When a man has endured all this, has wrestled with an illness so serious, and has conquered the ailment of all ailments most difficult to master, will you empower the plaintiff to disown him again, permit him to interpret the laws in any way he will against a benefactor, and allow him to fight with nature?

I, obeying nature, save and preserve my father for my own sake, gentlemen of the jury, even if he wrongs me; but that father, following, he says, the laws, ruins the son that has done him a benefit, and deprives him of his family. He is his son’s enemy, I am my father’s friend. I cherish nature, he slights and insults her just claims. To think of a father who hates his son unjustly! To think of a son that loves his father still more unjustly! For I bring it as a charge against myself, since my father constrains me to do so, that I who am hated love when I should not and love more than I ought. Yet it is nature’s behest that fathers love their sons more than sons their fathers. He, however, deliberately slights even the laws, which preserve for the family sons who have done no wrong, as well as nature, who draws parents into great affection for their children. It cannot be said that, having exceptional grounds for good-will towards me, he pays me exceptional dues of good-will and runs the measure over, or that at least he imitates and rivals me in my love; no, alas! he even hates one who loves him, repels one who cherishes him, injures one who helps him, and disowns one who clings to him. Aye, though the laws are kindly to children, he employs them against me as if they were unkindly. Ah, what a conflict you wish to precipitate, father, between the laws and nature !

Truly, truly, this matter is not as you will have it tobe. Youillinterpret the laws, father, for they are well made. Nature and law are not at war in the matter of good-will; they go hand in hand there, and work together for the righting of wrongs. You mistreat your benefactor; you wrong nature. Why wrong the laws, as well as nature? They mean to be good, and just, and kindly to children, but you will not allow it, inciting them repeatedly against one son as if his name were legion, and not suffering them to rest contented with punishments when they are willing to rest contented with demonstrations of filial affection; and yet they were not made, surely, as a menace to those who have done no wrong. Indeed, the laws permit suit to be brought on the charge of ingratitude against persons who do not help those who have helped them.

The existence of a law making ingratitude (dyapio7ia) actionable was part of the accepted tradition of the Greek rhetorical seHnee (Sopater in Walz, Rhetores Graect, VIII, 175 and 239; Cyrus, tbsd., 391; cf. Seneca, de Benef., III, 6, 1). For its existence outside the schools the evidence is conflicting. The name of the action is included in the list given by Pollux, VIII, 31, and Valerius Maximus (V, 3, ext. 3) says that Athens had such a law. On the other hand, Xenophon puts into the mouth of Socrates (Mem., II, 2,13; ef. Cyrop. I, 2,7) the statement that Athens took no cognisance of ingratitude except toward parents, and Seneca (loc. cit.) says that no nation except the Macedonians had a law against it,

That it is neither possible for him to disown a son after having already once for all exhausted his paternal right and made use of the laws, nor yet just to thrust away one who has shown himself so great a benefactor and exclude him from the house has been, I think, sufficiently established.

Therefore let us now come to the ground of disownment and let us see what the nature of the charge is. It is necessary to recur once more to the intent of the lawgiver; for, suppose we grant you briefly the right to disown as often as you wish and also concede you this right even against your benefactor, you are not to disown casually, I take it, or for any and eve cause. The lawgiver does not say that the father may disown for any reason that he may chance to allege—that it is enough just to express the wish and find a fault. Else why should we need a court? No, he commits it to you, gentlemen of the jury, to consider whether the father’s anger is based upon just and sufficient grounds or not. This, then, is what you should now look into. And IJ shall begin with what immediately followed his insanity.

The first act of his sanity was to set aside the disownment, and I was a saviour, a benefactor, all in allto him. No charge, I take it, could go with that. And as to what followed, what do you censure in all of it? What service, what attention proper to a son did I omit? When did I sleep away from home? Of what ill-timed carouses, of what riotous revels do you accuse me? What licentiousness has there been? What pander have I assaulted? Who has filed any charges? Nobody at all. Yet these are the deeds for which the law especially sanctions disownment.

“No, but your stepmother began to be ill.” Well, do you accuse me of that, and demand satisfaction for the illness?

“No,” he says. What, then? “That when you are ordered to treat her, you do not consent; and on that account would merit disownment for disobeying your father.” Deferring for a moment the question what sort of orders on his part, when I cannot obey them, cause me to be considered disobedient, I first assert simply that the law does not allow him to issue all orders, and that I am not obliged to obey all orders under all circumstances. In the matter of commands, sometimes disobedience is unexceptionable, sometimes it justifies anger and punishment. If you yourself are ill, and I am indifferent; if you bid me manage the household, and I am neglectful; if you direct me to oversee the estate, and I am indiligent—all this and the like of it affords reasonable grounds for a father’s censure. But these other matters are within the discretion of us children, belonging as they do to our callings and the exercise of them; particularly if the father himself is in no way wronged. For really, if a scribe’s father gives him the order, “Write this, my boy, not that,” or a musician’s father, “Play this tune, not that,” or a coppersmith’s father, “Forge things like this, not like that,” would anyone put up with his disowning his son because the son does not exercise his calling in accordance with the views of the father? No one, I think.