Oration 29

But for me, gentlemen, it does not even occur to me what I should say, by reason of grief together with bewilderment at the sudden calamity. For not only, because of the office I hold, is what has befallen more my own concern than that of any other of my fellow-citizens, but also Melancomas was privately my friend beyond all others, as the most of you too know. And to me, indeed, the custom in regard to the dead seems strange—that it appears to belong most to those who grieve the most to speak over them. For those who are most vehemently distressed

are by this very thing unable to speak. And besides, I am of an age in which the power of speech belongs less to all men, while joy and grief become strongest. But since the praise of a general is more honoured over a good soldier who has died, and that of any ruler more honoured than that of a private man, I too, for the sake of my office, must speak as I am able. And it would befit his virtue and my youth to demand nothing long, nor a praise exact rather than noble. First, then, he obtained true nobility. For not if a man chance to have wealthy ancestors, nor even kings,

but in other respects base, would this man be well born, but those who are sprung from good men, as this man was. For his father excelled the men of his time in the fairest things, in courage and in might. And the victories he won, both at Olympia and in the other contests, declare it. And the son himself was born the handsomest of men—not of those now living only, but, as one may conjecture from his surpassing excellence, of simply all who in all time have been named for beauty, as many as were born mortal.

For the many of those reckoned beautiful, having some seemly parts of the body, then were thought beautiful—since the sight ever wishes to look upon the most pleasing things and neglects the inferior. And some, who did not by nature obtain a shapely body, but to whom the bloom of youth came—those who met them, overcome by the bloom, named it beauty, since the prime is ever in flower in all things, both animals and plants.

Such men, then, one might find by the thousand, the same now seeming beautiful, now unsightly, and pleasing some greatly, while among others they meet with no esteem at all. But entire and true beauty it is a marvel if any obtained, as this man did. For he possessed it in his whole body, and ever alike, both before puberty and after; and he would never, even had he reached very long old age, have advanced so far in time as to dim his form. And here is a proof of his surpassing excellence:

for he excelled not when scrutinized among private men, nor, beheld by a few, was he admired by these; but rather, surely, ever among the most beautiful of all, being together with the athletes. For these are the greatest and shapeliest, and those who give the most care to their bodies. And he was seen by well-nigh all men. For there was no city of the famous, nor any nation, where he did not come; and among all alike he had the same repute, that they had seen none more beautiful. And he who was admired by the most, and alone among the most beautiful held the fame for beauty, plainly obtained some divine form.

I, then, first count him happy for his beauty, which indeed is the most conspicuous of human goods, most pleasing to gods and most pleasing to men, least painful to him who has it, and easiest to be recognized. For the other goods may escape notice in a man—courage and self-control and prudence—if no deed chance to display them; but beauty cannot be hid. For at once it appears together with him who has it; one might even say, before him: so keen a perception of itself does it afford. And further, the other goods most men envy and become ill-disposed toward; but beauty makes those who perceive it friends, and suffers none to become an enemy.

And if anyone says that I am making an encomium of beauty, but not of the man, he would not rightly find fault. For straightway it would be called the praise of a man, when we recount his courage. For where it is disputed that a man is of such a kind, then one must demonstrate it; but where it is known, one must praise the nature of the good that belongs to someone. For the praise of beauty would be at the same time the praise of him who has it. And most of all might one admire Melancomas, that, being such in form, he excelled in courage.

For he seems to me to have striven in rivalry, with his soul, against his body, and to have been eager to become more famous through the soul. Knowing, then, that of the works of courage the fairest and at the same time the most toilsome is athletics, he came to this. For of warlike pursuits the occasion was not present, and the training is lighter. And I, for my part, would say it is also of a lesser virtue; for in warlike things there is the display of courage alone, but athletics produce at once courage, at once strength, at once self-control.

And accordingly, of athletics he chose not the easiest, but the hardest; for he practised boxing. Now it is hard to come to the height even of the least task, much more to surpass all in the greatest and most difficult, as this man did. And to go through his crowns one by one, and the contests in which he conquered, would be superfluous before you who know them—especially since one might name others too who obtained the same.

But what belonged to no one—you know it likewise, yet for this very reason it must be told (for to those who do not know it is not even easy to believe)—that, using so many antagonists, and such good ones, he was beaten by none, but he himself ever conquered all. And yet one could not find in all time a general unbeaten, nor a warlike champion who has not at some time fled from battle. Nor, because he died quickly, could one say that he passed his life unbeaten on this account; for he would have contended in far more contests; and it is in the trial that the falling lies, not in the length of time. And besides, one might be astounded at this too in him, that he conquered neither being struck nor striking: so far did he surpass in might and in the power to toil.

For often he contended the whole day through in the most vehement season of the year, and, though able to prevail more quickly by striking, he was unwilling, holding that to conquer by a blow was sometimes the part even of the basest against the best, should it so chance; but that the truest victory is when, unwounded, one forces the antagonist to give up. For then he was beaten not by the wound but by himself. And for a man to give up with his whole body, and not by the part that was struck, is brilliant; but the man who hastens to conquer as quickly as possible, both striking and grappling, is himself beaten by the heat and the time.

And if anyone does not conceive it thus, let him reflect that boars and deer, so long as their strength is with them, come to close quarters with neither men nor dogs; but when they are overcome and grow weary, then they grapple, and would rather be wounded and die than toil any longer in being pursued. And likewise men in war, although knowing that they would the more be struck in fleeing than in standing, yet, through being unwilling to toil any longer, go off, delivering themselves to those behind to strike. So that to despise wounds is not courage, but the opposite.

I think, then, that everything has been said at once, both about courage and about good spirit and about self-restraint and about self-control. For unless he had been self-restrained and self-controlled, he would not, I think, have so far surpassed in might, not even had he been by nature strongest. And I, for my part, would not shrink to say that he had a virtue not less than that of any of the heroes of old whom all men hymn—neither those who warred at Troy nor those who afterward in Greece warded off the barbarians.

And had he been born then, he would have done the very things those men did. And, in general, I prefer the virtue shown in athletics to that in wars for this reason: first, because the best men here would excel there too—for the man stronger in body and able to toil a longer time, this man, I think, is the better both without arms and with arms; next, because it is not the same to contend against private men, and altogether inferior, as to have for antagonists the strongest from the whole inhabited world. And there, once the victor has killed his antagonist, so as not again to have the same opponent; but here the victory is for that day, and then the victor has alike the beaten for antagonists, and any of the rest who wishes.

And further, here the better prevails over the worse—for by nothing else than by good spirit and strength must one conquer; but in wars the power of iron, being far stronger than human nature, does not allow the excellence of bodies to be tested, and often falls to the worse men. And whatever I have said about athletics, I have said also about the athlete, and indeed about one demonstrated to be the best of those in the work. And perhaps the argument befits me too and those present, so as to declare this the best thing. Whoever, then, had beauty of body, and had courage and good spirit, and besides self-control and the becoming unbeaten—whom could one call more fortunate than this man?

And yet, for this very man, courage and self-control are hardest to come by; for beauty most of all puffs men up and persuades them to luxury, as men not needing any other repute, when one is famed for his form, and inasmuch as ease is more pleasant. And one might find, reckoning from the beginning, that the most beautiful of former men—the most of them—displayed no work of courage or virtue: Ganymede, indeed, because he was snatched from among men while a boy, seems to have done nothing brilliant;

and about Adonis or Iasion or the like, all who obtained surpassing repute for their form, we hear nothing except about their beauty. And one might call courageous, of the exceedingly beautiful, only Theseus and Achilles; and even to these self-control did not very much belong. For otherwise the one would not have seized Helen by force, nor the other have quarrelled at Troy over the things he quarrelled about. And Hippolytus had self-control, but whether courage was present is unclear; for hunting is no true proof.

But the man who acquired all the goods that are among men would be worthy to be counted happy even for his death. For if the longest time were best for men, in that respect one might lament him; but as it is, since but a little of life is given to men, one might find very many for whom it had been far better to have died sooner—so many calamities overtake them.

And further, of the men of old we hear that none of the most eminent came far in life—Patroclus and Antilochus, and besides Sarpedon and Memnon and Achilles and Hippolytus; and the Boeotians Otus and Ephialtes, whom Homer says were the greatest and fairest born after Orion, and that man himself. But these perished through folly; whereas the others I named he called sons and descendants of the gods. The gods, then, would not have made the death of their own sons, and of those whom they most loved, swift, unless they reckoned this a good thing for men.

Reckoning these things, then, gentlemen, you must count that man blessed, and yourselves none the less for this reach after toils and the love of honour, since, if it should befall any to die sooner, he will be one who has had the enjoyment of some of the goods; for he who has obtained a fair repute departs full of the goods. But both train eagerly and toil—you younger men holding that his place has been left for you, you elder ones worthily of your own deeds. And be proud of these things, so far as men ought who live for praise and good repute and are practisers of virtue.

And honour the departed with remembrance, not with tears; for this honour would not befit noble men from noble men, nor would I praise Homer, that he says the sands and the arms were drenched with the tears of the Achaeans. But he rather followed poetic pleasure, displaying excesses of lamentation; you, however, bear it with self-command.