Oration 47

Dio Chrysostom

Translated by Thothica

In the atlas

15 min

First, men, when I rise to speak, do not by any means suppose that you will hear wonderful or distinguished discourses — I mean such as are wrought for some pleasure, or beauty, or wisdom. For perhaps I was not competent for such a thing in any case, but by some chance have deceived the multitude and all the cities; or, if I was, it is at any rate likely that I have now come into much difficulty and forgetfulness of such discourses. For whatever a man practises, and in whatever affairs he finds himself, his discourses too must of necessity be like them. And we for a long while now have been engaged in small and inglorious affairs; and this perhaps is unavoidable.
So that I formerly used to marvel at those of the philosophers who left their own fatherlands, with no one compelling them, and chose to live among others, and that too while declaring that one ought to honour one's fatherland and to hold it of the greatest account, and that to engage in public affairs and to take part in politics is for man according to nature. I mean Zeno, Chrysippus, Cleanthes, not one of whom remained at home while saying these things.
Did they not, then, believe what they said? Most of all, as it seems to me. But they held the matter of caring for one's own city to be noble, and in truth blessed, and befitting wise men; yet they looked with suspicion upon the difficulties and harshnesses involved — the ignorance of some, the envy of others, the unfairness of others — unless a man, being wise, could at the same time have the strength and power of Heracles; and this they held to be impossible.
And yet of Heracles himself we hear that he mastered Egypt and Libya, and besides the dwellers about the Euxine Sea, and the Thracians and Scythians, and that he took Ilium, having put in with a small fleet, and ruled all these nations and set himself up as king; but that whenever he came to Argos, he was bidden to carry off the dung of Augeas, or to hunt the serpents, or to drive away the birds, that they might not trouble the farmers in Stymphalus, or to do other such mean and lowly tasks at command; and at the last, they say, he was sent to Hades — so exceedingly reasonably did his fellow citizen treat him. And the Argives and Thebans, while they praised and cherished Heracles, looked on as he was abused.
Having considered these things, it seems to me, Homer — being not only a good poet, but also in his manner a philosopher — chose to be abroad for his whole life, so that no one knew his fatherland, and rather, it seems, chose to receive twenty-five drachmas while begging, and that as though mad, than to pass his life at home. Therefore all afterward disputed over him. And his name is known among all Greeks and barbarians, while of Ios the many have scarcely even heard, if indeed he was an Ietan; and there is no great account made either of the city of Chios or of Colophon — and yet she furnishes a poet no worse than Homer, namely Apollo. And Pythagoras fled willingly from Samos when it was under a tyranny, but among all other men, and especially, I think, about Italy, he was honoured as a god.
What then? Someone has long been sitting and saying, "Do you compare yourself with Homer and Pythagoras and Zeno?" By Zeus, not I — except in this, that to all the philosophers life in their fatherland seemed hard. For what do you suppose? That they did not love their fatherlands? Rather, that Homer mourned over Odysseus and declared that he wished, on seeing the smoke rising from Ithaca, to die on the spot; but that Homer himself did not cherish his own city — and was not, under the name of Odysseus, confessing the love and the longing he himself had for his fatherland?
But as for the man who remained his whole life in his fatherland, doing whatever seemed good to the citizens and to the laws — whether he greatly benefited the Athenians, I cannot say; but the harm that came to them I do know. For even now they are reproached about Socrates, as having treated the man neither justly nor piously, and they say that this was the cause of all the evils that afterward befell them.
These things you have heard idly, from a wandering and prating man. But, as I said, I beg you that no one require of me at present a discourse high-minded and wise, but a layman's and a mean one, such as my affairs are. And know well that, just as I had chosen to keep silent from the time I now arrived, I would not have uttered a word, had not some necessity arisen. For I laid hold of a matter which has in truth become the cause of many troubles to me, and of a wondrous distress. So that formerly I did not know what that saying of the Thessalians means — about drawing the moon down upon themselves — but now I have learned it well.
And I sometimes used to count Aristotle blessed, who, being a Stagirite — and Stagira was a village of the territory of Olynthus — when Olynthus had been taken, by his association with Alexander and Philip brought it about that the place was settled again, and I used to say that he alone had this good fortune, of becoming the founder of his fatherland. But meanwhile, the other day, I came upon a letter in which he repents and laments and says that some of these men are corrupting both the king and the satraps who come, so that no good is done and the city is not settled at all.
And when even the resettlement of the exiles grieved some men — that men who were exiles and cityless should have a fatherland and live as citizens under laws in freedom, and they rather chose to be scattered abroad in villages, like the barbarians, than to have the form and name of a city — is it indeed fitting to marvel even if something else grieves certain men? Aristotle, then, in his letter, wrote as one who has given up on his affairs; for he says that he "raises his fingers":
"Consider me too one of the Idaeans, and if there are any others." For indeed the ill-fortune of those men proved stronger than the zeal of Aristotle, so that they did not allow the little village to advance to the dignity of a city, and even now it is uninhabited. But lest someone slander me for this too, as though I called this city of ours a Stagira and a village — for I can say upon oath that no other city has appeared better to me, even if it had only the smithy of so-and-so, which I, the sacker of cities and of necropoleis, demolished.
But, that I may not forget the reason for which I rose, perhaps I committed a human error. Now then, what penalty do you wish me to undergo in return for this error, or what to do? I ask you to be my counsellors: shall I pull down at my own expense the work that has been done, and make everything as it was before? But perhaps I shall not be able.
Or what, by the gods? Tell me. For I, seeing other cities ambitious about such things, supposed — I mean not only those in Asia and Syria and Cilicia, but these neighbouring ones close at hand, the city of the Nicomedians, that of the Nicaeans, these Caesareans, men noble and thoroughly Greek, but inhabiting a city far smaller than ours, and the men engaged in public affairs in each, even if they are at variance about other matters, yet in such things being of one mind — and the emperor writing, as by some chance, that he wishes your city to be increased in every way (allow me to read the letter, since that of Aristotle was long and tiresome) —
I supposed that these things would be so among you too, and that no one would be grieved at the city's being equipped. And this turned out to be the case; for these things seemed good to you, and you yourselves both contributed much and often and were eager. What, then, do you wish? For I swear to you by all the gods that, rather than grieve you, or any of you, or seem burdensome, I would not choose to have for my own the palaces of Darius or of Croesus, or my ancestral house made truly of gold — and not, as men call Nero's, of gold in name only.
For there is no profit in a house of gold, no more than in a pot of gold, or in the plane-tree among the Persians. But a city derives no profit from becoming handsome, from taking in more air, from spaciousness, from shade in summer and sun under cover in winter, from having, in place of mean and lowly ruins, lofty buildings worthy of a great city — so that, just as in the case of well-bred colts and puppies those who behold them conjecture their coming size, if their limbs are tall and large, while if they are low and stunted, they say they will always remain such — so it may be too with our city.
But why should I speak of these things now? Well did one of the sophists call me a nightingale, wishing to abuse me — for this reason, it seems to me, because the poets call the nightingale "ceaseless of tongue." But perhaps I am rather like the cicadas; for they too, thirsting, sing toward the sun out of folly, gaining nothing. Yet this one thing only it is perhaps not worth omitting, concerning the tombs and the temples: that it is not likely the Antiochenes touched any such thing — for they made far less room than that among us, whose city is six-and-thirty stades in length, and they made porticoes on either side; nor did the people of Tarsus, nor even now the Nicomedians, who voted to remove their tombs.
But Macrinus, whom you enrolled as a benefactor of the city, removed the monument of King Prusias from the market-place, and the statue too. For there is among them no man who loves his city, nor any careful about the gods; but among us at least there were many. Still, let these things seem as they may. For what is the portico here to me — as though I had nowhere I wished to walk: the Painted Stoa at Athens, the Persian one at Lacedaemon, the golden ones at Rome, those of the Antiochenes, of the people of Tarsus, with greater honour — or as though I alone were to have it and walk in it, and none of the other citizens? But no one in a city has a gymnasium for himself alone to exercise in, nor a portico, nor a bath, nor any other public building.
Or am I puffed up and senseless? Still, the thing I asked, advise me upon. For I, wishing to please you in every way, am at a loss. For now, if I lay hold of the matter and am eager that the work be done, some say I am playing the tyrant and razing the city and all the temples to the ground. For it is plain that I burned down the temple of Zeus, and rescued the statues from the damp, and now they lie in the most conspicuous part of the city! But if I keep quiet, not wishing anyone to groan nor to clash with anyone, then you yourselves cry out, "Let the work be done!" or "Let what has been done be pulled down!" — as though casting this in my teeth and reproaching me with it.
What, then, do you wish me to do? For whatever you say, this I will do; and about all the rest I will say nothing — not even if someone has done a work for which he has rendered no account, nor if he is still building and ever receiving money from the magistrates appointed yearly, as though about to receive these things into the insatiable jar, nor if anything else happen. For what is any of this to me? For through the portico I will not pass, as you well know. But to toil, and to approach and entreat the proconsul, that he may gently and according to their ability exact the contributions from those who promised — this I am ready not only to do, but myself to contribute a part of the promise, so that the others may be relieved. Only enjoin some one thing upon me;
but if not, I will keep quiet though you cry out — or rather, I will depart. For it is not as with the fox who, having eaten up the meat, could not come out of the oak because she was so full, that for me too it is hard to come out on this account. For I have become much leaner than when I went in. And, by the gods, do not think you are doing me a favour by clamouring about the portico. For there is, well-nigh, one man who does me a favour in the city, as I hear, and who most of all takes thought for my interests; and no friend or kinsman so cares for me. But consider whether it will seem to you that he reasons well on my behalf and cherishes me,
who, first, thinks I ought, after running many risks and toiling much, to keep quiet here, and attend to my own affairs, and neither court governors nor have any other occupation; and then, having recovered a small portion of my estate, and — in addition to my former losses, now that my sister too has died — having gained nothing but lost everything of mine that she held, and having borrowed money to buy my lands, that I should pay off this debt and what was owed before, and not build a portico nor spend beyond my means;
and then, since I have intimacy, and perhaps friendship too, with the emperor, and with many others among well-nigh the most powerful of the Romans, that I should associate with them, honoured and admired, and not be measured here against this man or that; and if after all I delight in going abroad, that I should visit the greatest cities with much zeal and ambition, escorted on my way, men being grateful to me wherever I come and begging me to speak and give counsel and coming to my doors from early morning, with my having spent nothing and added nothing, so that all marvel and some might perhaps say, "Ah, how this man is a friend to all men and honoured, to whatever city and people he comes";
and not, on the other hand, that I should spend from slender resources, and busy myself with profitless occupations, and ruin my body, which needs care and much attention, by neglecting it, and leave my soul for so long a time untasted of philosophy and such studies, and be measured against this man or that, and sometimes be ill spoken of and stung. By the gods, is not the man who takes such thought and discourses thus on my behalf the most well-disposed of all men toward me, and the most justly to be loved by me? But whenever I hear someone speak of me as of a tyrant, it seems to me strange and ridiculous.
For I know the deeds of tyrants to be such as these: to commit adultery with other men's wives and to corrupt boys, to beat and outrage free men while all look on, and to torture some — for instance, lowering them into a boiling cauldron — and to smear others with pitch. None of these things do I do. And there was another, a woman tyrant, Semiramis, who, being advanced in years and lustful, compelled certain men to lie with her. And of the tyrants I have heard of one who did such things, a bold old man.
What of these is anything to me? Or is it that I am building my house lavishly? But I do not let it fall down. Or that I myself am clad in purple? But not in a paltry cloak. Or that I wear my hair long and have a beard? But this perhaps is not tyrannical, but kingly. At any rate, someone said that to be ill spoken of while doing well — this too is kingly.