Oration 7

This I shall relate as one who saw it himself, not as having heard it from others. For perhaps not only is verbosity characteristic of old age, and the inability to put aside readily any topic that occurs, but in addition to its being characteristic of age it may also, perhaps, be characteristic of the wanderer. The reason is that both, it may be, have suffered many things which they recall not without pleasure. At all events, I shall tell what sort of men, and what kind of life, I fell in with well-nigh in the middle of Greece.

I happened to be crossing over from Chios with some fishermen, outside the summer season, in a very small skiff. A storm arising, with difficulty and barely did we come safe to the Hollows of Euboea. The crew ran the skiff up on a rough beach beneath the cliffs and wrecked it, while they themselves withdrew to some purple-fishers who lay at anchor on the nearby spit, and they purposed to work together with them, remaining there.

Left alone, then, with no city to which I might come for safety, I wandered along the shore at random, in case I might somewhere see men either sailing past or lying at anchor. Having gone forward a good way, I saw no human being; but I came upon a deer that had just fallen down the cliff at the very edge of the surf, beaten by the waves, still gasping. And shortly after I thought I heard the baying of dogs above, scarcely audible through the noise from the sea.

Advancing and climbing with great difficulty to a height, I see the dogs at a loss and running about, by which I conjectured that the animal, hard pressed, had leapt down the cliff; and shortly a man, a huntsman by his look and dress, his cheeks healthy and bearded, with hair behind not meanly nor ignobly worn, such as Homer says the Euboeans came to Ilium with — mocking them, it seems to me, and laughing, because, while the other Achaeans were trim, these wore their hair only on the half of the head.

And he asked me, So, stranger, did you perhaps notice a deer fleeing this way? And I to him, That one there, I said, is already in the surf; and leading him I showed it. So drawing it from the sea he flayed off the skin with his knife, while I helped as much as I could; and cutting off the hind legs, he carried them away together with the skin. And he invited me too to follow and to share in the feast of the meat; his dwelling, he said, was not far off.

Then, having slept the night at our place, he said, you shall come at dawn to the sea, since for the present it is not navigable. And do not, he said, be afraid of this. I should myself wish the wind to abate even after five days; but it is not easy, he said, when the heights of Euboea are thus pressed down by the clouds, as you now see them covered. And at the same time he asked me whence and how I had been carried down there, and whether the boat had not been wrecked. It was altogether small, I said, belonging to some fishermen crossing over, and I alone sailed with them on some urgent business. Yet it was wrecked, cast up on the land.

It is not easy, he said, otherwise; for see how wild and harsh are the parts of the island toward the open sea. These, he said, are what are called the Hollows of Euboea, where a ship driven in could no longer be saved; and rarely too are any of the men saved, unless indeed, like you, they sail altogether light. But come and fear nothing. For now you shall restore yourself from your hardship; and tomorrow, whatever may be possible, we shall take care that you reach safety, since once we have come to know you.

You seem to me to be one of the townsfolk, neither a sailor nor a labourer, but you appear to be suffering some great bodily weakness, to judge from your thinness. And I gladly followed; for I had no fear of being plotted against, having nothing but a sorry cloak.

And many times, indeed, on other occasions too I had learned in such circumstances — being in continual wandering — and so then in particular, that poverty is in truth a thing sacred and inviolable, and that no one wrongs it, far less indeed than those who bear the herald's wand;

so then too I followed confidently. It was about forty stades to the place. As we walked along, then, he related to me on the way his own affairs and the life he led with his wife and children. For we are two, he said, stranger, dwelling in the same place. And we have as wives each other's sisters, and children by them, sons and daughters.

We live for the most part from hunting, working a little of the land. For the place is not ours, neither inherited nor did we acquire it; rather our fathers were free men, but no less poor than we, hired herdsmen, tending the cattle of a wealthy man, one of those here from the island, who possessed many herds both of horses and of cattle, and many flocks, and many fine fields, and much other property, and all these mountains.

When he died, and his substance was confiscated — and they say that he too perished because of his wealth, at the hands of the emperor — they straightway drove off his herd to slaughter it, and along with the herd our own few little cattle too, and no one has paid the wages.

At that time, then, of necessity we remained on the spot where we happened to have the cattle, having made some huts and a yard of timber, not large nor strong, for the sake of the calves, with a view, I suppose, to the very summer. For in winter we used to graze in the plains, having sufficient pasture and much fodder laid by; but in summer we drove them up to the mountains. And in this place above all they made their station;

for the spot was sheltered on either side, a deep and shady glen, and through the middle a river not rough, but very easy for both cattle and calves to ford, and the water plentiful and clean, since the spring rose near, and a breeze ever blowing through the glen in summer; and the thickets round about were soft and well-watered, breeding very little gad-fly and very little other harm to cattle.

And there were many most beautiful meadows spread out beneath lofty and well-spaced trees, and all full of luxuriant herbage throughout the summer, so that the cattle need not wander far. For which reasons they habitually established the herd there; and then they remained in the huts, until they might find some hire or work, and they were maintained from a very small plot of ground which they happened to have worked near the station. This sufficed them well, since there was much dung in it.

And having leisure from the cattle, they turned to hunting, partly by themselves, partly with dogs. For two of those that followed the cattle, when they were far off and did not see the herdsmen, turned back to the place, leaving the herd. These at first followed the men, as if on some other errand; and whenever they saw wolves, they pursued them for a while, but of boars or deer they took no thought.

But if ever they saw one of the men, late or early, they would gather and bark and ward him off, as though they were fighting against a man. And tasting the blood of boars and deer, and often eating the flesh, they at last unlearned their liking for barley-cake in favour of meat, filling themselves with it whenever something was caught, but going hungry when not, they gave more heed now to such fare, and pursued alike everything that appeared, and perceived a scent and a track somehow or other, and turned out, instead of herd-dogs, a kind of late-taught and rather slow hunters.

When winter came on, no work had appeared for them, whether they went down to the town or to some village; and having fenced their huts more carefully and made the yard more close, thus they got through, and worked all that plot of ground, and the winter hunting became easier.

For the tracks were plainer, being marked in the moist ground; and the snow even makes them visible from afar, so that one need have no trouble in searching, as if a road led to them; and the beasts too stand their ground somewhat, hesitating; and it is still possible to catch hares and gazelles in their lairs.

So thereafter they continued thus, needing no other life besides. And they joined us as wives to each other's sons, each his own daughter. Both of them died nearly a year ago, saying that the years they had lived were many, but they were still strong and youthful and noble in body. Of the mothers, mine survives.

The one of us, then, has never once gone down to the city, though he is fifty years old; and I only twice — once while still a boy, with my father, when we had the herd. Later there came someone demanding money, as though we had any, bidding us follow to the city. We had no money, but I swore upon oath that I had none; otherwise I would have given it.

We entertained him as well as we could, and gave him two deer-skins; and I followed to the city. For he said that it was necessary for one of us to come and give an account of these matters. So I saw, as before, many great houses, and a strong wall outside, and certain tall, four-cornered buildings on the wall — the towers — and many boats lying at anchor as in a pond, in the harbour, in great calm.

This is nowhere here, where you were cast ashore; and for this reason the ships are lost. These things, then, I saw, and a great crowd penned together in the same place, and an inconceivable tumult and shouting, so that they all seemed to me to be fighting one another. He leads me, then, to certain magistrates, and said, laughing, This is the man for whom you sent me. He has nothing but his hair and a hut of very strong timber.

The magistrates were going to the theatre, and I with them. The theatre is hollow like a glen, except that it is not long on either side, but rounded on the half, not natural, but built of stones. Perhaps you laugh at me, that I describe to you so clearly things you well know. Now first for a long time the crowd did other things, and shouted, sometimes gently and all cheerful, praising certain men, sometimes vehemently and angrily.

And this matter of their anger was grievous; and they straightway terrified the men at whom they cried out, so that some of them ran about begging, and others threw off their cloaks for fear. And I myself once nearly fell down at the shouting, as though a surge or a thunderclap had suddenly broken upon me.

And certain other men, coming forward, some rising from the midst, addressed the multitude, some with few words, some with long speeches. And to some they listened a long while, but with others they were angry the moment they spoke, and would not even let them mutter. But when at length they were settled and there was quiet, they brought me forward too.

And someone said, This man, gentlemen, is one of those who for many years have enjoyed the public land — not he alone, but his father before him too — and they graze our mountains and farm and hunt and have built houses and planted many vines and have many other good things, neither having paid any price for the land nor having received it as a gift from the people.

For on what account would they have received it? And having our property and growing rich, they have never performed any public service whatever, nor do they pay any share of the produce, but continue free of tax and of public service, as though they were benefactors of the city. And I suppose, he said, that they have never even come hither.

And I nodded assent. The crowd laughed when they saw it. And that speaker was angry at the laughter and reviled me. Then turning, If, he said, this seems good thus, we may as well all forthwith plunder the public goods — some the money of the city, as indeed certain men even now do, others parcelling out the land without your consent — if you permit these beasts to hold for nothing more than a thousand plethra of the best land, whence you might receive three Attic choenices of grain per man.

And I, hearing this, laughed as loud as I could. The multitude no longer laughed, as before, but made an uproar. And the man, the orator, was vexed, and looking fiercely at me said, Do you see the dissembling and the insolence of the rascal, how very boldly he laughs at us? Whom I am all but for hauling off to prison, and his partner too — for I learn that there are two ringleaders of those who have seized well-nigh all the land in the mountains —

for I suppose that they do not even keep their hands off the wrecks that are cast up from time to time, dwelling as they do well-nigh above the very Capherian rocks. For whence did they furnish themselves with such costly farms — or rather whole villages — and so great a multitude of cattle and yokes of oxen and slaves?

And you too perhaps see how shabby his tunic is, and the skin which he has come here wearing for the sake of deceiving you, as one plainly a beggar and having nothing. For I, he said, looking at him, nearly take fright, as I suppose one would seeing Nauplius come from Caphereus. For indeed I think he kindles beacons from the heights for those who sail, that they may be wrecked upon the rocks.

As that man said these things, and many more besides, the crowd grew savage; while I was at a loss and afraid lest they do me some harm. And another man came forward, an honest man, as it appeared both from the words he spoke and from his bearing, and first he asked the multitude to be silent; and they were silent; then he said in a gentle voice that those who work and improve the idle part of the land do no wrong, but on the contrary would justly meet with praise;

and that one ought not to be angry with those who build upon and plant the public land, but with those who destroy it. Since even now, he said, gentlemen, well-nigh two parts of our land are desolate through neglect and want of population. And I myself own many plethra, as I suppose does some other man too, not only in the mountains but also in the plains, which, if anyone should wish to farm, I would not only give for nothing, but would gladly pay money besides.

For it is plain that it becomes worth more to me, and at the same time land inhabited and worked is a pleasant sight; whereas desolate land is not only an unprofitable possession to its owners, but also exceedingly pitiable and accuses its masters of a certain misfortune.

So it seems to me rather to urge on others, as many of the citizens as you can, to work, taking a portion of the public land — those who have some greater capital, and the poor, each as much as he is able — that for you the land may be productive and those of the citizens who are willing may be rid of two of the greatest evils, idleness and poverty.

For ten years, then, let them have it for nothing; and after this time let them assign and render a small portion of the produce, but nothing of the cattle. And if any stranger farm, let these too pay nothing for five years, and afterward double what the citizens pay. And whoever of the strangers brings two hundred plethra into cultivation, let him be a citizen, that there may be as many as possible who are eager.

Since now even the land before the gates is altogether wild and dreadfully unsightly, as though in the deepest wilderness, not as the suburb of a city; while the parts within the wall are for the most part sown and grazed. It is worth wondering, then, he said, at the orators, that they bring vexatious charges against those who labour at Caphereus in the farthest parts of Euboea, but think those who farm the gymnasium and graze the marketplace do nothing dreadful.

For you yourselves doubtless see that they have made the gymnasium into a ploughed field, so that the Heracles and many other statues are hidden by the crop, some of heroes, some of gods; and that daily this orator's sheep at dawn burst into the marketplace and graze about the council-house and the magistrates' offices; so that the strangers who first visit either laugh at the city or pity it. So again, hearing this, they were angry with that man and made an uproar.

And doing such things, he thinks he must haul off these wretched private men, that plainly no one may work for the future, but that some may turn robbers outside and others clothes-snatchers within the city. It seems to me, he said, that we should leave these men in possession of what they have themselves made, paying for the future a moderate amount, and as for the former revenues, forgive them, since they took up land that was desolate and useless and meant to farm it. And if they wish to pay a price for the plot, let it be sold to them for less than to others.

When he had said such things, again that first man spoke against him, and they reviled each other at length. And at last they bade me too say what I wished. And what, I said, need I say? In answer to what has been said, said one of those sitting there. Then I say, I said, that nothing of what he has said is true.

For my part, gentlemen, I thought, I said, that I was seeing dreams, when he talked nonsense about farms and villages and such things. But we have neither village nor horses nor asses nor cattle. For would that we had all the good things this man spoke of, that we might both have given some to you and ourselves have been among the blessed. And what we now have is sufficient for us, of which take whatever you wish; and even if you wish for all of it, we shall acquire more. At this speech they praised me.

Then the magistrate asked me what we should be able to give to the people. And I, Four, I said, deer-skins, very fine. And the most of them laughed. But the magistrate was annoyed with me. For bear-skins, I said, are hard, and goat-skins are not worth these; others are old, and some of them small; but if you wish, take those too. Again then he was annoyed and said that I was an utter rustic.

And I, Again, I said, do you too talk of farms? Do you not hear that we have no farms? And he asked me whether each of us would be willing to give an Attic talent. And I said, We do not weigh our meat; but whatever there is, we give. There is a little in brine, but the rest dry in the smoke, not much worse than that — hams of swine and of deer, and other noble meats.

At this they made an uproar and said I was lying. And he asked me whether we had grain, and how much. I told the truth: Two, I said, medimni of wheat and four of barley and as many of millet, and half a hekteus of beans; for they did not grow this year. The wheat, then, I said, and the barley, do you take; but the millet leave to us. But if you need millet too, take that as well.

Do you not even make wine? another asked. We do, I said. So if any of you come, we shall give it; only let him come bringing a skin; for we have none. And how many vines have you? Two, I said, before the doors, and within the yard twenty; and across the river those which we lately planted, as many again; and they are very noble and bear large clusters, when those who pass by leave them alone.

But that you may not be troubled by asking about each thing, I will tell the rest of what we have: eight she-goats, a hornless cow, a very fine calf from her, four sickles, four mattocks, three spears, and a knife each of us has against the beasts. As for the earthenware vessels, why should one speak? And we have wives, and children of theirs. We dwell in two fine huts; and we have a third, where the grain and the skins are stored. By Zeus, said the orator, where perhaps you bury your money too.

Well then, I said, come and dig it up, you fool. For who buries money? It surely does not grow. At this all laughed, mocking him, it seemed to me. These things are ours; so if you want them all too, we willingly bestow them on you, and there is no need for you to take anything from us by force, as though from aliens or rogues;

since indeed we too are citizens of the city, as I used to hear from my father. And once he, having come hither, when he chanced upon a distribution of money, himself received it among the citizens. Therefore we are even rearing your citizens, our children. And if ever you need them, they will help you against robbers or against enemies. Now indeed there is peace; but if ever such an occasion arise, you will pray that the many may appear like us. For do not suppose that this orator will then fight for you, except by reviling, like the women.

Of the meat and the skins, whenever indeed we take a beast, we shall give a share; only send someone to receive it. And if you order us to pull down the huts, if they harm anything, we shall pull them down. But see that you give us a house here; or how shall we be able to endure the winter? You have many buildings within the wall, in which no one lives; one of these will suffice us. But if we do not live here, and besides the overcrowding of so many men living in the same place we too are a nuisance, surely we do not on that account deserve to be removed elsewhere.

But what he dared to say about the wrecks — a thing so impious and wicked — for I nearly forgot to mention it, which of all things I should have said first: who of you would ever believe it? For, besides the impiety, it is even impossible to take anything whatever from there, where of the very timbers one sees nothing more than ashes; so utterly small are the pieces that are cast up, and that shore alone of all is unapproachable.

And the gulls which I once found cast up, even these I nailed to the sacred oak near the sea. For never may it be, O Zeus, to take or to gain such gain from men's misfortune. But I have never been profited at all; rather I have often pitied shipwrecked men who came, and received them in my hut, and gave them to eat and to drink, and whatever else I could, I helped, and accompanied them as far as the inhabited regions.

But who of those men would now bear witness for me? Nor indeed did I do it then for the sake of witness or of thanks, who did not even know whence they were. For may none of you fall into such a plight. As I said these things, someone rises from the midst; and I reflected to myself that here perhaps was another such, about to bear false witness against me.

But he said, Men, I long doubted, recognizing this man, yet I disbelieved. But since I have clearly recognized him, it seems to me dreadful, or rather impious, not to tell what I know, nor to repay in word a thank for being most greatly benefited in deed.

I am, he said, a citizen, as you know, and so is this man — pointing to the one sitting beside him, who rose. We happened to be sailing in the ship of Socles three years ago. And the ship being wrecked off Caphereus, very few of us were saved out of many. The purple-fishers, then, took some up; for some of them had money in their belts. But we, cast ashore altogether naked, walked by some path, hoping to find some shelter of shepherds or herdsmen, in danger of perishing from hunger and thirst.

And with difficulty at last we came to some huts, and standing there we shouted. And this man, coming forward, brought us inside and kindled a fire, not all at once, but little by little; and the one of us he himself rubbed down, the other his wife rubbed with fat — for they had no oil — and at last they poured warm water over us, until they revived us, who were chilled through.

Then, having laid us down and wrapped us in what they had, they set before us to eat loaves of wheaten bread, while they themselves ate boiled millet. And they gave us wine to drink, themselves drinking water, and roasting venison in abundance, and boiling some. And on the next day, when we wished to depart, they kept us back three days. Then they escorted us to the plain, and as we left gave each of us meat and a very fine skin.

And seeing that I was still in a poor state from the hardship, he clothed me in a little tunic, taking it from his daughter; and she girded herself with some other rag. This, when I came to the village, I returned. So we, at least, were saved chiefly by this man, after the gods.

As that man said these things, the people heard gladly and praised me; and I, recalling him, said, Hail, Sotades; and going up I kissed him and the other. But the people laughed greatly, because I kissed them. Then I learned that in the cities men do not kiss one another.

And that honest man who had at first spoken for me came forward and said, It seems to me, gentlemen, that we should invite this man to the town-hall as a guest. For if in war he had saved one of the citizens by sheltering him with his shield, he would have met with many great gifts; but now, having saved two citizens, and perhaps others too who are not present, is he worthy of no honour?

And in return for the tunic which he gave to the citizen in his peril, stripping his daughter, let the city present him with a tunic and a cloak, that there may be an encouragement to the others too to be just and to help one another; and let it be decreed that they and their children enjoy the land, and that no one trouble them; and let there be given him also a hundred drachmas for equipment; and this money I give on behalf of the city out of my own means.

For this he was praised, and the rest was done as he said. And straightway there were brought into the theatre the garments and the money. But I did not wish to take them, and said that you cannot dine in the skin. Well then, I said, today I shall remain without dinner. Nonetheless they clothed me in the tunic and threw the cloak about me.

And I wished to throw the skin over from above, but they would not allow it. The money I would in no way accept, but swore I would not take it. But if you seek who shall take it, give it, I said, to the orator, that he may bury it; for clearly he knows how. And from that day no one troubled us.

Just about when he had finished speaking, we were at the huts. And I, laughing, said, But one thing you hid from the citizens, the fairest of your possessions. What is that? he said. This garden, I said, very fine, and having many vegetables and trees. It was not there, he said, then, but we made it afterward.

So going in, we feasted the rest of the day, we reclining on leaves and skins upon a high pallet, and the wife sitting near beside her husband. A daughter ripe for marriage served, and poured for us to drink a sweet dark wine. The boys prepared the meat, and themselves dined at the same time, serving it, so that I deemed those people happy and thought they lived more blessedly than all whom I knew.

And yet I knew the houses and tables of the wealthy, not only of private men, but also of satraps and kings, who then seemed to me most wretched — having seemed so before, but still more now, as I looked upon the poverty and freedom there, and saw that they fell short in nothing, not even of the pleasure of eating and drinking, but in these too they had well-nigh the advantage.

When we had had enough, that other man too came. And there followed with him his son, a youth not ignoble, carrying a hare. And entering, this youth blushed; and while his father was greeting us, he himself kissed the girl and gave her the hare. So the girl ceased serving and sat down beside her mother, and the youth served in her stead.

And I asked the host, Is this, I said, the girl whose tunic you stripped off and gave to the shipwrecked man? And he, laughing, No, he said, but she was long ago given to a man, and has children already grown, to a wealthy man in a village. Then, I said, do they help you with whatever you need? We, said the wife, need nothing.

But they receive both whenever anything is caught, and fruit and vegetables; for they have no garden. Last year we took wheat from them, mere seed, and returned it to them at once at harvest-time. What then? I said, do you intend to give this one too to a wealthy man, that she also may lend you wheat? At this both blushed, the girl and the youth.

And her father said, A poor man she shall take, a huntsman like ourselves; and smiling he looked at the young man. And I, Why then do you not give her at once? Or must he come from somewhere in a village? I think, he said, he is not far off; nay, he is within here. And we shall make the wedding, choosing a good day. And I, How, I said, do you judge the good day? And he, When the moon is not small;

and the air too must be clear, with bright weather. And I, What then? Is he truly a good huntsman? I said. I, said the youth, run down a deer and stand my ground against a boar. You shall see tomorrow, if you wish, stranger. And did you take this hare? I said. I, he said, laughing, with the net in the night; for the weather was very fine and the moon was as big as it has never been.

At this both laughed, not only the girl's father but his too. And he was ashamed and fell silent. Then the girl's father said, I, for my part, my boy, am holding nothing back. But your father is waiting until he goes and buys a victim; for we must sacrifice to the gods. So the girl's younger brother said, But this man has long since provided a victim, and there is one within, being fattened behind the hut, a noble one.

So they asked him, Truly? And he said yes. And whence did you get it? they asked. When we took the sow that had the young, the rest escaped; and they were, he said, faster than the hare; but one I struck with a stone, and when it was caught I threw the skin over it; this I exchanged in the village, and got in return for it a young pig, and reared it, having made a sty behind.

These things, then, he said, your mother was laughing at, when I wondered to hear the sow grunting, and you spent the barley so. For the Euboean acorns, he said, were not enough to fatten her, who would not even eat acorns. But if you wish to see her, I will go and bring her. And they bade him. So he and the boys went off from there at a run, rejoicing.

Meanwhile the maiden, rising, brought from another hut sliced sorb-apples and medlars and winter apples and clusters of the noble grape, swelling with ripeness, and set them on the table, having wiped it clean of the meat with leaves and laid beneath a clean fern. And the boys came too, bringing the sow with laughter and play.

And there followed the mother of the young man and two little brothers; and they brought clean loaves and boiled eggs on wooden platters and roasted chick-peas. And the woman, having greeted her brother and her daughter and her niece, sat down beside her own husband and said, Behold the victim, which this one has long been fattening for the wedding, and the rest of our part is ready, and the barley-meal and the flour are prepared; only perhaps we shall need a little wine; and this is not hard to get from the village.

And the son stood near her, looking at his future father-in-law. And he, smiling, said, This, he said, is the one holding things back; for perhaps he still wishes to fatten the sow. And the youth, This one, he said, will burst from her fat.

And I, wishing to help him, See, I said, lest, while the sow is fattening, this one of yours grow thin. And the mother, Truly, she said, the stranger speaks well, since even now he has grown thinner than himself; and the other day I noticed him awake in the night and going out of the hut.

The dogs, he said, were barking, and I went out to see. Not you, she said, but you were walking about distracted. Let us not, then, leave him to be vexed any longer. And embracing her, she kissed the girl's mother. And she said to her own husband, Let us do as they wish. And this seemed good, and they said, On the third day let us make the wedding. And they invited me too to stay over for the day.

And I stayed over not unwillingly, reflecting at the same time on what the weddings of the wealthy are like in other respects — about matchmakers and examinations of estates and lineage, dowries and bridal gifts and promises and deceptions, agreements and contracts, and at last often in the very weddings revilings and enmities.

All this discourse I have gone through not idly, nor as some perhaps might think, from a wish to chatter, but setting forth a pattern of the life I proposed from the beginning, and of the way of living of the poor, which I myself knew, for whoever wishes to observe — of their words and deeds and dealings with one another — whether through poverty they fall short of the wealthy as regards living decently and according to nature, or in everything have the advantage.

And indeed, considering the saying of Euripides — whether in truth their relations toward strangers are so straitened that they can neither receive anyone nor help one in need — I nowhere find hospitality to be such; rather they kindle fire more readily than the wealthy, and are guides on the roads without excuse — since indeed they would be ashamed of such conduct; and often they share what they have more readily; for none of the wealthy will give a shipwrecked man either his wife's purple robe or his daughter's, nor anything far less than this — one of his cloaks or tunics, though he has countless ones — nor even a garment of any of his slaves.

And Homer too makes this plain; for he has represented Eumaeus, a slave and poor, nonetheless receiving Odysseus well with food and bed, while the suitors out of wealth and insolence did not very readily share with him even of others' goods, as he is himself represented saying to Antinous, reproaching his meanness: You would not give from your own house even a grain of salt to your own suppliant, who now, sitting at another's board, had not the heart to give me a little of the food, though there is much in the house.

And let these be such through their other baseness; but not even Penelope, though she was good and conversed very kindly with him and had learned about her husband — not even she, he says, gave him a cloak as he sat naked beside her, but only promised, if it should appear that he spoke truly about Odysseus,

that he would come that very month; and later, when he asked for the bow, the suitors being unable to string it and angry with him because he thought to contend with them about prowess, she asks that it be given to him — for surely the talk for him too was not about marriage — but if he should chance to string it and shoot through the axes, she promises to give him a tunic and a cloak and sandals;

as though he ought to string the bow of Eurytus and make himself an enemy to so many young men, and perhaps even perish on the spot at their hands, if he was to obtain a shirt and sandals; or to prove that Odysseus, nowhere seen for twenty years, had come — and that within set days; or else to depart in the same rags from the prudent and good daughter of Icarius, the queen.

And Telemachus too says well-nigh such other things about him to the swineherd, bidding him send him to the city as quickly as possible to beg there, and not to maintain him more days at the station; and even if these things were arranged between them, yet the swineherd does not wonder at the matter and the inhumanity,

as though it were the custom to treat poor strangers thus exactly and ungenerously, but to receive only the wealthy kindly with hospitality and gifts, from whom plainly they too expected to obtain the like — much such as are the dispositions of men now as regards humanity and intent.

For these supposed kindnesses and favours, if one consider rightly, differ in nothing from clubbed contributions and loans, and these for the most part at heavy interest — unless, by Zeus, things now surpass those of old, as in all the rest of vice.

I could indeed speak also of the Phaeacians and of their humanity, if to anyone they seem to have behaved toward Odysseus not ignobly nor unworthily of their wealth — with what mind especially and for what reasons they were moved to bestow gifts ungrudgingly and magnificently. But indeed much more than enough has now been said on these matters.

It is, at all events, plain that wealth contributes nothing great either toward strangers or otherwise to those who possess it, but on the contrary is wont for the most part to make them niggardly and parsimonious rather than poverty does. For not even if some one of the wealthy — perhaps one in ten thousand — be found generous and magnanimous in disposition, does this sufficiently show that the many do not become worse in these matters than the poorer sort.

But for a poor man not base in nature, his present means suffice both to restore himself when his body has been moderately weakened — some such sickness befalling as is wont to occur to those not idle, who from time to time over-eat — and to give friendly hospitality to strangers who come, hospitality given without suspicion by willing hosts and without grief — not, perhaps, silver mixing-bowls or embroidered robes or a four-horse chariot,

the gifts of Helen and Menelaus to Telemachus. For neither would they receive, in all likelihood, such guests, satraps or kings, unless very temperate and good ones, to whom nothing is lacking that comes with friendship. But licentious and tyrannical guests they could neither, I think, attend sufficiently, nor perhaps would they have need of such hospitality.

For surely it did not turn out for the better for Menelaus that he was able to receive the wealthiest guest from Asia, and that no one else in Sparta was competent to entertain the son of King Priam.

For indeed, having stripped his house and besides his goods carried off his wife, leaving his daughter orphaned of her mother, he sailed away. And after this Menelaus for a long time wasted away all over Greece, bewailing his misfortunes, begging each of the kings to aid him. And he was compelled to supplicate even his brother, that he should give up his daughter to be slaughtered at Aulis.

And ten years he sat warring at Troy, there again flattering the leaders of the army, both he and his brother; or else they were angry and threatened from time to time to sail away; and enduring many toils and inconceivable dangers, afterward he wandered and was unable, save with countless evils, to come home.

Is it, then, very fitting to admire wealth according to the poet, and to suppose that truly enviable which he says is its greatest good — to give to strangers, and, if ever some come living delicately to the house, not to be unable to provide lodging and to set before them hospitality in which they would most delight?

We say these things with mention of the poets, not otherwise drawing ourselves up against them nor envying the reputation they have gained from their poems for wisdom — not for this, ambitious to convict them — but thinking that in them especially we shall find the mind of the many: what indeed seemed good to the many about wealth and the other things they admire, and what they think the greatest thing that might come to them from each of such things.

For it is plain that, the poem not agreeing with them nor holding the same opinion, they would not so very much love it nor praise its makers as having become wise and good and speakers of the truth.

Since, then, it is not possible to convict each of the multitude, taking him apart, nor to question all in turn — Why, O man, do you fear poverty so very much, and overvalue wealth? And what, again, do you hope to gain as the greatest thing, if you happen to grow rich, or, by Zeus, to become a merchant, or even to be king? — for such a thing is impracticable and in no way possible —

so then of necessity we go to their prophets and advocates, the poets, as there about to find plainly and shut up in metres the opinions of the many; and indeed we do not seem to me to fail much.

And this is doubtless customary even with the wiser, what we now do; since even against these very verses one of the very philosophers has spoken in opposition — one whom no one, it seems to me, would ever say spoke against these out of contentiousness, and against what was said by Sophocles about wealth — against the former a little, against those of Sophocles more — yet not, as we now, at length, since he was not expounding offhand with great licence, but writing in books.

Concerning the farming and hunting and pastoral life, then, let these things, perhaps providing more diversion than is moderate, have been said, since we are eager somehow to show that poverty is not a thing that makes life impossible nor a life unbefitting free men willing to work with their own hands, but leads to far better and more advantageous works and deeds, and more according to nature, than those to which wealth is wont to incite the many.

Well then, concerning the poor in the town and city we ought to consider their life and occupations — how, living and managing what kinds of things, they will be able not to live badly nor more meanly than the money-lenders who lend at heavy interest, knowing very well the number of days and months, and than those who own great tenement-houses and ships and many slaves;

lest perhaps the works in the cities be scarce for such men, requiring besides outside capital, when one must both pay rent for lodging and buy everything else — not only clothes and furniture and grain, but even wood, for the daily need of fire, and if ever one need brushwood or leaves or anything else of the very cheapest sort —

and they be compelled to get everything besides water by laying down a price, since all things are shut up and nothing appears in common save, I suppose, the many costly things on sale. For perhaps it will appear difficult for such men to maintain themselves in such a life, possessing no other property than their body, especially when we counsel them not to undertake any chance work nor all alike whence it is possible to gain;

so that we shall perhaps be compelled to cast out of the cities in our argument the dainty poor, that we may truly furnish, according to Homer, cities well inhabited, dwelt in by the blessed alone, and shall leave no free labourer, it seems, within the wall. But all such men, what shall we do with them? Or, scattering them in the country, shall we settle them there, as they say the Athenians of old were distributed throughout all Attica, and again later when Peisistratus was tyrant?

Nor indeed for those men did such a manner of living prove disadvantageous, nor did it produce ignoble natures of citizens, but altogether better and more temperate than the assembly-men and jurors and clerks reared later in the town, idle and at the same time vulgar. So the danger is not great nor grievous, if all these are in every way rustics; yet I think they will not even lack sustenance in the town.

But let us see by doing how many and what things they shall pass their lives respectably with us, that they may not often be compelled, sitting idle, to turn to something base. Now the occupations and arts in the city, taken all together, are many and of every kind, and some very profitable to those who use them, if one consider profit with respect to money.

But to name them all severally is not easy, on account of their multitude and no less their strangeness. So let this be said about them in brief, both blame and praise. Whatever are harmful to the body, as to health or to sufficient strength, through idleness and sedentariness, or breed in the soul unseemliness and illiberality, or are otherwise useless and found to be of no benefit, invented through the foolishness and luxury of the cities — these at the outset it is not right to call either arts or occupations; for Hesiod, being wise, would never have praised every work alike, if he had deemed any of the base or shameful ones worthy of this title;

those, then, to which any of these harms whatever attaches, let none of the free and decent men take up, nor know how, neither himself nor to teach his own children, as one who will be a worker neither according to Hesiod nor according to us, if he handle any such thing, but will have the illiberal reproach at once of idleness and of base gain, being called vulgar and useless and simply wicked.

But whatever are neither unbecoming to those who pursue them, nor breed any baseness in the soul, nor are unhealthy — both of other diseases and indeed of weakness and sluggishness and softness arising in the body through much inactivity — and moreover furnish a sufficient livelihood,

doing all such things eagerly and laboriously, men would never be in want of work and livelihood, nor would they make true the appellation by which the wealthy are wont to call them, naming them resourceless, but on the contrary would be more providers than those, and lacking nothing, so to speak, of the necessary and useful things.

Come then, let us make mention from each kind, even if not describing each thing very exactly, but so as to discern it in outline — what sort of things, and on what account, we do not admit, and what sort we bid men undertake boldly, taking no thought of those who otherwise cast up such things — as men reviling are wont often to cast up not only their occupations, in which there is nothing strange, but also those of their parents, if anyone's mother was a wool-worker or once went out as a vintager, or for hire nursed a child of the orphaned or the wealthy, or his father taught letters or was a pedagogue; let men then, ashamed of no such thing, go straight to meet it.

For they will not speak of these things, if they speak, otherwise than as signs of poverty, reviling poverty itself plainly and casting it up as some evil and unfortunate thing, but none of the works. So since we say that poverty is neither worse nor more unfortunate than wealth, but perhaps even more advantageous to the many, neither must this reproach be weighed as heavier than that.

For if one must, not naming the thing they blame, cast up by way of blasphemy the things that befall daily on its account, they would have far more, and truly shameful things, occurring through wealth, and not least to cast up that which Hesiod judged a reproach, the matter of idleness, saying, that the gods, O man, set you neither a digger nor a plougher, and that you keep your hands otherwise, like the suitors, untoiling and soft.

This, then, I think, is plain to everyone, and perhaps often said, that dyers and perfumers and tanners, together with the hairdressing of women and men — not much differing now — and well-nigh all embroidery, not of clothing only, but also of hair and complexion, contriving with rouge and white-lead and all drugs false bloom and counterfeit images, and further the adorning of the roofs and walls and floors of houses, some with colours, some with stones, some with gold, some with ivory,

and some by the carving of the very walls — that the best thing is that the cities should not admit these at all, but for us in the present argument to determine that none of our poor should become such, with whom we are now contending against the wealthy as in a chorus, the contest not being set forth for happiness — for this prize is set neither before poverty nor again before wealth, but is the peculiar gift of virtue alone —

but otherwise for a certain conduct and moderation of life. And accordingly neither tragic nor comic actors, nor producers of unmixed laughter through mimes, nor dancers nor chorus-men — save those of the sacred choruses, but not those singing or dancing the sufferings of Niobe or Thyestes — nor lyre-singers nor flute-players contending for victory in theatres, even if certain of the famous cities will on these accounts be ill-disposed toward us, Smyrna and Chios, and indeed with these Argos too, as not allowing the reputation of Homer and Agamemnon to be increased, at least so far as in us lies;

and perhaps the Athenians too will be angry, thinking their own tragic and comic poets dishonoured, when we take away their servants, asserting that they pursue nothing good. And it is likely that the Thebans too will be indignant, as though their victory were outraged, which they were preferred by Greece to win in flute-playing;

and this victory they loved so exceedingly that, though their city was overthrown for them and even now well-nigh is so save for a small part, the Cadmea being inhabited, of all the rest that had been destroyed — of many shrines, of many monuments and inscriptions — they took no thought, but having sought out the Hermes they again set it upright, on which was the epigram about the flute-playing: Greece preferred Thebes to win in the flutes; and now in the middle of the ancient marketplace this one statue stands among the ruins;

fearing, then, none of these nor those who will censure us, as though we blame the most serious things among the Greeks, declaring all such to be works not of modest nor free men, since many other troublesome things attach to them and indeed the greatest, that of shamelessness — the making the crowd presume more than it ought, which it is more correct to call the greatest insolence.

And accordingly neither heralds of wares, nor those who proclaim rewards for thefts or runaways in the streets and marketplace, speaking with much license, nor writers of contracts and challenges and in general of matters concerning lawsuits and accusations, laying claim to lawful experience, nor again the wise and clever stitchers of suits and advocates, who for hire alike promise to help all, even the greatest wrongdoers, and to be shameless on behalf of others' wrongs, and to be indignant and shout and supplicate on behalf of men neither friends nor kin to them — some seeming to be very honoured and brilliant in the city — none such would we deem worthy to become of those men, but would yield them to others.

For some of them must of necessity become hand-craftsmen, but tongue-craftsmen and suit-craftsmen there is no necessity. And of these things said and to be said, if any seem useful to the cities, such as those now inhabited — as perhaps that concerning the recording of suits and contracts, and perhaps too of some proclamations, how, or by whom done, they would be least harmful — this is not now the time to determine.

For we are not at present ordering a constitution, what kind would be best or better than many, but we proposed to speak about poverty, that its affairs are not impracticable, as it seems to the many to be itself a thing to be shunned and an evil, but that it furnishes countless resources toward living to those willing to work with their own hands, resources neither unseemly nor harmful.

For from this very starting-point we were led on to go through at greater length first the matters of farming and hunting, and now those of the occupations in the town — which of them are befitting and harmless to those who will not live most basely, and which would render those who practise them worse.

And if many of the things said are generally useful toward a constitution and the choice of what is fitting, on this score too it is the more just to grant pardon for the length of the discourse, that they have become more numerous not idly nor in wandering about useless matters. For the consideration about occupations and arts, and in general about a life befitting or not befitting the moderate, has appeared even in itself worthy of much and very exact contemplation.

One ought, then, not to bear ill the digressions of the discourse, even if they seem very long — provided, however, they be not about mean or unworthy or unfitting topics — as though the speaker had not abandoned the very subject of the whole, so long as he treats of things necessary and befitting philosophy.

For in this respect, well-nigh imitating the hunters, we should not err; who, when, having first taken up a track and following it, they meet in between with another, plainer and nearer, do not hesitate to follow this one, and, having taken what fell in their way later.

Perhaps, then, not even that man is to be blamed who, having begun to speak about a just man and justice, and having mentioned a city for the sake of an example, spent a many-times-longer discourse about a constitution, and did not weary before he had gone through all the changes and all the kinds of constitutions, very vividly and magnificently showing the things that befall in each;

even if among some he incurs blame for the length of the discourse and the lingering over the example, doubtless; but on the ground that the things said are nothing to the point and that the thing sought has not become in any way clearer through them — that for the sake of which it was from the beginning taken into the discourse — on these grounds, if at all, he is called to account not altogether unjustly.

If, then, we too should appear to go through things not befitting nor proper to the subject, we might reasonably be said to be long-winded. But in itself otherwise it is not right to praise or blame either length or brevity in discourses. As for the rest of the practices in the cities, we ought to go through them boldly, mentioning some, and leaving some unspoken and unmentioned.

For surely about brothel-keepers and brothel-keeping we must not refuse to speak as though they were doubtful matters, but must very strongly insist and forbid, saying that none, neither poor nor rich, should use such an occupation, gathering a wage of insolence and licentiousness, alike reproachful among all, becoming procurers of loveless unions and unloving loves for the sake of gain, setting forth captive bodies of women or boys or otherwise bought with money, for shame, in foul dwellings displayed everywhere in the city, both in the passages of the magistrates and the marketplaces, near the offices and the shrines, in the midst of the most holy places;

nor, then, leading barbarian bodies, nor Greek ones — formerly not much, but now subject to abundant and great slavery — to such outrage and constraint, working a far worse and more unclean work than horse-breeders and ass-breeders, not bringing cattle to cattle without force, willing to willing, the beasts being ashamed of nothing, but bringing men, who are ashamed and unwilling, in heat and licentious, to a fruitless and barren joining of bodies that effects corruption rather than generation, ashamed of no man or god,

neither Zeus the god of birth nor Hera the goddess of marriage, nor the Fates that bring things to fulfilment, nor Artemis of childbirth, nor mother Rhea, nor the Eileithyiae who preside over human birth, nor Aphrodite, named after the natural union and intercourse of the female with the male;

let neither magistrate nor lawgiver, then, permit nor enact such gains, neither in the cities to be governed at the height of virtue, nor in the second or third or fourth or whatever kind, if it be in the power of any of them to prevent such things.

But if indeed he inherit old customs and diseases hardened by time, let him not altogether leave them untreated and unchecked, but, considering what is possible, somehow restrain and chasten them. For wicked things never love to remain the same, but ever move and advance toward the more wanton, meeting with no necessary measure.

One must, then, take some care, not bearing very gently nor carelessly the outrage upon dishonoured and slavish bodies — not only in that respect in which the whole human race in common, honoured and equally honoured by the god who begot it, has come to have the same signs and tokens of being justly honoured, both reason and experience of the noble and shameful — but reflecting also on this, that it is hard to find for insolence nourished through license any limit which it would no longer dare to overstep through fear; but, having from its practice and habit in the things deemed lesser and permitted taken an unrestrainable force and strength, it no longer spares any of the rest.

One must therefore think, beyond all else, that these public and dishonoured adulteries, occurring too shamelessly and unrestrainedly in the midst, furnish not least the cause of the unseen and hidden outrages upon honoured women and children — that such things are very readily dared, shame being publicly despised — and not, as some suppose, that these sins have been found out for the sake of safety and abstinence from those others.

Perhaps, then, one might say somewhat rustically thus: O wise lawgivers and magistrates who admitted such things from the beginning, as having discovered some wonderful remedy of temperance for the cities — beware lest these open and unbarred dwellings throw open for you the barred houses and the inner chambers, and turn those who riot openly and outside, at small expense, toward the free and respectable women, with much money and gifts — those who, no longer content with the very cheap and licensed pleasure, pursue the very thing forbidden, in fear and at much expense.

And you will see it, it seems to me, more exactly, if you consider; for among those with whom the matters of adultery too are somehow more magnificently passed over, meeting with much and very humane indulgence — the men for the most part out of good nature not perceiving, and in some cases not acknowledging that they know, but enduring those called adulterers as guests and friends and kinsmen, and themselves sometimes treating them kindly and inviting them at the festivals and sacrifices to their feasts, as, I suppose, their nearest —

and over the very flagrant and manifest cases making their angers moderate — among those, I say, with whom the matters concerning women are thus indulgently carried off, neither is it easy there to be confident about the maidens' chastity, nor ever to trust that the wedding-song is truly and justly sung at the marriages of maidens.

Or must not many things happen there resembling the old myths — apart from the anger and meddlesomeness of the fathers — with many imitating the so-called loves of the gods, much gold flowing down through the roofs, and very readily too, since the dwellings are not of bronze nor of stone,

and, by Zeus, silver dripping not a little, and not only into the bosoms of the maidens, but into those of mothers and nurses and pedagogues; and many other fine gifts, some entering secretly through the roofs, and some openly there at the very couches? And what?

In rivers and at fountains, is it not likely that many things happen resembling those formerly told by the poets? Save perhaps that they do not occur in public nor in the open, but in houses so prosperous, costly farmsteads of gardens and suburbs, in certain grottoes fitted out and marvellous groves — since these concern not poor maidens nor those of poor kings, such as carry water and play beside the rivers, bathing in cold baths and on open shores, but blessed ones and of blessed parents, in royal lodgings having all these things of their own, far better and more magnificent than the common.

But perhaps none the less were they likely in that city to expect there would be children such as Homer has named Eudorus, son of Hermes and Polydora, fondly calling him, I think, after his birth, maiden-born, whom fair Polydora bore in the dance.

And well-nigh among the Lacedaemonians too certain of those thus born happened to have this appellation, called Partheniai, a good number; so that, unless the more part of those born in cities so luxurious were corrupted — since, I think, they in no way meet with divine care — nothing would prevent all places from being full of heroes.

But as it is, some perish straightway; and as many as do appear, remain secretly in slave's guise until old age, since those who begot them are able to be of no help to them.

Well then, among those with whom the matters concerning girls are so simple, what must one expect of the boys — what sort of education and upbringing they meet with? Is there any way that the licentious sort would abstain from the outrage and corruption of the males, making this the sufficient and clear limit, that of nature, but, glutting themselves in every way with incontinence toward women and become sated with this pleasure, would not seek another greater and more lawless outrage?

For the matters of women — well-nigh of the very free and the maidens — appeared easy, and there is no labour for him who hunts such a hunt with wealth; nor would whoever goes against the very respectable women and daughters of truly respectable men, with the device of Zeus, carrying gold in his hands, ever fail.

But the rest, doubtless, are plain, occurring among many. For the man insatiable of such desires, when he finds nothing scarce nor resisting in that sex, despising the easy and dishonouring the Aphrodite in women as something ready and in truth altogether feminine, will pass over to the men's quarter, desiring forthwith to disgrace those who are presently to rule and judge and command,

as though here he would find the difficult and hard-to-procure kind of pleasures — having suffered the same experience as the over-fond of drink and the wine-bibbers, who often, after much and continuous unmixed drinking, not wishing to drink, deliberately contrive a thirst by sweats and the taking of salty and pungent foods.