ayers of
his music do so still: for the melodies of Olympus (compare Arist. Pol.)
are derived from Marsyas who taught them, and these, whether they are
played by a great master or by a miserable flute-girl, have a power
which no others have; they alone possess the soul and reveal the wants
of those who have need of gods and mysteries, because they are divine.
But you produce the same effect with your words only, and do not require
the flute: that is the difference between you and him. When we hear any
other speaker, even a very good one, he produces absolutely no effect
upon us, or not much, whereas the mere fragments of you and your words,
even at second-hand, and however imperfectly repeated, amaze and possess
the souls of every man, woman, and child who comes within hearing of
them. And if I were not afraid that you would think me hopelessly drunk,
I would have sworn as well as spoken to the influence which they have
always had and still have over me. For my heart leaps within me more
than that of any Corybantian reveller, and my eyes rain tears when
I hear them. And I observe that many others are affected in the same
manner. I have heard Pericles and other great orators, and I thought
that they spoke well, but I never had any similar feeling; my soul was
not stirred by them, nor was I angry at the thought of my own slavish
state. But this Marsyas has often brought me to such a pass, that I
have felt as if I could hardly endure the life which I am leading (this,
Socrates, you will admit); and I am conscious that if I did not shut my
ears against him, and fly as from the voice of the siren, my fate would
be like that of others,--he would transfix me, and I should grow old
sitting at his feet. For he makes me confess that I ought not to live as
I do, neglecting the wants of my own soul, and busying myself with the
concerns of the Athenians; therefore I hold my ears and tear myself away
from him. And he is the only person who ever made me ashamed, which you
might think not to be in my nature, and there is no one else who does
the same. For I know that I cannot answer him or say that I ought not to
do as he bids, but when I leave his presence the love of popularity gets
the better of me. And therefore I run away and fly from him, and when I
see him I am ashamed of what I have confessed to him. Many a time have
I wished that he were dead, and yet I know that I should be much more
sorry than glad, if he were to die: so that