Oration 30

Dio. I had heard before, even before I saw you, a good while ago, about the death of Charidemus. For straightway, when I arrived here, I was inquiring about certain other matters, and most of all about these two, where they were and what they were doing. And someone who met me, not knowing them very well, but only enough to have heard their names, asked whether I meant the sons of Timarchus; and when I said yes, he made it plain—meaning this one, the younger—that he was still in Messene with you because of mourning for his brother; for the elder of the two had died.

He was plainly, then, reporting that Charidemus was dead; and at the time there seemed to be some doubt, although the man had spoken clearly; but afterward we knew more exactly. And I think that I myself was stung not much less than you; for to say that I was stung more would not be lawful nor holy for me, if anyone loved him more than you—his father and brother.

And yet nature seems to have no great strength in base men; as I hear has happened in the case of this Opuntian, who lost a graceful and elegant youth, our friend too; and yet they say he was less grieved than if he had lost some other thing from his house. But you two plainly are distressed at the calamity; and no wonder, since such a man, had he lived on, would have been useful both to your city and to all Greece, the sort of man Charidemus was likely soon to become. For I, for my part, when he was a youth, knew no one of greater spirit nor of better nature.

—Timarchus. If you knew how he was disposed toward you, you would praise him far more. For he seemed to me to honour you above even me, his father, not only above other men; for both in his illness and when he was well-nigh at the point of death, while we were within, and other kinsmen and citizens and acquaintances, he named you—scarcely able by then to speak at all—and bade us tell you, whenever we should meet you, that he died remembering you. For both being with him and conversing endured to the last. And indeed, while he lived, he was so disposed that in his silence and his gait and in all else he imitated you, as those who knew said.—

Dio. Those things he did not imitate, neither me nor any other, but he was so by nature. Before, perhaps, being still a boy, he escaped your notice; then, as he advanced, he became more manifest. For courage and the dignity of bearing befitted him far more than any other. But did he ever grieve you in these things, or appear to you too sullen?—Timarchus. To me, on the contrary, he seemed more cheerful than many and ready for play—such sports as are befitting free men—and ever somehow smiling toward his intimates. But laughing unrestrainedly I did not often see him. He grieved us, then, in nothing. And indeed he was praised by many, and the citizens respected him more, being two and twenty years old (for at that age he died) than the elder and famous men.—

Dio. But did he enjoin anything else upon you, or converse with you, in dying?—Timarchus. Many and wondrous things, as it seems to me, his father; who, at that age departing from life, so far from lamenting himself or seeming to grieve, on the contrary consoled us. And at the last, having called the boy, he bade him write down, as though inspired, a certain exhortation for us, so that I suspected that perhaps, being already deranged by death, he did this; except that those present marvellously praised it.—

Dio. Have you, then, the writing?—Timarchus. Why not?—Dio. Will you, then, speak it?—Timarchus. But I am ashamed lest it be not rightly composed, as having been spoken by a younger man and in such a crisis. And indeed he seemed to me likely to take more care to say something well in your presence alone than in that of all the rest.—Dio. You will not read it to a stranger, my good sir; and at the same time I do not so much long to know the expression as the mind from which he spoke—whether he truly died in good cheer and with confidence.—

Timarchus. Well, here it is: "My affairs have come about thus, as it seemed good to the god; and one ought to count nothing of the things done by him grievous, nor to bear them with displeasure, as other wise men counsel, and not least Homer, saying that in no way are the gifts of the gods to be cast aside by men—rightly naming the works of the gods gifts, as being all good and coming to pass for good.

I, then, am thus minded, and accept gently what is fated, saying these things not at some other time, but with it present and seeing the end so near at hand. And you, trusting me, since I have cared for truth more than you, so far as you are able, do not give way to your anguish, as though nothing terrible had befallen me,

not even if anyone should come to the most grievous of the arguments—and I will tell it to you, though it is not at all pleasing nor charming; for it was not, I think, devised for our pleasure, but has perhaps something marvellous in it—namely, that we men are all of the blood of the Titans. As, then, those were enemies of the gods and made war upon them, neither are we their friends, but we are chastised by them and have come to be for punishment, being in prison in life for so long a time as each of us lives. And those of us who die, having now been chastised sufficiently, are released and set free.

And this place, which we call the world, is a prison constructed by the gods, grievous and ill-aired, never keeping the same temperature and condition of the air, but at one time cold and freezing, full of wind and mud and snow and water, at another again hot and stifling; and for some quite small season of the year it is moderate; and storms swoop down in it, and whirlwinds arise, and often the whole is shaken from below. And all these things are terrible chastisements.

For men are astounded by them every time and afraid, whenever they happen. And besides these, not enduring the baseness of the air and its changes, they contrive in turn other little prisons, their houses and cities, putting together wood and stones—just as if a man should build other shorter prisons within a great prison; and these things that grow, and the fruit from the earth, come to be for the sake of our continuing here, like food given to prisoners, unpleasant and base; and we, for all that, are content with it through necessity and want.

For to those chastised by us too, whatever a man provides seems, through hunger and habit, pleasant. And this food is in truth bad and corrupted (and the corruption is made plain by the weakness of the bodies), and besides is not procured ready to hand, nor abundant for all, but with irremediable toils and evils. And we are composed of the very things that torment us, of soul and body.

For the soul has within itself desires and griefs and angers and fears and cares and countless such passions, and by these it is ever, day and night, strained and racked. (For even the man who is more decently disposed is not, as a whole, freed from any of these, but holds them as wild beasts shut up within, by force together with some persuasion forced to keep quiet; and if for a little he should cease

charming and attending to them, straightway they are at once stirred.) And the body has dizziness and spasms and epilepsies and the other diseases—as many as it is not even possible to recount in words—inasmuch as it is full of blood and breath, and besides composed of flesh and sinews and bones, of soft and hard and moist and dry, of the most opposite things. And the food, as I said, being bad, and the air, falling upon us unevenly, intensifies some of the diseases and stirs up others, not seeming to be present before, but being present in the nature

of the bodies. And these evils are set within, in ourselves, and lighter are the chastisements from without, if one should compare them with those from nature. For the nature of fire and iron and blows and the rest is keen and quickly releases one from sensation, if one should overpass even a little; but in diseases they sometimes prolong it even for a very long time.

By such and so many torments, then, are men held fast, and remain in this guard and this prison the appointed time, each one; and the many do not depart before they have made, from themselves, another in their own stead and left a successor to the punishment, some one, some even more. And they remain not willingly, but all are bound with one chain, both their bodies and their souls—just as, among ourselves too, one may see many bound in one chain in a row, some of them small, some great, some unsightly, some seemly, but none the less all held alike in the same constraint.

And likewise in fortunes and reputations and honours they surpass one another, as in their bodies. For there are kings and private men, and rich and poor. And none the less for this do those called happy fare ill and are held by the same bond as the poor and inglorious—nay, those more than these.

For, being thinner, the bond has been loosened for them and lies slacker about each; but for kings and tyrants, inasmuch as they are puffed up in soul and exceedingly stout, it lies more heavily and crushes them—just as, among those whose bodies are bound, the bond presses the fat and bulky more than the lean and ill-fed. Some, however—and these very few—have a certain remission from the god, and are bound, but very lightly,

through their decency; about whom we will speak again. But first it is worth telling how I once heard a vagrant fellow, when I was a boy, declare what manner of thing the chain is—in no way like these, made of iron and bronze, but much stronger, and in shape and weave nearly the same. For just as these are forged of certain rings thrown through one another, and this from beginning to end, so likewise is that one, by which we said men are bound by the gods.

And the whole of it is fastened together out of pleasure and grief, and these are plaited out of one another, the pleasant and the painful, and the one ever follows the other of necessity, just as, I think, the rings of the chain; and great griefs follow upon great pleasures, and smaller upon small, and the greatest pleasure at the end is death. For this reason the greatest grief too comes before it; for it is plain that there is for a man no grief and anguish greater than this that leads to death.

And he said too that there are other bonds, set about each man, smaller for some, greater for others, like fetters; and that these are called by us hopes. As, then, the fetters are lowest of the body and about the extreme parts, so too the hopes are lowest and about the last part of life, and most of all master men and compel them to endure suffering all things. To the senseless and silly, then, these fetters are huge and very thick, but to the cleverer they are loosened and lie thin about them.

And indeed he likened something also to a file, following the image very manfully; and this, he said, only the clever and keen find. For it is shut away very carefully, just as if in a prison a man should hide a file, so that no one of the prisoners, getting it, should then free himself. The ambitious and industrious, then, with difficulty, yet for all that find it; and it is called by them reason. As soon, then, as they find it, they use it and file the bonds and make their part of the chain as thin and weak as possible, until, so far as is possible, they work down both the pleasures and the griefs.

And this is done slowly. For with difficulty does reason reach them, inasmuch as they are solid and adamantine, and little by little it eats away, but could not wholly consume and divide them. And whoever has this drug in him and uses it industriously, day and night, so far as is possible, then bears the guard easily and goes about among the others as though loosed, and, when his time comes, departs easily, as no longer mastered by force nor squeezed. And from among these the gods sometimes make certain men even assessors to themselves, for their virtue and wisdom, having wholly released them from punishment.

These things, then, a certain fellow said, a man hard to please, as I think, and one much grieved in his life, who had perceived true culture late—not, however, things true nor befitting the gods. But there is another argument better than this, which I would tell far more eagerly. And I heard it from a man, a farmer, in a certain rustic rhythm and tune; except that this, perhaps, we need not imitate at all, but we will try to recall the thought itself.

He said, hymning Zeus and the other gods, that they are good and love us, as being indeed their kindred. For from the gods, he said, is the race of men, not from Titans nor from Giants. For when they had got the whole, they settled men, like a colony of their own, in the earth, which was desolate, with lesser honours and prosperity, but with the same rights and laws—just as the great and prosperous cities settle the small. And he seemed to me to speak without adding the names himself: as the Athenians settled the Cythnians or Seriphians, or the Lacedaemonians the Cytherians of old, under the same laws; and one may see among each of these imitations of the customs and the constitution which the founders have, but all weaker and worse. The difference, however, is not equal.

For these, being men, differ from men, but the superiority of the gods over us is something infinite. So long, then, as life was newly established, the gods themselves were present, and sent, like governors from themselves, rulers to take care of us—such as Heracles and Dionysus and Perseus and the others whom we hear were the sons of the gods, and the descendants who were born among us; then afterward they let us dwell by ourselves, as best we could. And then indeed the errors and the injustices came about.

And he sang another song too, that the world is a house exceedingly fair and divine, constructed by the gods—just as we see those constructed by the men called happy and rich, with pillars and columns, and with gold and paintings the roof and walls and doors wrought; in like manner the world has come to be for the reception and good cheer of men, shapely and varied with stars and sun and moon and earth and sea and plants, which indeed are of the gods' wealth and their craft.

And men come into it to keep festival, invited by the king of the gods to a certain banquet and brilliant feast, to enjoy all the goods. And they recline, some here, some there, as at a dinner, some having got a better place, some a baser. And all things are like what comes to pass among us at receptions, except that one likens divine and great things to small and ignoble. For the gods provide a twofold light among us through certain lamps, at one time more, at another less, the one of night, the other of day;

and there lie beside us tables full of all things, of grain and fruit, the one self-grown, the other cultivated, and besides of flesh, some of tame, some of wild animals, and also of the things from the sea. And the tables, he said—speaking very rustically—are the meadows and plains and glens and shores, in which some things grow, some are pastured, some are hunted. And different men have more of different things, according to the tables at which each reclines. For some chance to be by the sea, some by the plains, some by the mountains.

And the Seasons serve, inasmuch as they are the youngest of the gods, well clad, and fair to see, not adorned with gold, but with garlands of flowers of every kind. And they distribute the flowers themselves, and take care of the rest of the feast, setting some things before us, and taking some away in due season. And there are choruses too and all the rest of the enjoyment.

The toil, however, which we seem to have in farming and hunting and planting, is just so much as for those reclining the reaching out for something and taking it with the hand. And that, as I said, men recline some here, some there—of this the temperature of the air too is the cause. For the first and the last are, more than the rest, the one set in cold, the other in warmth, the one near the light, the other far off.

The good cheer and the feast, then, all do not use alike, but each according to his own nature. For the prodigal and uncontrolled neither see anything nor hear anything, but, bent over, eat, like a pig in a sty, then nod off. And some of them are not content with what is at hand, but stretch out their hands to the things further off, like inlanders

reaching after fish and taking trouble; and others, being insatiable and wretched, fearing lest it ever fail them, gather and heap to themselves all they can. And after this, when they must depart, they go off having shared in nothing, but utterly destitute, and leave these things to others; for it is not possible to carry them with oneself. These, then, are laughed at and behave unseemly.

And others play at draughts, and others at dice; and the draughtsmen and dice are not such as we reckon, but some golden, some silver, which we call money, over which they quarrel and each seeks to get the better. The greatest uproar and disorder, indeed, these afford, the dicers, and they seem the most disagreeable of the banqueters. And sometimes they even fight and come to blows and wound one another.

And most of all those who become drunk do these things. And they become drunk not from wine, like those among us, but from pleasure. For this the gods provide as the drink at the common feast, so that each man's character is tested. And two cup-bearers stand by, the one male, the other female; and they are named, the one Mind, the other Intemperance. The prudent, then, have the male cup-bearer, and from him alone they receive it, rarely and in small cups, and very safely mixed.

For there lies one mixing-bowl, that of Self-Control; for many stand in the midst, differing in taste as of many wines, and they are of silver and of gold, and besides have animals round about them on the outside, and certain spiral-work and chasing. But that of Self-Control is smooth and not great, and, as one might guess at sight, of bronze. From it, then, one must take many times as much, and, mixing in a little of the pleasure, drink.

Those, then, whose cup-bearer is Mind, are served thus, with fear and attention, lest somewhere, missing the mixture, he should trip the guest and throw him down. But Intemperance pours for most men the pleasure unmixed, mingling not even a little of self-control, and for some a very little for form's sake. And this at once becomes faint and appears nowhere. And the drinkers do not leave off, but urge her on and bid her come more quickly to them, and each snatches before his turn. And she hastens and runs about panting and streaming with sweat.

Her banqueters, then, dance and roll about, falling forward in the midst, and fight and shout, just as those do who are made drunk by wine—except that these do it for a little while and moderately; for a short sleep suffices, and then they are better than themselves, the drunkenness being light; but those stupefied by pleasure, as though held by a stronger drink, do these things throughout their whole life, and there is no being rid of it while they live, save when they die. For this is the sleep of those thus made drunk, and alone benefits them.

And many even vomit from surfeit; and the throwing up of the pleasure comes about with convulsion and extreme grief. But whoever is strong enough is lightened and passes the rest more easily. And rarely does this come to pass, the willingness to vomit, but far rather do they ever wish to drink. For they do not cease from their thirst, but have it ever more vehement, like those who use unmixed wine. These, then, are of such a kind, and shame and outrage the favour of the gods;

but the moderate and decent use the pleasure gently, and at intervals, with fear; and just as a free man, invited by one of his betters, a king or potentate, neglects eating and drinking, except so much as is necessary, but attends to the things within and delights in these—they too neglect drunkenness and draughts and dice, but look at the things within, how they are, and marvel at the men's hall in which they recline and inquire how it came to be, and observe all the things in it like fair and beautiful paintings, and the rest of the ordering and arrangement and the seasons, how well and knowingly the gods do all things, and attend to them, and alone, indeed, perceive the beauty.

And it is their care that they may not seem, like the blind and deaf, to have partaken of these things, but, even after departing, may have something to say about them, if anyone should inquire, both what they saw and what they came to know. And taking thought of these things, and partaking of the pleasure harmoniously and with mind, they pass their time, one conversing with one, and by twos and threes, men alike. And sometimes, when a great shouting and uproar arises from the drunken, they look thither too, then straightway return again to themselves.

And when they must depart, the prodigal and uncontrolled are dragged and hauled by their attendants, with toils and diseases, shrieking and wailing, knowing neither whither they came nor how they feasted, even if any of them stay a very long time. But the others go off upright and securely on their own feet, having taken leave of their friends, bright and rejoicing, as having behaved in nothing unseemly.

The god, then, surveying these things, and seeing all, as in his own house, how each one feasted, ever calls the best to himself; and if he chance to be exceedingly pleased with anyone, he bids him remain, and has made him his fellow-banqueter and companion, and this man now feasts on the nectar. And this resembles the drink of self-control, but is much clearer than that and purer, as being, I think, of divine and true good cheer."—

Dio. Alas, Charidemus, what a man you were who have died for us! How far you were likely to surpass the men of your time, and what a display you gave of yourself, both to your father and to your fellow-citizens—not, by Zeus, of words, but of great and true courage! I, for my part, do not know how to console you, bereft of such a man, not to bear it heavily. For neither am I able to console myself sufficiently in the present.

But you, Timarchus, alone are able to lighten this your father and to tend his misfortune, if it be your care not to appear much inferior to him. For it would be strange, if you have received his estate, the one part already, so great as it is, and will receive the other when this man too has died, but will let go the self-control and the confidence and the loving of the fairest things—as though in these things, at least, you were in no way akin to him.