Oration 40

Dio Chrysostom

Translated by Thothica

In the atlas

25 min

I supposed, fellow citizens, that now at last, if not before, I should keep entirely quiet on coming here, and lay hold of no public affair, whether willingly or unwillingly — for one reason, because I see that there are always many, both among the elder and among the younger, who, with the gods' help, are both willing and able to administer the city and to preside over your affairs aright, lacking neither in speaking nor in acting, and are moreover experienced in your constitution; whereas I suspected — for the truth shall be spoken —
that some were burdened by me as a stranger and a superfluity. And then, too, I thought it necessary to take some forethought for my body, worn out as it was by much and continuous hardship, and for the affairs of my household, which were in altogether wretched condition and which, having been ruined for so long a time, had met with no setting right. For where the absence of a master who has tarried abroad is enough to ruin even the greatest estate, what must one expect after so many years of exile? Hence no one would have expected that I should have come through, apart from your extraordinary goodwill. And yet, so long as it was poverty that threatened us, there was nothing dreadful in it. For I am hardly unpractised in that, having wandered so long a time not only without house and hearth, but without even a single attendant to bring along. Nor, then, did I expect that my son would find it hard to endure poverty, since he is not by nature worse than I.
But since our concern is not to play false with our fatherland nor to defraud you of the promise we made with no one compelling us — a promise by no means easy nor of small cost — this I think is hard, and worthy of much anxious thought; for there is nothing heavier than this, nor owed at greater interest, than a debt of gratitude. And this is what is called "the shameless and bitter loan," whenever, I suppose, through delay the favour passes over into a debt; and they who keep silent are altogether harder to satisfy in their demands than those who clamour.
For nothing so reminds those who owe you such debts as your having forgotten them. For these reasons, then, I thought it necessary to attend to my own affairs and to approach no public matter, not even so far as a word, for the present, until I should perceive that very thing of which the poet speaks: "what good and ill has been wrought for me in my halls."
For previously, perhaps through my own meddlesomeness, I took not even a little leisure, since, when I ought merely to have met you and greeted you, and only that, and sacrificed to the gods and — yes, by Zeus — read out the emperor's letters, because that was necessary, and then withdrawn at once and turned to my own affairs, I made instead a certain speech concerning a certain work; and not I alone, but the governors too were eager for it, wishing perhaps to gratify you, and perhaps me as well, and to make the city better equipped and more dignified throughout. For before, you know well, we fell short even of our neighbours in such things.
When I delivered that speech then, the people were stirred up to the project — for you are neither ignoble nor insensible in your natures — and many of the citizens were prompted to vie in generosity. And again afterward, when I left the matter in your hands, often in the council-chamber and often in the theatre, so that, if you should not approve and should not wish it, I might trouble no one — for I suspected the lack of leisure that this would entail for me — it was often ratified by you and often by the governors, no one opposing.
But once it had taken its beginning — all that I myself went through, measuring and re-measuring and reckoning how it might not turn out unseemly or useless (such works as have been built in vain among others and have come to nothing), and at last toiling away among the mountains, being experienced in none of these things, nor at a loss for some occupation, but rather able to do other and perhaps more important things, from which I should have won repute not among you alone — all this I now forbear to recount. For nothing was a burden to me when I endured it for your sake.
But there arose many speeches — not, however, from many men — and exceedingly unpleasant ones: that I was razing the city to the ground; that I had all but laid it waste by driving out the citizens; that everything was destroyed, thrown into confusion, and nothing was left. And there were some who bitterly bewailed so-and-so's smithy, taking it ill that these memorials of the ancient prosperity should not remain — as though we were disturbing the Propylaea at Athens, or the Parthenon, or were overturning the Heraeum of the Samians, or the Didymeum of the Milesians, or the temple of Ephesian Artemis,
and not, rather, shameful and ridiculous ruins, far meaner than the huts under which sheep take shelter, into which not one of the shepherds could enter, nor even of the nobler dogs — buildings at which you blushed and were abashed when the governors came in, while those ill-disposed toward you exulted and laughed; where the very smiths could scarcely so much as lift their heads, but worked bent double; and these things, falling and propped up, trembling and gaping at the blow of the hammer. But nonetheless there were those who looked with vexation upon the vanishing of these tokens of the former poverty and ill-repute — not that they cared for the columns left standing, or the cornices, or the workshops being built elsewhere, but that you might never have a higher pride than they.
For know well that by buildings, and by festivals, and by administering justice yourselves, and by not being subject to scrutiny by others nor contributing to others like a mere village — by all these things the spirit of cities is naturally exalted, and the dignity of the people becomes greater, and they meet with more honour both from the strangers who visit and from the governors. And these things, to those who love their own fatherlands and do not fear lest they appear inferior to them, bring wondrous pleasure; but to those who are otherwise disposed, and who wish to be powerful among the weak, and who reckon the glory of the city to be their own ill-repute, they fittingly bring grief and envy.
And yet the shoe one must fit to oneself and to one's own foot, and, if it seem too large, cut it down; but a city one must never lop short, nor bring down to one's own measure, nor measure against one's own soul, if one happens to have a small and illiberal one — and that, too, when there are examples at hand: I mean those of the Smyrnaeans, of the Ephesians, of the people of Tarsus, of the Antiochenes. And this too I know clearly, that even before this some, on hearing, were bursting with rage and bore it ill that you should be accustomed to listen to such discourses, and that anyone should dare to name your city in the company of such cities.
Yet, complaining at these things and saying such things and allowing no one to give, and standing in the way of the works, they so disposed me that I came near to passing sentence of exile upon myself. For it would have been absurd, after so long an exile and so many troubles and a tyrant for an enemy, to have come here in order to find rest and henceforth to forget my former hardships — like one unexpectedly and scarcely saved from a dreadful and savage sea and storm by the goodwill of some god — and then here, as in a harbour, to suffer shipwreck.
But I marvel most at the malice — or rather the folly — of certain men, when I recall what tales they fabricated, at first about the embassy which you sent to give thanks. For they said that the emperor had not received the envoys gladly, but had rather been displeased, on the ground that he ought to have met those who came at the gate and embraced them, or to have named those not yet present, or to have inquired about this man and that — how they fared, or why they had not all come.
And they fabricated that he had given the Smyrnaeans very many gifts and had sent untold sums of money along with the Nemeses; and, by Zeus, that to someone else who addressed him he had granted a council of ten thousand, and had ordered a river of gold to be turned into the city, and that countless myriads had been bestowed — of which nothing was true, much as I myself could have wished it.
For that others fare well and obtain great things would never grieve the man of sense — especially one who has himself fared first and has perhaps furnished the starting-point. For it would be like a man thinking it right that the sun should shine for him alone, or Zeus rain for him, or the winds blow for him, or that no one else should be able to drink from the springs. But the emperor, being at once most humane and most sagacious of all men, granted both to me what I asked and to others what they asked.
For what purpose, then, have I spoken all this, when you are deliberating about other matters? Because I was the first to lay hold of this matter too, and delivered many speeches here concerning concord, holding that this was for the city's advantage and that it was better not to be at variance with any men, and least of all, I think, with those so near and neighbouring. Yet I did not go to those men, nor speak any friendly word, before the city should be publicly reconciled and you should become friends. And yet they sent a decree at the very outset, greeting me kindly and inviting me to come; and I had many just claims upon them, as had any other man from here; but nonetheless I would not allow myself to be treated as a friend on my own account, but wished to become their friend in common with you.
Hence they regarded me with suspicion and were displeased. And now, learning that this reconciliation and friendship is being negotiated, and that you have voted to summon me — perhaps also on account of this need (for perhaps you hoped that, with my taking part as well, everything would be easier and safer; and yet now too, perhaps, in assigning honour not only to those present but to me also along with the rest, reckoning me too a citizen of yours, they have become more eager toward you) — nonetheless I was not greatly in haste, being on my guard lest this prove an obstacle, not to them, but to some men here. For most men, one might almost say, are wont to envy not the things done, but the men who do them.
Since indeed last year too their leading men were saying these very things to me, and then it was in your power to be rid of your troubles; but I was wary lest it prove offensive to some men here and lest they take it ill that I should be the one doing it. And now, in a way, I have willingly delayed. As for all that the city can accomplish through me as well as through others, these things I think it better to entrust rather to them, that no one may oppose nor be grieved with envy. But as for all that cannot easily be accomplished by another from here — perhaps even with great difficulty — consider that toward those things my mind is ever turned, so long as I draw breath.
And indeed, whoever shall be zealous in the city's affairs and able to do anything of advantage to you will have in me, first of all, one to bear witness and to strive alongside him; and the very same matter, when it is rightly done, I should far more gladly and more eagerly praise when another does it than introduce it myself. For it is not from a wish to win repute, nor from a lack of those who praise me, nor from a craving for glory, but from goodwill toward you that I wish some needful thing to be done; and I pray to all the gods that, as I grow old, I may look upon as many men as possible more competent than I to benefit the city.
And now, on this account, I praise both the magistrate and the man who introduced the measure. For all enmity, one may say, and all variance arising with anyone whatever is troublesome and irksome, both to a city and to a private man, however they may chance to be circumstanced. For it is enough to expose and humble the weak, in addition to their existing hardships, and to harass the prosperous and disturb their soul. Hence men of sense choose to bear being moderately worsted, and not to cling too exactly to their rights, rather than, by being contentious in every matter and yielding nothing to no one, ever to have men who plot against them and make war upon them — partly resenting their good fortunes and, so far as they are able, standing in their way, and partly, if any stumble occur (and, among men, many such occur), rejoicing and falling upon them.
For there is no man so weak, nor by nature so powerless, being man set against man, who does not find an opportunity to display his ill-will and his hatred, either by himself or with the help of others, and to utter some word by which he wholly gives pain, and to contrive some deed to do harm. For neither is any disease so imperceptible to those who have it as never to do harm nor to hinder any action; but even if, while a man is awake and walking, it does not much trouble the strength of his body, yet when he comes to his bed it sets upon him and rends and ruins his sleep.
Thus I, for my part, declare that it is never profitable to be at enmity and to be contentious — not even for the greatest city against the smallest village; and when it is against men who inhabit no small city, and who possess a distinguished constitution, and have a certain honour and power with the governors, if they are prudent — for you must hear the truth and not bear it ill if someone praises others, wishing to benefit you — and, what is greatest, against men who border upon you and are your neighbours and all but mingle with you daily (in part because intermarriage exists for most, in part because certain citizens, and indeed the most powerful among us, have obtained honour among them) — how can one suppose this enmity to be painless and harmless?
And let no one suppose that I am saying that one ought to give way utterly, and that, when those men choose nothing just nor reasonable, we ought to entreat and exhort them; but that, when they choose and are eager for the things that make for friendship, we should show ourselves the readier toward this, and should transfer to this the contentiousness arising from the variance — far more nobly — so that we ourselves may appear the more fair-minded, and the more contemptuous of money and of getting the greater share.
For it is not so shameful to be outdone in the deeds that spring from hatred — yes, by Zeus, in those that aim at enmity — as in those that spring from moderation and humanity. For he who is worsted in the former runs the risk of getting a reputation for weakness; but he who is worsted in the latter, a reputation for boorishness and contentiousness. And by how much it is better to seem weak rather than wicked, by so much is it better to be last in fighting than in being reconciled.
And you might reasonably attend to me more than to others — perhaps on other grounds, but further considering this also, that it makes no private difference to me, and that I do not, from shrinking at some trouble or expense to myself, on that account neglect what befits you. For I know clearly that you will not trouble me against my will, nor bid me go abroad, as though I had already spent a long time among you. (Besides, I do not think that, were I unoccupied, it would be to your advantage, nor that I should go abroad in this fashion.) But, as I said, I hold it better for all men, not for you alone, neither to take up readily an enmity that is not very necessary, and to dissolve in every way, if possible, those that existed before, holding the harm that comes from being at variance with anyone to be greater than the loss that attends reconciliation.
For all peace, as they say, is better than war, and all friendship far better and more profitable, to those of sense at least, than enmity — both privately for households and publicly for cities. For peace and concord have never yet harmed those who practised them, but it would be a marvel if enmity and contentiousness were not exceedingly incurable and great in their harm. And of concord both the name is of good omen and the experience the best and most profitable for all; but of faction and variance the appellation is gloomy and harsh, and the deeds far worse and more gloomy still. For one may both speak and hear, and both do and suffer, many unwished-for things.
And the variance and hatred of those so near and bordering resembles nothing else than the faction of a single city, where there is for many a sharing of marriages and of contracts, and a coming to and fro almost daily, and a being kin and intimate and, in a manner, guest-friends all to one another. But a city dwelling alongside that is hostile and ill-disposed is in every way grievous and hard to consort with, just as a friendly and well-disposed one is advantageous and welcome.
Consider how much pleasanter it is to go abroad to neighbours who are on familiar, and not hostile, terms; and how much better to receive those who come to visit without suspicion; and at the common festal gatherings and the festivals of the gods and the spectacles, how much better and more prudent it is to mingle, sacrificing together with one another and praying together, rather than, on the contrary, cursing and reviling.
And how much do the acclamations of either multitude in the stadiums and the theatres differ when they are made with praise and much fair speech, from those made with hatred and abuse? For these are not the acclamations of decent men nor of prudent cities, but rather of unseemly courtesans from a brothel on either side, ashamed at nothing to utter a wanton word — as Homer says: "and they, in their wrath, going into the midst of the market-place, wrangle with one another, and anger bids them say even what is false."
At how high a price, then, do these things come — not to suffer them? And at how much higher a price — not to do them? What multitude of money or magnitude of territory could ever be so great that men of sense ought to barter for it their daily good repute — to look on with decorum, to go abroad with eagerness? And indeed the very conditions of the land, and of the sea, and of the mountains, bring you together to the same point in every way, even against your will, and compel you to deal with one another. For they have need of our timber and of many other things, and we can neither import nor export the products of our country through any other harbour.
How, then, is it not of all things most wretched that each side should buy from men who are not friends, and sell to those who hate them, and lodge with those who are burdened by them, and receive those who revile them, and sometimes feast in the company of their bitterest foes; and if a man embark on a ship, that he should clearly know both the helmsman and all the sailors to be cursing him; and — most unpleasant sight of all — that of enemies, that he should ever and always behold this, both sailing and walking, and meet such men in the greatest numbers along the roads, an evil and irksome omen, so that he must wholly either say something offensive in passing, or hear it?
So that I, for my part, have often reflected on the ignorance and the depravity of men, that in their souls they are worse than the most disreputable and meanest of animals. For men, often meeting one another, fight, and part after reviling; but ants, walking in such dense throngs, never trouble one another, but meet very gently, and pass by, and help one another.
And indeed, as for what has now befallen our city — the truth touches many and frets all the others, namely that you receive the lawsuits and that men must of necessity be judged among you; but on this very account you ought rather to be humane and not make yourselves objects of envy. To begin with, the envoys chosen for this very matter — from where will they depart? Not from there? Will they not be put to sea from among their bitterest foes and use the harbour of the hostile city? Or will they go round about, as though the sea near us were difficult and impassable? For my part, I hold these things harder and heavier even for those who formerly were at variance with their neighbours than to take up arms and march into the country, or to assault the walls, or to cut down the trees, or to set fire to the crops.
For these things, hard as they are, I think, that which arises from them — the fruit of enmity and of hatred — is in every way harder. For from this matter nothing can ever appear beneficial or good. For the fruit of enmity is of all things the most bitter and most acrid, just as, on the contrary, that of goodwill is the sweetest and most profitable. For never to yield nor to give way to one's neighbour — I mean apart from disgrace — nor to obtain some things oneself while conceding others to the rest, is not manly, as some suppose, nor high-minded, but senseless and ignorant.
Do you not behold the everlasting order and concord and temperance of the whole heaven and of the divine and blessed beings within it — than which it is impossible to conceive anything finer or more august? And again, of the so-called elements, air and earth and water and fire, the secure and just harmony through all eternity — with how great fairness and moderation they naturally abide, both preserved themselves and preserving the whole universe?
For consider — even if to some the discourse may seem lofty and not altogether congenial to you — that these things, being by nature imperishable and divine and governed for all time by the purpose and power of the first and greatest god, love to be preserved through their mutual friendship and concord, both the stronger and greater and those that seem the lesser. But if this fellowship were dissolved and faction supervened, their nature is not so indestructible and imperishable as to escape being thrown into confusion and undergoing that destruction which, as they say, is beyond device and beyond belief — from being into not-being.
For the prevalence ascribed by the wise to the ether — in which resides the kingly and most authoritative part of the soul's power, which they do not shrink from often calling fire — this prevalence, when it comes about within bounds and gently at certain appointed times, seems to occur with all friendship and concord. But the encroachment and the variance of the other elements, arising lawlessly, holds the extreme peril of destruction — which, however, will never befall the whole, because all peace and justice exist among them, and everywhere all things serve and follow along, obedient and yielding to a fair-minded law.
Do you not see, on the one hand, the sun giving way to night and allowing the fainter stars to rise, and, on the other, the moon being suffered to shed her light over all the earth in the absence of the greater light? And the stars retiring before the sun and thinking that they suffer nothing nor perish through the power of that god? And again the sun himself sometimes about midday darkened, when the moon, to which he himself gives light, runs beneath him; and often, indeed, hidden by the feeblest clouds, or by some thin mist standing about lakes and rivers, so that at times he is wholly shut off, and at other times sends through a faint and slender ray?
And the unceasing dance of the wandering stars, which never stand in one another's way? And again, the earth, having obtained the lowest place, abides, like a ship's ballast, with water poured around it, and above both a soft and breathable air, and the ether, highest of all and containing all things, while the divine fire runs round about them in a circle? And these things, so strong and great, endure their mutual fellowship and continue without enmity; while little townlets of chance-met men, and weak peoples dwelling in a portion of the earth, cannot keep quiet nor be neighbours to one another without uproar?
But birds that make their nests near one another do not plot against one another, nor quarrel over food and twigs; nor do ants that have their holes nearby, often carrying in grain from the same threshing-floor, but they give way to one another and turn aside on the paths and often work together; nor do many swarms of bees, feeding in one and the same meadow, neglect their work and quarrel over the dew on the flowers.
And indeed herds of oxen and of horses, often mingled together, graze without uproar and gently, so that one herd is seen out of the two; and besides, herds of goats and flocks of sheep, mingled together at pasture, after passing the whole day, are easily and gently separated by the herdsmen. But men, it seems, are worse than cattle and beasts in what pertains to friendship and to fellowship with one another. For the things that Nature made for the sake of goodwill, these one may see becoming causes of enmity and hatred. To begin with, the first and greatest friendship is that of parents toward children.