in his stream, while tiny infants play beside him—the Egyptians call them cubits— the Compliments that surround Rhetoric are like these.[*]

Now you, her lover, approach, desiring, of course,

to get upon the summit with all speed in order to marry her when you get there, and to possess all that she has—the Wealth, the Fame, the Compliments; for by law everything accrues to the husband.

Then when you draw near the mountain, at first you despair of climbing it, and the thing seems to you just as Aornus[*] looked to the Macedonians when they observed that it was precipitous on every side, truly far from easy even for a bird to fly over, calling for a Dionysus or a Heracles if it were ever going to be taken.

That is how it seems to you at first; and then, after a little, you see two roads. To be more exact, one of them is but a path, narrow, briery, and rough, promising great thirstiness and sweat; Hesiod has been beforehand with us and has already described it very carefully, so that I shall not need to do so.[*] The other, however, is level, flowery, and wellwatered, just as I described it a moment ago, not to detain you by saying the same things over and over when you might even now be a speaker.

But I must add at least this much, that the rough, steep road used not to have many tracks of wayfarers, and whatever tracks there were, were very old. I myself, unlucky dog, got up by that road and did all that hard work without any need; but as the other was level and had no windings at all, I could see from a distance what it was like without having travelled it myself. You see, being still young, I could not discern what was better, but believed that poet[*] to be telling the truth when he said that

blessings were engendered of toil.[*] That was not so, however; at all events, I notice that most people are accorded greater returns without any labour, through their felicitous choice of words and ways.

But, to resume—when you reach the starting-point, I am sure that you will be in doubt, and indeed are even now in doubt, which road to follow. I propose, therefore, to tell you how to do now in order to mount to the highest peak with the greatest ease, to be fortunate, to bring off the marriage, and to be accounted wonderful by everyone. It is quite enough that I should have been duped and should have worked hard. For you, let everything grow “without sowing and without ploughing,” as in the time of Cronus.[*]

On the instant, then, you will be approached by a vigorous man with hard muscles and a manly stride, who shows heavy tan on his body, and is bold-eyed and alert. He is the guide of the rough road, and he will talk a lot of nonsense to you, the poor simpleton. In exhorting you to follow him, he will point out the footprints of Demosthenes and of Plato, and one or two more—great prints, I grant you, too great for men of nowadays, but for the most part dim and indistinct through lapse of time; and he will say that you will have good fortune and will contract a lawful marriage with Rhetoric if you

follow these footprints like a rope-dancer; but if you should make even a slight mis-step, or set your foot out of them, or let your weight sway you somewhat to one side, you will fall from the direct road that leads to the marriage. Then he will tell you to imitate those ancient worthies, and will set you fusty models for your speeches, far from easy to copy, resembling sculptures in the early manner such as those of Hegesias and of Critius and Nesiotes[*] —wasp-waisted, sinewy, hard, meticulously definite in their contours. And he will say that hard work, scant sleep, abstention from wine, and untidiness are necessary and indispensable; it is impossible, says he, to get over the road without them. What is most vexatious of all, even the time which he will prescribe to you for the journey will be very long——many years, for he counts not by days and months, but by whole Olympic cycles,[*] so that you will be foredone in advance as you listen and will forswear your project, bidding a fond farewell to the good fortune that you expected. Besides, he demands no small fee for all these hardships; in fact, he would not guide you unless he should get a huge sum in advance.

That is what this man will say, the impostor, the absolute old fogey, the antediluvian, who displays dead men of a bygone age to serve as patterns, and expects you to dig up long-buried speeches as if they were something tremendously helpful, wanting you to emulate the son of a sword-maker, and some other

fellow, the son of a school-master named Atrometus,[*] and that too in times of peace, when no Philip is making raids and no Alexander issuing orders—situations in which their speeches were perhaps considered useful. He does not know what a short, easy road, direct to Rhetoric, has recently been opened. But do not you believe or heed him for fear he may give you a neck-breaking tumble somewhere after he gets you in charge, or may in the end make you prematurely old with your labours. No, if you are unquestionably in love, and wish to marry Rhetoric forthwith, while you are still in your prime, so that she may be fond of you, do bid a long good-bye to that hairy, unduly masculine fellow, leaving him to climb up himself, all blown and dripping with sweat, and lead up what others he can delude.