The first extant Greek author who combined the theory λvith the practice of rhetoric is the Athenian Antiphon, the first on the list of the Attic orators. His works belong to the period from 421 to 411 b.c. Among them are the three “tetralogies.” Each tetralogy is a group of four speeches, supposed to be spoken in a trial for homicide. Antiphon was the earliest representative at Athens of a new profession created by the new art of rhetoric—that of the λογογράφος or writer of forensic speeches for other men to speak in court. The plain man who had not mastered the newly invented weapons of speech was glad to have the aid of an expert. The tetralogies show us the art of rhetoric in its transition from the technical to the practical stage, from the school to the law-court and the assembly. The four skeleton speeches of each tetralogy are ordered as follows: —A, the accuser states his charge; B, the accused makes his defence; C, the accuser replies; D, the accused rejoins to the reply. The imaginary case is in each instance sketched as slightly as possible; all details are omitted; only the framework for discussion is supplied. The organic lines of the rhetorical pleader’s thought stand out in bold relief, and we are enabled to form a clear notion of the logographer’s method. We find a striking illustration of the fact noticed above, that the topic of “probability,” so largely used by Corax and Tisias, is the staple of this early forensic rhetoric. Viewed generally, the works of Antiphon are of great interest for the history of Attic prose, as marking how far it had then been influenced by a theory of style. The movement of Antiphon’s prose has a certain grave dignity, “impressing by its weight and grandeur,” as a Greek critic in the Augustan age says, “not charming by its life and flow.” Verbal antithesis is used, not in a diffuse or florid way, but with a certain sledge-hammer force, as sometimes in the speeches of Thucydides. The imagery, too, though bold, is not florid. The structure of the periods is still crude; and the general effect of the whole, though often powerful and impressive, is somewhat rigid.

As Antiphon represents what was afterwards named the “austere” or “rugged” style (avστηρh αρμονία}, so Lysias was the model of an artistic and versatile simplicity. But the tetralogies give Antiphon a place in the history of rhetoric as an art, while Lysias, with all his more attractive gifts, belongs only to the history of oratory. Ancient writers quote an “art” of rhetoric by Isocrates, but its authenticity was questioned. It is certain, however, that Isocrates taught the art as such. He is said to have defined rhetoric “as the science of persuasion” (επιστήμην πειθovς, Sextus Empir., Adv. Maihem., ii. § 62, p. 301 s7.). Many of his particular precepts, both on arrangement and on diction, are cited, but do not suffice to give us a complete view of his method. The φιλοσοφία, or “theory of culture,” which Isocrates expounds in his discourses “Against the Sophists” andon the “Antidosis,” was in fact rhetoric applied to politics. First came technical expositions: the pupil was introduced to all the artificial resources which prose composition employs (τας tδεας άπάσας aις ό λόγος τυγχάνει χpωμεvo<s, Antid., § 183). The same term (ιδεat) is also used by Isocrates in a narrower sense, with reference to the “figures” of rhetoric, properly called σχήματα (PanatE, § 2); sometimes, again, in a sense still more general, to the several branches or styles of literary composition (Λntid., § 11). When the technical elements of the subject had been learned, the pupil was required to apply abstract rules in actual composition, and his essay was revised by the master. Isocrates was unquestionably successful in forming speakers and writers. This is proved by the renown of his school during a period of some fifty years, from about 390 to 340 b.c. Among the statesmen whom it could claim were Timotheus, Leodamas of Acharnae, Lycurgus, and Hyperides. Among the philosophers or rhetoricians were Speusippus, Plato’s successor in the Academy, and Isaeus; among the historians, Ephorus and Theopompus.

In the person of Isocrates the art of rhetoric is thus thoroughly established, not merely as a technical method, but also as a practical discipline of life. If Plato’s mildly ironical reference in the Euthydemus to a critic “on the borderland between philosophy and statesmanship” was meant, as is probable, for Isocrates, at least there was a wide difference between the measure of acceptance accorded to the earlier Sophists, such as Protagoras, and the influence which the school of Isocrates exerted through the men whom it had trained. Rhetoric had won its place in education. It kept that place, through varying fortunes, to the fall of the Roman empire, and resumed it, for a while, at the revival of learning.

Aristotle’s Rhetoric belongs to the generation after Isocrates, having been composed between 330 and 322 b.c. As controversial allusions sometimes hint, it holds Isocrates for one of the foremost exponents of the subject. From a merely literary point of view, Aristotle’s Rhetoric (with the partial exception of book iii.) is one of the driest works in the world. From the historical or scientific point of view, it is one of the most curious and the most interesting. If we would seize the true significance of the treatise, it is better to compare rhetoric with grammar than with its obvious analogue, logic. A method of grammar was the conception of the Alexandrian age, which had lying before it the standard masterpieces of Greek literature, and deduced the “rules” of grammar from the actual practice of the best writers. Aristotle, in the latter years of the 4th century b.c., held the same position relatively to the monuments of Greek oratory which the Alexandrian methodizers of grammar held relatively to Greek literature at large. Abundant materials lay before him, illustrating, in the greatest variety of forms, how speakers had been able to persuade the reason or to move the feelings. From this mass of material, said Aristotle, let us try to generalize. Let us deduce rules, by applying which a speaker shall always be able to persuade the reason or to move the feelings. And, when we have got our rules, let us digest them into an intelligent method, and so construct a true art. Aristotle’s practical purpose was undoubtedly real. If we are to make persuasive speakers, he believed, this is the only sound way to set about it. But, for us moderns, the enduring interest of his Rhetoric is mainly retrospective. It attracts us as a feat in analysis by an acute mind—a feat highly characteristic of that mind itself, and at the same time strikingly illustrative of the field over which the materials have been gathered.

Rhetoric is properly an art. This is the proposition from which Aristotle sets out. It is so because, when a speaker persuades, it is possible to find out why he succeeds in doing so. Rhetoric is, in fact, the popular branch of logic. Now hitherto, Aristotle says, the essence of rhetoric has been neglected for the accidents. Writers on rhetoric have hitherto concerned themselves mainly with “the exciting of prejudice, of pity, of anger, and suchlike emotions of the soul.” All this is very well, but “it has nothing to do with the matter in hand; it has regard to the judge.” The true aim should be to prove your point, or seem to prove it.

Here we may venture to interpolate a comment which has a general bearing on Aristotle’s Rhetoric. It is quite true that, if we start from the conception of rhetoric as a branch of logic, the phantom of logic in rhetoric claims precedence over appeals to passion. But Aristotle does not sufficiently regard the question— What, as a matter of experience, is most persuasive? The phantom of logic may be more persuasive with the more select hearers of rhetoric; but rhetoric is not for the more select; it is for the many, and with the many appeals to passion will sometimes, perhaps usually, be more effective than the semblance of the syllogism. And here we seem to touch the basis of the whole practical vice—it was not strictly a theoretical vice—in the old world’s view of rhetoric, which, after Aristotle’s day, was ultimately Aristotelian. No formulation of rhetoric can correspond with fact which does not leave it absolutely to the genius of the speaker whether reasoning (or its phantom) is to be what Aristotle calls it, the “body of proof” (σώμα πiστtωs), or whether the stress of persuading elfort should not be rather addressed to the emotions of the hearers. This is a matter of tact, of instinct, of oratorical genius.

But we can entirely agree with Aristotle in his next remark, which is historical in its nature. The deliberative branch of rhetoric had hitherto been postponed, he observes, to the forensic. We have already seen the primary cause of this, namely, that the very origin of rhetoric in Hellas was forensic. The most urgent need which the citizen felt for this art was not when lie had to discuss the interests of the city, but when lie had to defend (perhaps) his own property or his own life. The relative subordination of deliberative rhetoric, however unscientific, had thus been human. Aristotle’s next statement, that the master of logic will be the master of rhetoric, is a truism if we concede the essential primacy of the logical element in rhetoric. Otherwise it is a paradox; and it is not in accord with experience, which teaches that speakers incapable of showing even the ghost of an argument have sometimes been the most completely successful in carrying great audiences along with them. Aristotle never assumes that the hearers of his rhetorician are as ol χaριerτes, the cultivated few; on the other hand, he is apt to assume tacitly—and here his individual bent comes out—that these hearers are not the great surging crowd, the t>χλos, but a body of persons with a decided, though imperfectly developed, preference for sound logic.

What is the use of an art of rhetoric? It is fourfold, Aristotle replies. Rhetoric is useful, first of all, because truth and justice are naturally stronger than their opposites. When awards are not duly given, truth and justice must have been worsted by their own fault. This is worth correcting. Rhetoric is then (1) corrective. Next, it is (2) instructive, as a popular vehicle of persuasion for persons who could not be reached by the severer methods of strict logic. Then it is (3) suggestive. Logic and rhetoric are the two impartial arts; that is to say, it is a matter of indifference to them, as arts, whether the conclusion which they draw in any given case is affirmative or negative. Suppose that I am going to plead a cause, and have a sincere conviction that I am on the right side. The art of rhetoric will suggest to me what might be urged on the other side; and this will give me a stronger grasp of the whole situation. Lastly, rhetoric is (4) defensive. Mental effort is more distinctive of man than bodily effort; and “it would be absurd that, while incapacity for physical self-defence is a reproach, incapacity for mental defence should be no reproach.” Rhetoric, then, is corrective, instructive, suggestive, defensive. But what if it be urged that this art may be abused? The objection, Aristotle answers, applies to all good things, except virtue, and especially to the most useful things. Men may abuse strength, health, wealth, generalship.

The function of the medical art is not necessarily to cure, but to make such progress towards a cure as each case may admit. Similarly it would be inaccurate to say that the function of rhetoric was to persuade. Rather must rhetoric be defined as “the faculty of discerning in every case the available means of persuasion.” Suppose that among these means of persuasion is some process of reasoning which the rhetorician himself knows to be unsound. That belongs to the province of rhetoric all the same. In relation to logic, a man is called a “sophist” with regard to his moral purpose (7rp0αipeσts), i.e., if he knowingly uses a fallacious syllogism. But rhetoric takes no account of the moral purpose. It takes account simply of the faculty (Zυvaμιs) —the faculty of discovering any means of persuasion.

The “available means of persuasion,” universally considered, may be brought under two classes. (1) First, there are the proofs external to the art,—not furnished by rhetoric,—the “inartificial proofs” (⅛τeχvoι n'ισrtιs). Such are the depositions made by witnesses, documents, and the like. (2) Secondly, there are the proofs, i.e., the agents of persuasion, which the art of rhetoric itself provides, the “artificial proofs” (tvτsχvoι τrιστιis). These are of three kinds :—(a) logical (∖oyικτ] πiστιs)— demonstration, or seeming demonstration, by argument; (δ) ethical (hθικ^∣ πlστιs), when the speaker succeeds in conveying such an impression of his own character as may lead the hearers to put trust in him; (c) emotional (παθητική πiστιs), when the speaker works persuasively on the feelings of the hearers. It follows that, besides logical skill, the rhetorician should possess the power of analysing character, in order to present himself in the ethical light which will be most effective with his audience. He must also understand the sources of the emotions, and the means of producing them. Hence rhetoric has a double relationship. While in one aspect—the most important to it as an art—it may be regarded as popular logic, in another aspect it is related to ethics. And hence, says Aristotle, political science (πολιτική) being a branch of ethical, as the citizen is one aspect of the man, “rhetoric and its professors slip into the garb of political science (6πoδueται τδ σχr∣μa τδ τi)s πoλιτικi)s), either through want of education, or from pretentiousness, or from other human causes.”

Aristotle now proceeds to analyse the first of the “artificial proofs,” the logical (λογική πiσ∏s). Answering to the strict syllogism of logic, rhetoric has its popular syllogism, to which Aristotle gives the name of “enthymeme” Gvθi>∣pημa). This term (from the verb fvθυμeiσθaι, “to revolve in the mind ”), means properly “a consideration” or “reflection.” It occurs first in Isocrates, who uses it simply of the “thoughts” or “sentiments” with which a rhetorician embellishes his work (τoΓs tvθυμhμaσi πpeτr0vτωs 'όλον rbv K6yov κaτaτroικiλaι, Or., xiii. § 16). Whether the technical sense was or was not known before Aristotle, it is to him at least that.the first extant definition is due. He defines the enthymeme as a species of syllogism, namely, as “a syllogism from probabilities and signs” (eξ εϊκότων καί σημείων). The “probability” ( εiκ0ς) is a general proposition, expressing that which usually happens, as, “wise men are usually just.” The “sign” (ση y uefor) is a particular proposition, as, “Socrates is just.” The “sign” may be fallible or infallible. If we say, “wise men are just; for Socrates was Avise and just,” this is an enthymeme from a fallible “sign,” the implied syllogism being “Socrates was wise; Socrates was just ( σημεTov); .'. all wise men are just”; and lιere the “sign” is, in Aristotle’s phrase, “as a particular to a universal,” because from the one case of Socrates we draw an inference about all men. If, again, we say,—“Here is a sign that he is ill—he is feverish”; our enthymeme is using an infallible sign, the syllogism being, “All who are feverish are ill; he is feverish ( σημεiov) ; . ’ . he is ill.” Here, again, the “sign” is “as a particular to a universal.” When the “sign” is thus infallible, it is properly called tekmerion (τεκμhριοv), the matter having been demonstrated and concluded ( πεπεpaσμεvοv)— “for tekmar and peras mean the same thing (‘limit’) in the old language.” Sometimes, again, the fallible sign is “as universal to particular,” c.g., “Here is a sign that he has a fever —he breathes quick,” the syllogism being, “Feverish men breathe quick; he breathes quick (στ7 l u∈iov); . ∙. he has a fever,” where a particular cause is unsoundly inferred from an effect (the “universal”) which might have other causes.

When Aristotle thus describes the enthymeme, or rhetorical syllogism, as dealing with “probabilities” aud “signs,” he is describing its ordinary or characteristic materials, qua rhetorical syllogism. He does not mean to say that rhetoric cannot use syllogisms formed with other material. It would be hardly needful to point this out, were it not that, in spite of his own clear words, his meaning has sometimes been misunderstood. “The premises of rhetorical syllogisms,” he says, “seldom belong to the class of necessary facts. The subject matter of judgments and deliberations is usually contingent; for it is about their actions that men debate and take thought; but actions are all contingent, no one of them, so to say, being necessary. And results which are merely usual and contingent must be deduced from premises of the same kind, as necessary results from necessary premises. It follows that the...