On the False Embassy

Whom would you call the most detestable person in all Athens, and the most swollen with impudence and superciliousness? No one, I am sure, would name, even by a slip of the tongue, anyone but Philocrates. Who is the most vehement speaker, the man who can express himself most emphatically with the aid of his big voice? Undoubtedly Aeschines. Whom do these men call timid and faint-hearted, or, as I should say, diffident, in addressing a crowd? Me; for I never worried you; I have never tried to dragoon you against your inclinations.

Well, at every Assembly, whenever there is any discussion of this business, you hear me denouncing and incriminating these men, and declaring roundly that they have taken bribes and made traffic of all the interests of the commonwealth; and no one of them ever contradicts me, or opens his mouth, or lets himself be seen.

How comes it then that the most impudent men in Athens, and the loudest speakers, are overborne by me, the nervous man, who can speak no louder than another? Because truth is strong, and consciousness of corruption weak. Conscience paralyses their audacity; conscience cripples their tongues, closes their lips, stifles them, puts them to silence.

You remember the most recent occasion, at Peiraeus only the other day, when you refused to appoint Aeschines to an embassy, how he bellowed at me: I will impeach you,—I will indict you,—aha! aha And yet a threat of impeachment involves endless speeches and litigation; but here are just two or three simple words that a slave bought yesterday could deliver: Men of Athens, here is a strange thing! This man accuses me of offences in which he himself took part. He says that I have taken bribes, when he took them, or shared them, himself.

He never spoke, he never uttered a word of that speech; none of you heard it; he only vented idle menaces. The reason is that he was conscious of guilt; he cowered like a slave before those words; his thoughts did not approach them but recoiled from them, arrested by his evil conscience. Mere vague invective and abuse there was no one to stop.

And now comes the strongest possible point—not a matter of assertion but of fact. I wished to do the honest thing, and to give an account of myself twice, because I had been appointed ambassador twice; but Aeschines approached the Court of Scrutiny, taking with him a crowd of witnesses, and forbade them to summon me, on the ground that I had already submitted to scrutiny, and was no longer liable. What was the real meaning of this ludicrous proceeding? Having himself rendered his account of the earlier embassy, with which nobody found fault, he did not wish to come into court in respect of the embassy for which he is now under examination; and that is the embassy that includes all his misdeeds.

But, if I came into court twice, he could not avoid a second appearance, and therefore he would not let me be summoned. Yet that act, men of Athens, proves two propositions: first, that Aeschines has pronounced his own condemnation, and therefore you cannot conscientiously acquit him today; and secondly, that he will not have a truthful word to say about me, otherwise he would have spoken out and denounced me then, instead of trying to block my summons.

To prove the truth of these statements, please call the witnesses.[*](Here and elsewhere (e.g. Dem. 19.233) Demosthenes has time to insert a few remarks while the witnesses are being collected and before their depositions are read.)

If, however, he says scurrilous things about me, not pertinent to the question of the embassy, there are many reasons why you should not listen. I am not on my trial today, and I shall have no second opportunity[*](no second opportunity: lit. no one will hereafter pour water for me, i.e. into the clepsydra [57].) of speaking. It will only mean that he is destitute of honest arguments. No culprit would deliberately choose to prefer accusations, if he had any defence to offer.

Or again, look at it in this light, gentlemen of the jury. Suppose that I were on trial, with Aeschines for my accuser, and Philip for my judge, and suppose that, being unable to deny my guilt, I were to vilify Aeschines and throw mud at him; do you not think that that is just what would move Philip’s indignation, his own benefactors calumniated before his own tribunal? Do not be less rigorous than Philip, but compel him to address his defence to the real issues of this controversy. Now read the deposition.

(The Deposition is read)

Thus in my consciousness of innocence I thought it my duty to render my account and accept my full legal liability, while Aeschines did not. Is my conduct then the echo of his? Is it competent for him to lay before this court charges which he has never made before? Assuredly not; and yet he will lay them, for a very good reason. For you know that, ever since mankind and the criminal law first came into being, no culprit has ever been convicted while confessing his guilt. They vapor, they gainsay, they tell lies, they forge excuses,—anything to evade justice.

Do not be duped today by any of these stale tricks. You must pass judgement on the facts, according to your knowledge; you must pay no heed either to my assertions or to his, nor even to the witnesses whom he will have in waiting, with Philip as his paymaster, and you will see how glibly they will testify. You must not notice what a fine loud voice he has, and what a poor voice I have.

If you are wise, you must not treat this trial as a competition of forensic eloquence; but in regard to a dishonorable and perilous catastrophe, cast back upon the guilty the dishonor that attaches to it, after reviewing transactions that lie within the knowledge of you all. What, then, are the facts that you know and I need not recount?

If all the promised results of the peace have come true, if you confess yourselves so effeminate and so cowardly that, with no enemy within your borders, no blockade of your ports, no imperilment of your capital, with corn-prices low and every other condition as favorable as it is today,

and with foreknowledge on the assurance of your ambassadors that your allies would be ruined, that the Thebans would gain strength, that Philip would occupy the northern positions, that a basis of attack would be established against you in Euboea, and that everything that has in fact resulted would befall you, you thereupon cheerfully made the peace, by all means acquit Aeschines, and do not crown your other dishonors with the sin of perjury. He has done you no wrong, and I am a madman and a fool to accuse him.

But if the truth is otherwise, if they spoke handsomely of Philip and told you that he was the friend of Athens, that he would deliver the Phocians, that he would curb the arrogance of the Thebans, that he would bestow on you many boons of more value than Amphipolis, and would restore Euboea and Oropus, if only he got his peace,—if, I say, by such assertions and such promises they have deceived and deluded you, and wellnigh stripped you of all Attica, find him guilty, and do not reinforce the outrages, for I can find no better word,—that you have endured, by returning to your homes laden with the curse and the guilt of perjury, for the sake of the bribes that they have pocketed.

You should further ask yourselves, gentlemen of the jury, why, if they were not guilty, I should have gone out of my way to accuse them. You will find no reason. Is it agreeable to have many enemies? It is hardly safe. Perhaps I had an old standing feud with Aeschines? That is not so. Well, but you were frightened on your own account, and were coward enough to seek this as a way of escape; for that, I hear, is one of his suggestions. But, by your own account, Aeschines, there is no crime, and therefore no jeopardy. If he repeats the insinuation, do you, gentlemen, consider this: in a case where I, who did no wrong whatever, was yet afraid lest these men’s conduct should ruin me, what punishment ought they to suffer who were themselves the guilty parties?

However, that was not my reason. Then why am I accusing you? Perhaps as a common informer, to get money out of you? Which course was more profitable for me, to take money from Philip, who offered me a great deal,—as much as he gave them,—and so to make friends both with him and with them,—for indeed I might have had their friendship if I had been their accomplice, and even now there is no vendetta between us, only that I had no part in their malpractices, or to levy blackmail on their takings, and so incur Philip’s enmity and theirs; to spend all my money on the ransom of captives, and then expect to get a trifle back dishonorably and at the cost of their hostility?

The thing is impossible! No; I made honest reports; I kept my hands clean of corruption for the sake of truth and justice and of my future career, believing, as others have believed, that my honesty would be rewarded by your favor, and that my public spirit must never be bartered away for any emolument. I abhor these men because throughout the embassy I found them vicious and ungodly, and because by their corruption I have been robbed of the due reward of my patriotism, through your natural dissatisfaction with the whole business. I now denounce them, and I have attended this scrutiny, because I have a care for the future, and desire a decision recorded in this case and by this court that my conduct has been exactly opposed to theirs.

And yet I am afraid,—for all my thoughts shall be laid open to you,—I am afraid that hereafter you may destroy me with them in despite of my innocence, while today you are supine. For indeed, men of Athens, you seem to me to have become altogether slack, idly waiting for the advent of disaster. You see the distresses of others, but take no precaution for yourselves; you have no thought for the steady and alarming deterioration of your commonwealth.

Do you not think this an extremely dangerous symptom? (For though I had decided to say nothing, I am tempted to speak out) Of course you know Pythocles, son of Pythodorus. I was on the most civil terms with him, and there has been no unpleasantness between us to this day. But now, since his visit to Philip, he turns aside whenever he meets me, and if he cannot avoid an encounter, he rushes off as soon as he can for fear he should be seen talking to me, while he will perambulate the whole market-place discussing plans with Aeschines.