I have been deeply occupied of late, gentlemen, in seeking, and indeed one of my chief anxieties has been to find, what device of rhetoric would best enable me to engage my hearers' attention: when of a sudden there came into my mind the precept often inculcated in his writings by Cicero (with whose name my speech auspiciously begins)—namely that the fundamental duties of an orator are first to instruct, secondly to delight, and thirdly to persuade. And so I have made it my chief object to fulfil as nearly as possible this threefold function of a speaker.

Now for instruction, it ill befits me to take upon myself to give it to men so erudite in every branch of learning as yourselves, or you to receive it; still, it may be permissible for me to take the nearest course and bring to your notice a matter which may prove to be not altogether without interest. Secondly for delight, though I greatly fear it is beyond my poor abilities, yet it shall be my chief wish to afford this also: but even if I attain this, it will not be enough unless I succeed also in persuading you. Thirdly for persuasion, I shall attain the height of my ambition for the present if I can induce you who hear me to turn less assiduously the pages of those vast and ponderous tomes of our professors of so-called exactitude, and to be less zealous in your study of the crabbed arguments of wiseacres.

Now to make it plain to all how proper and reasonable is my theme, I will show briefly, in the short half hour at my disposal, that these studies promote neither delight nor instruction, nor indeed do they serve any useful purpose whatsoever.

First I will issue a challenge, gentlemen. If I can at all judge your feelings by my own, what pleasure can there possibly be in these petty disputations of sour old men, which reek, if not of the cave of Trophonius, at any rate of the monkish cells in which they were written, exude the gloomy severity of their writers, bear the traces of their authors' wrinkles, and in spite of their condensed style produce by their excessive tediousness only boredom and distaste; and if ever they are read at length, provoke an altogether natural aversion and an utter disgust in their readers. Many a time, when the duty of tracing out these petty subtleties for a while has been laid upon me, when my mind has been dulled and my sight blurred by continued reading—many a time, I say, I have paused to take breath, and have sought some slight relief from my boredom in looking to see how much yet remained of my task. When, as always happened, I found that more remained to be done than I had as yet got through, how often have I wished that instead of having these fooleries forced upon me I had been set to clean out the stable of Augeas again, and I have envied Hercules his luck in having been spared such labours as these by a kindly Juno.

And then this dull and feeble subject matter, which as it were crawls along the ground, is never raised or elevated by the ornaments of style, but the style itself is dry and lifeless, so exactly suited to the barrenness of the subject that it might well have been composed in the reign of the gloomy king Saturn, but that the innocent simplicity of those days would have known nothing of the delusions and digressions with which these books abound in every part. Believe me, my learned friends, when I go through these empty quibbles as I often must, against my will, it seems to me as if I were forcing my way through rough and rocky wastes, desolate wildernesses, and precipitous mountain gorges. And so it is not likely that the dainty and elegant Muses preside over these ragged and tattered studies, or consent to be the patrons of their maudlin partisans; and I cannot believe that there was ever a place for them on Parnassus unless it were some waste corner at the very foot of the mountain, some spot with naught to commend it, tangled and matted with thorns and brambles, overgrown with thistles and nettles, remote from the dances and company of the goddesses, where no laurels grow nor flowers bloom, and to which the sound of Apollo's lyre can never penetrate.

Now surely divine poetry, by that power with which it is by heavenly grace indued, raises aloft the soul smothered by the dust of earth and sets it among the mansions of heaven, and breathing over it the scent of nectar and bedewing it with ambrosia instils into it heavenly felicity and whispers to it everlasting joy. Rhetoric, again, so captivates the minds of men and draws them after it so gently enchained that it has the power now of moving them to pity, now of inciting them to hatred, now of arousing them to warlike valor, now of inspiring them beyond the fear of death. History, skilfully narrated, now calms and soothes the restless and troubled mind, now fills it with delight, and now brings tears to the eyes; soft and gentle tears, tears which bring with them a kind of mournful joy. But these barren and useless controversies and bickerings lack all power to affect the emotions in any way whatever; they merely dull and stupefy the intellect. Further, they bring delight to none but those of a rude and boorish disposition, inclined by some innate tendency to quarrels and dissension, prating fellows moreover, and such as detest and ever turn away from sound and wholesome wisdom. Let us then banish such an one with all his quibbles to the Caucasus or wheresoever blind Barbarity holds sway; there let him set up his workshop of tricks and fallacies, and vex and torment himself to his heart's content about questions of no importance, until excessive fretting, like Prometheus's eagle, eats out his heart and consumes him altogether.

These studies are as fruitless as they are joyless, and can add nothing whatever to true knowledge. If we set before our eyes those hordes of old men in monkish garb, the chief authors of these quibbles, how many among them have ever contributed anything to the enrichment of literature? Beyond a doubt, by their harsh and uncouth treatment they have nearly rendered hideous that philosophy which was once cultured and well-ordered and urbane, and like evil genii they have implanted thorns and briars in men's hearts and introduced discord into the schools, which has wondrously retarded the happy progress of our scholars. For these quick-change philosophasters of ours argue back and forth, one bolstering up his thesis on every side, another labouring hard to cause its downfall, while what one would think firmly established by irrefragable arguments is forthwith shattered by an opponent with the greatest ease. Between them all the student hesitates, as at a crossroads, in doubt whither to turn or what direction to choose, and unable to make any decision, while such a host of weapons is hurled against him from every side that they hide the light and shed deep darkness over the whole question; so that in the end the reader is reduced to imitating the toils of Ceres and seeking for Truth through all the world by the light of a torch without ever finding it: at last he reaches such a pitch of madness as to believe himself utterly blind when in fact there is nothing for him to see.

Besides all this, it not infrequently happens that those who have entirely devoted and dedicated themselves to this blight of disputation lamentably betray their ignorance and absurd childishness when faced with a new situation outside their usual idiotic occupation. Finally, the supreme result of all this earnest labour is to make you a more finished fool and cleverer contriver of conceits, and to endow you with a more expert ignorance: and no wonder, since all these problems at which you have been working in such torment and anxiety have no existence in reality at all, but like unreal ghosts and phantoms without substance obsess minds already disordered and empty of all true wisdom.

For the rest, even were I silent, it is amply clear to you how little these trivialities contribute to morality or purity of life, which is the most important consideration of all. From this obviously follows my final point, namely that this unseemly battle of words tends neither to the general good nor to the honor and profit of our country, which is generally considered the supreme purpose of all sciences.

Now there are, as I have remarked, two things which most enrich and adorn our country: eloquent speech and noble action. But this contentious duel of words has no power either to teach eloquence or to inculcate wisdom or to incite to noble acts. Then away with these ingenious praters, with all their forms and phrases, who ought to be condemned after death to twist the rope in Hades in company with the Ocnus of legend.

But how much better were it, gentlemen, and how much more consonant with your dignity, now to let your eyes wander as it were over all the lands depicted on the map, and to behold the places trodden by the heroes of old, to range over the regions made famous by wars, by triumphs, and even by the tales of poets of renown, now to traverse the stormy Adriatic, now to climb unharmed the slopes of fiery Etna, then to spy out the customs of mankind and those states which are well-ordered; next to seek out and explore the nature of all living creatures, and after that to turn your attention to the secret virtues of stones and herbs. And do not shrink from taking your flight into the skies and gazing upon the manifold shapes of the clouds, the mighty piles of snow, and the source of the dews of morning; then inspect the coffers wherein the hail is stored and examine the arsenals of the thunderbolts. And do not let the intent of Jupiter or of Nature elude you, when a huge and fearful comet threatens to set the heavens aflame, nor let the smallest star escape you of all the myriads which are scattered and strewn between the poles: yes, even follow close upon the sun in all his journeys, and ask account of time itself and demand the reckoning of its eternal passage.

But let not your mind rest content to be bounded and cabined by the limits which encompass the earth, but let it wander beyond the confines of the world, and at the last attain the summit of all human wisdom and learn to know itself, and therewith those holy minds and intelligences whose company it must hereafter join.

What need I say more? In all these studies take as your instructor him who is already your delight—Aristotle, who has recorded all these things with learning and diligence for our instruction. I see that the mention of his name at once arouses you, Members of the University, and that you are gradually being won over to my side, and following apace, as it were, at his invitation. If this be so, it is to him that you must render praise and thanks for any profit my words have brought; so far as concerns myself, I shall be well satisfied if you of your goodness grant me pardon for the length of my address. I have done.

Translation by Phyllis B. Tillyard