Oration 31

It is likely, men of Rhodes, that the most of you suppose that I have come to address you about some private matter of my own; so that, when you perceive me attempting to set right one of your public affairs, you will perhaps be displeased that, being neither a citizen nor invited by you, I nevertheless presume to give counsel, and that too about none of the things you have come together to consider.

But for my part, if I shall appear to you, having heard me, to be speaking of nothing needful, or about something not very necessary, I admit I should justly be thought both — at once simple and a busybody; whereas if I speak, as best I can, about a matter of the greatest importance, and one too in so very poor a state that the city is publicly slandered on its account, and that all of you, well thought of in everything else, in this one thing meet with a reputation that does not befit you, you might reasonably be grateful to me and consider me well disposed toward you. For it is plain that, unless one loves you very much, the rest care nothing, I suppose, for things that bring you any shame or harm.

It would, then, be strange if, when someone of his own accord gives you money, a stranger or a resident alien, you would not consider him a busybody, because, though he had no apparent obligation, he was ambitious to do so, and that without your asking; but you will hear with more displeasure one who counsels some useful thing, if he happens not to have been invited or is not a citizen. And yet of money perhaps you yourselves have no great need at present, and one might find ten thousand to whom it would have been more profitable to take from their substance; but of good judgment there is no one who has no need at every season and in all his life, not even he who seems to fare most happily.

If, then, I were speaking about one of the matters before you, you would gain no such great benefit from me; for it was likely that you yourselves, considering it but once, would find what is needful; but since it is about a thing the present state of which you do not even at the outset inquire into, that I say I shall show to be done most shamefully, how should I not have done you an altogether useful service, if indeed I shall not appear to be lying? For my part I think it fitting to accept all who say anything whatever out of goodwill, and to consider none of such men troublesome, and you most of all, men of Rhodes. For it is plain that for this purpose you come together to deliberate daily, and not, like others, reluctantly and at long intervals — and that too some of those reputed free — that you may have leisure to hear about everything and may leave nothing unexamined.

These things, then, it was necessary to say beforehand, so that you might at the start come to the matter; but now I shall proceed to it, adding only this much: that it seems to me fitting to do everything in life justly and nobly, especially when doing anything in public — not only because public affairs are more conspicuous than whatever each may do amiss in private, but also for this reason, that the errors of private men do not at once declare the city base, whereas from public actions not done in the manner that befits, the individuals too must of necessity be thought wicked.

For whatever the majority are in a democracy, such appears also the common character; for what pleases these prevails, doubtless, not other things. And I should say above all that it is proper to those of the fairest and most august character to behave with care; for among those by whom such things are neglected, it shows some baseness of the city, and none of the rest can be done becomingly.

And indeed, that, of all things except what is set apart for the gods — which one must hold greatest — none is fairer or more just than to honour good men and to remember benefactors, I think needs no argument; and yet one might see the advantage in this not least of all. For those who are zealous about their benefactors, and deal justly with those who have shown them affection, all consider worthy of gratitude, and each would wish to benefit them according to his own power; and from having many who are well disposed and ready to help, when there is occasion, both every city and every private man lives more securely.

These matters, then, men of Rhodes, consider to be in a very poor state among you, and unworthy of the city — I mean the matters concerning benefactors and the honours of good men — though you did not from the beginning so deal with the matter. How could you? For on the contrary, just as one would especially approve and admire certain other of your practices, so you seem to me to have taken the greatest forethought for honour too; one might learn this by looking to the multitude of statues. But a base custom having otherwise prevailed for some time, and no one any longer being honoured among you — if you wish to know the truth — both the noble men of former times, who were zealous for the city, are now outraged and robbed of their honours — not private men only, but also kings and certain peoples.

For whenever you vote a statue to someone — and this readily occurs to you now, as though there were an unstinting supply — that point I would not blame, that some time and delay should attend it; for on the contrary, the moment you name a man, he stands at once, or rather even before you vote. But a most absurd thing happens: for the magistrate points out whichever he pleases of these dedicated statues; then, the previous inscription being removed and another name engraved, the matter of the honour is complete, and henceforth he who has seemed to you worthy has obtained the image — very easily, I think, and profitably, when one considers it thus — so that the abundance is marvellous and the thing worth praying for, if you alone are able to set up in bronze whomever you wish without expense, and without either you or those honoured paying down a single drachma.

For who would not so admire the city for its wisdom? But, I think, many things that happen in life with much labour and no small expense it is possible to do for nothing and very easily, if one neglects what is proper and acting truly. For instance, take at once the sacrifices which we perform on each occasion to the gods: it is possible, without having sacrificed, to claim to have sacrificed, merely, if one pleases, putting on a garland and approaching the altar and touching the barley-grains and doing the rest as at a sacred rite. And again, is it not easy, leading the same victim round to all the images in turn — that of Zeus, that of the Sun, that of Athena — and pouring libations everywhere, to suppose one has sacrificed to all the gods? And who is there to prevent it?

And suppose now we wish to found an altar or a temple to someone — for even if you have altars of all the gods, it is not impossible, I think, both to build one finer than before and to resolve to honour the same god with more — is it not ready at hand to dislodge one of the other gods, or to transfer something of what has already been consecrated? Or even to change only the inscription, which is what we now do? And yet some say that Apollo and the Sun and Dionysus are the same, and you so believe; and many simply gather all the gods into one single might and power, so that it makes no difference to honour this one or that. But in the case of men there is nothing of the sort; rather he who gives the things of one to another has robbed this man of his own.

By Zeus, but transgressing against the gods and against men is not the same thing. Nor do I say so. Yet it is possible to transgress against these too, when one deals with them unsoundly, neither allowing those who have received to keep what they justly received, nor really giving to those judged worthy the same things he professes to give, but robbing some of the gift, and as it were ensnaring and cheating others.

The nature of the thing, then, is alike, and to do anything whatever with deceit and trickery and the utmost meanness is the same; but it differs in this, that the things done improperly toward the gods are called acts of impiety, while those toward one another among men are called acts of injustice. Of these, let it be granted that the impiety does not attach to the matter now being examined; but as for the rest, if it does not seem to you worthy of guarding against, let it be dismissed.

And yet one might perhaps find impiety too attaching to such conduct — I speak not of you nor of the city, for neither did you ever resolve it nor has it been done publicly, but considering the matter itself in private. For the things done toward the departed are not wrongly called acts of impiety and meet with this appellation in the laws, against whomever they may be. But to outrage good men and the city's benefactors, and to abolish their honours and destroy their memory — I, for one, do not see how it could be otherwise named; since not even those who wrong living benefactors could reasonably be acquitted of this reproach.

At all events, those who err against their parents, because they were the source of the first and greatest benefaction toward us, reasonably seem to be impious. And the matter of the gods you doubtless know — that even if one only pour a libation to them, or merely burn incense, or merely touch the altar, yet with the disposition that befits, he has done no less; for the god, I suppose, needs none of such things, like images or sacrifices; but otherwise these are not done in vain, since we display our zeal and disposition toward them.

But men have need of garland and image and front seat and being remembered. And many have even died on this account, that they might obtain a statue and a proclamation or some other honour, and might leave to those after them some fair repute and remembrance of themselves. If, at all events, one of you were asked, all such things being abolished and no remembrance left for the future, nor praise of things well done — whether you think that even a small fraction would have arisen of the men admired among all, either of those who once fought eagerly in war, or of those who overthrew tyrants, or of those who gave up themselves or their children for the common safety, or of those who underwent great toils for the sake of virtue, as they say Heracles and Theseus and the other demigods and heroes once did — I think no one would say so.

For what calls each man to despise dangers and to endure toils and to overlook a life of pleasure and ease, one would find to be nothing else, at least among the most. This it is that brings it about that in battles good men are found wounded in front and have not turned to flee, though often a ready safety lay at hand. For this reason the poet says that Achilles did not wish to grow old and die at home, and that Hector alone stood before the city, if need be, to fight against all.

This it was that made certain of the Lacedaemonians array themselves in the narrows against so many myriads of Persians. This made your ancestors fill all land and sea with trophies, and, when the rest of Greece was in a manner extinguished, made you alone preserve in yourselves the common dignity of the Greeks up to the present time. Whence reasonably you seem to me to think more highly than all those others.

For those who at first succeeded against the barbarians and appeared brilliant, in the rest erred, making a display rather of envy and folly and contentiousness than of virtue, until, with no one troubling them from without, they slackened of themselves and now invited everyone who wished to be their master. But you, having succeeded in so many wars, took them all up no less nobly than you fought them bravely;

except that this at least is plain, that neither you nor any others who seem to have become great, whether Greeks or barbarians, advanced to repute and power for any other cause than meeting with men ambitious in particular and accounting later good report of more worth than life. For the monument and the inscription and standing in bronze seem a great thing to noble men, and this is a reward worthy of virtue — that the name be not abolished together with the body, nor be set on a level with those who never lived, but that some trace, as one might say, and token of valour be left behind.

These athletes — you see how much they suffer in training, spending, and at last often choosing to die in the very contests. What then? If one should abolish the crown, for the sake of which they are ambitious, and the inscription of the victory which is to be at Olympia or at Pytho, do you suppose they would endure even the sun for a single day, to say nothing of the other unpleasant and grievous things that attend the matter? And further: if it should become plain to them that the image which they may set up another will make his own, removing the name of the one who set it up and inscribing himself, do you think anyone would go there even to look on, much less to compete? Whence, I suppose, even kings lay claim to such testimony.

For to all the tokens of virtue are of much worth, and none of the many chooses that whatever he thinks noble should have been done by himself alone, with no one knowing it. By Zeus, are you ignorant that this act not only makes those men dishonoured, but also leaves the city bereft of those who would be well disposed and zealous on its behalf? And let it not enter the mind of any of you that, if indeed you abolish one honour, that of the images, the rest remain inviolate. For first, those who abolish the greatest, and that which each most desires to obtain, admit doubtless that for the most part they harm the city, if indeed they say it harmful that all should be abolished.

And besides this, there is that point too, that among those with whom one thing is disturbed, all are alike disturbed, and nothing of the like remains secure. For those who have transgressed the principle on which it seemed nothing could befall, and have counted this for nothing, have dissolved all things that had the same ground for remaining secure. For instance, if one should annul any one of the penalties whatsoever, he has left none of the others firm.

And if one should abolish the greatest, exile or death, the lesser penalties must henceforth seem not even to have been written. As, then, those who counterfeit the coinage, even if they damage but a part, seem to have corrupted the whole by making it suspect, so those who abolish some of the honours or of the penalties dissolve the whole matter and show it to be worth nothing.

And indeed, if one should ask me — both bringing the greatest possible harm, both the having honours untrustworthy and the having penalties feeble, if it is not possible to guard against both — which of them I judge more reasonable and the mark of more moderate men, I should say without hesitation, the matter of the penalties; since this can be referred to humanity, to pity, to other such things, which are proper to the good; but to forget the best men and to rob virtue of its prizes can meet with no decent pretext, but must of necessity belong to ingratitude, envy, meanness, all the most shameful things. And besides, those who relax the punishments restrain the wicked less; but these same men commit the greatest wrong against benefactors. And this is worse than that, by as much as to do wrong oneself is worse than not greatly to restrain another.

Nor again is it possible to say that this is not the greatest of the things given to some; for, apart from its being plain to all, those who say so will contradict themselves. For they say it is necessary at present to honour many of the leaders, for all of whom, if it be needful to construct images, the expense will be great, since the other honours are not in keeping with them, nor would they accept them as being much less.

The matter of the expense, then, what it is, you shall see shortly; but that it is the greatest of the honours, of which they rob those who received it before, is admitted from these very arguments. And surely, it being strange that one should pass over any of those worthy of honour and render no return for the benefaction — as those above all must admit, who think it dreadful even to honour someone more moderately than his worth — how is it not the height of injustice to honour someone, and then, accusing him of nothing, to rob him of what was given? For the one is to be ungrateful to benefactors, the other to outrage them; the one is not to honour good men, the other to dishonour them.

For the former do not render what they seem to owe the worthy; but the latter do against them what it is customary to do against the utterly wicked. If, at all events, one of those once thought moderate should afterward commit some incurable and grievous crime, such as plotting treason or tyranny, it is the custom for the honours of such men to be abolished, even if they had previously obtained some inscription. Is it not then shameful that you should deem worthy of the same treatment the admittedly best, things which the laws bid the impious and unholy meet with — those who have no share even in burial?

So that, it seems to me, as great a desire as all men have among others to be honoured, so great or greater they will have among you that they may never obtain any of such things — inasmuch as each man considers outrage and being insulted a greater evil than he considers honour a good. If, at all events, you should invite anyone to a front seat or enroll him as a citizen, meaning afterward to remove him or take away his citizenship, he would beseech you much to leave him alone. The tyrants, at least, or the kings, whose images those who were violently and lawlessly ruled by them have afterward destroyed, and whose names they have erased — which has, I think, happened among you too — I would say with confidence, had they foreseen this would be, would never have allowed anyone either to set up their images or to engrave their names.

And yet this shows not only that those men are wronged and suffer grievously, but also that the pretext is empty, on account of which perhaps some will think you ought to do this — or rather, that it tells against the matter. For if they shall say it is at once necessary and advantageous to honour others, how is it not contrary to this to outrage those previously so honoured? For that which none of the former would have chosen to receive, knowing this would be, how is it likely that any of the present should gladly receive, seeing what is being done? So that, if not for the sake of those earlier benefactors, yet for these at least whom we now honour, it was reasonable to guard against the matter.

For all regard with suspicion the things given by those whom they know to be thus neglectful of some of the former praised men and reputed friends, and most of all those who obtain the same honours, of which they see those who received them robbed. And if indeed it should be done that they themselves may obtain it — or rather seem to have obtained it — they consider the matter altogether dissimulation and mockery. But it would be far better to say to those who wish to do it, that you give little thought to those honoured more recently, since there is no longer any need to honour anyone, than, on the contrary, to bring into disrepute that of which they say there is the greatest need for the city, and toward more men now than before.

And yet, by Zeus and the gods, not even if those who now seem to obtain the images were going to be most grateful to you and to praise the people exceedingly, not even so ought it to be done. For to seek only by what means one might please someone in doing it and win him over, but, if in doing so one wrongs another whom one ought not, or in general does something improper, not to consider this — is, by the gods, the mark neither of free men nor of moderate character. For not even any of the utterly wicked chooses anything base which he does not think advantageous to himself for the present; nay, this very thing is wickedness, that for the sake of gain and need one should be in no way deterred by anything shameful or unjust, nor consider what kind of thing is being done, but only whether it is profitable.

Therefore he who courts the present man, but neglects the earlier friend, and has forgotten the benefit already rendered, while making most account of the help he hopes for — do you not know what name he meets with? Is not such a man called a flatterer by all? Does he not seem ignoble, untrustworthy? Now then, not even this remains to the city, that some are courted by it and think they obtain something great when their names are inscribed. For on the contrary they are displeased and find fault in themselves, even if otherwise they keep silent, not wishing to give offense. Or, if you should bestow on someone counterfeit coin, no one would willingly take it; rather he would consider the thing an outrage rather than a gift. But do you think that men of sense accept counterfeit honour that has nothing sound in it?

But if someone should sell another's slave or a vessel, lying that it is his own, each of those deceived is exceedingly angry, and I should wonder if you did not punish such a man with death. But if someone, deceived, should take another's image, belonging in no way to himself, from those who are not its masters — for what one has given to another, of this he is no longer master so as to give it to a third — do you think he is grateful to those who tricked him?

I beg you, if the words appear rather harsh, to be in no way displeased with me. For I do not say that you do this, but that in a manner it is done against the city's will. But if the matter is such as to seem altogether shameful when examined, by so much the more eagerly ought you to hear the speaker, so that henceforth you may be rid of the shame. For neither can troubles in the body be healed without pain, but often this very thing is a sign that the treatment must be urgently applied — that the part treated greatly pains.

What, then, I said at the beginning, I would not now hesitate to say — that everywhere it is fitting that good men appear sound and having nothing shifty nor troublesome, but most of all freed from deceit and wickedness — I mean men like you — and especially, I think, in the matter of honouring and of gifts. For to attach some shame to noble things, and to do unjustly the most just of all things, belongs to men who do not even perceive the nature of each thing. As, then, those who transgress against the temples are worse than those who err in anything else whatever, so are those who appear unjust and wicked about these matters.

For what is more sacred than honour or gratitude? Do you not know that most men consider the Graces goddesses too? If, then, someone should mutilate their statues or overturn their altars, you consider him impious; but if someone should mar and corrupt the very thing from which the goddesses have happened to be named, by not showing gratitude in the way one ought, but ignobly and illiberally and with cunning being ungrateful to benefactors, shall we say that he is wise and more intelligent than the rest? But the hucksters who do mischief in the measures, whose livelihood is from base gain, you hate and punish; yet the city, if it shall seem to do mischief about the praises of good men and to peddle its gifts, are you not ashamed, making august things shifty and resold?

And you do not even consider this, that no one any longer readily approaches even the hucksters whose measures are dishonest. And indeed, that the matter is by nature such, and that it is not the argument that reproaches it, observe thus. For if one of you should ask whether you wish those honoured by you, to whom you think you give the images, to know the truth and what the thing is, or to be ignorant of it, it is not unclear what you would say, if you were of sound mind. For what hindered you from writing forthwith in the decree, as the rest, this too, that the image for them is one of those dedicated, or that of so-and-so, if you wished those men too to know? But you never, I think, inscribe this.

It is plain, then, that what is done rightly and has nothing strange in it no one conceals. But that one would least guard against the recipients knowing in what manner they obtain the favour and anything whatever of the things done about the honour, if indeed one did it simply and justly, seems to me yet plainer than the first; so that the thing that happens must be everywhere base and befitting no one, not even a private man. For he who, in the very things by which he benefits some, has first received a benefit, or, by Zeus, who begins and invites to friendship by tricking and cheating — what else would such a man do? Know, then, that the thing does not escape anyone, but is notorious and among the things bandied about by all, not only because some have used it too immoderately and unrestrainedly, but also because it is done among you.

For the dignity and greatness of the city leaves nothing in it unknown, and your bearing yourselves more august than all in other respects, and besides, I think, your faring best of the Greeks, stirs envy and jealousy, so that there are many who scrutinize, if you seem to err in anything. So then, those who wish that whatever they do should rather be unknown bring forth a sign of baseness; and those who think that what no one is ignorant of escapes notice, a sign of folly; in both of which you would not choose the city to be involved.

By Zeus, but we shall be at expense, unless we use what exists, and there will be need of much money, if we construct statues for all to whom we vote them. And how much better to give the gift to fewer than to deceive more, when you are going to be condemned and hated by more, who clearly know what you do? For if those whom you now somehow set up are not very respectable — which, were you in your right mind, you would say — see what is happening: for through the base you wrong the worthy. For that your ancestors did not admire at random nor anyone unworthy I would maintain confidently. But if you honour good men, such men at least would reasonably be vexed at the matter.

For what moderate man would wish another to suffer ill and to be robbed of what was justly given on his account? Or how would he not be angry at this happening rather than be grateful? Or no good man would endure to take a wife by adultery, because he wronged the former husband; rather no one would gladly take her at all from another man — and yet this often happens not from a wicked cause. But honour, which it is not possible justly to take from another, nor without outrage to him, do you think anyone is content with, and that too when he himself does not hope but that he would suffer the like? But one buying a slave considers whether he ever ran away and whether he stayed with his first master; yet a gift and a favour, which he thinks untrustworthy and clearly knows to have nothing secure, would he willingly accept it?

For most of them are Romans, and who would lay hands on these? But those standing beside them are Macedonians, and these here Lacedaemonians; and, by Zeus, on these we lay hands. And yet you will say that those formerly set up were all, or most of them, placed there for benefaction, while many of those now honoured are courted for their power. Which of them it is more just to make more account of I will leave aside; but, if the things given will not justly belong to all, which it is more likely receive them on uncertain terms does not escape these men themselves. For all know how much more secure benefaction is than power. For there is no power which time does not abolish, but no benefaction.

That one might, then, leave aside that excess — which is in a manner true — that those who seek to be thus honoured are rather ill disposed toward the city and take what happens as an outrage and contempt of themselves; but this at least I say I know certainly, that they have no gratitude to you nor think they obtain anything, knowing what is done and the trickery in it. By Zeus, then, the things which, even with these men accepting them, it was not reasonable to take from those who had received them before — shall we take these from those who have them, not even giving them to others?

And indeed, if, in matters where the city seems to need something, we shall look only to the expense and to how it might most easily be done, examining nothing else, what hinders not only this gift from being ready at hand, but also, if you wish to bestow anything else on someone — land, money, a house — from taking it from those who have it? Or why need we seek revenues and spend the common funds, when it is time to repair a wall or ships, instead of taking the property of so-and-so or of one of the citizens or of those dwelling among you? But, by Zeus, they will cry out and say they suffer dreadfully. Well then, it will doubtless be possible not to heed them.

For even if now there are those to whom they might appeal if you did these things, formerly at least there was no one with more authority than the people. Did, then, those of that time so deal with individuals? How could they? Who considered this the most grievous of all, and prayed to the gods that such an occasion might never befall, in which it should be necessary for each man to contribute from his private means; and they say this rarely ever happened among you, nor in all the wars, but only if ever the city was in the utmost peril.

Perhaps, then, someone will say that the statues are the city's. So too is the territory the city's, yet none the less each of the possessors is master of his own. And in common, if one asks whose the island is, or whose Caria, they will say the Rhodians'. But if you ask otherwise, this plot or this field, you will plainly learn the master's name. So too they say that the images all simply belong to the Rhodians, but each privately to so-and-so or so-and-so, to whomever it may have been given. And yet of the plots and houses and other possessions you could not know whose they are without inquiring; but the image is inscribed, and preserves not only the name but the very character of the recipient, so that one can know at once, on approaching, whose it is.

I speak of those on which the truth still remains. And indeed the matter of standing in a public place is most ridiculous, if anyone considers it a sign that the statues do not belong to those who received them, but to the city. For on this reasoning it will be possible to say that the things sold in the middle of the marketplace belong to the people, and the boats too, doubtless, not to their owners but to the city, since they stand in the harbours. What, then, I heard someone urging on this point as strongest, I would not conceal — that you publicly registered the statues. What, then, is this? For the territory opposite, and this Carpathus, and the mainland, other islands, and in general many things, one may find that the city registered in common, but they are divided among individuals.

And in general, if each of those honoured does not have the image in this manner, as having acquired anything else, on this account it could not be said to belong less to him, nor that he is in no way wronged when you give his to another. For you will find countless ways in which we say a thing belongs to each, and differing very much, such as priesthood, office, marriage, citizenship; none of which it is possible for those who have them either to sell or to use however one wishes.

But a common rule of justice has been laid down for all, that everything which one has justly received — whether he happen to have received it once for all or for some time, as, I think, the offices — he holds securely, and no one robs him of it. How, then, is it possible to have anything more justly than if a man who has become good and worthy of gratitude should, in return for many and noble deeds, meet with honour? Or from whom more authoritative and greater than from the people of Rhodes and your city? For this too is no small thing, that the givers are not Calymnians or these ill-counselling Caunians. As in private matters, the better and more trustworthy one shows the person from whom he has acquired something, the more does he prevail, and no one would dispute it with him; and yet every city, whatever one names, is altogether more trustworthy and stronger than one private man, even if he be the most august, and things done in common are mightier than things done privately.

Consider that all men think they hold more securely whatever they conclude publicly through the city's records; and none of the things thus transacted can be dissolved — neither if one buy a plot or boat or slave from someone, nor if he lend to someone, nor if one set a slave free, nor if one give some gift. Why, then, has it come about that these are more secure than the rest? Because he who has managed any of his affairs in this manner has made the city a witness of the matter.

By Zeus, then, the things one obtains from a private man through the city cannot possibly be taken from him; but the things one has received not only publicly, but also with the people giving them, shall these not be secure? And what is done by others in this manner shall not be dissolved because of the city; but what the city itself has done shall it so easily abolish? And that too, not, as it gave, alike taking it away in common, but with one man, if he happen to be magistrate, having authority to do this?

And indeed there are public records too about these matters, of which I spoke. For the decrees of the honours are doubtless written and remain publicly for all time. For the rendering of gratitude is done so exactly among you, but the robbing of the recipients very easily. Then the one cannot be done without a decree, with all of you persuaded, but the other comes about by some custom, even if it seems good to one man only? Except that, as I said, these things are publicly recorded, and not only in the decrees, but on the very images, both the name of the one honoured and that the people gave it, and these in turn lie in the public place.

That, then, the matter of registration and of standing in a public place is nothing against the statues belonging to those who received them, has perhaps long been plain; but, that no one may even attempt to gainsay it, I will tell you this. You know, I suppose, about the Ephesians, that there is much money among them, partly of private men, deposited in the temple of Artemis — not of Ephesians only, but of strangers and of men from wherever — partly of peoples and kings, which all who deposit place there for safety's sake, no one ever having dared to wrong the place, although countless wars have already occurred and the city has often been taken. That the money lies in a public place, then, is plain; but it is also the custom for the Ephesians to register it publicly in their records.

What then? Do they take from it when there is some need, or at least borrow — which perhaps will seem nothing dreadful? But I think they would sooner strip off the goddess's adornment than touch these. And yet you would not say the Ephesians are more prosperous than yourselves. For on the contrary you were both formerly the wealthiest of the Greeks and now are still more so; whereas one may see them faring worse than many.

Do not, then, if those things may be taken up by the depositors, but no one is so much master of his own image, consider the matter dissimilar; for wishing to show that not all things lying in a public place and registered are forthwith the city's, I used this in outline to that effect. But that no one has the image for any other purpose than to stand among you — in which alone these differ from those who deposit money there — is still more in their favour. For what it is not lawful even for the recipients to abolish, can it be fitting for the givers to do so?

And in general I seem to be contending idly against the one who said that all the statues are the city's. Since this at least is no proof that what is done is not strange. The dedications in the temples, at least, which the city, having furnished them from its own means, has dedicated, no one would dispute are public. Is it not, then, dreadful if we shall misuse these for something else? By Zeus, for these are dedications. But the images are honours; and those are given to the gods, but these to good men, who are nearest to them.

And indeed all good men are called, and are, beloved of the gods. Then he who takes away any of our possessions does not wrong us, but he who harms our friends wrongs us altogether more; and shall we say that the gods, as it seems, care less for their friends than for their possessions? But it is fitting that all who have acquired anything hold it securely — and that too in a democracy, and among you, who pride yourselves most on administering your own affairs lawfully and justly — but most of all, I think, the honours and the favours; not only because the other things even a base man might have — money, houses, slaves, lands — but these belong only to the worthy; but also for this reason, that the former can be acquired in another way too, by inheritance or purchase, but the acquisition of such things is through virtue alone.

And indeed, of the things for which one has paid the price to the owners, no one disputes, doubtless, that it is just to let him have them, by so much the more as he has given the more. So then all these men have given a price, each for his own image, and that no moderate one — some brilliant generalships on behalf of the city, others embassies, others trophies from the enemy, and some perhaps money too — not, by Zeus, a thousand drachmas nor five hundred, for which it is possible to set up an image.

What then? Is it not held, at least among those not utterly unjust, that one robbed of some possession should recover from the recipients at least what he paid down? Would you, then, be willing to render the favours, in return for which you voted those men the statues? It is at least profitable to you to pay them off, since some think they must look to profit in everything.

If, then, someone has succeeded in a war, which, had it not been the lot of the men of that time to succeed in, we of today should not have our city; or has recovered freedom for us; or is one of the founders — for we cannot say clearly who they are to whom this has happened or will happen, the matter being done at random and only by some custom — lest it be a harsh thing to say hereafter that one will have to renounce even the city itself, if one wishes to do what is just. But if someone has given something such that it is not possible to render it back even if one wished — and there are countless who have given up their own lives for the city and bought the image and the inscription with life itself, as I said before — are they not suffering grievous wrong?

Nor again is it possible to say this, that it is not we who have received these things. For first, all the things of their ancestors are owed no less to the descendants than to those very men, to whomever the family may have come down; for you will not say you renounce the succession. Then all the useful and great things gathered together from those by which some benefited and zealously suffered or did on their behalf are now yours: the repute of the city, its greatness, its surpassing, save one, all the rest.

If, then, because they have not received from you, on this account you think you wrong them less than if you were robbing one of his other belongings, you are ignorant of things very plain: first, that all who rob anyone of anything whatever wrong no less the man from whom he happened to have received it; for instance, those who pull down any of the public buildings which one of the individuals made as a favour to you would seem to wrong the maker rather than the city. The same argument holds also if the city has given something of a private man's to someone, against the one who takes it away. Therefore you, besides those whose images you have set up, wrong also, I think, the city which gave — that is, yourselves.

But he who errs against another so as to benefit himself is liable to the many only for wickedness; while he who wrongs himself in matters concerning another shows some excess of wickedness, and over and above seems a fool. And besides this one might see something else too. He who simply takes away what one justly has, having acquired it in whatever manner, errs in the very thing, doing something strange by nature; but he who robs someone of things given by himself as a portion of honour and favour not only transgresses this common rule, by which it is fitting to harm no one, but also wrongs a good man, and that one whom it least befitted him to wrong.

For nowhere can one see honours given to the base, nor by those from whom they have received no benefit. By how much, then, it is worse to rob the good of honours than to harm others and benefactors than to wrong any chance person, escapes no one. And so too the Ephesians, if one should take away the part belonging to the goddess, one might say err less in taking from that money than those who deal thus with the images — not only for the reasons now mentioned, doubtless, that they were going to wrong men in no way related to them, most of whom they did not even know, but also because of the cause arising from the matter. For to those who have not guarded a deposit no one would any longer entrust anything of his own; but those who outrage benefactors no one will judge worthy of gratitude. So that the danger for you is in no longer receiving any benefit from anyone, and for them in no longer guarding others' property.

I wish, then, to mention a deed of yours, one not done long ago, but well thought of among all no less than the very ancient ones, that you may know, comparing it, whether in general it is worthy of such men to do any such thing. After that continuous and long war of the Romans, which they waged against one another, when it befell you to be unfortunate through your goodwill toward the people — when the terrors had an end and all thought themselves saved, as often in great sicknesses there has been need of some dread remedy, then too it seemed good to seek such an amendment of affairs. Whence there was granted to all those outside a release from debts.

And, while they gladly accepted it and considered the matter a gift, you alone of all did not accept it — and that too when your capture, as I said, had just happened, and the enemy had left you in the city only your houses; but nonetheless it seemed to you a dreadful thing, on any occasion whatever, to transgress any of the just things, and on account of the misfortunes that had overtaken you besides to destroy even the good faith among yourselves; and, yielding to the Romans in all else, you did not think fit to yield in this one thing, the choosing nothing shameful for the sake of gain.

For the thing which, I think, you saw that their city did not need, through virtue and good fortune at once, this you declared your own did not need through virtue alone. You will not, then, say, men of Rhodes, that less gratitude is owed to those who have done good than to those who lent the debt. Then it seemed to you dreadful not willingly to pay what was owed, but moderate, having paid, to take it away? For you have not supposed that to act unbecomingly with all is more shameful than to do so alone. And yet, so great a change having occurred at the time I have mentioned, and confusion about all things, the things given remained securely with those who had received them before, and no one dared to exact from those who had already obtained anything. But you now do not even allow the things you have already paid to your benefactors to stand, but you, who at that time did not endure even any of the same things as the rest, and that too when you had stumbled, now in prosperity do what not even one of them did then.

And yet the matter of debts one might find at another time too, and Solon is said once to have done it among the Athenians. For, apart from its often befalling of necessity through the poverty of the borrowers, sometimes it is not even done unjustly because of the magnitude of the interest, when some have often in these recovered the principal. But that the recipients should be robbed of the favours given in return for benefactions can furnish no reasonable ground, nor did anyone ever propose it; rather of this alone, well-nigh of all things, has there never been an occasion.

And indeed these two things alike have been deemed worthy of the greatest guard in the laws, and of curse and the extreme penalties, if anyone introduce abolitions of debts or that it is fitting to redistribute the land. Of these, the one has not occurred among you; but the other, which we do not even at all know whether it ever happened, consider, comparing it with the matter now being examined. For when the land is from the beginning being divided, this would be the most dreadful thing, that the one who had it before becomes equal with him who possessed nothing; but when the image is given to another, the man robbed is in no way equal with the recipient. For the one has obtained, if indeed, the honour, but to the other nothing is left.

Come then, if someone should ask your magistrate, who stands by and orders the inscription to be cut out and another engraved, what is being done — has this man, by Zeus, been found to have wrought some dreadful thing against the city so many years after? By Zeus, would he not seem to you to be confounded, and that too if he be moderate? For I think even the craftsman will blush. And if children or some kinsmen of that man should happen to be present, how many tears do you think they will shed, when one begins to obliterate the name?

Surely they will set themselves against you, coming forward, crying out to the people. Will you not, then, even if such a thing happens, prevent it, nor turn to regard it? I would suppose nothing of the sort about you; rather I say that even now it escapes notice that it is being done, but that, knowing it, you will not allow it. Now, at least, you doubtless know the whole matter, so that it is fitting to prevent it once for all. By Zeus, but it is not the same, when there are many to whom no one is related and the matter befalls none of those known.

But I, that not because some are ignorant that certain of these are related to them — which is likely — they are therefore less wronged when their ancestors are dishonoured, leave aside; and the thing done seems to me otherwise more grievous toward those who have not even a single relation left. For even of the living it seems more dreadful to wrong those for whom there is no one to help. Since, on this reasoning, let them say it is nothing dreadful even to harm orphans utterly bereft, who can neither defend themselves nor have another to care for them. But you, on the contrary, are more indignant on their behalf, and publicly appoint guardians, that they may suffer no wrong.

And in general, of all the arguments they are going to make, none having anything reasonable, this is the most absurd — that, namely, they touch none of the known statues, nor those whose owners one knows, but make use of certain obscure and very ancient ones. As if one should say that he wrongs none of the eminent citizens, but the common people and those whom no one knows. And yet, by Zeus, it is not the same. For among the living one is more conspicuous than another, both through good birth and through virtue, and this comes about through wealth and through other notable causes; but in the case of the images one could not, on the contrary, say that these belong to better men. For it is not through low birth or any baseness that we do not know them, since they have obtained the same as the most brilliant, but this has happened through length of time.

By how much, then, all consider the earlier always by nature better than those born later, and of old it was a rarer thing for some to obtain this, by so much they admit they err against better men and the authors of greater goods. And that both these things are true is plain. For the very ancient men we know to have been demigods, and those after them not much worse than they; then those in succession ever lesser in time, and at last those of the present, such as we know ourselves to be. And formerly it was not even possible for all who died for the city to stand in bronze, but only if one did something extraordinary and marvellous; but now we honour those who sail in to us, so that, if indeed, we ought rather to alter the later and those now dedicated nearest to us.

Nor are you ignorant, doubtless, that all men of sense love the older of their friends more and make more account of them than of those who have become friends recently, and especially the ancestral ones altogether more than those known by themselves. For those who transgress against the latter wrong them alone; but those who dissolve anything toward the former neglect also those who acquired them.

And in general, just as, when one of the living is examined among you, whom you yourselves do not very well know or are altogether ignorant of, you attend to those who know them and cast your vote according to the witnesses, especially if these are not base — do the same now too; since the discourse is about men whom they say none of the living knows: learn from those who knew them. Now those of that time, who most clearly knew them, considered them benefactors of the city and deemed them worthy of the greatest honours. Whom it is not lawful for you to distrust, being your own ancestors, nor to call base.

Nor again is there any such thing to be said, that they have had the honours for a long time; for there is no way they will show that those men were honoured by the city for a longer time than the city was benefited by them. As, then, he who long ago owed a debt and long ago paid it has done nothing more than he who now pays back what he received, so neither has he who very long ago requited someone for a benefit then received.

And besides, if you were taking away a remission of taxes or money or land or some such thing you had given, those who had received them afterward would perhaps be more wronged; for he who held such things for some time has gained something and gotten ahead; but in the case of honour there is nothing of the sort. For they are more prosperous all the rest of the time too; for what they acquired they hold from these; but to the others, on the contrary, it falls to have become more dishonoured. For where the loss is less, to those who have long enjoyed it; but where the dishonour is greater, to those robbed of a very ancient honour.

That, then, the thing especially is not free of impiety, in the manner these men allege, even if I shall seem to some to speak for the sake of exaggeration, not, as I said before, because all things done concerning the dead are simply acts of impiety, but because all consider the very ancient men heroes, even if they have nothing extraordinary, on account, I think, of the time itself. But those so august and deemed worthy of the greatest things, of whom some have even received the rites of heroes, who have lain so many years that even their memory has failed — how is it possible for them to meet with the same appellation as those who died in our time or a little before, and otherwise appeared worthy of nothing?

And indeed, as for the acts of impiety toward the heroes, no one would dispute that they hold the same rank as those toward the gods. What then? Is it not a wrong to abolish the memory? To take away the honour? To cut out the name? Dreadful and shocking, O Zeus. But if someone takes away a garland that will perhaps last one day or two, or casts some stain on the bronze, you will consider him impious; but the one who wholly obliterates and transfers and dissolves the repute, does nothing strange?

But if someone takes a little spear from the hand, or breaks off the crest of a helmet, or the shield from the arm, or the bridle of a horse, you will straightway hand him over to the public, and he will undergo the same punishment as the temple-robbers — as indeed many have died for such causes, and it avails them nothing to say that they marred one of the nameless and very ancient images; but shall the city publicly appear altogether worse and meaner concerning the heroes?

And so, if someone should come in and say that a stranger or even a citizen has been caught taking off a hand or finger of a statue, you will cry out and bid them straightway put him on the wheel. And yet, when a hand or spear or cup is taken off, if it chance to be holding one, the honour remains and the one honoured has the token of his virtue, and only the bronze has become less; but when the inscription is abolished, the testimony is abolished, doubtless, and the seeming that the man had become worthy of praise.

I wish, then, to tell you what I know is done at Athens, and I think is done here too, by a law very well made. For there, when one of the citizens must be put to death publicly for a crime, his name is first erased. For what reason? For one thing, that he may no longer seem a citizen when he suffers such a thing, but, so far as possible, having become an alien;

then, I think, this seems no small part of the punishment itself, that the very appellation of the one who came to such wickedness should no longer appear, but be utterly obliterated — as, I think, the not burying of traitors, that there may be no token henceforth of a wicked man. Come then, if someone should say that this is done among you to benefactors, which among many is the custom toward malefactors, will you not be greatly pained? Do not, then, be vexed with the one who now seems to have said it; for he would be the cause that it is no longer said, nor always.

And indeed, if someone erase a single word from a monument, you will put him to death, no longer examining what it was or about what; and if someone, coming to where your public records are, should wipe out a single syllable of one stroke of a law or decree, you will be disposed as if someone took something down from the chariot. Does not, then, the one who abolishes the inscription of an image do something less than the one who scratches off the monument? Indeed he wipes out the whole decree by which that man received the honour — or rather makes void what is written. But if someone, condemned for whatever cause and owing some penalty, having escaped notice or by contrivance erased himself, will seem to dissolve the constitution; so that it seems to you more dreadful to free oneself from a penalty than to rob another of honour.

Nor again is that to be omitted, since I made the speech as about an act of impiety. For you know clearly that the whole city is sacred, and you would find that many of the statues standing in the very temples have suffered this. For these happen to be the most ancient, and whichever of the generals each wishes to court, as if you were honouring him, he is ambitious that this one should stand as nobly as possible. And what need of words? For I think no one would deny that even of those so placed, even if not, as I now said, the most are renamed, and some, I think, even stand very near the gods.

Then, where it is not the custom to wrong even those who have done evil, if they take refuge there, is it not dreadful if we shall appear to wrong benefactors? And the asylum which such places furnish to the base, shall they, as it seems, not be able to furnish to the good alone? But if someone change one of the censers lying within or a cup, he will be considered a temple-robber no less than those who steal; but if he change an image and an honour, does he do nothing strange?

And yet one might say that the statues are no less dedications of the gods than those in the temples; and one may see many inscribed thus: such a one dedicated himself, or his father, or his son, to such and such a god. If, then, someone, taking away from the other dedications the name of the dedicator, should inscribe another, shall we say that he alone is not impious? But Apollo, doubtless, did not allow the man of Cyme to take the nestlings from the precinct, saying they were his suppliants.

By the very means, then, by which some will try to make the matter appear more decent, they will show it to be altogether worse. For instance, when they say they use the very ancient ones, and that some are even without inscription. For if one should grant them that this is so, I would not say the obvious thing, that I now make my argument about the inscribed ones, but I say that not even those ought to be touched. For consider, men of Rhodes, the cause for which some are likely to have been set up thus. For it is not likely that the one setting it up forgot or hesitated, nor spared the expense for this; for there was none.

There remains, then, one of two things: either, because some were so very great and in truth heroes, they did not think it necessary to inscribe them, as being known to all, supposing that, through the excess of the repute then existing, the name would remain for all and the future time; or, being of certain demigods or even gods, they were afterward unknown through time. For it is not the custom to inscribe the gods; so that I do not despair that some of the others too are such.

At Thebes, at least, a certain Alcaeus is dedicated, whom they say is Heracles, formerly so called; and among the Athenians an image of an Eleusinian initiate, a boy, having no inscription; and him too they say is Heracles. And among others I know many statues, some of demigods, some of heroes — such as of Achilles, Sarpedon, Theseus — for this reason from the beginning not inscribed; and they say there is a colossus of Memnon in Egypt. But in some cases the repute remained and time preserved the fame; yet not in all did it come about, for whatever cause.

So then among you too it is not impossible that some are such. What sort of thing, then, is it to give the statue of Heracles, or, say, of Tlepolemus, or of one of the sons of the Sun, to so-and-so — a good man and worthy of honour? For let all whom the city courts be such, and one ought indeed to pray that all be good, and most of all the rulers; but they are not like those men. How could they be? Nor would they themselves say they fall a little short of them, but they would even be afraid to say any such thing. Does it, then, seem to you from what has been said rather, beginning from these, I mean those that have no inscriptions, to transfer the matter to all, or that such ones above all are to be spared?

And yet the matter of ignorance and that of antiquity is alike, just as if someone should say that those who plunder the very ancient tombs do no wrong, because no one is related to them nor do we know who they are. Now the tomb is not a sign of virtue but of wealth, nor can we say of those lying in the monuments that they were good — unless one appear to have been publicly buried, which I think has in a manner happened to these. But the image is given for valour and because one previously seemed noble — for that none of these was set up having been caught thieving or in adultery is not unclear — nor for chance things, but, so far as possible, for the greatest.

That, then, such men share in a certain divine power and providence, as one might say, I wish to tell something that happened in the case of a statue. There was a Thasian athlete, Theagenes; this man seemed to surpass those of his time in strength, and indeed, among many other crowns, had taken the Olympic one thrice. When he ceased and came to his fatherland, his body being now past its prime, he was a man inferior to none in public affairs, but, as far as possible, the best. From this, as is likely, he came into enmity with one of the politicians.

This man, while he lived, only envied him; but when he had died, he did a thing most foolish of all and most impious; for the statue of him standing in the middle of the city he scourged by night. Therefore, whether by chance or some divine power being indignant at him, the statue, moved at last from its base, followed along with the scourge and kills the man. There being a law to cast into the sea, after trial, anything inanimate that, falling upon someone, kills him, the kinsmen of the dead man convict the statue at law and cast it into the sea.

A plague befalling, as they say, most grievous, and the Thasians being unable in any way to be rid of the disease, and at last consulting the oracle, the god told them to bring back the exiles. When, all having returned, there was no improvement, consulting again, the Pythia is said to have answered thus: You have forgotten Theagenes fallen in the sands; there lies for you the man of countless contests. By which it is plain too that the first oracle was not given for the sake of the exiles, and that what happened occurred for no other cause.

And let no one suppose this: What then? Do we obliterate or cast away the statues? But you dishonour those to whom they belong and rob those who have them — which then too seemed dreadful to the god; since it is not likely that he cared for the bronze. Do not, then, think that the divine power was so indignant at the Thasian being outraged, but that none of those honoured among you is dear to the gods nor a hero.

Nor again is this to be said, that this could not happen even out of enmity, on the part of some, if indeed one of those serving as general happens to hate one of his predecessors. The case of Theagenes, at least, you have heard, how it came about through envy and jealousy from politics. For even if now they say they do it only to the ancient ones, yet as time advances, as always happens with all base customs, this too must of necessity proceed further. For it is not even possible to lay blame, the whole matter being in his power. By Zeus, but the kinsmen will prevent it. If, then, they happen to be absent or ignorant, when they learn of it, what shall we do? Will it be necessary to cut out again this man whom one happens to have inscribed?

The thing being, then, very absurd, or rather impious, it would be less dreadful if it came about not for such a pretext as some allege, as defending the city. For all consider doing any of the otherwise shameful things for money more shameful than doing it from any other cause. When, then, putting forward the expense and the need to spend if you make other statues, they think fit to pass the matter over, it is plain that they construct a greater reproach, if you shall seem to do wrong for the sake of money, and that too being wealthy as no others of the Greeks.

And yet why ever, in the time of your ancestors, did nothing of the sort happen, when they had not more than you now have? For that the island has not become worse, and that you reap Caria and a part of Lycia, and possess tributary cities, and that much money is always being dedicated to the people by many and none of the former is taken away, you think no one is ignorant.

And indeed you will not say that you spend more than those of that time. For then on all the things on which now too money was spent — festivals, processions, sacred rites, on the walls, for the jurors, for the council; but now the greatest of the former are not. For the expenses for war, while they were warring well-nigh continuously and rarely, if ever, resting, cannot be compared, I think, with the outlays made in peace.

For it is not the same to send out a fleet of a hundred ships or even more, and again of another seventy and thirty, and that too sometimes not disbanding it for three or four years; nor to be always sailing with triremes, not as far as Cyprus and Cilicia, but at one time to Egypt, at another to the Euxine, and at last in the very Ocean; nor to maintain mercenary soldiers guarding the forts and the country; and what now in our time one may see, to send out one or two undecked ships each year to Corinth.

And I say this not reproaching you nor making you out worse than your ancestors; for it is not that you cannot do the same as they, but that there is no occasion for such things, you live in peace. For it is plain that they too rather wished not to be in danger, and on this account toiled, that affairs might at some time be settled — except that they did not spend equally with you. For, to leave the rest aside — the matter of the dockyards, of the arms, of the engines, which I just mentioned — the very matter of the walls is not the same, as in your time they are repaired. For even if one set aside the matter of care as not differing, yet it is done at leisure and little by little and whenever one wishes; but then it was not possible for them not to stand. And now they are built to be approved by you, but then by the enemy.

Well; nor again is this to be said, that you honour more men; for the very multitude of the statues lying there from that time shows it. And apart from this, who would say that those now ambitious about the city are more? By Zeus, for we are under necessity to honour all the rulers. What? Do not the Athenians and Lacedaemonians and Byzantines and Mytilenaeans court these same men? But nonetheless, when it seems good to set someone up in bronze, they set him up and are well off for the expense for this.

And indeed I have already heard a certain Rhodian saying: Their case and ours are not alike. For to them there belongs only freedom, apart from the Athenians, and these have nothing great; but your city is envied among all as faring best, wherefore it has need of more who are well disposed. And further, none of the Romans cares about standing among those people, but does not neglect honour here.

These things are true; but you ought rather on their account to abstain from the matter. For those who make account of an image among you are likely not to pass over even how they obtain it, but to consider at the same time also your intention; and those who admit that the prosperity of the city is envied were not likely to reckon up the matter of expense. For you do not honour so many more than others by so much as you possess more than they. And indeed of the emperors you make images even now, and of the others in dignity. For it has not escaped you that to stand in this manner is nothing. That you may, then, honour certain ones, do you for the rest perform a deed so shameful and unworthy of yourselves?

For if you dealt with all alike apart from the emperors, you would not be so convicted. But now there are some whom you yourselves set up; so that it is plain to the rest from these that you do not honour the others. But if these belong to the many and to those who have benefited no one, for what cause do you act unbecomingly? Or wishing what do you court these, and that too when it is possible for you to show regard otherwise? For more hospitable gifts and the generosity of reception are sufficient for the many, and if one be better, even a simple decree sufficed, by which he was invited to the town-hall or to a front seat. For now you seem, like shipmasters very overladen and tossed by storm on that account, to make a jettison of the statues.

And yet come, if someone should tell you that you ought to sell the most of them, that you may be well off for money, there is no way you would not think the speaker to be a slave. Now then you do this very thing; for whatever a statue would cost, so much you gain on each — except that you sell them to themselves and not for export, like, I think, very worthless slaves. And in general know well that none of such things is great or precious otherwise except in relation to the givers, if they give it as such. But if, of the things that exist, they should readily furnish whatever one wishes even to any chance person, it will quickly seem worth nothing.

For this reason it is more august to be invited once to a front seat among you than to have an image among others. And for you, seated, to praise a man is brilliant; but others, though they burst with shouting, do not seem to honour sufficiently. The crown at Olympia you doubtless know to be of olive, and many have preferred this to life, not because the olive growing there has anything marvellous, but because it is not given easily nor for a small thing. Therefore nearest to our time, as you know, one of the emperors was so very much overcome by the matter and desired the victory there, so that he even competed among the Eleans and considered this the limit of happiness. But if they crowned all the rulers who came to the spectacle, what emulation or what repute would the crown still have?

But they say that those people do not even open the letters which they write commending one of the athletes, before he has competed. And this has never brought them any danger, but on the contrary honour and praise, by seeming worthy to preside over the contest. For do not think the Romans so dull and ignorant as to choose nothing of what is under them to be free and noble, but to wish rather to rule over slaves.

Then the Eleans so esteem their own things, being in no other respect better than any of the Peloponnesians; but you fear the passers-by, and if you do not set up one man in bronze, do you think you will lose your freedom? But if it is so very precarious as to be taken away on any chance pretext, it is altogether better for you to be slaves already. For even for those whose bodies are so dangerously affected as to be unable to recover, it is better to die than to live.

For if your faith from so long a time, and goodwill toward their people, and partnership in every fortune, cannot make your constitution secure — nor Mithridates being overthrown, nor Antiochus, nor the rule of the sea handed over through many dangers and toils, nor the oaths of friendship from so many years ago, nor the monuments lying beside Zeus himself until now, nor the power that shared dangers as far as the Ocean, nor at last the city captured on their behalf — but unless you basely flatter so-and-so and so-and-so, all these are overturned, so that one must always expect some anger or hatred — your affairs are in a very poor state and you are established on nothing firm. And I, for one, would say, even if you will hear it with displeasure, that those serving as slaves in the middle of Phrygia fare better than you, or those in Egypt and Libya.

For to do anything whatever when one is unknown and seems worth nothing is less shameful; but for those so conspicuous and admired among all to be under necessity, like ignoble dogs, to fawn on the passer-by, is dreadful. Come then, even if it were necessary to honour all thus, and one should suppose the city to be in the utmost want, how much better to send the very decree of the image, that, if he wishes, he may set it up at his own charge?

By Zeus, but it is shameful if we shall confess so great a straitness, and unworthy of Rhodians. And who in his right mind would not choose to seem poor rather than wicked? Or does what is now done seem to you less shameful than anything, that someone can relate of your statues, as of houses, that formerly this belonged to so-and-so, but now has become so-and-so's, and if this man die, again it will be the heir's or the buyer's? And yet the image it is not just for anyone to transfer, as a house.

I have already heard someone improvising something of this sort too, that this may be seen done among others as well; and again another, that among the Athenians too many things are now done for which one might not unreasonably rebuke them, not only about other matters, but also about the honours; who have called so-and-so Olympian, not even a citizen of theirs by birth, a Phoenician fellow not from Tyre and Sidon, but from some village or the mainland, and that too one who pitches his arms and wears bands; and so-and-so, the all-too-facile poet, who once gave a display both among you and here, they have not only set up in bronze, but beside Menander. And those who disparage the city are wont to cite also the epigram on the statue of Nicanor, who bought Salamis for them.

But for my part, if anyone says these things either rebuking the Athenians, and showing that the inhabitants are not worthy of the city nor of the repute which those of former times left, or in general pitying Greece for the state into which it has fallen, when such things are done by those who for some time seemed to preside over it, I think he speaks well; but if he means that it is fitting that you too should not think highly of yourselves nor better than they, I cannot express the excess of insensibility of the one who says this.

For it is not in the manner in which it is the custom for all to speak of the noble things done by others, for the sake of emulation and encouragement, that likewise, if anything base is done by others, one ought to remember this so as to imitate it; on the contrary, for the sake of guarding against it and not falling unawares into any such thing. For if one were praising those men in saying these things, and declaring that they meet with no worse repute, he would, doubtless, be simple, or rather shameless; except that, according to his own judgment, he furnished some occasion to those wishing to err. But if all bring these things forward as shameful and reproaches, and none of those who eulogize the city would say any such thing, but either one slandering it or otherwise attacking and rebuking it, altogether simple is the one who seems through such things to urge you to neglect your own affairs.

As if someone, persuading an athlete to give up and abandon the crown for money, should say to him: Do you not see that man who withdrew before you being scourged? Or, by Zeus, if someone, showing one of the actors those who fail and are hissed, should so console him: Mind that you too will not give heed, but will compete just the same. And now well-nigh they say to you: Do you not see the Athenians, how unbecomingly they behave, how ill they are spoken of, how they are an example to all of ignobility and of the outrage which they outrage their fatherland?

And yet shall one set them as competitors of yours, as they think fit, or rather — which is altogether better and more just — both these and the Lacedaemonians and all the like as a part of you, or you of them? But it is not reasonable to imitate competitors when they err; on the contrary, so much the more to do right, that you may appear altogether superior to them, and be of good repute not only through their baseness, but also through your own virtue; nor to imitate kinsmen and relations, but rather to prevent them, or, failing that, to try by your own deeds to make their errors less.

And further, if in other respects you in no way differed from them, perhaps there would be no need to be ambitious in this one thing and consider how you shall seem better. But now there is nothing of the things done there at which one would not be ashamed. For instance, the matter of the gladiators: they have so very much emulated the Corinthians, or rather surpassed both them and all the rest in ill-starredness, that whereas the Corinthians watch outside the city in a ravine, in a place able to hold a multitude but otherwise filthy and where no one would even bury any of the free, the Athenians watch this fine spectacle in their theatre under the very acropolis, where they place Dionysus on the orchestra; so that often someone is slaughtered among the very seats where they must seat the hierophant and the other priests.

And the philosopher who spoke about this and admonished them they did not accept nor praise, but were so displeased that, though he was in lineage second to no Roman, and had so great a reputation as no one for a very long time has obtained, and was the only one admitted to have lived most in keeping with his words after the ancients, he left the city and chose rather to spend his time elsewhere in Greece. But you, men of Rhodes, would endure no such thing, among whom it is a law that the public executioner never enter the city.

For what cause, then, have I made mention of this? Not, by Zeus, wishing to revile the Athenians; for, on the contrary, it occurs to all moderate men to pity them; but that you may know that henceforth the discourse is for you not against them, but against yourselves and any other of the rest who is of sound mind. And yet all that one might say against the Athenians or against the Lacedaemonians or against whomever, among whom certain other things are in a poor and very neglectful state, will fight along with me; for the matter of the images one cannot see done thus among them; so that what is not even erred among those utterly ruined, how could it not have some excess of absurdity?

And still more do the very things concerning the honours, when set side by side, demonstrate this. For if it seems dreadful to set one of the present beside one of the ancients, how much more dreadful so to rob one of those of his honour as to give it to another? And if to inscribe the name of one upon another much lesser brings such great condemnation, the wiping out and abolishing the name of the better, if it so happen, what kind of thing do you think it appears? And indeed, if someone should say you are like Caunians or Myndians, you will be greatly angered and consider that he blasphemes against the city; how, then, could it still bring you any defense concerning anything done among you, that it is done among those people too?

Just as if someone should think you ought to demolish your walls, or even let them fall, because among others too they have fallen — or rather among well-nigh all the rest. And yet the walls are left among them on account of peace and slavery, of which all pray for the one, peace, and the other is no sign of baseness; but to deal thus with the ancient benefactors comes about through ingratitude. And I should say that among those people not even benefactors are wronged. For what noble man has arisen among the Caunians? Or who ever did them any good? — who are slaves not to you alone, but also to the Romans, through excess of folly and baseness having contrived for themselves a double slavery. And one might say these things about others too of the same opinion.

But I, in general, think that those who think as highly of themselves as you justly do ought not to look to others in what they do, especially to those so much worse, but to their own repute and the dignity of the city. For it would be ridiculous if one of your citizens, that Dorieus, or Leonidas, whom they say so often won at Olympia, should train looking to some other man, and that too one never crowned. With the Lacedaemonians, however, or the Athenians, if you wish to compare yourselves, I grant it — those of that time, when one of those like you might reasonably be compared with them.

For it is not reasonable that the athlete still ambitious and not yet yielding in strength should challenge the sick of those renowned in his time, nor the dead, but, if there be any in vigour, to contend with them for victory; and if not, to seek to do some such thing as will show him weaker than none of the former. This, then, is the sound argument about such matters. But if indeed something must be granted, examine the matter neither comparing it with those of that time, who were the mightiest, nor with those now, who differ in nothing from the basest, but with the middling among them or even those still less than these.

Among the Athenians, then, especially in the time of Philip, when they had yielded the leadership and clung only to freedom that remained, a certain Leptines introduced a law that it was necessary to take away the immunities from those who held them from the people, except those descended from Harmodius and Aristogeiton, and that henceforth it should no longer be allowed to give anyone this gift. What then? Is there any way they accepted the law? Surely not, but it was convicted on indictment.

Come then, compare this custom with that law, and if it appear to you in any way better, keep it and make it stronger for the future — which would of necessity come about, if it be not now dissolved; but if, considering it in every way, you find it worse, imitate the Athenians of that time, and the thing that is more absurd than what was then dissolved by them, do you now too dissolve.

The showing the city false and untrustworthy about its gifts, and the wronging of benefactors by robbing them of their requitals, and all such things, attach equally and in common to both; but there it was not possible that those who had held the immunity should have profited nothing; for what they acquired from the remission remained to them entirely, since for the rest of the time too they were going to be more prosperous through it. But to those robbed of the image, from having been honoured before, nothing whatever remains, save the outrage and the dishonour.

And besides, the one who then proposed the law accused some of those who had received the immunity and declared the most of them wicked, not merely unworthy of gratitude; so that this was the dreadful thing, that, not accusing all, he robbed all of the gifts. But here it is not even possible for those who take them away to say anything against those men; for whom they do not even know, how is it possible to accuse them?

And further, the law made certain ones exempt, those reputed to have most benefited the city, the descendants of Harmodius and Aristogeiton; but here there is nothing exempt. For by the matter being done without record, and forbidden about nothing at all either by law or by decree, it is possible for it to befall anyone, against whomever it may seem good to the general.

And indeed the law seemed to do a dreadful thing in taking away from the people their authority, so that it should not even henceforth be possible to vote this gift. And how much better to prevent the people from the outset from giving anything, if it were not advantageous to the city, than, leaving them the granting, to make the taking-away rest with one man? For, it being shameful, as no one would gainsay, to rob the recipients of anything, by the law this happened once, but by the custom it occurs always.

And indeed, if it seems grievous that the city should be robbed of any authority, you too rob yourselves of the authority of guarding secure the things given to the recipients. For to whomever you give the honour, it is no longer in your power to let him keep it; rather one man is always master of this, the one serving as general. And yet it is worse for it not to be in your power through custom than through what is forbidden by law. For those people have not in a manner been robbed of the authority over what they have forbidden themselves to do by law, but withdrew willingly because of the advantage.

But in the case of the custom it is not even possible to say this, that they have robbed themselves, if indeed, of that about which they neither judged nor deliberated. And indeed there they had some consolation in the equality and commonness of the matter, all alike being robbed of their immunities; but among you whoever chances is robbed of the image, and often the better. And further, there the law robbed the holder not that another might receive, but among you it is for this very cause, which is altogether more grievous than merely to be robbed.

And indeed this at least no one is ignorant of, doubtless — how much harder it seems to suffer something through another than through oneself. So then by the law it came about, that some might not have the immunities, of which he spoke as unworthy, that the rest should give them up; but by the custom among you, that others might receive, the holders are robbed.

And altogether this is heavier for those who suffer. If, then, on the cases where it is most necessary, one should wish to see whom this custom wrongs and whom that law was going to grieve — having taken away from those who not only had immunity, but had also obtained the image — let him so consider the rest of each. For these in a manner suffered nothing; for what they had received in the way of an addition, this they lost, the greater gift being preserved to them; but in the case of the others the argument would be equal. But the matter is plain, I think, even of itself; for by how much the image is greater than the immunity, by so much better are those who obtained it; and the argument would become still plainer thus:

for the immunity makes the recipients more prosperous, and those most desire it who have been eager about money; but the image has only the august and the honourable. By how much, then, we should all say better are those who choose to benefit some for nothing and rather for the sake of repute than those who do so for money and for gain's sake, by so much I should say that this custom not only wrongs better men, but also prevents you from being benefited by better men than the law prevented those people.

But I, for my part, am at a loss why ever you do not even set up a law about this, by which it shall be for the future, if indeed it pleases you. By Zeus, for such a law lying in the city brings no small shame. Then what you consider shameful to write, is it not shameful to do? And how much better not to use any of the things badly written than to do them? Or which would you call better — those so disposed toward absurd things as to abstain even from things granted, or those who do things not even conceded?

But I, for my part, would say — it being agreed that one ought in no way to do anything unjust or unseemly — that among those by whom such a thing is done by law, there would be less ground for accusation than among those by whom it is done by custom. For first, the law is express, and could never become worse; for it is possible neither to take away from nor add to what is written; but the custom, if it be base, must of necessity become ever baser too, by not being comprehended nor defined.

I mean, for instance, they say this took its beginning straightway from those broken down and no longer even standing on their bases; for these the generals used, repairing them and in a manner making them anew, then — what was left — those sound but having no inscriptions were inscribed; and for the rest now even some of the inscribed, the very ancient ones; for let what they say be true: afterward there must of necessity be no distinction; for in other matters too it is so — expense, disorder, luxury;

you will never find any of the worse customs standing still or remaining the same, until it be altogether prevented. For through admitting addition always, and through being unexaminable by a little and not readily appearing to anyone how much one thing is worse than another, it advances to the utmost, just as, I think, some of the sores and diseases which are by nature apt to grow from anything. And besides this there is that point too: those who do something base by law do it not as being such, but having been deceived; but those who do base things by custom all would say err knowingly, things which do not even seem to themselves fit to have been written.

Do not, then, if it began earlier and more time has passed, on this account think it less fitting for you to abolish it; for those who guard such things incur no less shame than those who introduced them, but on the contrary are the more liable to those wishing to accuse them. For when first done, it was not even impossible for it to escape the men of that time, and that too while those doing it were still on their guard; but what has come about for a long time, no one can be ignorant of, especially since this pretext has been altogether removed for you, who sit in judgment about this very thing. As, then, if it were necessary for you to begin one of the noble things, you would not on this account hesitate, likewise it is reasonable, even if it be necessary to abolish one of the base things.

Do not, then, let time benefit the custom, if indeed it is bad, as I think I made plain long ago. For not, if it has harmed you for a long time, on this account, I think, is it fitting that it never cease harming. For neither, having taken a wicked man from of old, will you release him for the sake of the time he passed being wicked. Nor again, if one could heal a disease that long troubled him, would he spare to be from the outset in health.

And I think that you, if one of the gods should make plain to you the thing about to grieve the city again at some time, would altogether guard against this, it being in your power; then will you not neglect the thing that will harm others, since it will be afterward, but will allow the thing that wrongs you yourselves most greatly, because it began earlier? This, then, is altogether simple, if anyone thinks one ought never to prevent what is done customarily but absurdly.

I think it fitting that you reflect rather on this, that, while there are many things in the city on all of which you reasonably pride yourselves — first the laws and the good order about the constitution, on which you are most ambitious, then, I think, such things as temples, theatres, dockyards, walls, harbours, of which some display wealth and magnanimity and the greatness of your former power, others your piety toward the gods — you take pleasure in none less than in the multitude of the statues, and reasonably;

for such a thing not only brings adornment, like any other of the dedications, but also displays not least the strength of the city and its character. For chance persons are neither benefited by many, nor willing, nor perhaps able, to honour many. And besides there is that point too: for not only on this account has it come about that there are most statues among you, but also, I think, because the Romans, though often taking from everywhere the furnishings of temples and palaces, have never moved any of those among you;

seeing that even Nero, having so great a desire and zeal about this, that he abstained neither from those of Olympia nor from those of Delphi — though he honoured these temples above all — and besides transferred the most of those from the acropolis at Athens and many of those from Pergamum, although that precinct belonged to him — for about those among others, what need to speak? — those among you alone he let be, and showed so great goodwill and honour toward you at once, that he judged the whole city more sacred than the foremost temples.

For you know that Acratus who went round well-nigh the whole inhabited world for this purpose and passed by not even one village, that he came here too. And, you being grieved, as is likely, he said he was present to view; for he had no authority to touch any of the things here. Therefore, apart from the common adornment of the sight, the multitude of the images procures you another repute too. For these appear a proof of your friendship toward the rulers and of the regard from them.

Then the Romans and Nero so guarded the things among you and judged them august; and will you not guard them? And Nero, the most violent of emperors, granting himself the most and considering all things less in face of all authority, robbed no one of the image among those honoured by the Rhodians alone; but do you yourselves rob them? And how much better it would have been for the same to have happened here too. For among the others the names of those honoured remain, and no one would wipe out the inscriptions; but you, as though you had suffered some evil from them, cut them out.

And yet one might say that even if they were taken away by the kings, not even so are the men wronged. For not as going to give them to others, but needing them for adornment, they transferred them, so that none of them would take away the name, nor again would they fare worse, being set up, instead of in the market of Megara and Epidaurus and Andros or Myconos, in the temples of the Romans. And even if one set this aside, it would have been better, so far as you are concerned, for their honours to have been thus obliterated. For there would have been no error of yours, nor would you yourselves have wronged your own benefactors and the heroes, but, if anything, would have been wronged along with them.

And indeed, if one of you should ask — even if it will seem rather ridiculous — why ever neither you nor anyone else makes the images of those judged worthy of this gift of clay, it being doubtless easier and involving no expense or an altogether small one — you would say, I think: not on account of its not being outraged, but also on account of the honours of good men remaining, if possible, forever. Now then know that all your statues are weaker than wax. For one must not consider whether they bear the sun. For they are corrupted by the flattery toward others, and if it seem good to so-and-so and so-and-so for whatever cause, they are no longer the men they were before. And such corruption is far worse.

For then the weakness of the material would be convicted, but now the baseness of the city seems to appear. Therefore you give the statues just as those who buy these dolls for their children. For they too give them in such a way as to be in no way grieved when they are broken to pieces a little later. Are you ignorant of the shame attaching to the matter and how much laughter you incur, lying publicly, and that too so openly?

For in the decrees, at least, you write: and to set up an image of so-and-so. How, one might say to you, men of Rhodes, do you write to set up the one already standing, if it so happen, five hundred years ago? Then you judge those women who substitute children wicked and think they do a dreadful thing in lying; but you yourselves are not ashamed to do this with the images, both saying that the statues belong to those to whom they do not, and that too not being unacquainted with the jeers against the city?

Many, at least, say that the statues of the Rhodians are like the actors. For just as each of these enters now as one character, now as another, so your statues take now one face, now another, and stand all but acting a part. For the same one is now a Greek, now a Roman, and again, if it so happen, a Macedonian or a Persian; and this in some cases so that the one who sees it knows at once. For the dress and the footgear and other such things convict the falsehood.

And I omit countless of the things that happen, such as often inscribing the name of some young man on the image of a very old man — you having found, I think, some marvellous gift, if along with the honour you give also the youth; and again, an athlete's statue standing, as belonging to an altogether weak and ordinary man in body. For that so-and-so should be seen among you riding, or engaging an enemy, or marshalling an army, a man who never once touched the ground with his own feet nor came down from the shoulders of those who carried him, is perhaps nothing strange; but so-and-so stands among you boxing.

And I say these things, by Zeus, not wishing to be hateful to you nor disparaging the city, but that it may appear to do nothing unworthy of itself nor alien to its other good order and constitution. And it seems to me one might reasonably be moved, through goodwill toward all the Greeks, not only toward you, if anything here be not well, to speak and reveal it. For formerly the common dignity was made up of many, and many exalted Greece — you, the Athenians, the Lacedaemonians, the Thebans, for some time the Corinthians, of old the Argives. But now the matter of the others is nothing.

For some of them are utterly abolished and perished, and others behave unbecomingly, doing such things as you hear, and in every way obliterating their ancient repute, the fools thinking they live luxuriously and counting it gain that no one prevents them from erring. But you remain; for to you alone it belongs to seem really to have been somebody and not to be utterly despised. For on account of those who so treat their own fatherlands, as some say truly, nothing prevented all the Greeks from having long ago become more dishonoured than the Phrygians or Thracians.

As, then, of a prosperous and great house left desolate, when one heir still remains, in him are all things, and if he err in anything and is ill spoken of, he obliterates the whole repute of the house and shames all the former ones; so your affairs now stand toward Greece. For do not think you are first of it, men of Rhodes, do not think it. For it is possible to be first of the living and of those who perceive honour or dishonour; but her things are gone and in every way shamefully and pitiably corrupted; nor is it possible any longer to conceive the preeminence and brilliance of the cities, looking at least to the men.

But the stones rather display the august and the greatness of Greece, and the ruins of the buildings; since the very inhabitants and those who manage public affairs one would not even call descendants of Mysians; so that to me, at least, the cities utterly abolished seem to fare better than those so inhabited. For the memory of these remains sound, and the name is outraged through none of the former noble things; just as, I think, of the dead too it is altogether better that the bodies be made away with and that no one see them than that they appear rotting.

And these things perhaps came to me more than was reasonable, when I mentioned the whole state. But that I wished to make plain to you, that you are left alone of the Greeks to whom one might both give counsel and about whom there is still ground to be grieved when they seem to err. Reasonably, then, you would give heed to yourselves and examine all such things more exactly than your ancestors. For to them, in many other things, belonged the display of virtue — in presiding over the rest, in aiding the wronged, in acquiring allies, in founding cities, in conquering in war;

but for you it is not possible to do any such thing, but there is left, I think, to preside over yourselves and to administer the city, and to honour someone and applaud not in the manner of the many, and to deliberate and to judge and to sacrifice to the gods and to keep festival; in all of which it is possible to appear better than the others. Therefore such things of yours too meet with praise, and are recognized among all as not small — the walk, the haircut, that no one swaggers through the city, but is compelled through your custom that even the strangers visiting walk in an orderly way; just as, I think, one may see even the rustics, when they come to a wrestling-school or gymnasium, move less without rhythm;

and besides this the manner of the dress, the thing that would perhaps appear ridiculous to someone, the measure of the purple; and the more conspicuous things now — the watching in quiet, the clucking of the tongue; all these make the city august, through these you seem to differ from the rest, for all these you are admired, loved. The harbours, the walls, the dockyards adorn you less than the ancient and Greek quality in your customs — that when one comes to be among you, straightway, on disembarking, he knows, even if he happen to be a barbarian, that he is not come to some city of Syria or Cilicia; but among others, unless one hear the name of the place, say, that it is called Lyceum or Academy, there is no difference.

For what cause, then, do I say these things, now ceasing, and wishing to make what plain? That by so much the more you ought to be ambitious and pass over none of the things that happen. And if you are thus disposed in all that you do, perhaps you will seem in no way worse than your ancestors. For to preserve oneself in such a state and to remain in the posture of virtue seems to me marvellous;

just as, I think, one may see among those sailing, when a storm has fallen or the wind is violent, not even the most wanton of them doing anything shameful, but being intent only on the sailing, while in calm the insolence of both the sailors and the passengers comes to the surface, even if they be not licentious; in the same way, I think, war is wont to rouse and master even the baser sort, but in so great peace and ease it belongs to the best men to be carried into no shame nor disorder.