[45] “Well then, the horse that is most brilliant and most spangled with stars and dearest to Zeus himself, being praised by the Magi in their hymns for some such attributes as these, quite properly stands first in sacrifice and worship as being truly first. Next in order after that, in closest contact with the Horse of Zeus, comes one that bears the name of Hera, a horse obedient to the rein and gentle, but far inferior in strength and speed. In colour this horse is of its own nature black, but that portion which receives the light of Helius is regularly bright, whereas where it is in shadow in its revolution it has its own proper colour. [46] Third comes a horse that is sacred to Poseidon, still slower than the second. Regarding this steed the poets have a myth to the effect that its counterpart appeared among men — he whom they call Pegasus, methinks — and they claim that he caused a fountain to burst forth at Corinth by pawing with his hoof. But the fourth is the strangest conception of them all, a horse both firm and immovable, to say nothing of its having no wings, and it is named after Hestia. However, the Magi do not shrink from its portrayal; on the contrary, they state that this steed also is harnessed to the chariot, and yet it remains immovable, champing its adamantine curb. [47] And from all sides the other horses press close to him with their bodies and the pair that are his neighbours swerve toward him abreast, falling upon him, as it were, and crowding him, yet the horse that is farthest off is ever first to round that stationary steed as horses round the turn in the hippodrome.
“Now for the most part the horses continue in peace and friendship, unharmed by one another. But on one occasion in the past, in the course of a long space of time and many revolutions of the universe, a mighty blast from the first horse fell from on high, and, as might have been expected from such a fiery-tempered steed, inflamed the others, and more especially the last in order; and the fire encompassed not alone its mane, which formed its personal pride, but the whole universe as well. [48] And the Magi say that the Greeks, recording this experience as an isolated occurrence, connect it with the name of Phaethon, since they are unable to criticize the driving of Zeus and are loath to find fault with the coursings of Helius. And so they relate that a younger driver, a mortal son of Helius, desiring a sport that was to prove grievous and disastrous for all mankind, besought his father to let him mount his car and, plunging along in disorderly fashion, consumed with fire everything, both animals and plants, and finally was himself destroyed, being smitten by too powerful a flame.
[49] “Again, when at intervals of several years the horse that is sacred to Poseidon and the Nymphs rebels, having become panic-stricken and agitated beyond his wont, he overwhelms with copious sweat that same steed, since they two are yoke-mates. Accordingly it meets with fate which is the opposite of the disaster previously mentioned, this time being deluged with a mighty flood. And the Magi state that here again the Greeks, through youthful ignorance and faulty memory, record this flood as a single occurrence and claim that Deucalion, who was then king, saved them from complete destruction.
[50] “According to the Magi, these rare occurrences are viewed by mankind as taking place for their destruction, and not in accord with reason or as a part of the order of the universe, being unaware that they occur quite properly and in keeping with the plan of the preserver and governor of the world. For in reality it is comparable with what happens when a charioteer punishes one of his horses, pulling hard upon the rein or pricking with the goad; and then the horse prances and is thrown into a panic but straightway settles down to its proper gait.
“Well then, this is one kind of driving of which they tell, attended by violence but not involving the complete destruction of the universe. [51] On the other hand, they tell also of a different kind that involves the movement and change of all four horses, one in which they shift among themselves and interchange their forms until all come together into one being, having been overcome by that one which is superior in power. And yet this movement also the Magi dare to liken to the guidance and driving of a chariot, though to do so they need even stranger imagery. For instance, it is as if some magician were to mould horses out of wax, and then, subtracting and scraping off the wax from each, should add a little now to this one and now to that, until finally, having used up all the horses in constructing one from the four, he should fashion a single horse out of all his material. [52] They state, however, that in reality the process to which they refer is not like that of such inanimate images, in which the craftsman operates and shifts the material from without, but that instead the transformation is the work of these creatures themselves, just as if they were striving for victory in a contest that is great and real. And they add that the victory and its crown belong of necessity to that horse which is first and best in speed and prowess and general excellence, I mean to that one which we named in the beginning of our account as the special steed of Zeus. [53] For that one, being most valiant of all and fiery by nature, having speedily used up the others — as if, methinks, they were truly made of wax — in no great span of time (though to us it seems endless according to our reckoning) and having appropriated to itself all the substance of them all, appeared much greater and more brilliant than formerly; not through the aid of any other creature, either mortal or immortal, but by itself and its own efforts proving victor in the greatest contest. And, standing tall and proud, rejoicing in its victory, it not only seized the largest possible region but also needed larger space at that time, so great was its strength and its spirit.
[54] “Having arrived at that stage in their myth, the Magi are embarrassed in search of a name to describe the nature of the creature of their own invention. For they say that now by this time it is simply the soul of the charioteer and master; or, let us say, merely the intellect and leadership of that soul. (Those, in fact, are the terms we ourselves employ when we honour and reverence the greatest god by noble deeds and pious words). [55] For indeed, when the mind alone had been left and had filled with itself immeasurable space, since it had poured itself evenly in all directions and nothing in it remained dense but complete porosity prevailed — at which time it becomes most beautiful — having obtained the purest nature of unadulterated light, it immediately longed for the existence that it had at first. Accordingly, becoming enamoured of that control and governance and concord which it once maintained not only over the three natures of sun and moon and the other stars, but also over absolutely all animals and plants, it became eager to generate and distribute everything and to make the orderly universe then existent once more far better and more resplendent because newer. [56] And emitting a full flash of lightning, not a disorderly or foul one such as in stormy weather often darts forth, when the clouds drive more violently than usual, but rather pure and unmixed with any murk, it worked a transformation easily, with the speed of thought. But recalling Aphroditê and the process of generation, it tamed and relaxed itself and, quenching much of its light, it turned into fiery air of gentle warmth, and uniting with Hera and enjoying the most perfect wedlock, in sweet repose it emitted anew the full supply of seed for the universe. Such is the blessed marriage of Zeus and Hera of which the sons of sages sing in secret rites. [57] And having made fluid all his essence, one seed for the entire world, he himself moving about in it like a spirit that moulds and fashions in generation, then indeed most closely resembling the composition of the other creatures, inasmuch as he might with reason be said to consist of soul and body, he now with ease moulds and fashions all the rest, pouring about him his essence smooth and soft and easily yielding in every part.
[58] “And having performed his task and brought it to completion, he revealed the existent universe as once more a thing of beauty and inconceivable loveliness, much more resplendent, indeed, than it appears to-day. For not only, I ween, are all other works of craftsmen better and brighter when fresh from the artistic hand of their maker, but also the younger specimens of plants are more vigorous than the old and altogether like young shoots. And indeed animals, too, are charming attractive to b
ehold right after their birth, not merely the most beautiful among them — colts and calves and puppies — but even the whelps of wild animals of the most savage kind. [59] For, on the one hand, the nature of man is helpless and feeble like Demeter’s tender grain, but when it has progressed to the full measure of its prime, it is a stronger and more conspicuous creation than any plant at all. However, the entire heaven and universe when first it was completed, having been put in order by the wisest and noblest craft, just released from the hand of the creator, brilliant and translucent and brightly beaming in all its parts, remained helpless for no time at all, nor weak with the weakness that nature ordains for man and other mortal beings, but, on the contrary, was fresh and vigorous from the very beginning. [60] At that time, therefore, the Creator and Father of the World, beholding the work of his hands, was not by any means merely pleased, for that is a lowly experience of lowly beings; nay, he rejoiced and was delighted exceedingly,
As on Olympus he sat, and his heart did laugh
For joy, beholding the gods
who were now all created and present before him.”
But the form of the universe at that moment — I mean both the bloom and the beauty of that which is for ever ineffably beauteous — no man could conceive and fitly express, neither among men of our time nor among those of former days, but only the Muses and Apollo with the divine rhythm of their pure and consummate harmony. [61] For that reason let us also refrain for the present, now that we have not shirked exalting the myth to the best of our power. And if the form of that myth has turned out to be utterly lofty and indistinct, just as those who are expert in augury declare that the bird which ascends too high into the heavens hides itself in the clouds makes divination incomplete, still it is not I whom you should blame, but rather the insistence of those men of Borysthenes, because it was they who bade me speak that day.
THE THIRTY-SEVENTH DISCOURSE: THE CORINTHIAN ORATION
This Discourse is plainly not the work of Dio. It is inferior in style, replete with allusions, and often out of harmony with accepted tradition as to matters of history. Moreover, the speaker calls himself a Roman (§§ 25 and 26). Emperius long ago named Favorinus as the author, and that identification has met with general approval.
The most detailed information regarding Favorinus is provided by Philostratus, Vitae Sophistarum 1.8, though Aulus Gellius, who had studied under Favorinus, often praises his learning. Favorinus was a native of Arelatêº (Arles). He may have obtained his early education at Marseilles, where he could have acquired that facility with the Greek language of which he was so proud (§§ , , ). According to Philostratus, he was said to have listened to Dio, but to have been “as far removed from him as those who hadn’t.” He created a great stir in Rome, even among those who knew no Greek but were “charmed by the sound of his voice, the significance of his glance, and the rhythm of his tongue.”
Favorinus at first enjoyed the favour of Hadrian, but he lost it, at least for a time, when accused of adultery with the wife of a consul. In consequence, the Athenians threw down the bronze statue with which they had honoured him. It is perhaps that incident to which he makes veiled allusion in § 35. One infers from §§ 32- that Corinth had taken similar action for the same reason, but the peroration, in which the speaker seems to be apostrophizing the missing statue, is very mystifying. A literal reading of the passage would lead to the supposition that there is some hocus pocus by means of which the statue is suddenly placed on view, a prearranged unveiling, as it were. However, Edmonds may be right (Lyra Graeca, I , L. C. L.) in identifying the σιγηλὸν εἴδωλον of § 46 with the oration then being delivered rather than with any statue, real or imaginary. In that case Favorinus might be regarded as dedicating his address to posterity. That he had escaped punishment at the hands of Hadrian might be inferred from the confident tone of §§ 34 and , even if we lacked the express testimony of Philostratus. That he should have travelled widely was to be expected in the case of a man of his calling and reputation, and he refers to his travels with much pride in §§ 26 and . His most famous pupil was doubtless Herodes Atticus, whom he made his heir.
This Discourse may have been included among the works of Dio because of its superficial likeness to Or. in subject matter, since both dealt with the popular custom of erecting statues and with the strange fate that sometimes overtook such marks of esteem.
The Thirty-seventh Discourse: The Corinthian Oration
When I visited your city the first time, nearly ten years ago, and gave your people and magistrates a sample of my eloquence, I seemed to be on friendly, yes intimate, terms with you to a degree not equalled even by Arion of Methymnê. At any rate you did not have a statue made of Arion. Of course when I say you, I am speaking of your forebears and of Periander the sage, son of Cypselus, in whose day Arion flourished, being the first not only to compose a dithyramb but also to call it by that name and to present a dithyrambic chorus in Corinth.
[2] Now Arion was so dear to the gods that, when on his voyage back to Corinth, bringing great riches which he had had the good fortune to win by his labours in the neighbourhood of Tarentum and among the Greeks of that region, as he was about to be cast into the sea by the sailors — no doubt because of that very wealth of his — he besought them ere they threw him overboard to let him sing, just as men say that swans about to die and foreseeing their death are wont, as it were, to put their soul on board “the bark of song.” [3] So then he sang — calm and silence brooded on the deep — and dolphins heard his song, and as they heard it they rushed about the ship. And when Arion ceased and the sailors showed no relenting, he leaped into the sea; but a dolphin rose beneath him and carried the singer in safety to Taenarum just as he was, gear and all. So then Arion, saved in this manner and having outstripped the sailors, was in Corinth narrating these very happenings to Periander. [4] And when the sailors later entered port and the matter was brought to trial, the sailors were put to death, but Arion — not Periander, mark you, but Arion — ordering a bronze likeness of no great size, set it up at Taenarum, a likeness of himself astride the back of his benefactor.
And about this same time Solon too came to Corinth, fleeing from the tyranny of Peisistratus, but not from that of Periander. [5] No, for that was a different matter — while Peisistratus was tyrant of Athens through having destroyed the democracy, Periander was tyrant through having received the royal power by inheritance from his father, whom the Greeks were wont to call tyrant, though the gods called him king. For is not this the way the oracle has it?
A happy man is he who to my fane
Doth come, Eëtion’s Cypselus, the king
Of famous Corinth, he and his children too.
[6] One of these children was Periander himself, who succeeded his father. So then Periander, called king by the god, was proclaimed a sage by the Greeks. No better title did any king or tyrant ever gain, no, not even Antiochus, surnamed Divine, nor Mithridates, surnamed Dionysus. And even Pittacus of Mitylenê might have been proud to be called at one and the same time both tyrant and sage; but, as a matter of fact, in clinging to the second title he stripped himself of his tyranny. Yet as for Periander, while he shared the name of sage with a few and that of tyrant with many, as both tyrant and sage he stood alone. [7] Well then, when Solon visited Periander and received a share of their common possessions — for the possessions of friends are held in common — still he received no statue, though surely he did not disdain a statue, no, he esteemed highly the honour of having had a bronze likeness of himself set up at Salamis; then why not so at Corinth, the promenade of Hellas? Again, Herodotus the historian also paid you a visit, bringing tales of Greece, and in particular tales of Corinth — not yet fallacious tales — in return for which he expected to receive pay from the city. But failing of obtaining even that — for your forebears did not deem it fitting to traffic in renown — he devised those tales we all know so well, the tales about Salamis and Adeimantus.
[8] However, in my o
wn case, upon my second visit to Corinth you were so glad to see me that you did your best to get me to stay with you, but seeing that to be impossible, you did have a likeness made of me, and you took this and set it up in your Library, a front-row seat as it were, where you felt it would most effectively stimulate the youth to persevere in the same pursuits as myself. For you accorded me this honour, not as to one of the many who each year put in at Cenchreae as traders or pilgrims or envoys or passing travellers, but as to a cherished friend, who at last, after a long absence, puts in an appearance.
[9] Yet Honour, dreamlike, takes wing and flies away.
Therefore I have come to be perplexed, not only as to my own case, but now, by Heaven, as to that of some one else as well, wondering whether I did not truly see, and what took place was not the happenings of my waking moments but merely a dream, or whether the events were really so in all detail, both the enthusiasm of the populace and the decision of the Council, and yet, as luck would have it, the statue was one of the works of Daedalus and slipped away without our notice. [10] However, not since the death of Daedalus down to the present day has any one made such progress in the art of sculpture as to impart to bronze the power of flight; nay, though they make statues of men with a fine and noble stride, and sometimes even riding on horseback, still these all maintain their pose and station and, unless some one moves them, so far as they are concerned bronze has no power to flee, not even if the statue has wings, like the Perseus of Pythagoras.
Delphi Complete Works of Dio Chrysostom Page 57