Phaedrus
the remark of Socrates which follows afterwards, 'I am a diviner, but a
poor one.'
The tale of the grasshoppers is naturally suggested by the surrounding
scene. They are also the representatives of the Athenians as children
of the soil. Under the image of the lively chirruping grasshoppers who
inform the Muses in heaven about those who honour them on earth, Plato
intends to represent an Athenian audience (tettigessin eoikotes). The
story is introduced, apparently, to mark a change of subject, and also,
like several other allusions which occur in the course of the Dialogue,
in order to preserve the scene in the recollection of the reader.
*****
No one can duly appreciate the dialogues of Plato, especially the
Phaedrus, Symposium, and portions of the Republic, who has not a
sympathy with mysticism. To the uninitiated, as he would himself
have acknowledged, they will appear to be the dreams of a poet who
is disguised as a philosopher. There is a twofold difficulty in
apprehending this aspect of the Platonic writings. First, we do not
immediately realize that under the marble exterior of Greek literature
was concealed a soul thrilling with spiritual emotion. Secondly, the
forms or figures which the Platonic philosophy assumes, are not like the
images of the prophet Isaiah, or of the Apocalypse, familiar to us in
the days of our youth. By mysticism we mean, not the extravagance of
an erring fancy, but the concentration of reason in feeling, the
enthusiastic love of the good, the true, the one, the sense of the
infinity of knowledge and of the marvel of the human faculties. When
feeding upon such thoughts the 'wing of the soul' is renewed and
gains strength; she is raised above 'the manikins of earth' and their
opinions, waiting in wonder to know, and working with reverence to find
out what God in this or in another life may reveal to her.
ON THE DECLINE OF GREEK LITERATURE.
One of the main purposes of Plato in the Phaedrus is to satirize
Rhetoric, or rather the Professors of Rhetoric who swarmed at Athens in
the fourth century before Christ. As in the opening of the Dialogue he
ridicules the interpreters of mythology; as in the Protagoras he mocks
at the Sophists; as in the Euthydemus he makes fun of the word-splitting
Eristics; as in the Cratylus he ridicules the fancies of Etymologers;
as in the Meno and Gorgias and some other dialogues he makes reflections
and casts sly imputation upon the higher classes at Athens; so in
the Phaedrus, chiefly in the latter part, he aims his shafts at the
rhetoricians. The profession of rhetoric was the greatest and most
popular in Athens, necessary 'to a man's salvation,' or at any rate to
his attainment of wealth or power; but Plato finds nothing wholesome
or genuine in the purpose of it. It is a veritable 'sham,' having no
relation to fact, or to truth of any kind. It is antipathetic to him not
only as a philosopher, but also as a great writer. He cannot abide the
tricks of the rhetoricians, or the pedantries and mannerisms which they
introduce into speech and writing. He sees clearly how far removed they
are from the ways of simplicity and truth, and how ignorant of the very
elements of the art which they are professing to teach. The thing which
is most necessary of all, the knowledge of human nature, is hardly if
at all considered by them. The true rules of composition, which are
very few, are not to be found in their voluminous systems. Their
pretentiousness, their omniscience, their large fortunes, their
impatience of argument, their indifference to first principles, their
stupidity, their progresses through Hellas accompanied by a troop
of their disciples--these things were very distasteful to Plato, who
esteemed genius far above art, and was quite sensible of the interval
which separated them (Phaedrus). It is the interval which separates
Sophists and rhetoricians from ancient famous men and women such as
Homer and Hesiod, Anacreon and Sappho, Aeschylus and Sophocles; and the
Platonic Socrates is afraid that, if he approves the former, he will be
disowned by the latter. The spirit of rhetoric was soon to overspread
all Hellas; and Plato with prophetic insight may have seen, from afar,
the great literary waste or dead level, or interminable marsh, in which
Greek literature was soon to disappear. A similar vision of the decline
of the Greek drama and of the contrast of the old literature and the
new was present to the mind of Aristophanes after the death of the three
great tragedians (Frogs). After about a hundred, or at most two hundred
years if we exclude Homer, the genius of Hellas had ceased to flower or
blossom. The dreary waste which follows, beginning with the Alexandrian
writers and even before them in the platitudes of Isocrates and his
school, spreads over much more than a thousand years. And from this
decline the Greek language and literature, unlike the Latin, which has
come to life in new forms and been developed into the great European
languages, never recovered.
This monotony of literature, without merit, without genius and without
character, is a phenomenon which deserves more attention than it has
hitherto received; it is a phenomenon unique in the literary history
of the world. How could there have been so much cultivation, so much
diligence in writing, and so little mind or real creative power? Why
did a thousand years invent nothing better than Sibylline books,
Orphic poems, Byzantine imitations of classical histories, Christian
reproductions of Greek plays, novels like the silly and obscene romances
of Longus and Heliodorus, innumerable forged epistles, a great many
epigrams, biographies of the meanest and most meagre description, a sham
philosophy which was the bastard progeny of the union between Hellas
and the East? Only in Plutarch, in Lucian, in Longinus, in the Roman
emperors Marcus Aurelius and Julian, in some of the Christian fathers
are there any traces of good sense or originality, or any power of
arousing the interest of later ages. And when new books ceased to be
written, why did hosts of grammarians and interpreters flock in, who
never attain to any sound notion either of grammar or interpretation?
Why did the physical sciences never arrive at any true knowledge or make
any real progress? Why did poetry droop and languish? Why did history
degenerate into fable? Why did words lose their power of expression?
Why were ages of external greatness and magnificence attended by all the
signs of decay in the human mind which are possible?
To these questions many answers may be given, which if not the true
causes, are at least to be reckoned among the symptoms of the decline.
There is the want of method in physical science, the want of criticism
in history, the want of simplicity or delicacy in poetry, the want of
political freedom, which is the true atmosphere of public speaking, in
oratory. The ways of life were luxurious and commonplace. Philosophy had
become extravagant, eclectic, abstract, devoid of any real content. At
length it ceased to exist. It had spread words like plaster over the
whole field of knowledge. It had grown ascetic on one side, mystical
on the other. Neither of these tendencies was favourable to literature.
There was no sense of beauty either in language or in art. The Greek
world became vacant, barbaric, oriental. No one had anything new to say,
or any conviction of truth. The age had no remembrance of the past, no
power of understanding what other ages thought and felt. The Catholic
faith had degenerated into dogma and controversy. For more than
a thousand years not a single writer of first-rate, or even of
second-rate, reputation has a place in the innumerable rolls of Greek
literature.
If we seek to go deeper, we can still only describe the outward nature
of the clouds or darkness which were spread over the heavens during so
many ages without relief or light. We may say that this, like several
other long periods in the history of the human race, was destitute,
or deprived of the moral qualities which are the root of literary
excellence. It had no life or aspiration, no national or political
force, no desire for consistency, no love of knowledge for its own sake.
It did not attempt to pierce the mists which surrounded it. It did not
propose to itself to go forward and scale the heights of knowledge, but
to go backwards and seek at the beginning what can only be found towards
the end. It was lost in doubt and ignorance. It rested upon tradition
and authority. It had none of the higher play of fancy which creates
poetry; and where there is no true poetry, neither can there be any
good prose. It had no great characters, and therefore it had no great
writers. It was incapable of distinguishing between words and things. It
was so hopelessly below the ancient standard of classical Greek art and
literature that it had no power of understanding or of valuing them. It
is doubtful whether any Greek author was justly appreciated in antiquity
except by his own contemporaries; and this neglect of the great authors
of the past led to the disappearance of the larger part of them, while
the Greek fathers were mostly preserved. There is no reason to suppose
that, in the century before the taking of Constantinople, much more was
in existence than the scholars of the Renaissance carried away with them
to Italy.
The character of Greek literature sank lower as time went on. It
consisted more and more of compilations, of scholia, of extracts, of
commentaries, forgeries, imitations. The commentator or interpreter had
no conception of his author as a whole, and very little of the context
of any passage which he was explaining. The least things were preferred
by him to the greatest. The question of a reading, or a grammatical
form, or an accent, or the uses of a word, took the place of the aim or
subject of the book. He had no sense of the beauties of an author, and
very little light is thrown by him on real difficulties. He interprets
past ages by his own. The greatest classical writers are the least
appreciated by him. This seems to be the reason why so many of them have
perished, why the lyric poets have almost wholly disappeared; why, out
of the eighty or ninety tragedies of Aeschylus and Sophocles, only seven
of each had been preserved.
Such an age of sciolism and scholasticism may possibly once more get
the better of the literary world. There are those who prophesy that the
signs of such a day are again appearing among us, and that at the end
of the present century no writer of the first class will be still alive.
They think that the Muse of Literature may transfer herself to other
countries less dried up or worn out than our own. They seem to see the
withering effect of criticism on original genius. No one can doubt that
such a decay or decline of literature and of art seriously affects
the manners and character of a nation. It takes away half the joys and
refinements of life; it increases its dulness and grossness. Hence it
becomes a matter of great interest to consider how, if at all, such a
degeneracy may be averted. Is there any elixir which can restore life
and youth to the literature of a nation, or at any rate which can
prevent it becoming unmanned and enfeebled?
First there is the progress of education. It is possible, and even
probable, that the extension of the means of knowledge over a wider
area and to persons living under new conditions may lead to many new
combinations of thought and language. But, as yet, experience does
not favour the realization of such a hope or promise. It may be truly
answered that at present the training of teachers and the methods of
education are very imperfect, and therefore that we cannot judge of the