The works of Plato (Vol. 1 of 6)
Date: 2026-05-06T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Philosophy -- Early works to 1800

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Title: The works of Plato (Vol. 1 of 6)

A new and literal version chiefly from the text of Stallbaum

Author: Plato

Translator: Henry Cary

Gottfried Stallbaum

Release date: May 6, 2026 [eBook #78618]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Henry G. Bohn, 1849

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78618

Credits: KD Weeks,The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF PLATO (VOL. 1 OF 6) ***

Transcriber’s Note:

Footnotes have been collected at the end of each dialogue, and are linked for ease of reference.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

Any corrections are indicated using an underline highlight. Placing the cursor over the correction will produce the original text in a small popup.

Any corrections are indicated as hyperlinks, which will navigate the reader to the corresponding entry in the corrections table in the note at the end of the text.

BOHN’S CLASSICAL LIBRARY.

THE WORKS OF PLATO,

LITERALLY TRANSLATED.

THE

WORKS OF PLATO.

A NEW AND LITERAL VERSION,

CHIEFLY FROM THE TEXT OF STALLBAUM.

VOL. I.

CONTAINING

THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES,

CRITO, PHÆDO, GORGIAS, PROTAGORAS, PHÆDRUS,

THEÆTETUS, EUTHYPHRON, AND LYSIS.

BY HENRY CARY, M.A.

WORCESTER COLLEGE, OXFORD.

LONDON:

HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

1854.

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE.

The only version of the entire works of Plato, which has appeared in the English language, is that published by Taylor; in which nine of the Dialogues previously translated by Floyer Sydenham are introduced. Taylor’s portion of the work is far from correct, and betrays an imperfect knowledge of Greek: that by Sydenham is much better, and evidently the work of a scholar, but in many instances, and those chiefly where difficulties present themselves, he obscures his author’s meaning by too great amplification. Translations of several detached Dialogues have appeared at various times, but of those which have fallen into my hands none appear to me deserving of notice, with the exception of a little volume containing the Phædrus, Lysis, and Protagoras, by Mr. J. Wright, of Trinity College, Cambridge, the production of a promising scholar.

In the volume now offered to the public, I have endeavoured to keep as closely to the original as the idioms of the two languages would allow.

In the introduction to each Dialogue I have contented myself with giving a brief outline of the arguments; sufficient, I trust, to enable a reader not familiar with the rigid dialectics of Plato to follow the chain of his reasoning, and catch the points at which he so frequently diverges from, and again returns to, the main subject of each Dialogue.

The editions which have been made use of are those of Bekker, Ast, and Stallbaum, though with very few exceptions the readings of the latter have been adopted. The division into sections, according to the London edition of Bekker, has been retained, because the arrangement is convenient, and it is believed that that edition is more generally to be met with in this country than any other.

H. C.

Oxford, Nov. 28, 1848.

ERRATUM.

Page 428. § 114, l. 6, for objects, both, read both objects.

CONTENTS.

| Page
Preface | vii
Introduction to the Apology of Socrates | 1
THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES | 3
Introduction to the Crito | 30
CRITO OR THE DUTY OF A CITIZEN | 31
Introduction to the Phædo | 46
PHÆDO OR THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL | 54
Introduction to the Gorgias | 128
GORGIAS OR ON RHETORIC | 136
Introduction to the Protagoras | 233
PROTAGORAS OR THE SOPHISTS | 237
Introduction to the Phædrus | 295
PHÆDRUS OR ON THE BEAUTIFUL | 301
Introduction to the Theætetus | 361
THEÆTETUS OR ON SCIENCE | 369
Introduction to the Euthyphron | 456
EUTHYPHRON OR ON HOLINESS | 458
Introduction to the Lysis | 477
LYSIS OR ON FRIENDSHIP | 482

INTRODUCTION

TO

THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES.

Two charges were brought against Socrates, one, that he did not believe in the gods received by the state, the other, that he corrupted the Athenian youth by teaching them not to believe.

Plato, who was present at the trial, probably gives us the very arguments employed by the accused on that occasion. Socrates disdained to have recourse to the usual methods adopted by the popular orators of the day to secure an acquittal; and, having devoted his whole life to the search after and the inculcation of religious, philosophical, and moral truth, resolved to bear himself in this extremity in a manner consistent with his established character, and to take his stand on his own integrity and innocence, utterly uninfluenced by that imaginary evil, death. From this cause it is that his defence is so little artificial. In his discussions with others, on whatever subject, it was his constant habit to keep his opponents to the question before them, and he would never suffer them to evade it, but by a connected series of the most subtle questions or arguments compelled them to retract any erroneous opinion they might have advanced: whereas, in defending himself, he never once fairly grapples with either of the charges brought against him. With regard to the first accusation, that he did not believe in the established religion, he neither confesses nor denies it, but shews that he had in some instances conformed to the religious customs of his country, and that he did believe in God, so much so indeed that even if they would acquit him on condition of his abandoning his practice of teaching others, he could not consent to such terms, but must persevere in fulfilling the mission on which the Deity had sent him, for that he feared God rather than man. With reference to the second charge which he meets first, by his usual method of a brief but close cross-examination of his accuser Melitus, he brings him to this dilemma, that he must either charge him with corrupting the youth designedly, which would be absurd, or with doing so undesignedly, for which he could not be liable to punishment.

The Defence itself properly ends with the twenty-fourth section. The second division to the twenty-ninth section relates only to the sentence which ought to be passed on him. And in the third and concluding part, with a dignity and fulness of hope worthy even of a Christian, he expresses his belief that the death to which he is going is only a passage to a better and a happier life.

THE

APOLOGY OF SOCRATES.

I know not, O Athenians, how far you have been influenced by my accusers: for my part, in listening to them I almost forgot myself, so plausible were their arguments: however, so to speak, they have said nothing true. But of the many falsehoods which they uttered I wondered at one of them especially, that in which they said that you ought to be on your guard lest you should be deceived by me, as being eloquent in speech. For that they are not ashamed of being forthwith convicted by me in fact, when I shall shew that I am not by any means eloquent, this seemed to me the most shameless thing in them, unless indeed they call him eloquent who speaks the truth. For, if they mean this, then I would allow that I am an orator, but not after their fashion: for they, as I affirm, have said nothing true; but from me you shall hear the whole truth. Not indeed, Athenians, arguments highly wrought, as theirs were, with choice phrases and expressions, nor adorned, but you shall hear a speech uttered without premeditation, in such words as first present themselves. For I am confident that what I say will be just, and let none of you expect otherwise: for surely it would not become my time of life to come before you like a youth with a got up speech. Above all things therefore I beg and implore this of you, O Athenians, if you hear me defending myself in the same language as that in which I am accustomed to speak both in the forum at the counters, where many of you have heard me, and elsewhere, not to be surprised or disturbed on this account. For the case is this: I now for the first time come before a court of justice, though more than seventy years old; I am therefore utterly a stranger to the language here. As, then, if I were really a stranger, you would have pardoned me if I spoke in the language and the manner in which I had been educated, so now I ask this of you as an act of justice, as it appears to me, to disregard the manner of my speech, for perhaps it may be somewhat worse, and perhaps better, and to consider this only, and to give your attention to this, whether I speak what is just or not; for this is the virtue of a judge, but of an orator to speak the truth.

2. First then, O Athenians, I am right in defending myself against the first false accusations alleged against me, and my first accusers, and then against the latest accusations, and the latest accusers. For many have been accusers of me to you, and for many years, who have asserted nothing true, of whom I am more afraid than of Anytus and his party, although they too are formidable; but those are still more formidable, Athenians, who laying hold of many of you from childhood, have persuaded you, and accused me of what is not true:—“that there is one Socrates, a wise man, who occupies himself about celestial matters, and has explored every thing under the earth, and makes the worse appear the better reason.” Those, O Athenians, who have spread abroad this report are my formidable accusers: for they who hear them think that such as search into these things do not believe that there are gods. In the next place, these accusers are numerous, and have accused me now for a long time; moreover they said these things to you at that time of life in which you were most credulous, when you were boys and some of you youths, and they accused me altogether in my absence, when there was no one to defend me. But the most unreasonable thing of all is, that it is not possible to learn and mention their names, except that one of them happens to be a comic poet[1]. Such, however, as influenced by envy and calumny have persuaded you, and those who, being themselves persuaded, have persuaded others, all these are most difficult to deal with; for it is not possible to bring any of them forward here, nor to confute any; but it is altogether necessary, to fight as it were with a shadow, in making my defence, and to convict when there is no one to answer. Consider, therefore, as I have said, that my accusers are twofold, some who have lately accused me, and others long since, whom I have made mention of; and believe that I ought to defend myself against these first; for you heard them accusing me first, and much more than these last.

Well. I must make my defence then, O Athenians, and endeavour in this so short a space of time to remove from your minds the calumny which you have long entertained. I wish, indeed, it might be so, if it were at all better both for you and me, and that in making my defence I could effect something more advantageous still: I think however that it will be difficult, and I am not entirely ignorant what the difficulty is. Nevertheless let this turn out as may be pleasing to God, I must obey the law, and make my defence.

3. Let us then repeat from the beginning what the accusation is from which the calumny against me has arisen, and relying on which Melitus has preferred this indictment against me. Well. What then do they who charge me say in their charge? For it is necessary to read their deposition as of public accusers. “Socrates acts wickedly, and is criminally curious in searching into things under the earth, and in the heavens, and in making the worse appear the better cause, and in teaching these same things to others.” Such is the accusation: for such things you have yourselves seen in the comedy of Aristophanes, one Socrates there carried about, saying that he walks in the air, and acting many other buffooneries, of which I understand nothing whatever. Nor do I say this as disparaging such a science, if there be any one skilled in such things, only let me not be prosecuted by Melitus on a charge of this kind; but I say it, O Athenians, because I have nothing to do with such matters. And I call upon most of you as witnesses of this, and require you to inform and tell each other, as many of you as have ever heard me conversing; and there are many such among you. Therefore tell each other, if any one of you has ever heard me conversing little or much on such subjects. And from this you will know that other things also, which the multitude assert of me, are of a similar nature.

4. However not one of these things is true; nor, if you have heard from any one that I attempt to teach men, and require payment, is this true. Though this indeed appears to me to be an honourable thing, if one should be able to instruct men, like Gorgias the Leontine, Prodicus the Cean, and Hippias the Elean. For each of these, O Athenians, is able, by going through the several cities, to persuade the young men, who can attach themselves gratuitously to such of their own fellow citizens as they please, to abandon their fellow citizens and associate with them, giving them money and thanks besides. There is also another wise man here, a Parian, who I hear is staying in the city. For I happened to visit a person who spends more money on the sophists than all others together, I mean Callias, son of Hipponicus. I therefore asked him, for he has two sons, “Callias,” I said, “if your two sons were colts or calves, we should have had to choose a master for them and hire a person who would make them excel in such qualities as belong to their nature: and he would have been a groom or an agricultural labourer. But now, since your sons are men, what master do you intend to choose for them? Who is there skilled in the qualities that become a man and a citizen? For I suppose you must have considered this, since you have sons. Is there any one,” I said, “or not?” “Certainly,” he answered. “Who is he?” said I, “and whence does he come? and on what terms does he teach?” He replied, “Evenus the Parian, Socrates, for five minæ.” And I deemed Evenus happy, if he really possesses this art, and teaches so admirably. And I too should think highly of myself and be very proud, if I possessed this knowledge; but I possess it not, O Athenians.

5. Perhaps, one of you may now object: “But, Socrates, what have you done then? Whence have these calumnies against you arisen? For surely if you had not busied yourself more than others, such a report and story would never have got abroad, unless you had done something different from what most men do. Tell us, therefore, what it is, that we may not pass a hasty judgment on you.” He who speaks thus appears to me to speak justly, and I will endeavour to shew you what it is that has occasioned me this character and imputation. Listen then: to some of you perhaps I shall appear to jest, yet be assured that I shall tell you the whole truth. For I, O Athenians, have acquired this character through nothing else than a certain wisdom. Of what kind, then, is this wisdom? Perhaps it is merely human wisdom. For in this, in truth I appear to be wise. They probably, whom I just now mentioned, possessed a wisdom more than human, otherwise I know not what to say about it; for I am not acquainted with it, and whosoever says I am, speaks falsely and for the purpose of calumniating me. But, O Athenians, do not cry out against me, even though I should seem to you to speak somewhat arrogantly. For the account which I am going to give you, is not my own, but I shall refer to an authority whom you will deem worthy of credit. For I shall adduce to you the god at Delphi as a witness of my wisdom, if I have any, and of what it is. You doubtless know Chærepho: he was my associate from youth, and the associate of most of you; he accompanied you in your late exile and returned with you. You know, then, what kind of a man Chærepho was, how earnest in whatever he undertook. Having once gone to Delphi, he ventured to make the following inquiry of the oracle, (and, as I said, O Athenians, do not cry out,) for he asked if there was any one wiser than me. The Pythian thereupon answered that there was not one wiser: and of this, his brother here will give you proofs, since he himself is dead.

6. Consider then why I mention these things: it is because I am going to shew you whence the calumny against me arose. For when I heard this, I reasoned thus with myself, What does the god mean? What enigma is this? For I am not conscious to myself that I am wise, either much or little. What then does he mean by saying that I am the wisest? For assuredly he does not speak falsely: that he cannot do. And for a long time, I was in doubt what he meant; afterwards with considerable difficulty I had recourse to the following method of searching out his meaning. I went to one of those who have the character of being wise, thinking that there, if any where, I should confute the oracle, and shew in answer to the response that This man is wiser than I, though you affirmed that I was the wisest. Having then examined this man, (for there is no occasion to mention his name, he was however one of our great politicians, in examining whom I felt as I proceed to describe, O Athenians,) having fallen into conversation with him, this man appeared to me to be wise in the opinion of most other men, and especially in his own opinion, though in fact he was not so. I thereupon endeavoured to shew him that he fancied himself to be wise, but really was not. Hence I became odious both to him, and to many others who were present. When I left him, I reasoned thus with myself, I am wiser than this man, for neither of us appear to know any thing great and good: but he fancies he knows something, although he knows nothing, whereas I, as I do not know any thing, so I do not fancy I do. In this trifling particular, then, I appear to be wiser than him, because I do not fancy I know what I do not know. After that I went to another who was thought to be wiser than the former, and formed the very same opinion. Hence I became odious to him and to many others.

7. After this I went to others in turn, perceiving indeed and grieving and alarmed that I was making myself odious; however it appeared necessary to regard the oracle of the god as of the greatest moment, and that in order to discover its meaning, I must go to all who had the reputation of possessing any knowledge. And by the dog, O Athenians, for I must tell you the truth, I came to some such conclusion as this: those who bore the highest reputation appeared to me to be most deficient, in my researches in obedience to the god, and others who were considered inferior, more nearly approaching to the possession of understanding. But I must relate to you my wandering, and the labours which I underwent, in order that the oracle might prove incontrovertible. For after the politicians I went to the poets as well the tragic as the dithyrambic and others, expecting that here I should in very fact find myself more ignorant than them. Taking up, therefore, some of their poems, which appeared to me most elaborately finished, I questioned them as to their meaning, that at the same time I might learn something from them. I am ashamed, O Athenians, to tell you the truth; however it must be told. For, in a word, almost all who were present could have given a better account of them than those by whom they had been composed. I soon discovered this, therefore, with regard to the poets, that they do not effect their object by wisdom, but by a certain natural inspiration and under the influence of enthusiasm like prophets and seers; for these also say many fine things, but they understand nothing that they say. The poets appeared to me to be affected in a similar manner: and at the same time I perceived that they considered themselves, on account of their poetry, to be the wisest of men in other things, in which they were not. I left them, therefore, under the persuasion that I was superior to them, in the same way that I was to the politicians.

8. At last, therefore, I went to the artizans. For I was conscious to myself that I knew scarcely any thing, but I was sure that I should find them possessed of much beautiful knowledge. And in this I was not deceived; for they knew things which I did not, and in this respect they were wiser than me. But, O Athenians, even the best workmen appeared to me to have fallen into the same error as the poets: for each, because he excelled in the practice of his art, thought that he was very wise in other most important matters, and this mistake of theirs obscured the wisdom that they really possessed. I therefore asked myself in behalf of the oracle, whether I should prefer to continue as I am, possessing none either of their wisdom or their ignorance, or to have both as they have. I answered, therefore, to myself and to the oracle, that it was better for me to continue as I am.

9. From this investigation, then, O Athenians, many enmities have arisen against me, and those the most grievous and severe, so that many calumnies have sprung from them and amongst them this appellation of being wise. For those who are from time to time present think that I am wise in those things, with respect to which I expose the ignorance of others. The god however, O Athenians, appears to be really wise, and to mean this by his oracle, that human wisdom is worth little or nothing; and it is clear that he did not say this of Socrates, but made use of my name, putting me forward as an example, as if he had said, that man is the wisest among you, who, like Socrates, knows that he is in reality worth nothing with respect to wisdom. Still therefore I go about and search and inquire into these things, in obedience to the god, both among citizens and strangers, if I think any one of them is wise; and when he appears to me not to be so, I take the part of the god, and shew that he is not wise. And in consequence of this occupation I have no leisure to attend in any considerable degree to the affairs of the state or my own; but I am in the greatest poverty through my devotion to the service of the god.

10. In addition to this, young men, who have much leisure and belong to the wealthiest families, following me of their own accord, take great delight in hearing men put to the test, and often imitate me, and themselves attempt to put others to the test: and then, I think, they find a great abundance of men who fancy they know something, although they know little or nothing. Hence those who are put to the test by them are angry with me, and not with them, and say that “there is one Socrates, a most pestilent fellow, who corrupts the youth.” And when any one asks them by doing or teaching what, they have nothing to say, for they do not know: but that they may not seem to be at a loss, they say such things as are ready at hand against all philosophers; “that he searches into things in heaven and things under the earth, that he does not believe there are gods, and that he makes the worse appear the better reason.” For they would not, I think, be willing to tell the truth, that they have been detected in pretending to possess knowledge, whereas they know nothing. Therefore, I think, being ambitious and vehement and numerous, and speaking systematically and persuasively about me, they have filled your ears, for a long time and diligently calumniating me. From amongst these, Melitus, Anytus, and Lycon, have attacked me; Melitus being angry on account of the poets, Anytus on account of the artizans and politicians, and Lycon on account of the rhetoricians. So that as I said in the beginning, I should wonder if I were able in so short a time to remove from your minds a calumny that has prevailed so long. This, O Athenians, is the truth: and I speak it without concealing or disguising any thing from you, much or little; though I very well know that by so doing I shall expose myself to odium. This however is a proof that I speak the truth, and that this is the nature of the calumny against me, and that these are its causes. And if you will investigate the matter, either now or hereafter, you will find it to be so.

11. With respect then to the charges which my first accusers have alleged against me, let this be a sufficient apology to you. To Melitus, that good and patriotic man, as he says, and to my later accusers, I will next endeavour to give an answer; and here again, as there are different accusers let us take up their deposition. It is pretty much as follows: “Socrates,” it says, “acts unjustly in corrupting the youth, and in not believing in those gods in whom the city believes, but in other strange divinities.” Such is the accusation; let us examine each particular of it. It says that I act unjustly in corrupting the youth. But I, O Athenians, say that Melitus acts unjustly, because he jests on serious subjects, rashly putting men upon trial, under pretence of being zealous and solicitous about things in which he never at any time took any concern. But that this is the case I will endeavour to prove to you.

12. Come then, Melitus, tell me; do you not consider it of the greatest importance that the youth should be made as virtuous as possible?

Mel. I do.

Socr. Well now, tell the judges who it is that makes them better, for it is evident that you know, since it concerns you so much: for, having detected me in corrupting them, as you say, you have cited me here and accused me; come then, say, and inform the judges who it is that makes them better. Do you see, Melitus, that you are silent, and have nothing to say? But does it not appear to you to be disgraceful and a sufficient proof of what I say, that you never took any concern about the matter? But tell me, friend, who makes them better?

Mel. The laws.

Socr. I do not ask this, most excellent sir, but what man, who surely must first know this very thing, the laws?

Mel. These, Socrates, the judges.

Socr. How say you, Melitus? Are these able to instruct the youth, and make them better?

Mel. Certainly.

Socr. Whether all, or some of them, and others not?

Mel. All.

Socr. You say well, by Juno, and have found a great abundance of those that confer benefit. But what further? Can these hearers make them better, or not?

Mel. They too can.

Socr. And what of the senators?

Mel. The senators also.

Socr. But, Melitus, do those who attend the public assemblies corrupt the younger men? or do they all make them better?

Mel. They too.

Socr. All the Athenians therefore, as it seems, make them honourable and good, except me, but I alone corrupt them. Do you say so?

Mel. I do assert this very thing.

Socr. You charge me with great ill-fortune. But answer me: does it appear to you to be the same with respect to horses? do all men make them better, and is there only some one that spoils them? or does quite the contrary of this take place? is there some one person who can make them better, or very few, that is the trainers? but if the generality of men should meddle with and make use of horses, do they spoil them? Is not this the case, Melitus, both with respect to horses and all other animals? It certainly is so, whether you and Anytus deny it or not. For it would be a great good-fortune for the youth if only one person corrupted, and the rest benefited them. However, Melitus, you have sufficiently shewn that you never bestowed any care upon youth; and you clearly evince your own negligence, in that you have never paid any attention to the things with respect to which you accuse me.

13. Tell us further, Melitus, in the name of Jupiter, whether is it better to dwell with good or bad citizens? Answer, my friend: for I ask you nothing difficult. Do not the bad work some evil to those that are continually near them, but the good some good?

Mel. Certainly.

Socr. Is there any one that wishes to be injured rather than benefited by his associates? Answer, good man: for the law requires you to answer. Is there any one who wishes to be injured?

Mel. No, surely.

Socr. Come then, whether do you accuse me here, as one that corrupts the youth, and makes them more depraved, designedly or undesignedly?

Mel. Designedly, I say.

Socr. What then, Melitus, are you at your time of life so much wiser than me at my time of life, as to know that the evil are always working some evil to those that are most near to them, and the good some good; but I have arrived at such a pitch of ignorance as not to know, that if I make any one of my associates depraved, I shall be in danger of receiving some evil from him, and yet I designedly bring about this so great evil, as you say? In this I cannot believe you, Melitus, nor do I think would any other man in the world: but either I do not corrupt the youth, or if I do corrupt them, I do it undesignedly: so that in both cases you speak falsely. But if I corrupt them undesignedly, for such involuntary offences it is not usual to accuse one here, but to take one apart and teach and admonish one. For it is evident that if I am taught, I shall cease doing what I do undesignedly. But you shunned me, and were not willing to associate with and instruct me, but you accuse me here, where it is usual to accuse those who need punishment, and not instruction.

14. Thus, then, O Athenians, this now is clear that I have said, that Melitus never paid any attention to these matters, much or little. However tell us, Melitus, how you say I corrupt the youth? Is it not evidently, according to the indictment which you have preferred, by teaching them not to believe in the gods in whom the city believes, but in other strange deities? Do you not say that by teaching these things, I corrupt the youth?

Mel. Certainly I do say so.

Socr. By those very gods, therefore, Melitus, of whom the discussion now is, speak still more clearly both to me and to these men. For I cannot understand whether you say that I teach them to believe that there are certain gods, (and in that case I do believe that there are gods, and am not altogether an atheist, nor in this respect to blame,) not however those which the city believes in, but others, and this it is that you accuse me of, that I introduce others; or do you say outright that I do not myself believe that there are gods, and that I teach others the same?

Mel. I say this, that you do not believe in any gods at all.

Socr. O wonderful Melitus, how come you to say this? Do I not then like the rest of mankind, believe that the sun and moon are gods?

Mel. No, by Jupiter, O judges: for he says that the sun is a stone, and the moon an earth.

Socr. You fancy that you are accusing Anaxagoras, my dear Melitus, and thus you put a slight on these men, and suppose them to be so illiterate, as not to know that the books of Anaxagoras of Clazomene are full of such assertions. And the young, moreover, learn these things from me, which they might purchase for a drachma, at most, in the orchestra, and so ridicule Socrates, if he pretended they were his own, especially since they are so absurd? I ask then, by Jupiter, do I appear to you to believe that there is no god?

Mel. No, by Jupiter, none whatever.

Socr. You say what is incredible, Melitus, and that, as appears to me, even to yourself. For this man, O Athenians, appears to me to be very insolent and intemperate, and to have preferred this indictment through downright insolence, intemperance and wantonness. For he seems, as it were, to have composed an enigma for the purpose of making an experiment. Whether will Socrates the wise know that I am jesting, and contradict myself, or shall I deceive him and all who hear me? For in my opinion he clearly contradicts himself in the indictment, as if he should say, Socrates is guilty of wrong in not believing that there are gods, and in believing that there are gods. And this, surely, is the act of one who is trifling.

5. Consider with me now, Athenians, in what respect he appears to me to say so. And do you, Melitus, answer me; and do ye, as I besought you at the outset, remember not to make an uproar if I speak after my usual manner.

Is there any man, Melitus, who believes that there are human affairs, but does not believe that there are men? Let him answer, judges, and not make so much noise. Is there any one who does not believe that there are horses, but that there are things pertaining to horses? or who does not believe that there are pipers, but that there are things pertaining to pipes? There is not, O best of men: for since you are not willing to answer, I say it to you and to all here present. But answer to this at least: is there any one who believes that there are things relating to demons, but does not believe that there are demons?

Mel. There is not.

Socr. How obliging you are in having hardly answered, though compelled by these judges. You assert then that I do believe and teach things relating to demons, whether they be new or old; therefore, according to your admission, I do believe in things relating to demons, and this you have sworn in the bill of indictment. If then I believe in things relating to demons, there is surely an absolute necessity that I should believe that there are demons. Is it not so? It is. For I suppose you to assent, since you do not answer. But with respect to demons, do we not allow that they are gods, or the children of gods? Do you admit this or not?

Mel. Certainly.

Socr. Since then I allow that there are demons as you admit, if demons are a kind of gods, this is the point in which I say you speak enigmatically and divert yourself in saying that I do not allow there are gods, and again that I do allow there are, since I allow that there are demons? But if demons are the children of gods, spurious ones, either from nymphs or any others, of whom they are reported to be, what man can think that there are sons of gods, and yet that there are not gods? For it would be just as absurd, as if any one should think that there are mules the offspring of horses and asses, but should not think there are horses and asses. However, Melitus, it cannot be otherwise than that you have preferred this indictment for the purpose of trying me, or because you were at a loss what real crime to allege against me: for that you should persuade any man who has the smallest degree of sense, that the same person can think that there are things relating to demons and to gods, and yet that there are neither demons, nor gods, nor heroes, is utterly impossible.

16. That I am not guilty then, O Athenians, according to the indictment of Melitus, appears to me not to require a lengthened defence; but what I have said is sufficient. And as to what I said at the beginning, that there is a great enmity towards me among the multitude, be assured it is true. And this it is which will condemn me, if I am condemned, not Melitus, nor Anytus, but the calumny and envy of the multitude, which have already condemned many others, and those good men, and will I think condemn others also; for there is no danger that it will stop with me.

Perhaps, however, some one may say, “Are you not ashamed, Socrates, to have pursued a study, from which you are now in danger of dying?” To such a person I should answer with good reason, You do not say well, friend, if you think that a man, who is even of the least value, ought to take into the account the risk of life or death, and ought not to consider that alone when he performs any action, whether he is acting justly or unjustly, and the part of a good man or bad man. For according to your reasoning, all those demi-gods that died at Troy would be vile characters, as well all the rest as the son of Thetis, who so far despised danger in comparison of submitting to disgrace, that when his mother, who was a goddess, spoke to him, in his impatience to kill Hector, something to this effect, as I think[2], “My son, if you revenge the death of your friend Patroclus, and slay Hector, you will yourself die, for,” she said, “death awaits you immediately after Hector.” But he, on hearing this, despised death and danger, and dreading much more to live as a coward, and not avenge his friends said; “May I die immediately, when I have inflicted punishment on the guilty, that I may not stay here an object of ridicule, by the curved ships, a burden to the ground?” Do you think that he cared for death and danger? For thus it is, O Athenians, in truth; wherever any one has posted himself, either thinking it to be better, or has been posted by his chief, there, as it appears to me, he ought to remain and meet danger, taking no account either of death or any thing else in comparison with disgrace.

17. I then should be acting strangely, O Athenians, if, when the generals whom you chose to command me assigned me my post at Potidæa, at Amphipolis, and at Delium, I then remained where they posted me, like any other person, and encountered the danger of death, but when the deity as I thought and believed, assigned it as my duty to pass my life in the study of philosophy, and in examining myself and others, I should on that occasion, through fear of death or any thing else whatsoever, desert my post. Strange indeed would it be, and then in truth any one might justly bring me to trial, and accuse me of not believing in the gods, from disobeying the oracle, fearing death, and thinking myself to be wise when I am not. For to fear death, O Athenians, is nothing else than to appear to be wise, without being so; for it is to appear to know what one does not know. For no one knows but that death is the greatest of all goods to man; but men fear it, as if they well knew that it is the greatest of evils. And how is not this the most reprehensible ignorance, to think that one knows what one does not know? But I, O Athenians, in this perhaps differ from most men; and if I should say that I am in any thing wiser than another, it would be in this, that not having a competent knowledge of the things in Hades, I also think that I have not such knowledge. But to act unjustly, and to disobey my superior, whether God or man, I know is evil and base. I shall never, therefore, fear or shun things which, for aught I know, may be good, before evils which I know to be evils. So that even if you should now dismiss me, not yielding to the instances of Anytus, who said that either I should not[3] appear here at all, or that, if I did appear, it was impossible not to put me to death, telling you that if I escaped, your sons, studying what Socrates teaches, would all be utterly corrupted; if you should address me thus, “Socrates, we shall not now yield to Anytus, but dismiss you, on this condition however, that you no longer persevere in your researches nor study philosophy, and if hereafter you are detected in so doing, you shall die,”—if, as I said, you should dismiss me on these terms, I should say to you: “O Athenians, I honour and love you: but I shall obey God rather than you; and as long as I breathe and am able, I shall not cease studying philosophy, and exhorting you and warning any one of you I may happen to meet, saying as I have been accustomed to do: ‘O best of men, seeing you are an Athenian, of a city the most powerful and most renowned for wisdom and strength, are you not ashamed of being careful for riches, how you may acquire them in greatest abundance, and for glory and honour, but care not nor take any thought for wisdom and truth, and for your soul, how it may be made most perfect?’” And if any one of you should question my assertion, and affirm that he does care for these things, I shall not at once let him go, nor depart, but I shall question him, sift and prove him. And if he should appear to me not to possess virtue, but to pretend that he does, I shall reproach him for that he sets the least value on things of the greatest worth, but the highest on things that are worthless. Thus I shall act to all whom I meet, both young and old, stranger and citizen, but rather to you my fellow citizens, because ye are more nearly allied to me. For be well assured, this the deity commands. And I think that no greater good has ever befallen you in the city, than my zeal for the service of the god. For I go about doing nothing else than persuading you, both young and old, to take no care either for the body, or for riches, prior to or so much as for the soul, how it may be made most perfect, telling you that virtue does not spring from riches, but riches and all other human blessings, both private and public, from virtue. If, then, by saying these things, I corrupt the youth, these things must be mischievous; but if any one says that I speak other things than these, he misleads you[4]. Therefore I must say, O Athenians, either yield to Anytus or do not, either dismiss me or not, since I shall not act otherwise, even though I must die many deaths.

18. Murmur not, O Athenians, but continue to attend to my request, not to murmur at what I say, but to listen, for as I think, you will derive benefit from listening. For I am going to say other things to you, at which perhaps you will raise a clamour; but on no account do so. Be well assured, then, if you put me to death, being such a man as I say I am, you will not injure me more than yourselves. For neither will Melitus nor Anytus harm me; nor have they the power: for I do not think that it is possible for a better man to be injured by a worse. He may perhaps have me condemned to death, or banished or deprived of civil rights; and he or others may perhaps consider these as mighty evils: I however do not consider them so, but that it is much more so to do what he is now doing, to endeavour to put a man to death unjustly. Now, therefore, O Athenians, I am far from making a defence on my own behalf, as any one might think, but I do so on your behalf, lest by condemning me you should offend at all with respect to the gift of the deity to you. For, if you should put me to death, you will not easily find such another, though it may be ridiculous to say so, altogether attached by the deity to this city as to a powerful and generous horse, somewhat sluggish from his size, and requiring to be roused by a gad-fly; so the deity appears to have united me, being such a person as I am, to the city, that I may rouse you, and persuade and reprove every one of you, nor ever cease besetting you throughout the whole day. Such another man, O Athenians, will not easily be found, therefore, if you will take my advice, you will spare me. But you, perhaps, being irritated, like drowsy persons who are roused from sleep, will strike me, and, yielding to Anytus, will unthinkingly condemn me to death; and then you will pass the rest of your life in sleep, unless the deity, caring for you, should send some one else to you. But that I am a person who has been given by the deity to this city, you may discern from hence; for it is not like the ordinary conduct of men, that I should have neglected all my own affairs and suffered my private interest to be neglected for so many years, and that I should constantly attend to your concerns, addressing myself to each of you separately, like a father, or elder brother, persuading you to the pursuit of virtue. And if I had derived any profit from this course, and had received pay for my exhortations, there would have been some reason for my conduct; but now you see yourselves, that my accusers, who have so shamelessly calumniated me in every thing else, have not had the impudence to charge me with this, and to bring witnesses to prove that I ever either exacted or demanded any reward. And I think I produce a sufficient proof that I speak the truth, namely, my poverty.

19. Perhaps, however, it may appear absurd, that I, going about, thus advise you in private and make myself busy, but never venture to present myself in public before your assemblies and give advice to the city. The cause of this is that which you have often and in many places heard me mention: because I am moved by a certain divine and spiritual influence, which also Melitus, through mockery, has set out in the indictment. This began with me from childhood, being a kind of voice which, when present, always diverts me from what I am about to do, but never urges me on. This it is which opposed my meddling in public politics; and it appears to me to have opposed me very properly. For be well assured, O Athenians, if I had long since attempted to intermeddle with politics, I should have perished long ago, and should not have at all benefited you or myself. And be not angry with me for speaking the truth. For it is not possible that any man should be safe, who sincerely opposes either you, or any other multitude, and who prevents many unjust and illegal actions from being committed in a city; but it is necessary that he who in earnest contends for justice, if he will be safe for but a short time, should live privately, and take no part in public affairs.

20. I will give you strong proofs of this, not words, but, what you value, facts. Hear then what has happened to me, that you may know that I would not yield to any one contrary to what is just, through fear of death, at the same time that, by not yielding, I must perish. I shall tell you what will be displeasing and wearisome[5], yet true. For I, O Athenians, never bore any other magisterial office in the city, but have been a senator: and our Antiochean tribe happened to supply the Prytanes when you chose to condemn in a body the ten generals, who had not taken off those that perished in the sea-fight, in violation of the law, as you afterwards all thought. At that time I alone of the Prytanes opposed your doing any thing contrary to the laws, and I voted against you; and when the orators were ready to denounce me, and to carry me before a magistrate, and you urged and cheered them on, I thought I ought rather to meet the danger with law and justice on my side, than through fear of imprisonment or death to take part with you in your unjust designs. And this happened while the city was governed by a democracy. But when it became an oligarchy, the Thirty, having sent for me with four others to the Tholus, ordered us to bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamis, that he might be put to death; and they gave many similar orders to many others, wishing to involve as many as they could in guilt. Then however I shewed, not in word but in deed, that I did not care for death, if the expression be not too rude, in the smallest degree, but that all my care was to do nothing unjust or unholy. For that government, strong as it was, did not so overawe me as to make me commit an unjust action; but when we came out from the Tholus, the four went to Salamis, and brought back Leon; but I went away home. And perhaps for this I should have been put to death, if that government had not been speedily broken up. And of this you can have many witnesses.

21. Do you think, then, that I should have survived so many years, if I had engaged in public affairs, and, acting as becomes a good man, had aided the cause of justice, and, as I ought, had deemed this of the highest importance? Far from it, O Athenians: nor would any other man have done so. But I, through the whole of my life, if I have done any thing in public, shall be found to be a man, and the very same in private, who has never made a concession to any one contrary to justice, neither to any other, nor to any one of these whom my calumniators say are my disciples. I however was never the preceptor of any one; but if any one desired to hear me speaking and to see me busied about my own mission, whether he were young or old, I never refused him. Nor do I discourse when I receive money, and not when I do not receive any, but I allow both rich and poor alike to question me, and, if any one wishes it, to answer me and hear what I have to say. And for these, whether any one proves to be a good man or not, I cannot justly be responsible, because I never either promised them any instruction or taught them at all. But if any one says that he has ever learnt or heard any thing from me in private, which all others have not, be well assured that he does not speak the truth.

22. But why do some delight to spend so long a time with me? Ye have heard, O Athenians. I have told you the whole truth, that they delight to hear those closely questioned who think that they are wise but are not: for this is by no means disagreeable. But this duty, as I say, has been enjoined me by the deity, by oracles, by dreams, and by every mode by which any other divine decree has ever enjoined any thing to man to do. These things, O Athenians, are both true, and easily confuted if not true. For if I am now corrupting some of the youths, and have already corrupted others, it were fitting, surely, that if any of them, having become advanced in life, had discovered that I gave them bad advice when they were young, they should now rise up against me, accuse me, and have me punished; or if they were themselves unwilling to do this, some of their kindred, their fathers, or brothers, or other relatives, if their kinsmen have ever sustained any damage from me, should now call it to mind. Many of them however are here present, whom I see: first, Crito, my contemporary and fellow-burgher, father of this Critobulus; then, Lysanias of Sphettus, father of this Æschines; again, Antiphon of Cephisus, father of Epigenes; there are those others too, whose brothers maintained the same intimacy with me, namely, Nicostratus, son of Theosdotidus, brother of Theodotus—Theodotus indeed is dead, so that he could not deprecate his brother’s proceedings, and Paralus here, son of Demodocus, whose brother was Theages; and Adimantus son of Ariston, whose brother is this Plato; and Æantodorus, whose brother is this Apollodorus. I could also mention many others to you, some one of whom certainly Melitus ought to have adduced in his speech as a witness. If however he then forgot to do so, let him now adduce them, I give him leave to do so, and let him say it, if he has any thing of the kind to allege. But quite contrary to this, you will find, O Athenians, all ready to assist me, who have corrupted and injured their relatives, as Melitus and Anytus say. For those who have been themselves corrupted might perhaps have some reason for assisting me; but those who have not been corrupted, men now advanced in life, their relatives, what other reason can they have for assisting me, except that right and just one, that they know that Melitus speaks falsely, and that I speak the truth.

23. Well then, Athenians; these are pretty much the things I have to say in my defence, and others perhaps of the same kind. Perhaps, however, some among you will be indignant on recollecting his own case, if he, when engaged in a cause far less than this, implored and besought the judges with many tears, bringing forward his children in order that he might excite their utmost compassion, and many others of his relatives and friends, whereas I do none of these things, although I may appear to be incurring the extremity of danger. Perhaps, therefore, some one, taking notice of this, may become more determined against me, and, being enraged at this very conduct of mine, may give his vote under the influence of anger. If then any one of you is thus affected,—I do not however suppose that there is,—but if there should be, I think I may reasonably say to him; “I too, O best of men, have relatives; for to make use of that saying of Homer, I am not sprung from an oak, nor from a rock, but from men, so that I too, O Athenians, have relatives, and three sons, one now grown up, and two boys: I shall not however bring any one of them forward and implore you to acquit me. Why then shall I not do this? Not from contumacy, O Athenians, nor disrespect towards you. Whether or not I am undaunted at the prospect of death, is another question, but out of regard to my own character, and yours, and that of the whole city, it does not appear to me to be honourable that I should do any thing of this kind at my age, and with the reputation I have, whether true or false. For it is commonly agreed that Socrates in some respects excels the generality of men. If, then, those among you who appear to excel either in wisdom, or fortitude, or any other virtue whatsoever, should act in such a manner as I have often seen some when they have been brought to trial, it would be shameful, who appearing indeed to be something, have conducted themselves in a surprising manner, as thinking they should suffer something dreadful by dying, and as if they would be immortal if you did not put them to death. Such men appear to me to bring disgrace on the city, so that any stranger might suppose that such of the Athenians as excel in virtue, and whom they themselves choose in preference to themselves for magistracies and other honours, are in no respect superior to women. For these things, O Athenians, neither ought we to do who have attained to any height of reputation, nor, should we do them, ought you to suffer us; but you should make this manifest, that you will much rather condemn him who introduces these piteous dramas, and makes the city ridiculous, than him who quietly awaits your decision.”decision.”

24. But reputation apart, O Athenians, it does not appear to me to be right to entreat a judge, or to escape by entreaty, but one ought to inform and persuade him. For a judge does not sit for the purpose of administering justice out of favour, but that he may judge rightly, and he is sworn not to shew favour to whom he pleases, but that he will decide according to the laws. It is therefore right that neither should we accustom you, nor should you accustom yourselves to violate your oaths; for in so doing neither of us would act righteously. Think not then, O Athenians, that I ought to adopt such a course towards you as I neither consider honourable, nor just, nor holy, as well, by Jupiter, on any other occasion, and now especially when I am accused of impiety by this Melitus. For clearly, if I should persuade you, and by my entreaties should put a constraint on you who are bound by an oath, I should teach you to think that there are no gods, and in reality, while making my defence, should accuse myself of not believing in the gods. This, however, is far from being the case: for I believe, O Athenians, as none of my accusers do, and I leave it to you and to the deity to judge concerning me in such way as will be best both for me and for you.

[Socrates here concludes his defence, and the votes being taken, he is declared guilty by a majority of voices. He thereupon resumes his address.]

25. That I should not be grieved, O Athenians, at what has happened, namely, that you have condemned me, as well many other circumstances concur in bringing to pass, and moreover this, that what has happened has not happened contrary to my expectation; but I much rather wonder at the number of votes on either side. For I did not expect that I should be condemned by so small a number, but by a large majority; but now, as it seems, if only three more votes had changed sides, I should have been acquitted. As far as Melitus is concerned, as it appears to me, I have been already acquitted, and not only have I been acquitted, but it is clear to every one that had not Anytus and Lycon come forward to accuse me, he would have been fined a thousand drachmas, for not having obtained a fifth part of the votes.

26. The man then awards me the penalty of death. Well. But what shall I, on my part, O Athenians, award myself? Is it not clear that it will be such as I deserve? What then is that? do I deserve to suffer or to pay a fine, for that I have purposely during my life not remained quiet, but neglecting what most men seek after, money-making, domestic concerns, military command, popular oratory, and moreover all the magistracies, conspiracies and cabals that are met with in the city, thinking that I was in reality too upright a man to be safe if I took part in such things, I therefore did not apply myself to those pursuits, by attending to which I should have been of no service either to you or to myself; but in order to confer the greatest benefit on each of you privately, as I affirm, I thereupon applied myself to that object, endeavouring to persuade every one of you, not to take any care of his own affairs, before he had taken care of himself, in what way he may become the best and wisest, nor of the affairs of the city before he took care of the city itself; and that he should attend to other things in the same manner. What treatment then do I deserve, seeing I am such a man? Some reward, O Athenians, if at least I am to be estimated according to my real deserts; and moreover such a reward as would be suitable to me. What then is suitable to a poor man, a benefactor, and who has need of leisure in order to give you good advice? There is nothing so suitable, O Athenians, as that such a man should be maintained in the Prytaneum, and this much more than if one of you had been victorious at the Olympic games in a horse race, or in the two or four-horsed chariot race: for such a one makes you appear to be happy, but I, to be so: and he does not need support, but I do. If, therefore, I must award a sentence according to my just deserts, I award this, maintenance in the Prytaneum.

27. Perhaps, however, in speaking to you thus, I appear to you to speak in the same presumptuous manner as I did respecting commiseration and entreaties: but such is not the case, O Athenians, it is rather this. I am persuaded that I never designedly injured any man, though I cannot persuade you of this, for we have conversed with each other but for a short time. For if there was the same law with you as with other men, that in capital cases the trial should last not only one day but many, I think you would be persuaded; but it is not easy in a short time to do away with great calumnies. Being persuaded then that I have injured no one, I am far from intending to injure myself, and of pronouncing against myself that I am deserving of punishment, and from awarding myself any thing of the kind. Through fear of what? lest I should suffer that which Melitus awards me, of which I say I know not whether it be good or evil? instead of this, shall I choose what I well know to be evil, and award that? Shall I choose imprisonment? And why should I live in prison, a slave to the established magistracy, the Eleven? Shall I choose a fine, and to be imprisoned until I have paid it? But this is the same as that which I just now mentioned, for I have not money to pay it. Shall I then award myself exile? For perhaps you would consent to this award. I should indeed be very fond of life, O Athenians, if I were so devoid of reason as not to be able to reflect that you, who are my fellow citizens, have been unable to endure my manner of life and discourses, but they have become so burdensome and odious to you, that you now seek to be rid of them: others however will easily bear them: far from it, O Athenians. A fine life it would be for me at my age to go out wandering and driven from city to city, and so to live. For I well know that, wherever I may go, the youth will listen to me when I speak, as they do here. And if I repulse them, they will themselves drive me out, persuading the elders; and if I do not repulse them, their fathers and kindred will banish me on their account.

28. Perhaps however some one will say, Can you not, Socrates, when you have gone from us, live a silent and quiet life? This is the most difficult thing of all to persuade some of you. For if I say that that would be to disobey the deity, and that therefore it is impossible for me to live quietly, you would not believe me, thinking I spoke ironically. If, on the other hand, I say that this is the greatest good to man, to discourse daily on virtue, and other things which you have heard me discussing, examining both myself and others, but that a life without investigation is not worth living for, still less would you believe me if I said this. Such however is the case, as I affirm, O Athenians, though it is not easy to persuade you. And at the same time I am not accustomed to think myself deserving of any ill. If indeed I were rich, I would amerce myself in such a sum as I should be able to pay; for then I should have suffered no harm, but now—for I cannot, unless you are willing to amerce me in such a sum as I am able to pay. But perhaps I could pay you a mina of silver: in that sum then I amerce myself. But Plato here, O Athenians, and Crito, CritobulusCrito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus bid me amerce myself in thirty minæ, and they offer to be sureties. I amerce myself then to you in that sum; and they will be sufficient sureties for the money.

[The judges now proceeded to pass the sentence, and condemned Socrates to death; whereupon he continued:]

29. For the sake of no long space of time, O Athenians, you will incur the character and reproach at the hands of those who wish to defame the city, of having put that wise man, Socrates, to death. For those who wish to defame you will assert that I am wise, though I am not. If, then, you had waited for a short time, this would have happened of its own accord; for observe my age, that it is far advanced in life, and near death. But I say this not to you all, but to those only who have condemned me to die. And I say this too to the same persons. Perhaps you think, O Athenians, that I have been convicted through the want of arguments, by which I might have persuaded you, had I thought it right to do and say any thing, so that I might escape punishment. Far otherwise: I have been convicted through want indeed, yet not of arguments, but of audacity and impudence, and of the inclination to say such things to you as would have been most agreeable for you to hear, had I lamented and bewailed and done and said many other things unworthy of me, as I affirm, but such as you are accustomed to hear from others. But neither did I then think that I ought, for the sake of avoiding danger, to do any thing unworthy of a freeman, nor do I now repent of having so defended myself; but I should much rather choose to die, having so defended myself, than to live in that way. For neither in a trial nor in battle, is it right that I or any one else should employ every possible means whereby he may avoid death; for in battle it is frequently evident that a man might escape death by laying down his arms, and throwing himself on the mercy of his pursuers. And there are many other devices in every danger, by which to avoid death, if a man dares to do and say every thing. But this is not difficult, O Athenians, to escape death, but it is much more difficult to avoid depravity, for it runs swifter than death. And now I, being slow and aged, am overtaken by the slower of the two; but my accusers, being strong and active, have been overtaken by the swifter, wickedness. And now I depart, condemned by you to death; but they condemned by truth, as guilty of iniquity and injustice: and I abide my sentence and so do they. These things, perhaps, ought so to be, and I think that they are for the best.

30. In the next place, I desire to predict to you who have condemned me, what will be your fate: for I am now in that condition in which men most frequently prophecy, namely, when they are about to die. I say then to you, O Athenians, who have condemned me to death, that immediately after my death a punishment will overtake you, far more severe, by Jupiter, than that which you have inflicted on me. For you have done this, thinking you should be freed from the necessity of giving an account of your life. The very contrary however, as I affirm, will happen to you. Your accusers will be more numerous, whom I have now restrained, though you did not perceive it; and they will be more severe, inasmuch as they are younger, and you will be more indignant. For, if you think that by putting men to death you will restrain any one from upbraiding you because you do not live well, you are much mistaken; for this method of escape is neither possible nor honourable, but that other is most honourable and most easy, not to put a check upon others, but for a man to take heed to himself, how he may be most perfect. Having predicted thus much to those of you who have condemned me, I take my leave of you.

31. But with you who have voted for my acquittal, I would gladly hold converse on what has now taken place, while the magistrates are busy and I am not yet carried to the place where I must die. Stay with me then, so long, O Athenians, for nothing hinders our conversing with each other, whilst we are permitted to do so; for I wish to make known to you, as being my friends, the meaning of that which has just now befallen me. To me then, O my judges,—and in calling you judges I call you rightly,—a strange thing has happened. For the wonted prophetic voice of my guardian deity, on every former occasion even in the most trifling affairs opposed me, if I was about to do any thing wrong; but now, that has befallen me which ye yourselves behold, and which any one would think and which is supposed to be the extremity of evil, yet neither when I departed from home in the morning did the warning of the god oppose me, nor when I came up here to the place of trial, nor in my address when I was about to say any thing; yet on other occasions it has frequently restrained me in the midst of speaking. But now, it has never throughout this proceeding opposed me, either in what I did or said. What then do I suppose to be the cause of this? I will tell you: what has befallen me appears to be a blessing; and it is impossible that we think rightly who suppose that death is an evil. A great proof of this to me is the fact that it is impossible but that the accustomed signal should have opposed me, unless I had been about to meet with some good.

32. Moreover we may hence conclude that there is great hope that death is a blessing. For to die is one of two things: for either the dead may be annihilated and have no sensation of any thing whatever; or, as it is said, there is a certain change and passage of the soul from one place to another. And if it is a privation of all sensation, as it were a sleep in which the sleeper has no dream, death would be a wonderful gain. For I think that if any one, having selected a night, in which he slept so soundly as not to have had a dream, and having compared this night with all the other nights and days of his life, should be required on consideration to say how many days and nights he had passed better and more pleasantly than this night throughout his life, I think that not only a private person, but even the great king himself would find them easy to number in comparison with other days and nights. If, therefore, death is a thing of this kind, I say it is a gain; for thus all futurity appears to be nothing more than one night. But if, on the other hand, death is a removal from hence to another place, and what is said be true, that all the dead are there, what greater blessing can there be than this, my judges? For if, on arriving at Hades, released from these who pretend to be judges, one shall find those who are true judges, and who are said to judge there, Minos and Rhadamanthus, Æacus and Triptolemus, and such others of the demigods as were just during their own life, would this be a sad removal? At what price would you not estimate a conference with Orpheus and Musæus, Hesiod and Homer? I indeed should be willing to die often, if this be true. For to me the sojourn there would be admirable, when I should meet with Palamedes, and Ajax son of Telamon, and any other of the ancients who has died by an unjust sentence. The comparing my sufferings with theirs would, I think, be no unpleasing occupation. But the greatest pleasure would be to spend my time in questioning and examining the people there as I have done those here, and discovering who among them is wise, and who fancies himself to be so but is not. At what price, my judges, would not any one estimate the opportunity of questioning him who led that mighty army against Troy, or Ulysses, or Sisyphus, or ten thousand others, whom one might mention, both men and women? with whom to converse and associate, and to question them, would be an inconceivable happiness. Surely for that the judges there do not condemn to death; for in other respects those who live there are more happy than those that are here, and are henceforth immortal, if at least what is said be true.

33. You, therefore, O my judges, ought to entertain good hopes with respect to death, and to meditate on this one truth, that to a good man nothing is evil, neither while living nor when dead, nor are his concerns neglected by the gods. And what has befallen me is not the effect of chance; but this is clear to me, that now to die, and be freed from my cares, is better for me. On this account the warning in no way turned me aside; and I bear no resentment towards those who condemned me, or against my accusers, although they did not condemn and accuse me with this intention, but thinking to injure me: in this they deserve to be blamed.

Thus much however I beg of them. Punish my sons, when they grow up, O judges, paining them as I have pained you, if they appear to you to care for riches or any thing else before virtue, and if they think themselves to be something when they are nothing, reproach them as I have done you, for not attending to what they ought, and for conceiving themselves to be something when they are worth nothing. If ye do this, both I and my sons shall have met with just treatment at your hands.

But it is now time to depart,—for me to die, for you to live. But which of us is going to a better state is unknown to every one but God.

INTRODUCTION TO THE CRITO.

It has been remarked by Stallbaum that Plato had a twofold design in this Dialogue; one, and that the primary one, to free Socrates from the imputation of having attempted to corrupt the Athenian youth; the other, to establish the principle that under all circumstances it is the duty of a good citizen to obey the laws of his country. These two points, however, are so closely interwoven with each other, that the general principle appears only to be illustrated by the example of Socrates.

Crito was one of those friends of Socrates who had been present at his trial and had offered to assist in paying a fine, had a fine been imposed instead of the sentence of death. He appears to have frequently visited his friend in prison after his condemnation, and now, having obtained access to his cell very early in the morning, finds him composed in a quiet sleep. He brings intelligence that the ship, the arrival of which would be the signal for his death on the following day, is expected to arrive forthwith, and takes occasion to entreat Socrates to make his escape, the means of which were already prepared. Socrates thereupon, having promised to follow the advice of Crito, if after the matter had been fully discussed it should appear to be right to do so, proposes to consider the duty of a citizen towards his country, and having established the divine principle, that it is wrong to return evil for evil, goes on to shew that the obligations of a citizen to his country are even more binding than those of a child to its parent or a slave to his master, and that therefore it is his duty to obey the established laws, at whatever cost to himself.

At length Crito admits that he has no answer to make, and Socrates resolves to submit himself to the will of Providence.

CRITO;

OR

THE DUTY OF A CITIZEN.

SOCRATES, CRITO.

Socr. Why have you come at this hour, Crito? Is it not very early?

Cri. It is.

Socr. About what time?

Cri. Scarce day-break.

Socr. I wonder how the keeper of the prison came to admit you.

Cri. He is familiar with me, Socrates, from my having frequently come hither; and he is under some obligations to me.

Socr. Have you just now come, or some time since?

Cri. A considerable time since.

Socr. Why then did you not wake me at once, instead of sitting down by me in silence?

Cri. By Jupiter, Socrates, I should not myself like to be so long awake and in such affliction. But I have been for some time wondering at you, perceiving how sweetly you slept; and I purposely did not awake you, that you might pass your time as pleasantly as possible. And indeed I have often before throughout your whole life considered you happy in your disposition, but far more so in the present calamity, seeing how easily and meekly you bear it.

Socr. However, Crito, it would be disconsonant for a man at my time of life to repine because he must needs die.

Cri. But others, Socrates, at your age have been involved in similar calamities, yet their age has not hindered their repining at their present fortune.

Socr. So it is. But why did you come so early?

Cri. Bringing sad tidings, Socrates; not sad to you, as it appears, but to me and all your friends sad and heavy; and which I, I think, shall bear worst of all.

Socr. What tidings? Has the ship[6] arrived from Delos, on the arrival of which I must die?

Cri. It has not yet arrived; but it appears to me that it will come to-day, from what certain persons report who have come from Sunium[7], and left it there. It is clear, therefore, from these messengers, that it will come to-day, and consequently it will be necessary, Socrates, for you to die to-morrow.

2. Socr. But with good fortune, Crito: and if so it please the gods, so be it. I do not think, however, that it will come to-day.

Cri. Whence do you form this conjecture?

Socr. I will tell you. I must die on the day after that on which the ship arrives.

Cri. So they say[8] who have the control of these things.

Socr. I do not think, then, that it will come to-day, but to-morrow. I conjecture this from a dream which I had this very night, not long ago; and you seem very opportunely to have refrained from waking me.

Cri. But what was this dream?

Socr. A beautiful and majestic woman, clad in white garments, seemed to approach me, and to call to me and say, “Socrates, three days hence you will reach fertile Phthia[9].”

Cri. What a strange dream, Socrates!

Socr. Very clear, however, as it appears to me, Crito.

3. Cri. Very much so, as it seems. But, my dear Socrates, even now be persuaded by me, and save yourself. For, if you die, not only a single calamity will befal me, but besides being deprived of such a friend as I shall never meet with again, I shall also appear to many who do not know you and me well, when I might have saved you, had I been willing to spend my money, to have neglected to do so. And what character can be more disgraceful than this to appear to value one’s riches more than one’s friends? For the generality of men will not be persuaded that you were unwilling to depart hence, when we urged you to it.

Socr. But why, my dear Crito, should we care so much for the opinion of the many? For the most worthy men, whom we ought rather to regard, will think that matters have transpired as they really have.

Cri. Yet you see, Socrates, that it is necessary to attend to the opinion of the many. For the very circumstances of the present case shew that the multitude are able to effect not only the smallest evils, but even the greatest, if any one is calumniated to them.

Socr. Would, O Crito, that the multitude could effect the greatest evils, that they might also effect the greatest good, for then it would be well. But now they can do neither; for they can neither make a man wise, nor foolish; but they do whatever chances.

4. Cri. So let it be then. But answer me this, Socrates; are you not anxious for me and other friends, lest, if you should escape from hence, informers should give us trouble, as having secretly carried you off, and so we should be compelled either to lose all our property, or a very large sum, or to suffer something else beside this? For, if you fear any thing of the kind, dismiss your fears. For we are justified in running this risk to save you, and, if need be, even a greater than this. But be persuaded by me, and do not refuse.

Socr. I am anxious about this, Crito, and about many other things.

Cri. Do not fear this, however; for the sum is not large on receipt of which certain persons are willing to save you, and take you hence. In the next place, do you not see how cheap these informers are, so that there would be no need of a large sum for them? My fortune is at your service, sufficient, I think, for the purpose: then if, out of regard to me, you do not think right to spend my money, these strangers here are ready to spend theirs. One of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought with him a sufficient sum for the very purpose. Cebes, too, is ready, and very many others. So that, as I said, do not through fears of this kind hesitate to save yourself, nor let what you said in court give you any trouble, that if you went from hence you would not know what to do with yourself. For in many places, and wherever you go, men will love you: and if you are disposed to go to Thessaly, I have friends there who will esteem you very highly, and will ensure your safety, so that no one in Thessaly will molest you.

5. Moreover, Socrates, you do not appear to me to pursue a just course in giving yourself up when you might be saved; and you press on the very results with respect to yourself which your enemies would press and have pressed in their anxiety to destroy you. Besides this, too, you appear to me to betray your own sons, whom, when it is in your power to rear and educate them, you will abandon, and, as far as you are concerned, they will meet with such a fate as chance brings them, and, as is probable, they will meet with such things as orphans are wont to experience in a state of orphanage. Surely one ought not to have children, or one should go through the toil of rearing and instructing them. But you appear to me to have chosen the most indolent course; though you ought to have chosen such a course as a good and brave man would have done, since you profess to have made virtue your study through the whole of your life; so that I am ashamed both for you and for us who are your friends, lest this whole affair of yours should seem to be the effect of cowardice on our part; your appearing to stand your trial in the court, since you appeared when it was in your power not to have done so, the very manner in which the trial was conducted, and this last circumstance, as it were a ridiculous consummation of the whole business, your appearing to have escaped from us through our indolence and cowardice, who did not save you, nor did you save yourself, when it was practicable and possible, had we but exerted ourselves a little. Think of these things, therefore, Socrates, and beware, lest, besides the evil that will result, they be disgraceful both to you and to us; advise then with yourself, though indeed there is no longer time for advising, your resolve should be already made. And there is but one plan; for in the following night the whole must be accomplished. If we delay, it will be impossible and no longer practicable. By all means, therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and on no account refuse.

6. Socr. My dear Crito, your zeal would be very commendable were it united with right principle; otherwise, by how much the more earnest it is, by so much is it the more sad. We must consider, therefore, whether this plan should be adopted or not. For I not now only, but always, am a person who will obey nothing within me but reason, according as it appears to me on mature deliberation to be best. And the reasons, which I formerly professed, I cannot now reject, because this misfortune \.bn 035.png has befallen me; but they appear to me in much the same light, and I respect and honour them as before; so that if we are unable to adduce any better at the present time, be assured that I shall not give in to you, even though the power of the multitude should endeavour to terrify us like children, by threatening more than it does now, bonds and death, and confiscation of property. How, therefore, may we consider the matter most conveniently? First of all, if we recur to the argument which you used about opinions, whether on former occasions it was rightly resolved or not, that we ought to pay attention to some opinions, and to others not; or whether, before it was necessary that I should die, it was rightly resolved, but now it has become clear that it was said idly for argument’s sake, though in reality it was merely jest and trifling. I desire then, Crito, to consider, in common with you, whether it will appear to me in a different light now that I am in this condition, or the same, and whether we shall give it up or yield to it. It was said, I think, on former occasions, by those who were thought to speak seriously, as I just now observed, that of the opinions which men entertain some should be very highly esteemed and others not. By the gods, Crito, does not this appear to you to be well said? For you, in all human probability, are out of all danger of dying to-morrow, and the present calamity will not lead your judgment astray. Consider then: does it not appear to you to have been rightly settled, that we ought not to respect all the opinions of men, but some we should and others not? Nor yet the opinions of all men, but of some we should and of others not? What say you? Is not this rightly resolved?

Cri. It is.

Socr. Therefore, we should respect the good but not the bad?

Cri. Yes.

Socr. And are not the good those of the wise, and the bad those of the foolish?

Cri. How can it be otherwise?

7. Socr. Come then, how again were the following points settled? Does a man who practises gymnastic exercises, and applies himself to them, pay attention to the praise and censure and opinion of every one, or of that one man only who happens to be a physician or teacher of the exercises?

Cri. Of that one only.

Socr. He ought, therefore, to fear the censures and covet the praises of that one, but not those of the multitude.

Cri. Clearly.

Socr. He ought, therefore, so to practise and exercise himself, and to eat and drink, as seems fitting to the one who presides and knows, rather than to all others together.

Cri. It is so.

Socr. Well, then, if he disobeys the one, and disregards his opinion and praise, but respects that of the multitude and of those who know nothing, will he not suffer some evil?

Cri. How should he not?

Socr. But what is this evil? whither does it tend, and on what part of him that disobeys will it fall?

Cri. Clearly on his body, for this it ruins.

Socr. You say well. The case is the same too, Crito, with all other things, not to go through them all. With respect, then, to things just and unjust, base and honourable, good and evil, about which we are now consulting, ought we to follow the opinion of the multitude, and to respect it, or that of one, if there is any one who understands, whom we ought to reverence and respect rather than all others together? and if we do not obey him, shall we not corrupt and injure that part of ourselves which becomes better by justice, but is ruined by injustice? Or is this nothing?

Cri. I agree with you, Socrates.

8. Socr. Come then, if we destroy that which becomes better by what is wholesome, but is impaired by what is unwholesome, through being persuaded by those who do not understand, can we enjoy life when that is impaired? And this is the body we are speaking of, is it not?

Cri. Yes.

Socr. Can we then enjoy life with a diseased and impaired body?

Cri. By no means.

Socr. But can we enjoy life when that is impaired which injustice ruins, but justice benefits? Or do we think that to be of less value than the body, whatever part of us it may be, about which injustice and justice are concerned?

Cri. By no means.

Socr. But of more value?

Cri. Much more.

Socr. We must not, then, my excellent friend, so much regard what the multitude will say of us, but what he will say who understands the just and unjust; the one, even truth itself. So that at first you did not set out with a right principle, when you laid it down that we ought to regard the opinion of the multitude with respect to things just and honourable and good, and their contraries. However, some one may say, are not the multitude able to put us to death?

Cri. This, too, is clear, Socrates; any one might say so.

Socr. You say truly. But, my admirable friend, this principle which we have just discussed appears to me to be the same as it was before[10]. And consider this moreover, whether it still holds good with us or not, that we are not to be anxious about living, but about living well.

Cri. It does hold good.

Socr. And does this hold good or not, that to live well and honourably and justly, are the same thing?

Cri. It does.

9. Socr. From what has been admitted, then, this consideration arises, whether it is just or not, that I should endeavour to leave this place without the permission of the Athenians. And should it appear to be just, we will make the attempt; but if not, we will give it up; but as to the considerations which you mention, of an outlay of money, reputation, and the education of children, beware, Crito, lest such considerations as these in reality belong to these multitudes, who rashly put one to death, and would restore one to life, if they could do so, without any reason at all. But we, since reason so requires, must consider nothing else than what we just now mentioned, whether we shall act justly in paying money and contracting obligations to those who will lead me hence, as well they who lead me as we who are led hence, or whether in truth we shall not act unjustly in doing all these things. And if we should appear in so doing to be acting unjustly, observe that we must not consider whether from remaining here and continuing quiet we must needs die, or suffer any thing else, rather than whether we shall be acting unjustly.

Cri. You appear to me to speak wisely, Socrates; but see what we are to do.

Socr. Let us consider the matter together, my friend; and if you have any thing to object to what I say make good your objection, and I will yield to you; but if not, cease, my excellent friend, to urge upon me the same thing so often, that I ought to depart hence, against the will of the Athenians. For I highly esteem your endeavours to persuade me thus to act, so long as it is not against my will. Consider, then, the beginning of our enquiry, whether it is stated to your entire satisfaction, and endeavour to answer the question put to you exactly as you think right.

Cri. I will endeavour to do so.

10. Socr. Say we, then, that we should on no account deliberately commit injustice, or may we commit injustice under certain circumstances, under others not? Or is it on no account either good or honourable to commit injustice, as we have often agreed on former occasions, and as we just now said? Or have all those our former admissions been dissipated in these few days; and have we, Crito, old men as we are, been for a long time seriously conversing with each other, without knowing that we in no respect differ from children? Or does the case, beyond all question, stand as we then determined? whether the multitude allow it or not, and whether we must suffer a more severe or a milder punishment than this, still is injustice on every account both evil and disgraceful to him who commits it? Do we admit this, or not?

Cri. We do admit it.

Socr. On no account, therefore, ought we to act unjustly.

Cri. Surely not.

Socr. Neither ought one who is injured to return the injury, as the multitude think, since it is on no account right to act unjustly.

Cri. It appears not.

Socr. What then? Is it right to do evil, Crito, or not?

Cri. Surely it is not right, Socrates.

Socr. But what? To do evil in return when one has been evil-entreated, is that right or not?

Cri. By no means.

Socr. For to do evil to men, differs in no respect from committing injustice.

Cri. You say truly.

Socr. It is not right, therefore, to return an injury, or to do evil to any man, however one may have suffered from him. But take care Crito, that in allowing these things, you do not allow them contrary to your opinion. For I know that to some few only these things both do appear and will appear to be true. They then to whom these things appear true, and they to whom they do not, have no sentiment in common, and must needs despise each other, while they look to each other’s opinions. Consider well then, whether you coincide and think with me; and whether we can begin our deliberations from this point, that it is never right either to do an injury, or to return an injury, or when one has been evil-entreated to revenge one’s-self by doing evil in return; or, do you dissent from and not coincide in this principle? For so it appears to me both long since and now; but if you in any respect think otherwise, say so and inform me. But if you persist in your former opinions, hear what follows.

Cri. I do persist in them and think with you. Speak on then.

Socr. I say next then, or rather I ask; whether when a man has promised to do things that are just, he ought to do them, or evade his promise?

Cri. He ought to do them.

11. Socr. Observe then what follows. By departing hence without the leave of the city, are we not doing evil to some, and that to those to whom we ought least of all to do it, or not? And do we abide by what we agreed on as being just, or do we not?

Cri. I am unable to answer your question, Socrates: for I do not understand it.

Socr. Then consider it thus. If while we were preparing to run away, or by whatever name we should call it, the laws and commonwealth should come and, presenting themselves before us, should say: “Tell me, Socrates, what do you purpose doing? Do you design any thing else by this proceeding in which you are engaged, than to destroy us, the laws, and the whole city as far as you are able? Or do you think it possible for that city any longer to subsist and not be subverted, in which judgments that are passed have no force, but are set aside and destroyed by private persons?” What should we say, Crito, to these and similar remonstrances? For any one, especially an orator, would have much to say on the violation of the law, which enjoins that judgments passed shall be enforced. Shall we say to them that the city has done us an injustice and not passed a right sentence? Shall we say this, or what else?

Cri. This, by Jupiter, Socrates.

12. Socr. What then if the laws should say: “Socrates, was it not agreed between us that you should abide by the judgments which the city should pronounce?” And if we should wonder at their speaking thus, perhaps they would say, “Wonder not, Socrates, at what we say, but answer, since you are accustomed to make use of questions and answers. For come, what charge have you against us and the city, that you attempt to destroy us? Did we not first give you being? and did not your father through us take your mother to wife and beget you? Say then, do you find fault with those laws amongst us that relate to marriage as being bad?” I should say, “I do not find fault with them.” “Do you with those that relate to your nurture when born, and the education with which you were instructed? Or did not the laws, ordained on this point, enjoin rightly, in requiring your father to instruct you in music and gymnastic exercises?” I should say, rightly. Well then: since you were born, nurtured, and educated through our means, can you say, first of all, that you are not both our offspring and our slave, as well you as your ancestors? And if this be so, do you think that there are equal rights between us, and whatever we attempt to do to you, do you think you may justly do to us in turn? Or had you not equal rights with your father, or master, if you happened to have one, so as to return what you suffered, neither to retort when found fault with, nor when stricken to strike again, nor many other things of the kind; but that with your country and the laws you may do so; so that if we attempt to destroy you, thinking it to be just, you also should endeavour as far as you are able, in return to destroy us, the laws, and your country, and in doing this will you say that you act justly, you who, in reality, make virtue your chief object? Or are you so wise as not to know that one’s country is more honourable, venerable and sacred, and more highly prized both by gods and men possessed of understanding, than mother and father, and all other progenitors, and that one ought to reverence, submit to, and appease one’s country, when angry, rather than one’s father, and either persuade it or do what it orders, and to suffer quietly if it bids one suffer, whether to be beaten, or put in bonds; or if it sends one out to battle there to be wounded or slain, this must be done, for justice so requires, and one must not give way, or retreat, or leave one’s post; but that both in war, and in a court of justice, and every where, one must do what one’s city and country enjoins, or persuade it in such manner as justice allows: but that to offer violence either to one’s mother or father is not holy, much less to one’s country? What shall we say to these things, Crito? That the laws speak the truth or not?

Cri. It seems so to me.

13. Socr. “Consider, then, Socrates,” the laws perhaps might say, “whether we say truly that in what you are now attempting you are attempting to do what is not just towards us. For we, having given you birth, nurtured, instructed you, and having imparted to you and all other citizens all the good in our power, still proclaim, by giving the power to every Athenian who pleases, when he has arrived at years of discretion and become acquainted with the business of the state, and us, the laws, that any one, who is not satisfied with us, may take his property and go wherever he pleases. And if any one of you wishes to go to a colony, if he is not satisfied with us and the city, or to migrate and settle in another country, none of us, the laws, hinder or forbid him going whithersoever he pleases, taking with him all his property. But whoever continues with us after he has seen the manner in which we administer justice, and in other respects govern the city, we now say, that he has in fact entered into a compact with us, to do what we order, and we affirm that he who does not obey is in three respects guilty of injustice, because he does not obey us who gave him being, and because he does not obey us who nurtured him, and because, having made a compact that he would obey us, he neither does so nor does he persuade us if we do any thing wrongly, though we propose for his consideration, and do not rigidly command him to do what we order, but leave him the choice of one of two things, either to persuade us, or to do what we require, and yet he does neither of these.

14. “And we say that you, O Socrates, will be subject to these charges if you accomplish your design, and that not least of the Athenians, but most so of all.” And if I should ask, for what reason? They would probably justly retort on me by saying, that among all the Athenians I especially made this compact with them. For they would say, “Socrates, we have strong proof of this, that you were satisfied both with us and the city; for of all the Athenians you especially would never have dwelt in it, if it had not been especially agreeable to you. For you never went out of the city to any of the public spectacles, except once to the Isthmian games, nor any where else, except on military service, nor have you ever gone abroad as other men do, nor had you ever had any desire to become acquainted with any other city or other laws, but we and our city were sufficient for you; so strongly were you attached to us, and so far did you consent to submit to our government, both in other respects and in begetting children in this city, in consequence of your being satisfied with it. Moreover in your very trial, it was in your power to have imposed on yourself a sentence of exile, if you pleased, and might then have done, with the consent of the city, what you now attempt against its consent. Then indeed you boasted yourself as not being grieved if you must needs die; but you preferred, as you said, death to exile. Now, however, you are neither ashamed of those professions, nor do you revere us, the laws, since you endeavour to destroy us; and you act as the vilest slave would act, by endeavouring to make your escape contrary to the conventions and the compacts by which you engaged to submit to our government. First then, therefore, answer us this, whether we speak the truth or not in affirming that you agreed to be governed by us in deed though not in word?” What shall we say to this, Crito? Can we do otherwise than assent?

Cri. We must needs do so, Socrates?

Socr. “What else, then,” they will say, “are you doing but violating the conventions and compacts which you made with us, though you did not enter into them from compulsion or through deception, or from being compelled to determine in a short time, but during the space of seventy years, in which you might have departed if you had been dissatisfied with us, and the compacts had not appeared to you to be just? You, however, neither preferred Lacedæmon nor Crete, which you several times said are governed by good laws, nor any other of the Grecian or barbarian cities; but you have been less out of Athens than the lame and the blind, and other maimed persons. So much, it is evident, were you satisfied with the city and us, the laws, beyond the rest of the Athenians: for who can be satisfied with a city without laws? But now will you not abide by your compacts? You will, if you are persuaded by us, Socrates, and will not make yourself ridiculous by leaving the city.

15. “For consider, by violating these compacts and offending against any of them, what good you will do to yourself or your friends. For that your friends will run the risk of being themselves banished, and deprived of the rights of citizenship, or of forfeiting their property, is pretty clear. And as for yourself, if you should go to one of the neighbouring cities, either Thebes or Megara, for both are governed by good laws, you will go there, Socrates, as an enemy to their polity, and such as have any regard for their country will look upon you with suspicion, regarding you as a corrupter of the laws, and you will confirm the opinion of the judges, so that they will appear to have condemned you rightly, for whoso is a corrupter of the laws will appear in all likelihood to be a corrupter of youths and weak-minded men. Will you then avoid these well-governed cities, and the best-ordered men? And should you do so, will it be worth your while to live? Or will you approach them, and have the effrontery to converse with them, Socrates, on subjects the same as you did here, that virtue and justice, legal institutions and laws, should be most highly valued by men? And do you not think that this conduct of Socrates would be very indecorous? You must think so. But you will keep clear of these places, and go to Thessaly, to Crito’s friends, for there is the greatest disorder and licentiousness, and perhaps they will gladly hear you relating how drolly you escaped from prison, clad in some dress or covered with a skin, or in some other disguise such as fugitives are wont to dress themselves in, having so changed your usual appearance. And will no one say that you, though an old man, with but a short time to live, in all probability, have dared to have such a base desire of life as to violate the most sacred laws? Perhaps not, should you not offend any one. But if you should, you will hear, Socrates, many things utterly unworthy of you. You will live, too, in a state of abject dependence on all men, and as their slave. But what will you do in Thessaly besides feasting, as if you had gone to Thessaly to a banquet? And what will become of those discourses about justice and all other virtues?—But do you wish to live for the sake of your children, that you may rear and educate them? What then? Will you take them to Thessaly, and there rear and educate them, making them aliens to their country, that they may owe you this obligation too? Or if not so, being reared here, will they be better reared and educated while you are living, though not with them? for your friends will take care of them. Whether, if you go to Thessaly, will they take care of them, but if you go to Hades will they not take care of them? If, however, any advantage is to be derived from those that say they are your friends, we must think they will.

16. “Then, O Socrates, be persuaded by us who have nurtured you, and do not set a higher value on your children, or on life, or on any thing else than justice, that, when you arrive in Hades, you may have all this to say in your defence before those who have dominion there. For neither here in this life, if you do what is proposed, does it appear to be better, or more just, or more holy to yourself, or any of your friends; nor will it be better for you when you arrive there. But now you depart, if you do depart, unjustly treated, not by us, the laws, but by men; but should you escape, having thus disgracefully returned injury for injury, and evil for evil, having violated your own compacts and conventions which you made with us, and having done evil to those to whom you least of all should have done it, namely, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, both we shall be indignant with you as long as you live, and there our brothers, the laws in Hades, will not receive you favourably, knowing that you attempted, as far as you were able, to destroy us. Let not Crito, then, persuade you to do what he advises, rather than we.”

17. These things, my dear friend Crito, be assured I seem to hear, as the votaries of Cybele[11] seem to hear the flutes. And the sound of these words booms in my ear, and makes me incapable of hearing any thing else. Be sure, then, so long as I retain my present opinions, if you should say any thing contrary to these, you will speak in vain. If, however, you think that you can prevail at all, say on.

Cri. But, Socrates, I have nothing to say.

Socr. Desist, then, Crito, and let us pursue this course, since this way the deity leads us.

INTRODUCTION TO THE PHÆDO.

This dialogue presents us with an account of the manner in which Socrates spent the last day of his life, and how he met his death. The main subject is that of the soul’s immortality, which Socrates takes upon himself to prove with as much certainty as it is possible for the human mind to arrive at. The question itself, though none could be better suited to the occasion, arises simply and naturally from the general conversation that precedes it.

When his friends visit him in the morning for the purpose of spending this his last day with him, they find him sitting up in bed and rubbing his leg, which had just been freed from bonds. He remarks on the unaccountable alternation and connexion between pleasure and pain, and adds that Æsop, had he observed it, would have made a fable from it. This remark reminds Cebes of Socrates’ having put some of Æsop’s fables into metre since his imprisonment, and he asks, for the satisfaction of the poet Evenus, what had induced him to do so. Socrates explains his reason, and concludes by bidding him tell Evenus to follow him as soon as he can. Simmias expresses his surprise at this message, on which Socrates asks, “Is not Evenus a philosopher?” and on the question being answered in the affirmative, he says, that he or any philosopher would be willing to die, though perhaps he would not commit violence on himself. This, again, seems a contradiction to Simmias, but Socrates explains it by shewing that our souls are placed in the body by God, and may not leave it without His permission. Whereupon Cebes objects, that in that case foolish men only would wish to die and quit the service of the best of masters, to which Simmias agrees. Socrates, therefore, proposes to plead his cause before them, and to shew that there is a great probability that after this life he shall go into the presence of God and good men, and be happy in proportion to the purity of his own mind.

He begins[12] by stating that philosophy itself is nothing else than a preparation for and meditation on death. Death and philosophy have this in common: death separates the soul from the body, philosophy draws off the mind from bodily things to the contemplation of truth and virtue: for he is not a true philosopher who is led away by bodily pleasures, since the senses are the source of ignorance and all evil; the mind, therefore, is entirely occupied in meditating on death, and freeing itself as much as possible from the body. How, then, can such a man be afraid of death? He who grieves at the approach of death cannot be a true lover of wisdom, but is a lover of his body. And, indeed, most men are temperate through intemperance, that is to say, they abstain from some pleasures that they may the more easily and permanently enjoy others. They embrace only a shadow of virtue, not virtue itself, since they estimate the value of all things by the pleasures they afford. Whereas the philosopher purifies his mind from all such things, and pursues virtue and wisdom for their own sakes. This course Socrates himself had pursued to the utmost of his ability, with what success he should shortly know; and on these grounds he did not repine at leaving his friends in this world, being persuaded that in another he should meet with good masters and good friends.

Upon this Cebes[13] says that he agrees with all else that had been said, but cannot help entertaining doubts of what will become of the soul when separated from the body, for the common opinion is that it is dispersed and vanishes like breath or smoke, and no longer exists any where. Socrates, therefore, proposes to enquire into the probability of the case, a fit employment for him under his present circumstances.

His first argument[14] is drawn from the ancient belief prevalent amongst men, that souls departing hence exist in Hades, and are produced again from the dead. If this be true, it must follow that our souls are there, for they could not be produced again if they did not exist: and its truth is confirmed by this, that it is a general law of nature that contraries are produced from contraries, the greater from the less, strong from weak, slow from swift, heat from cold, and in like manner life from death, and vice versâ. To explain this more clearly, he proceeds to shew that what is changed passes from one state to another, and so undergoes three different states, first the actual state, then the transition, and thirdly the new state, as from a state of sleep, by awaking to being awake: in like manner birth is a transition from a state of death to life, and dying from life to death, so that the soul, by the act of dying, only passes to another state; if it were not so, all nature would in time become dead, just as if people did not awake out of sleep all would at last be buried in eternal sleep. Whence the conclusion is that the souls of men are not annihilated by death.

Cebes[15] agrees to this reasoning, and adds that he is further convinced of its truth by calling to mind an argument used by Socrates on former occasions, that knowledge is nothing but reminiscence, and if this is so, the soul must have existed and had knowledge before it became united to the body.

But in case Simmias should not yet be satisfied, Socrates[16] proceeds to enlarge on this, his second argument, drawn from reminiscence. We daily find that we are carried from the knowledge of one thing to another. Things perceived by the eyes, ears, and other senses, bring up the thought of other things: thus the sight of a lyre or a garment reminds us of a friend, and not only are we thus reminded of sensible objects, but of things which are comprehended by the mind alone, and have no sensitive existence. For we have formed in our minds an idea of abstract equality, of the beautiful, the just, the good, in short, of every thing which we say exists without the aid of the senses, for we use them only in the perception of individual things, whence it follows that the mind did not acquire this knowledge in this life, but must have had it before, and therefore the soul must have existed before.

Simmias and Cebes[17] both agree in admitting that Socrates has proved the pre-existence of the soul, but insist that he has not shewn it to be immortal, for that nothing hinders but that, according to the popular opinion, it may be dispersed at the dissolution of the body. To which Socrates replies, that if their former admissions are joined to his last argument, the immortality, as well as the pre-existence of the soul, has been sufficiently proved. For if it is true that any thing living is produced from that which is dead, then the soul must exist after death, otherwise it could not be produced again.

However to remove the apprehension that the soul may be dispersed by a wind as it were, Socrates proceeds, in his third argument[18], to examine that doubt more thoroughly. What then is meant by being dispersed but being dissolved into its parts? In order therefore to a thing being capable of dispersion it must be compounded of parts. Now there are two kinds of things, one compounded, the other simple, the former kind is subject to change, the latter not, and can be comprehended by the mind alone. The one is visible, the other invisible; and the soul, which is invisible, when it employs the bodily senses wanders and is confused, but when it abstracts itself from the body it attains to the knowledge of that which is eternal, immortal, and unchangeable. The soul, therefore, being uncompounded and invisible must be indissoluble, that is to say immortal.

Still Simmias and Cebes[19] are unconvinced. The former objects, that the soul, according to Socrates’ own shewing, is nothing but a harmony resulting from a combination of the parts of the body, and so may perish with the body as the harmony of a lyre does when the lyre itself is broken. And Cebes, though he admits that the soul is more durable than the body, yet objects that it is not therefore of necessity immortal but may in time wear out, and it is by no means clear that this is not its last period.

These objections produce a powerful effect on the rest of the company, but Socrates, undismayed, exhorts them not to suffer themselves to be deterred from seeking the truth by any difficulties they may meet with; and then proceeds[20] to shew, in a moment, the fallacy of Simmias’ objection. It was before admitted, he says, that the soul existed before the body, but harmony is produced after the lyre is formed, so that the two cases are totally different. And further, there are various degrees of harmony, but every soul is as much a soul as any other. But then what will a person who holds this doctrine, that the soul is harmony, say of virtue and vice in the soul? Will he call them another kind of harmony and discord? If so, he will contradict himself, for it is admitted that one soul is not more or less a soul than another, and therefore one cannot be more or less harmonized than another, and one could not admit of a greater degree of virtue or vice than another; and indeed a soul, being harmony, could not partake of vice at all, which is discord.

Socrates, having thus satisfactorily answered the argument adduced by Simmias, goes on to rebut that of Cebes[21], who objected that the soul might in time wear out. In order to do this, he relates that when a young man he attempted to investigate the causes of every thing, why they exist and why they perish; and in the course of his researches finding the futility of attributing the existence of things to what are called natural causes, he resolved on endeavouring to find out the reasons of things. He therefore assumed that there is a certain abstract beauty, and goodness, and magnitude, and so of all other things: the truth of which being granted he thinks he shall be able to prove that the soul is immortal.

This then being conceded by Cebes, Socrates[22] argues that every thing that is beautiful is so from partaking of abstract beauty, and great from partaking of magnitude, and little from partaking of littleness. Now it is impossible he argues that contraries can exist in the same thing at the same time, for instance the same thing cannot possess both magnitude and littleness, but one will withdraw at the approach of the other: and not only so, but things which, though not contrary to each other, yet always contain contraries within themselves cannot co-exist; for instance the number three has no contrary, yet it contains within itself the idea of odd, which is the contrary to even, and so three never can become even; in like manner heat while it is heat can never admit the idea of its contrary, cold. Now if this method of reasoning is applied to the soul it will be found to be immortal; for life and death are contraries, and never can co-exist, but wherever the soul is there is life, so that it contains within itself that which is contrary to death, and consequently can never admit of death; therefore it is immortal.

With this he closes his arguments in support of the soul’s immortality. Cebes owns himself convinced, but Simmias, though he is unable to make any objection to the soundness of Socrates’ reasoning, cannot help still entertaining doubts on the subject. If, however, the soul is immortal, Socrates proceeds[23], great need is there in this life to endeavour to become as wise and good as possible. For if death were a deliverance from every thing it would be a great gain for the wicked, but since the soul appears to be immortal, it must go to the place suited to its nature. For it is said that each person’s demon conducts him to a place where he receives sentence according to his deserts.

He then[24] draws a fanciful picture of the various regions of the earth, to which the good and the bad will respectively go after death, and exhorts his friends to use every endeavour to acquire virtue and wisdom in this life, “for,” he adds, “the reward is noble and the hope great.”

Having thus brought his subject to a conclusion, Socrates proposes to bathe himself, in order not to trouble others to wash his dead body. Crito thereupon asks if he has any commands to give, and especially how he would be buried, to which he, with his usual cheerfulness, makes answer, “Just as you please, if only you can catch me;” and then, smiling, he reminds them that after death he shall be no longer with them, and begs the others of the party to be sureties to Crito for his absence from the body, as they had been before bound for his presence before his judges.

After he had bathed, and taken leave of his children and the women of his family, the officer of the Eleven comes in to intimate to him that it is now time to drink the poison. Crito urges a little delay, as the sun had not yet set, but Socrates refuses to make himself ridiculous by shewing such a fondness for life; the man who is to administer the poison is therefore sent for, and on his holding out the cup, Socrates, neither trembling nor changing colour or countenance at all, but, as he was wont, looking stedfastly at the man, asked if he might make a libation to any one, and being told that no more poison than enough had been mixed, he simply prayed that his departure from this to another world might be happy, and then drank off the poison readily and calmly. His friends, who had hitherto with difficulty restrained themselves, could no longer control the outward expressions of grief, to which Socrates said, “What are you doing, my friends? I, for this reason chiefly, sent away the women, that they might not commit any folly of this kind. For I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up.”

When he had walked about for a while his legs began to grow heavy, so he laid down on his back, and his body, from the feet upwards, gradually grew cold and stiff. His last words were, “Crito, we owe a cock to Æsculapius: pay it, therefore, and do not neglect it.”

“This,” concludes Phædo, “was the end of our friend, a man, as we may say, the best of all his time that we have known, and moreover, the most wise and just.”

PHÆDO,

OR

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

First Echecrates, Phædo.

Then Socrates, Apollodorus, Cebes, Simmias, and Crito.

Ech. Were you personally present, Phædo, with Socrates on that day when he drank the poison in prison? or did you hear an account of it from some one else?

Phæd. I was there myself, Echecrates.

Ech. What then did he say before his death? and how did he die? for I should be glad to hear: for scarcely any citizen of Phlius[25] ever visits Athens now, nor has any stranger for a long time come from thence, who was able to give us a clear account of the particulars, except that he died from drinking poison; but he was unable to tell us any thing more.

2. Phæd. And did you not hear about the trial how it went off?

Ech. Yes; some one told me this; and I wondered, that as it took place so long ago, he appears to have died long afterwards. What was the reason of this, Phædo?

Phæd. An accidental circumstance happened in his favour, Echecrates: for the poop of the ship which the Athenians send to Delos, chanced to be crowned on the day before the trial.

Ech. But what is this ship?

Phæd. It is the ship, as the Athenians say, in which Theseus formerly conveyed the fourteen boys and girls to Crete, and saved both them and himself. They, therefore, made a vow to Apollo on that occasion, as it is said, that if they were saved they would every year despatch a solemn embassy to Delos; which from that time to the present, they send yearly to the god. 3. When they begin the preparations for this solemn embassy, they have a law that the city shall be purified during this period, and that no public execution shall take place until the ship has reached Delos, and returned to Athens: and this occasionally takes a long time, when the winds happen to impede their passage. The commencement of the embassy is when the priest of Apollo has crowned the poop of the ship. And this was done, as I said, on the day before the trial: on this account Socrates had a long interval in prison between the trial and his death.

4. Ech. And what, Phædo, were the circumstances of his death? what was said and done? and who of his friends were with him? or would not the magistrates allow them to be present, but did he die destitute of friends?

Phæd. By no means; but some, indeed several, were present.

Ech. Take the trouble, then, to relate to me all the particulars as clearly as you can, unless you have any pressing business.

Phæd. I am at leisure, and will endeavour to give you a full account: for to call Socrates to mind, whether speaking myself or listening to some one else, is always most delightful to me.

5. Ech. And indeed, Phædo, you have others to listen to you who are of the same mind. However, endeavour to relate every thing as accurately as you can.

Phæd. I was indeed wonderfully affected by being present, for I was not impressed with a feeling of pity, like one present at the death of a friend; for the man appeared to me to be happy, Echecrates, both from his manner and discourse, so fearlessly and nobly did he meet his death: so much so, that it occurred to me, that in going to Hades he was not going without a divine destiny, but that when he arrived there he would be happy, if any one ever was. For this reason I was entirely uninfluenced by any feeling of pity, as would seem likely to be the case with one present on so mournful an occasion; nor was I affected by pleasure from being engaged in philosophical discussions, as was our custom; for our conversation was of that kind. But an altogether unaccountable feeling possessed me, a kind of unusual mixture compounded of pleasure and pain together, when I considered that he was immediately about to die. And all of us who were present were affected in much the same manner, at one time laughing, at another weeping, one of us especially, Apollodorus, for you know the man and his manner.

Ech. How should I not?

6. Phæd. He, then, was entirely overcome by these emotions; and I too was troubled, as well as the others.

Ech. But who were present, Phædo?

Phæd. Of his fellow-countrymen, this Apollodorus was present, and Critobulus, and his father Crito, moreover Hermogenes, Epigenes, Æschines, and Antisthenes; Ctesippus the Pæanian, Menexenus, and some other of his countrymen were also there: Plato I think was sick.

Ech. Were any strangers present?

Phæd. Yes: Simmias the Theban, Cebes, and Phædondes: and from Megara, Euclides and Terpsion.

7. Ech. But what! were not Aristippus and Cleombrotus present?

Phæd. No: for they were said to be at Ægina.

Ech. Was any one else there?

Phæd. I think that these were nearly all who were present.

Ech. Well now: what do you say was the subject of conversation?

Phæd. I will endeavour to relate the whole to you from the beginning. On the preceding days I and the others were constantly in the habit of visiting Socrates, meeting early in the morning at the court-house where the trial took place, for it was near the prison. 8. Here then we waited every day till the prison was opened, conversing with each other; for it was not opened very early, but, as soon as it was opened we went in to Socrates, and usually spent the day with him. On that occasion however, we met earlier than usual; for on the preceding day, when we left the prison in the evening, we heard that the ship had arrived from Delos. We therefore urged each other to come as early as possible to the accustomed place; accordingly we came, and the porter, who used to admit us, coming out, told us to wait, and not enter until he called us. “For,” he said, “the Eleven are now freeing Socrates from his bonds, and announcing to him that he must die to-day.” But in no long time he returned, and bade us enter.

9. When we entered, we found Socrates just freed from his bonds, and Xantippe, you know her, holding his little boy and sitting by him. As soon as Xantippe saw us, she wept aloud and said such things as women usually do on such occasions, as “Socrates, your friends will now converse with you for the last time and you with them.” But Socrates, looking towards Crito, said, “Crito, let some one take her home.” Upon which some of Crito’s attendants led her away, wailing and beating herself.

But Socrates sitting up in bed, drew up his leg, and rubbed it with his hand, and as he rubbed it, said; “What an unaccountable thing, my friends, that seems to be, which men call pleasure; and how wonderfully is it related towards that which appears to be its contrary, pain; in that they will not both be present to a man at the same time, yet, if any one pursues and attains the one, he is almost always compelled to receive the other, as if they were both united together from one head.

10. “And it seems to me,” he said, “that if Æsop had observed this he would have made a fable from it, how the deity, wishing to reconcile these warring principles, when he could not do so, united their heads together, and from hence whomsoever the one visits the other attends immediately after; as appears to be the case with me, since I suffered pain in my leg before from the chain, but now pleasure seems to have succeeded.”

Hereupon Cebes, interrupting him, said, “By Jupiter, Socrates, you have done well in reminding me: with respect to the poems which you made, by putting into metre those Fables of Æsop and the hymn to Apollo, several other persons asked me, and especially Evenus recently, with what design you made them after you came here, whereas before you had never made any. 11. If, therefore, you care at all that I should be able to answer Evenus, when he asks me again, for I am sure he will do so, tell me what I must say to him.”

“Tell him the truth then, Cebes,” he replied, “that I did not make them from a wish to compete with him, or his poems, for I knew that this would be no easy matter; but that I might discover the meaning of certain dreams, and discharge my conscience, if this should happen to be the music which they have often ordered me to apply myself to. For they were to the following purport: often in my past life the same dream visited me, appearing at different times in different forms, yet always saying the same thing, ‘Socrates,’ it said, ‘apply yourself to and practise music.’ 12. And I formerly supposed that it exhorted and encouraged me to continue the pursuit I was engaged in, as those who cheer on racers, so that the dream encouraged me to continue the pursuit I was engaged in, namely, to apply myself to music, since philosophy is the highest music, and I was devoted to it. But now since my trial took place, and the festival of the god retarded my death, it appeared to me that, if by chance the dream so frequently enjoined me to apply myself to popular music, I ought not to disobey it but do so, for that it would be safer for me not to depart hence before I had discharged my conscience by making some poems in obedience to the dream. Thus, then, I first of all composed a hymn to the god whose festival was present, and after the god, considering that a poet, if he means to be a poet, ought to make fables and not discourses, and knowing that I was not skilled in making fables, I therefore put into verse those fables of Æsop, which were at hand, and were known to me, and which first occurred to me.

13. Tell this then to Evenus, Cebes, and bid him farewell, and, if he is wise, to follow me as soon as he can. But I depart, as it seems, to-day; for so the Athenians order.”

To this Simmias said; “What is this, Socrates, which you exhort Evenus to do? for I often meet with him; and from what I know of him, I am pretty certain that he will not at all be willing to comply with your advice.”

“What then,” said he, “is not Evenus a philosopher?”

“To me he seems to be so,” said Simmias.

“Then he will be willing,” rejoined Socrates, “and so will every one who worthily engages in this study; perhaps indeed he will not commit violence on himself, for that they say is not allowable.” And as he said this he let down his leg from the bed on the ground, and in this posture continued during the remainder of the discussion.

Cebes then asked him, “What do you mean, Socrates, by saying that it is not lawful to commit violence on one’s-self, but that a philosopher should be willing to follow one who is dying?”

14. “What, Cebes, have not you and Simmias, who have conversed familiarly with Philolaus[26] on this subject, heard?”

“Nothing very clearly, Socrates.”

“I however speak only from hearsay; what then I have heard I have no scruple in telling. And perhaps it is most becoming for one who is about to travel there, to enquire and speculate about the journey thither, what kind we think it is. What else can one do in the interval before sunset?”

“Why then, Socrates, do they say that it is not allowable to kill one’s-self? for I, as you asked just now, have heard both Philolaus, when he lived with us, and several others say that it was not right to do this; but I never heard any thing clear upon the subject from any one.”

15. “Then you should consider it attentively,” said Socrates, “for perhaps you may hear: probably however, it will appear wonderful to you, if this alone of all other things is an universal truth[27], and it never happens to a man, as is the case in all other things, that at sometimes and to some persons only it is better to die than to live; yet that these men for whom it is better to die—this probably will appear wonderful to you—may not without impiety do this good to themselves, but must await another benefactor.”

16. Then Cebes, gently smiling, said, speaking in his own dialect[28], “Jove be witness.”

“And indeed,” said Socrates, “it would appear to be unreasonable, yet still perhaps it has some reason on its side. The maxim indeed given on this subject in the mystical doctrines[29], that we men are in a kind of prison, and that we ought not to free ourselves from it and escape, appears to me difficult to be understood, and not easy to penetrate. This however appears to me, Cebes, to be well said, that the gods take care of us, and that we men are one of their possessions. Does it not seem so to you?”

“It does,” replied Cebes.

“Therefore,” said he, “if one of your slaves were to kill himself, without your having intimated that you wished him to die, should you not be angry with him, and should you not punish him if you could?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

“Perhaps then in this point of view, it is not unreasonable to assert, that a man ought not to kill himself before the deity lays him under a necessity of doing so, such as that now laid on me.”

17. “This, indeed,” said Cebes, “appears to be probable. But what you said just now, Socrates, that philosophers should be very willing to die, appears to be an absurdity, if what we said just now is agreeable to reason, that it is God who takes care of us, and that we are his property. For that the wisest men should not be grieved at leaving that service in which they govern them who are the best of all masters, namely the gods, is not consistent with reason. For surely he cannot think that he will take better care of himself when he has become free: but a foolish man might perhaps think thus, that he should fly from his master, and would not reflect that he ought not to fly from a good one, but should cling to him as much as possible, therefore he would fly against all reason: but a man of sense would desire to be constantly with one better than himself. Thus, Socrates, the contrary of what you just now said is likely to be the case; for it becomes the wise to be grieved at dying, but the foolish to rejoice.”

18. Socrates, on hearing this, appeared to me to be pleased with the pertinacity of Cebes, and looking towards us, said, “Cebes, you see, always searches out arguments, and is not at all willing to admit at once any thing one has said.”

Whereupon Simmias replied; “But indeed, Socrates, Cebes appears to me, now, to say something to the purpose: for with what design should men really wise fly from masters who are better than themselves, and so readily leave them? And Cebes appears to me to direct his argument against you, because you so easily endure to abandon both us, and those good rulers, as you yourself confess, the gods.”

“You speak justly,” said Socrates, “for I think you mean that I ought to make my defence to this charge, as if I were in a court of justice.”

“Certainly,” replied Simmias.

19. “Come then,” said he, “I will endeavour to defend myself more successfully before you than before the judges. For,” he proceeded, “Simmias and Cebes, if I did not think that I should go first of all amongst other deities who are both wise and good, and, next, amongst men who have departed this life, better than any here, I should be wrong in not grieving at death: but now be assured, I hope to go amongst good men, though I would not positively assert it; that, however, I shall go amongst gods who are perfectly good masters, be assured I can positively assert this, if I can any thing of the kind. So that, on this account, I am not so much troubled, but I entertain a good hope that something awaits those who die, and that, as was said long since, it will be far better for the good than the evil.”

20. “What then, Socrates,” said Simmias, “would you go away keeping this persuasion to yourself, or would you impart it to us? For this good appears to me to be also common to us; and at the same time it will be an apology for you, if you can persuade us to believe what you say.”

“I will endeavour to do so,” he said. “But first let us attend to Crito here, and see what it is he seems to have for some time wished to say.”

“What else, Socrates,” said Crito, “but what he who is to give you the poison told me some time ago, that I should tell you to speak as little as possible? For he says that men become too much heated by speaking, and that nothing of this kind ought to interfere with the poison, and that otherwise, those who did so were sometimes compelled to drink two or three times.”

To which Socrates replied, “Let him alone, and let him attend to his own business, and prepare to give it me twice, or, if occasion requires, even thrice.”

21. “I was almost certain what you would say,” answered Crito, “but he has been some time pestering me.”

“Never mind him,” he rejoined.

“But now I wish to render an account to you, my judges, of the reason why a man who has really devoted his life to philosophy, when he is about to die, appears to me, on good grounds, to have confidence, and to entertain a firm hope that the greatest good will befal him in the other world, when he has departed this life. How then this comes to pass, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavour to explain.

“For as many as rightly apply themselves to philosophy seem to have left all others in ignorance, that they aim at nothing else than to die and be dead. If this then is true, it would surely be absurd to be anxious about nothing else than this during their whole life, but, when it arrives, to be grieved at what they have been long anxious about and aimed at.”

22. Upon this, Simmias, smiling, said, “By Jupiter, Socrates, though I am not now at all inclined to smile, you have made me do so; for I think that the multitude, if they heard this, would think it was very well said in reference to philosophers, and that our countrymen particularly would agree with you, that true philosophers do desire death, and that they are by no means ignorant that they deserve to suffer it.”

“And indeed, Simmias, they would speak the truth, except in asserting that they are not ignorant; for they are ignorant of the sense in which true philosophers desire to die, and in what sense they deserve death, and what kind of death. But,” he said, “let us take leave of them, and speak to one another. Do we think that death is any thing?”

“Certainly,” replied Simmias.

23. “Is it any thing else than the separation of the soul from the body? and is not this to die, for the body to be apart by itself separated from the soul, and for the soul to subsist apart by itself separated from the body? Is death any thing else than this?”

“No, but this,” he replied.

“Consider then, my good friend, whether you are of the same opinion as me; for thus I think we shall understand better the subject we are considering. Does it appear to you to be becoming in a philosopher to be anxious about pleasures, as they are called, such as meats and drinks?”

“By no means, Socrates,” said Simmias.

“But what? about the pleasures of love?”

“Not at all.”

24. “What then? does such a man appear to you to think other bodily indulgences of value? for instance, does he seem to you to value or despise the possession of magnificent garments and sandals, and other ornaments of the body, except so far as necessity compels him to use them?”

“The true philosopher,” he answered, “appears to me to despise them.”

“Does not then,” he continued, “the whole employment of such a man appear to you to be, not about the body, but to separate himself from it as much as possible, and be occupied about his soul?”

“It does.”

“First of all then, in such matters, does not the philosopher, above all other men, evidently free his soul as much as he can from communion with the body?”

“It appears so.”

25. “And it appears, Simmias, to the generality of men, that he who takes no pleasure in such things, and who does not use them, does not deserve to live; but that he nearly approaches to death who cares nothing for the pleasures that subsist through the body.”

“You speak very truly.”

“But what with respect to the acquisition of wisdom, is the body an impediment or not, if any one takes it with him as a partner in the search? What I mean is this: Do sight and hearing convey any truth to men, or are they such as the poets constantly sing, who say that we neither hear nor see any thing with accuracy? If however these bodily senses are neither accurate nor clear, much less can the others be so: for they are all far inferior to these. Do they not seem so to you?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

26. “When then,” said he, “does the soul light on the truth? for, when it attempts to consider any thing in conjunction with the body, it is plain that it is then led astray by it.”

“You say truly.”

“Must it not then be by reasoning, if at all, that any of the things that really are become known to it?”

“Yes.”

“And surely the soul then reasons best when none of these things disturb it, neither hearing, nor sight, nor pain, nor pleasure of any kind, but it retires as much as possible within itself, taking leave of the body, and, as far as it can, not communicating or being in contact with it, it aims at the discovery of that which is.”

“Such is the case.”

“Does not then the soul of the philosopher, in these cases, despise the body, and flee from it, and seek to retire within itself?”

“It appears so.”

“But what as to such things as these, Simmias? Do we say that justice itself is something or nothing?”

“We say it is something, by Jupiter.”

“And that beauty and goodness are something?”

“How not?”

“Now then have you ever seen any thing of this kind with your eyes?”

“By no means,” he replied.

“Did you ever lay hold of them by any other bodily sense? but I speak generally, as of magnitude, health, strength, and, in a word, of the essence of every thing, that is to say, what each is. Is then the exact truth of these perceived by means of the body, or is it thus, whoever amongst us habituates himself to reflect most deeply and accurately on each several thing about which he is considering, he will make the nearest approach to the knowledge of it?”

“Certainly.”

28. “Would not he, then, do this with the utmost purity, who should in the highest degree approach each subject by means of the mere mental faculties, neither employing the sight in conjunction with the reflective faculty, nor introducing any other sense together with reasoning; but who, using pure reflection by itself, should attempt to search out each essence purely by itself, freed as much as possible from the eyes and ears, and, in a word, from the whole body, as disturbing the soul, and not suffering it to acquire truth and wisdom, when it is in communion with it. Is not he the person, Simmias, if any one can, who will arrive at the knowledge of that which is?”

29. “You speak with wonderful truth, Socrates,” replied Simmias.

“Wherefore,” he said, “it necessarily follows from all this, that some such opinion as this should be entertained by genuine philosophers, so that they should speak among themselves as follows: ‘A by-path, as it were, seems to lead us on in our researches undertaken by reason,’ because as long as we are encumbered with the body, and our soul is contaminated with such an evil, we can never fully attain to what we desire; and this, we say, is truth. For the body subjects us to innumerable hindrances on account of its necessary support, and moreover if any diseases befal us, they impede us in our search after that which is; and it fills us with longings, desires, fears, all kinds of fancies, and a multitude of absurdities, so that, as it is said in real truth, by reason of the body it is never possible for us to make any advances in wisdom. 30. “For nothing else but the body and its desires occasion wars, seditions, and contests; for all wars amongst us arise on account of our desire to acquire wealth; and we are compelled to acquire wealth on account of the body, being enslaved to its service; and consequently on all these accounts we are hindered in the pursuit of philosophy. But the worst of all is, that if it leaves us any leisure, and we apply ourselves to the consideration of any subject, it constantly obtrudes itself in the midst of our researches, and occasions trouble and disturbance, and confounds us so that we are not able by reason of it to discern the truth. It has then in reality been demonstrated to us, that if we are ever to know any thing purely, we must be separated from the body, and contemplate the things themselves by the mere soul. And then, as it seems, we shall obtain that which we desire, and which we profess ourselves to be lovers of, wisdom, when we are dead, as reason shews, but not while we are alive. 31. For if it is not possible to know any thing purely in conjunction with the body, one of these two things must follow, either that we can never acquire knowledge, or only after we are dead; for then the soul will subsist apart by itself, separate from the body, but not before. And while we live, we shall thus, as it seems, approach nearest to knowledge, if we hold no intercourse or communion at all with the body, except what absolute necessity requires, nor suffer ourselves to be polluted by its nature, but purify ourselves from it, until God himself shall release us. And thus being pure, and freed from the folly of body, we shall in all likelihood be with others like ourselves, and shall of ourselves know the whole real essence, and that probably is truth; for it is not allowable for the impure to attain to the pure. Such things, I think, Simmias, all true lovers of wisdom must both think and say to one another. Does it not seem so to you?”

“Most assuredly, Socrates.”

32. “If this then,” said Socrates, “is true, my friend, there is great hope for one who arrives where I am going, there, if any where, to acquire that in perfection for the sake of which we have taken so much pains during our past life; so that the journey now appointed me is set out upon with good hope, and will be so by any other man who thinks that his mind has been as it were purified.”

“Certainly,” said Simmias.

“But does not purification consist in this, as was said in a former part of our discourse, in separating as much as possible the soul from the body, and in accustoming it to gather and collect itself by itself on all sides apart from the body, and to dwell, as far as it can, both now and hereafter, alone by itself, delivered as it were from the shackles of the body?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

33. “Is this then called death, this deliverance and separation of the soul from the body?”

“Assuredly,” he answered.

“But, as we affirmed, those who pursue philosophy rightly, are especially and alone desirous to deliver it, and this is the very study of philosophers, the deliverance and separation of the soul from the body, is it not?”

“It appears so.”

“Then, as I said at first, would it not be ridiculous for a man who has endeavoured throughout his life to live as near as possible to death, then, when death arrives, to grieve? would not this be ridiculous?”

“How should it not?”

“In reality then, Simmias,” he continued, “those who pursue philosophy rightly study to die; and to them of all men death is least formidable. Judge from this. Since they altogether hate the body and desire to keep the soul by itself, would it not be irrational if, when this comes to pass, they should be afraid and grieve, and not be glad to go to that place, where on their arrival they may hope to obtain that which they longed for throughout life; but they longed for wisdom; and to be freed from association with that which they hated? 34. Have many of their own accord wished to descend into Hades, on account of human objects of affection, their wives and sons, induced by this very hope of there seeing and being with those whom they have loved; and shall one who really loves wisdom, and firmly cherishes this very hope, that he shall no where else attain it in a manner worthy of the name, except in Hades, be grieved at dying, and not gladly go there? We must think that he would gladly go, my friend, if he be in truth a philosopher; for he will be firmly persuaded of this, that he will no where else but there attain wisdom in its purity: and if this be so, would it not be very irrational, as I just now said, if such a man were to be afraid of death?”

“Very much so, by Jupiter,” he replied.

35. “Would not this then,” he resumed, “be a sufficient proof to you, with respect to a man whom you should see grieved when about to die, that he was not a lover of wisdom but a lover of his body? and this same person is probably a lover of riches and a lover of honour, one or both of these.”

“It certainly is as you say,” he replied.

“Does not then,” he said, “that which is called fortitude, Simmias, eminently belong to philosophers?”

“By all means,” he answered.

“And temperance also, which even the multitude call temperance, and which consists in not being carried away by the passions, but in holding them in contempt, and keeping them in subjection, does not this belong to those only who most despise the body, and live in the study of philosophy?”

“Necessarily so,” he replied.

36. “For,” he continued, “if you will consider the fortitude and temperance of others, they will appear to you to be absurd.”

“How so, Socrates?”

“Do you know,” he said, “that all others consider death among the great evils?”

“They do indeed,” he answered.

“Then do the brave amongst them endure death, when they do endure it, through dread of greater evils?”

“It is so.”

“All men, therefore, except philosophers, are brave through being afraid and fear; though it is absurd that any one should be brave through fear and cowardice.”

“Certainly.”

“But what, are not those amongst them who keep their passions in subjection, affected in the same way? and are they not temperate through a kind of intemperance? and although we may say, perhaps, that this is impossible, nevertheless the manner in which they are affected with respect to this silly temperance resembles this; for, fearing to be deprived of other pleasures, and desiring them, they abstain from some, being mastered by others. And though they call intemperance the being governed by pleasures, yet it happens to them that, by being mastered by some pleasures, they master others; and this is similar to what was just now said, that in a certain manner they become temperate through intemperance.”

“So it seems.”

37. “My dear Simmias, consider that this is not a right exchange for virtue, to barter pleasures for pleasures, pains for pains, fear for fear, and the greater for the lesser, like pieces of money; but that that alone is the right coin, for which we ought to barter all these things, wisdom; and for this, and with this every thing is in reality bought and sold, fortitude, temperance, and justice, and, in a word, true virtue subsists with wisdom, whether pleasures and fears, and every thing else of the kind, are present or absent; but when separated from wisdom, and changed one for another, consider whether such virtue is not a mere outline, and in reality servile, possessing neither soundness nor truth; but the really true virtue is a purification from all such things, and temperance, justice, fortitude, and wisdom itself, are a kind of initiatory purification. 38. And those who instituted the mysteries for us appear to have been by no means contemptible, but in reality to have intimated long since that whoever shall arrive in Hades unexpiated and uninitiated shall lie in mud, but he that arrives there purified and initiated, shall dwell with the gods. ‘For there are,’ say those who preside at the mysteries, ‘many wand-bearers, but few inspired.’ These last, in my opinion, are no other than those who have pursued philosophy rightly: that I might be of their number, I have, to the utmost of my ability, left no means untried, but have endeavoured to the utmost of my power. But whether I have endeavoured rightly and have in any respect succeeded, on arriving there I shall know clearly, if it please God, very shortly, as it appears to me.

39. “Such then, Simmias and Cebes,” he added, “is the defence I make, for that I, on good grounds, do not repine or grieve at leaving you and my masters here, being persuaded that there, no less than here, I shall meet with good masters and friends. But to the multitude this is incredible. If however I have succeeded better with you in my defence than I did with the Athenian judges, it is well.”

When Socrates had thus spoken, Cebes, taking up the discussion said, “Socrates, all the rest appears to me to be said rightly, but what you have said respecting the soul will occasion much incredulity in many from the apprehension that, when it is separated from the body, it no longer exists any where, but is destroyed and perishes on the very day in which a man dies, and that immediately it is separated and goes out from the body, it is dispersed and vanishes like breath or smoke, and is no longer any where; since, if it remained any where united in itself, and freed from those evils which you have just now enumerated, there would be an abundant and good hope, Socrates, that what you say is true. 40. But this probably needs no little persuasion and proof, that the soul of a man who dies, exists, and possesses activity and intelligence.”

“You say truly, Cebes,” said Socrates, “but what shall we do? Are you willing that we should converse on these points, whether such is probably the case or not?”

“Indeed,” replied Cebes, “I should gladly hear your opinion on these matters.”

“I do not think,” said Socrates, “that any one who should now hear us, even though he were a comic poet, would say that I am talking idly, or discoursing on subjects that do not concern me. If you please, then, we will examine into it. Let us consider it in this point of view, whether the souls of men who are dead exist in Hades, or not. This is an ancient saying, which we now call to mind, that souls departing hence exist there, and return hither again, and are produced from the dead. 41. And if this is so, that the living are produced again from the dead, can there be any other consequence than that our souls are there? for surely they could not be produced again if they did not exist; and this would be a sufficient proof that these things are so, if it should in reality be evident that the living are produced from no other source than the dead. But, if this is not the case, there will be need of other arguments.”

“Certainly,” said Cebes.

“You must not, then,” he continued, “consider this only with respect to men, if you wish to ascertain it with greater certainty, but also with respect to all animals and plants, and, in a word, with respect to every thing that is subject to generation, let us see whether they are not all so produced, no otherwise than contraries from contraries, wherever they have any such quality, as for instance the honourable is contrary to the base, and the just to the unjust, and so with ten thousand other things. 42. Let us consider this, then, whether it is necessary that all things which have a contrary should be produced from nothing else than their contrary. As for instance, when any thing becomes greater is it not necessary that, from being previously smaller, it afterwards became greater?”

“Yes.”

“And if it becomes smaller, will it not, from being previously greater, afterwards become smaller?”

“It is so,” he replied.

“And from stronger, weaker? and from slower, swifter?”

“Certainly.”

“What then? if any thing becomes worse, must it not become so from better? and if more just, from more unjust?”

“How should it not?”

“We have then,” he said, “sufficiently determined this, that all things are thus produced, contraries from contraries?”

“Certainly.”

“What next? is there also something of this kind in them, for instance, between all two contraries a mutual twofold production, from one to the other, and from that other back again? for between a greater thing and a smaller there is increase and decrease, and do we not accordingly call the one to increase, the other to decrease?”

“Yes,” he replied.

43. “And must not to be separated and commingled, to grow cold and to grow warm, and every thing in the same manner, even though sometimes we have not names to designate them, yet in fact be every where thus circumstanced of necessity, as to be produced from each other, and be subject to a reciprocal generation?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

“What then?” said Socrates, “has life any contrary, as waking has its contrary, sleeping?”

“Certainly,” he answered.

“What?”

“Death,” he replied.

“Are not these, then, produced from each other, since they are contraries, and are not the modes by which they are produced twofold, intervening between these two?”

“How should it be otherwise?”

“I then,” continued Socrates, “will describe to you one pair of the contraries which I have just now mentioned, both what it is and its mode of production; and do you describe to me the other. I say that one is to sleep, the other to awake; and from sleeping awaking is produced, and from awaking sleeping, and that the modes of their production are the one to fall asleep, the other to be roused. 44. Have I sufficiently explained this to you or not?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you then,” he said, “describe to me, in the same manner, with respect to life and death? Do you not say that life is contrary to death?”

“I do.”

“Yes.”

“And that they are produced from each other?”

“What then, is produced from life?”

“Death,” he replied.

“What, then,” said he, “is produced from death?”

“I must needs confess,” he replied, “that life is.”

“From the dead, then, O Cebes, living things and living men, are produced.”

“It appears so,” he said.

“Our souls, therefore,” said Socrates, “exist in Hades.”

“So it seems.”

“With respect, then, to their mode of production, is not one of them very clear? for to die surely is clear? is it not?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

“What then shall we do?” he continued; “shall we not find a corresponding contrary mode of production, or will nature be defective in this? Or must we discover a contrary mode of production to dying?”

“By all means,” he said.

“What is this?”

“To revive.”

“Therefore,” he proceeded, “if there is such a thing as to revive, will not this reviving be a mode of production from the dead to the living?”

“Certainly.”

“Thus, then, we have agreed, that the living are produced from the dead, no less than the dead from the living: but, this being the case, there appears to me sufficient proof that the souls of the dead must necessarily exist somewhere, from whence they are again produced.”

45. “It appears to me, Socrates,” he said, “that this must necessarily follow from what has been admitted.”

“See now, O Cebes,” he said, “that we have not agreed on these things improperly, as it appears to me: for if one class of things were not constantly given back in the place of another, revolving as it were in a circle, but generation were direct from one thing alone into its opposite, and did not turn round again to the other, or retrace its course, do you know that all things would at length have the same form, be in the same state, and cease to be produced?”

“How say you?” he asked.

“It is by no means difficult,” he replied, “to understand what I mean; if, for instance, there should be such a thing as falling asleep, but no reciprocal waking again produced from a state of sleep, you know that at length all things would shew the fable of Endymion to be a jest, and it would be thought nothing at all of, because every thing else would be in the same state as him, namely, asleep. And if all things were mingled together, but never separated, that doctrine of Anaxagoras would soon be verified, ‘all things would be together.’ 46. Likewise, my dear Cebes, if all things that partake of life should die, and after they are dead should remain in this state of death, and not revive again, would it not necessarily follow that at length all things should be dead, and nothing alive? for if living beings are produced from other things, and living beings die, what could prevent their being all absorbed in death?”

“Nothing whatever, I think, Socrates,” replied Cebes, “but you appear to me to speak the exact truth.”

“For, Cebes,” he continued, “as it seems to me, such undoubtedly is the case, and we have not admitted these things under a delusion, but it is in reality true that there is a reviving again, that the living are produced from the dead, that the souls of the dead exist, and that the condition of the good is better, and of the evil, worse.”

47. “And indeed,” said Cebes, interrupting him, “according to that doctrine, Socrates, which you are frequently in the habit of advancing, if it is true, that our learning is nothing else than reminiscence, according to this it is surely necessary that we must at some former time have learned what we now remember. But this is impossible, unless our soul existed somewhere before it came into this human form; so that from hence also the soul appears to be something immortal.”

“But, Cebes,” said Simmias, interrupting him, “what proofs are there of these things? remind me of them, for I do not very well remember them at present.”

48. “It is proved,” said Cebes, “by one argument, and that a most beautiful one, that men, when questioned, if one questions them properly, of themselves describe all things as they are: however, if they had not innate knowledge and right reason, they would never be able to do this. Moreover, if one leads them to diagrams, or any thing else of the kind, it is then most clearly apparent that this is the case.”

“But if you are not persuaded in this way, Simmias,” said Socrates, “see if you will agree with us on considering the matter thus. For do you doubt how that which is called learning is reminiscence?”

“I do not doubt,” said Simmias, “but I require this very thing of which we are speaking, to be reminded; and indeed, from what Cebes has begun to say, I almost now remember, and am persuaded; nevertheless, however, I should like to hear now how you would attempt to prove it.”

“I do it thus,” he replied: “we admit surely that if any one be reminded of any thing, he must needs have known that thing at some time or other before.”

“Certainly,” he said.

49. “Do we then admit this also, that when knowledge comes in a certain manner it is reminiscence? But the manner I mean is this; if any one, upon seeing or hearing, or perceiving through the medium of any other sense, some particular thing, should not only know that, but also form an idea of something else, of which the knowledge is not the same, but different, should we not justly say, that he remembered that of which he received the idea?”

“How mean you?”

“For instance; the knowledge of a man is different from that of a lyre.”

“How not?”

“Do you not know, then, that lovers when they see a lyre, or a garment, or any thing else which their favourite is accustomed to use, are thus affected; they both recognise the lyre, and receive in their minds the form of the person to whom the lyre belonged? This is reminiscence: just as any one, seeing Simmias, is often reminded of Cebes, and so in an infinite number of similar instances.”

“An infinite number indeed, by Jupiter,” said Simmias.

“Is not then,” he said, “something of this sort a kind of reminiscence? especially when one is thus affected with respect to things which, from lapse of time, and not thinking of them, one has now forgotten?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

50. “But what?” he continued, “does it happen, that when one sees a painted horse or a painted lyre, one is reminded of a man, and that when one sees a picture of Simmias one is reminded of Cebes!”

“Certainly.”

“And does it not also happen, that on seeing a picture of Simmias one is reminded of Simmias himself?”

“It does indeed,” he replied.

“Does it not happen, then, according to all this, that reminiscence arises partly from things like, and partly from things unlike?”

“It does.”

“But when one is reminded by things like, is it not necessary that one should be thus further affected, so as to perceive whether, as regards likeness, this falls short or not of the thing of which one has been reminded?”

“It is necessary,” he replied.

“Consider, then,” said Socrates, “if the case is thus. Do we allow that there is such a thing as equality? I do not mean of one log with another, nor one stone with another, nor any thing else of this kind, but something altogether different from all these, abstract equality; do we allow that there is any such thing or not?”

“By Jupiter, we most assuredly do allow it,” replied Simmias.

51. “And do we know what it is itself?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

“Whence have we derived the knowledge of it? Is it not from the things we have just now mentioned, and that from seeing logs, or stones, or other things of the kind, equal, we have from these formed an idea of that which is different from these? for does it not appear to you to be different? Consider the matter thus. Do not stones that are equal, and logs sometimes that are the same, appear at one time equal, and at another not?”

“Certainly.”

“But what? does abstract equality ever appear to you unequal? or equality inequality?”

“Never, Socrates, at any time.”

“These equal things, then,” he said, “and abstract equality, are not the same?”

“By no means, Socrates, as it appears.”

“However, from these equal things,” he said, “which are different from that abstract equality, have you not formed your idea and derived your knowledge of it?”

“You speak most truly,” he replied.

“Is it not, therefore, from its being like or unlike them?”

“Certainly.”

“But it makes no difference,” he said. “When, therefore, on seeing one thing, you form, from the sight of it, the notion of another, whether like or unlike, this,” he said, “must necessarily be reminiscence.”

“Certainly.”

52. “What, then, as to this?” he continued; “are we affected in any such way with regard to logs and the equal things we have just now spoken of? and do they appear to us to be equal in the same manner as abstract equality itself is, or do they fall short in some degree, or not at all, of being such as equality itself is?”

“They fall far short,” he replied.

“Do we admit, then, that when one, on beholding some particular thing, perceives that it aims, as that which I now see, at being like something else that exists, but falls short of it, and cannot become such as that is, but is inferior to it, do we admit that he who perceives this must necessarily have had a previous knowledge of that which he says it resembles, though imperfectly?”

“It is necessary.”

“What then? are we affected in some such way, or not, with respect to things equal and abstract equality itself?”

“Assuredly.”

“It is necessary, therefore, that we must have known abstract equality before the time when on first seeing equal things, we perceived that they all aimed at resembling equality, but failed in doing so.”

“Such is the case.”

53. “Moreover, we admit this too, that we perceived this, and could not possibly perceive it by any other means than the sight, or touch, or some other of the senses: for I say the same of them all.”

“For they are the same, Socrates, so far as our argument is concerned.”

“However, we must perceive by means of the senses, that all things which come under the senses aim at that abstract equality, and yet fall short of it: or how shall we say it is?”

“Even so.”

“Before, then, we began to see, and hear, and use our other senses, we must have had a knowledge of equality itself, what it is, if we were to refer to it those equal things that come under the senses, and observe that all such things aim at resembling that, but fall far short of it.”

“This necessarily follows, Socrates, from what has been already said.”

“But did we not, as soon as we were born, see and hear, and possess our other senses?”

“Certainly.”

“But, we have said, before we possessed these, we must have a knowledge of abstract equality?”

“Yes.”

“We must have had it, then, as it seems, before we were born.”

“It seems so.”

54. “If, therefore, having this before we were born, we were born possessing it, we knew both before we were born, and as soon as we were born, not only the equal and the greater and smaller, but all things of the kind; for our present discussion is not more respecting equality than the beautiful itself, the good, the just, and the holy, and in one word, respecting every thing which we mark with the seal of existence, both in the questions we ask, and the answers we give. So that we must necessarily have had a knowledge of all these before we were born.”

“Such is the case.”

“And if, having once had it, we did not constantly forget it, we should always be born with this knowledge, and should always retain it through life: for to know is this, when one has got a knowledge of any thing, to retain and not lose it; for do we not call this oblivion, Simmias, the loss of knowledge?”

“Assuredly, Socrates,” he replied.

55. “But if, having had it before we were born, we lose it at our birth, and afterwards, through exercising the senses about these things, we recover the knowledge which we once before possessed, would not that which we call learning be a recovery of our own knowledge? and in saying that this is to remember should we not say rightly?”

“Certainly.”

“For this appeared to be possible, for one having perceived any thing, either by seeing or hearing, or employing any other sense, to form an idea of something different from this, which he had forgotten, and with which this was connected by being unlike or like. So that, as I said, one of these two things must follow, either we are all born with this knowledge, and we retain it through life, or those whom we say learn afterwards do nothing else but remember, and this learning will be reminiscence.”

“Such certainly is the case, Socrates.”

56. “Which, then, do you choose, Simmias: that we are born with knowledge, or that we afterwards remember what we had formerly known?”

“At present, Socrates, I am unable to choose?”

“But what? are you able to choose in this case, and what do you think about it? Can a man, who possesses knowledge, give a reason for the things that he knows, or not?”

“He needs must be able to do so, Socrates,” he replied.

“And do all men appear to you, to be able to give a reason for the things of which we have just now been speaking?”

“I wish they could,” said Simmias; “but I am much more afraid, that at this time to-morrow, there will no longer be any one able to do this properly.”

“Do not all men then, Simmias,” he said, “seem to you to know these things?”

“By no means.”

“Do they remember, then, what they once learned?”

“Necessarily so.”

“When did our souls receive this knowledge? not surely, since we were born into the world.”

“Assuredly not.”

“Before then.”

“Yes.”

“Our souls therefore, Simmias, existed before they were in a human form, separate from bodies, and possessed intelligence.”

57. “Unless, Socrates, we receive this knowledge at our birth, for this period yet remains.”

“Be it so, my friend. But at what other time do we lose it? for we are not born with it, as we have just now admitted. Do we lose it then at the very time in which we receive it? Or can you mention any other time?”

“By no means, Socrates: I was not aware that I was saying nothing to the purpose.”

“Does the case then stand thus with us, Simmias,” he proceeded. “If those things which we are continually talking about really exist, the beautiful, the good, and every such essence, and to this we refer all things that come under the senses, as finding it to have a prior existence, and to be our own, and if we compare these things to it, it necessarily follows, that as these exist, so likewise our soul exists even before we are born; but if these do not exist this discussion will have been undertaken in vain. Is it not so? and is there not an equal necessity, both that these things should exist, and our souls also before we are born, and if not the former neither the latter?”

58. “Most assuredly, Socrates,” said Simmias, “there appears to me to be the same necessity, and the argument admirably tends to prove that our souls exist before we are born, just as that essence does which you have now mentioned. For I hold nothing so clear to me as this, that all such things most certainly exist, as the beautiful, the good, and all the rest that you just now spoke of; and as far as I am concerned the case is sufficiently demonstrated.”

“But how does it appear to Cebes,” said Socrates; “for it is necessary to persuade Cebes too.”

“He is sufficiently persuaded, I think,” said Simmias, “although he is the most pertinacious of men in distrusting arguments. Yet I think he is sufficiently persuaded of this, that our soul existed before we were born. But whether when we are dead, it will still exist, does not appear to me to have been demonstrated, Socrates,” he continued, “but that popular doubt, which Cebes just now mentioned, still stands in our way, whether, when a man dies, the soul is not dispersed, and this is the end of its existence. 59. For what hinders its being born, and formed from some other source, and existing before it came into a human body, and yet when it has come, and is separated from this body, its then also dying itself, and being destroyed?”

“You say well, Simmias,” said Cebes; “for it appears that only one half of what is necessary has been demonstrated, namely, that our soul existed before we were born: but it is necessary to demonstrate further, that when we are dead, it will exist no less than before we were born, if the demonstration is to be made complete.”

“This has been even now demonstrated, Simmias and Cebes,” said Socrates, “if you will only connect this last argument with that which we before assented to, that every thing living is produced from that which is dead. For if the soul exists before, and it is necessary for it when it enters into life, and is born, to be produced from nothing else than death, and from being dead, how is it not necessary for it also to exist after death, since it must needs be produced again? 60. What you require then, has been already demonstrated. However, both you and Simmias appear to me as if you wished to sift this argument more thoroughly, and to be afraid like children, lest on the soul’s departure from the body the winds should blow it away and disperse it, especially if one should happen to die not in a calm, but in a violent storm.”

Upon this Cebes smiling said, “Endeavour to teach us better, Socrates, as if we were afraid, or rather not as if we were afraid, though perhaps there is some boy[30] within us, who has such a dread. Let us then endeavour to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of hobgoblins.”

“But you must charm him every day,” said Socrates, “until you have quieted his fears.”

“But whence, Socrates,” he said, “can we procure a skilful charmer for such a case, now that you are about to leave us?”

61. “Greece is wide, Cebes,” he replied, “and in it surely there are skilful men, there are also many barbarous nations, all of which you should search through, seeking such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil, as there is nothing on which you can more seasonably spend your money. You should also seek for him among yourselves; for perhaps you could not easily find any more competent than yourselves to do this.”

“This shall be done,” said Cebes, “but, if it is agreeable to you, let us return to the point from whence we digressed.”

“It will be agreeable to me, for how should it not?”

“You say well,” rejoined Cebes.

“We ought then,” said Socrates, “to ask ourselves some such question as this, to what kind of thing it appertains to be thus affected, namely to be dispersed, and for what we ought to fear, lest it should be so affected, and for what not. And after this, we should consider which of the two the soul is; and in the result should either be confident or fearful for our soul.”

“You speak truly,” said he.

62. “Does it not, then, appertain to that which is formed by composition, and is naturally compounded, to be thus affected, to be dissolved in the same manner as that in which it was compounded; and if there is any thing not compounded, does it not appertain to this alone, if to any thing, not to be thus affected?”

“It appears to me to be so,” said Cebes.

“Is it not most probable then that things which are always the same, and in the same state, are uncompounded, but that things which are constantly changing, and are never in the same state, are compounded?”

“To me it appears so.”

“Let us return then,” he said, “to the subjects on which we before discoursed. Whether is essence itself, of which we gave this account that it exists, both in our questions and answers, always the same, or does it sometimes change? Does equality itself, the beautiful itself, and each several thing which is, ever undergo any change, however small? Or does each of them which exists, being an unmixed essence by itself, continue always the same, and in the same state, and never undergo any variation at all under any circumstances?”

“They must of necessity continue the same and in the same state, Socrates,” said Cebes.

63. “But what shall we say of the many beautiful things, such as men, horses, garments, or other things of the kind, whether equal, or beautiful, or of all things synonymous with them? Do they continue the same, or, quite contrary to the former, are they never at any time, so to say, the same, either with respect to themselves or one another?”

“These on the other hand,” replied Cebes, “never continue the same.”

“These then you can touch, or see, or perceive by the other senses; but those that continue the same, you cannot apprehend in any other way than by the exercise of thought; for such things are invisible, and are not seen?”

“You say what is strictly true,” replied Cebes.

64. “We may assume then, if you please,” he continued, “that there are two species of things, the one visible, the other invisible?”

“We may,” he said.

“And the invisible always continuing the same, but the visible never the same?”

“This too,” he said, “we may assume.”

“Come then,” he asked, “is there any thing else belonging to us, than on the one hand body, and on the other soul?”

“Nothing else,” he replied.

“To which species, then, shall we say the body is more like, and more nearly allied?”

“It is clear to every one,” he said, “that it is to the visible.”

“But what of the soul? Is it visible or invisible?”

“It is not visible to men, Socrates,” he replied.

“But we speak of things which are visible or not so to the nature of men: or to some other nature, think you?”

“To that of men.”

“What then shall we say of the soul, that it is visible, or not visible?”

“Not visible.”

“Is it then invisible?”

“Yes.”

“The soul then is more like the invisible than the body, and the body, the visible?”

“It must needs be so, Socrates.”

65. “And did we not some time since say this too, that the soul, when it employs the body to examine any thing, either by means of the sight or hearing, or any other sense, (for to examine any thing by means of the body is to do so by the senses,) is then drawn by the body to things that never continue the same, and wanders and is confused, and reels as if intoxicated through coming into contact with things of this kind?”

“Certainly.”

“But when it examines any thing by itself, does it approach that which is pure, eternal, immortal, and unchangeable, and, as being allied to it, continue constantly with it, so long as it subsists by itself, and has the power, and does it cease from its wandering, and constantly continue the same with respect to those things, through coming into contact with things of this kind? and is this affection of the soul called wisdom?”

“You speak,” he said, “in every respect, well and truly, Socrates.”

“To which species of the two, then, both from what was before, and now said, does the soul appear to you to be more like and more nearly allied?”

66. “Every one, I think, would allow, Socrates,” he replied, “even the dullest person, from this method of reasoning that the soul is in every respect more like that which continues constantly the same, than that which does not so.”

“But what as to the body?”

“It is more like the other.”

“Consider it also thus, that, when soul and body are together, nature enjoins the latter to be subservient and obey, the former to rule and exercise dominion. And in this way, which of the two appears to you to be like the divine, and which the mortal? Does it not appear to you to be natural that the divine should rule and command, but the mortal obey and be subservient?”

“To me it does so.”

“Which then, does the soul resemble?”

“It is clear, Socrates, that the soul resembles the divine, but the body, the mortal.”

“Consider then, Cebes,” said he, “whether, from all that has been said, these conclusions follow, that the soul is most like that which is divine, immortal, intelligent, uniform, indissoluble, and which always continues in the same state, but that the body on the other hand is most like that which is human, mortal, unintelligent, multiform, dissoluble, and which never continues in the same state. Can we say any thing against this, my dear Cebes, to shew that it is not so?”

“We cannot.”

67. “What then? Since these things are so, does it not appertain to the body to be quickly dissolved, but to the soul, on the contrary, to be altogether indissoluble, or nearly so?”

“How not?”

“You perceive, however,” he said, “that when a man dies, the visible part of him, the body, which is exposed to sight, and which we call a corpse, to which it appertains to be dissolved, to fall asunder and be dispersed, does not immediately undergo any of these affections, but remains for a considerable time, and especially so if any one should die with his body in full vigour, and at a corresponding age[31]; for when the body has collapsed and been embalmed, as those that are embalmed in Egypt, it remains almost entire for an incredible length of time; and some parts of the body, even though it does decay, such as the bones and nerves, and every thing of that kind, are nevertheless, as one may say, immortal. Is it not so?”

“Yes.”

68. “Can the soul, then, which is invisible, and which goes to another place like itself, excellent, pure, and invisible, and therefore truly called the invisible world[32], to the presence of a good and wise God, (whither if God will, my soul also must shortly go,) can this soul of ours, I ask, being such and of such a nature, when separated from the body be immediately dispersed and destroyed, as most men assert? Far from it, my dear Cebes and Simmias. But the case is much rather thus; if it is separated in a pure state, taking nothing of the body with it, as not having willingly communicated with it in the present life, but having shunned it and gathered itself within itself, as constantly studying this; but this is nothing else than to pursue philosophy aright, and in reality to study how to die easily; would not this be to study how to die?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Does not the soul, then, when in this state, depart to that which resembles itself, the invisible, the divine, immortal, and wise? and on its arrival there, is it not its lot to be happy, free from error, ignorance, fears, wild passions, and all the other evils to which human nature is subject, and, as is said of the initiated, does it not in truth pass the rest of its time with the gods? Must we affirm that it is so, Cebes, or otherwise?”

“So, by Jupiter,” said Cebes.

69. “But, I think, if it departs from the body polluted and impure, as having constantly held communion with the body, and having served and loved it, and been bewitched by it, through desires and pleasures, so as to think that there is nothing real except what is corporeal, which one can touch and see, and drink and eat, and employ for sensual purposes; but what is dark and invisible to the eyes, which is intellectual and apprehended by philosophy, having been accustomed to hate, fear, and shun this, do you think that a soul thus affected can depart from the body by itself, and uncontaminated?”

“By no means whatever,” he replied.

“But I think it will be impressed with that which is corporeal, which the intercourse and communion of the body, through constant association and great attention, have made natural to it.”

“Certainly.”

“We must think, my dear Cebes, that this is ponderous and heavy, earthly and visible, by possessing which such a soul is weighed down, and drawn again into the visible world through dread of the invisible and of Hades, wandering, as it is said, amongst monuments and tombs, about which, indeed, certain shadowy phantoms of souls have been seen, being such images as those souls produced which have not departed pure from the body, but which partake of the visible, on which account also they are visible.”

“That is probable, Socrates.”

70. “Probable indeed, Cebes; and not that these are the souls of the good, but of the wicked, which are compelled to wander about such places, paying the penalty of their former conduct, which was evil; and they wander about so long, until, through the desire of the corporeal nature that accompanies them, they are again united to a body; and they are united, as is probable, to animals having the same habits as those they have given themselves up to during life.”

“But what do you say these are, Socrates?”

“For instance, those who have given themselves up to gluttony, wantonness, and drinking, and have put no restraint on themselves, will probably be clothed in the form of asses and brutes of that kind. Do you not think so?”

“You say what is very probable.”

“And that such as have set great value on injustice, tyranny, and rapine, will be clothed in the species of wolves, hawks, and kites? Where else can we say such souls go?”

“Without doubt,” said Cebes, “into such as these.”

“Is it not then evident,” he continued, “as to the rest, whither each will go, according to the resemblances of their several pursuits?”

71. “It is evident,” he replied, “how not?”

“Of these, then,” he said, “are not they the most happy, and do they not go to the best place, who have practised that social and civilized virtue, which they call temperance and justice, and which is produced from habit and exercise, without philosophy and reflection?”

“In what respect are these the most happy?”

“Because it is probable that these should again migrate into a corresponding civilized and peaceable kind of animals, such as bees perhaps, or wasps, or ants, or even into the same human species again, and from these become moderate men.”

“It is probable.”

“But it is not lawful for any one, who has not studied philosophy and departed this life perfectly pure, to pass into the rank of gods, but only for the true lover of wisdom. And on this account, my friends Simmias and Cebes, those who philosophize rightly abstain from all bodily desires, and persevere in doing so, and do not give themselves up to them, not fearing the loss of property and poverty, as the generality of men and the lovers of wealth; nor again dreading disgrace and ignominy like those who are lovers of power and honour, do they then abstain from them.”

“For it would not become them to do so, Socrates,” says Cebes.

72. “It would not, by Jupiter,” he rejoined. “Wherefore, Cebes, they who care at all for their soul, and do not spend their lives in the culture of their bodies, despising all these, proceed not in the same way with them, as being ignorant whither they are going, but being convinced that they ought not to act contrary to philosophy, but in accordance with the freedom and purification she affords, they give themselves up to her direction, following her wherever she leads.”

“How, Socrates?”

“I will tell you,” he replied. “The lovers of wisdom know, that philosophy receiving their soul plainly bound and glued to the body, and compelled to view things through this, as through a prison, and not directly by herself, and sunk in utter ignorance, and perceiving too the strength of the prison, that it arises from desire, so that he that is bound as much as possible assists in binding himself. 73. I say, then, the lovers of wisdom know that philosophy, receiving their soul in this state, gently exhorts it, and endeavours to free it, by shewing that the view of things by means of the eyes is full of deception, as also is that through the ears and the other senses, persuading an abandonment of these so far as it is not absolutely necessary to use them, and advising the soul to be collected and concentrated within itself, and to believe nothing else but herself, with respect to what she herself understands of things that have a real subsistence, and to consider nothing true which she views through the medium of others, and which differ under different aspects[33]; for that a thing of this kind is sensible and visible, but that what she herself perceives is intelligible and invisible. The soul of the true philosopher, therefore, thinking that she ought not to oppose this deliverance, accordingly abstains as much as possible from pleasures and desires, griefs and fears, considering that when any one is exceedingly delighted or alarmed, grieved or influenced by desire, he does not merely suffer such evil from these things as one might suppose, such as either being sick or wasting his property, through indulging his desires; but that which is the greatest evil, and the worst of all, this he suffers and is not conscious of it.”

“But what is this evil, Socrates?” said Cebes.

74. “That the soul of every man is compelled to be either vehemently delighted or grieved about some particular thing, and at the same time to consider that the thing about which it is thus strongly affected is most real and most true, though it is not so. But these are chiefly visible objects; are they not?”

“Certainly.”

“In this state of affection, then, is not the soul especially shackled by the body?”

“How so?”

“Because each pleasure and pain, having a nail as it were, nails the soul to the body, and fastens it to it, and causes it to become corporeal, deeming those things to be true whatever the body asserts to be so. For, in consequence of its forming the same opinions with the body, and delighting in the same things, it is compelled, I think, to possess similar manners, and to be similarly nourished, so that it can never pass into Hades in a pure state, but must ever depart polluted by the body, and so quickly falls again into another body, and grows up as if it were sown, and consequently is deprived of all association with that which is divine, and pure, and uniform.”

“You speak most truly, Socrates,” said Cebes.

75. “For these reasons, therefore, Cebes, those who are truly lovers of wisdom are moderate and resolute, and not for the reasons that most people say. Do you think as they do?”

“Assuredly not.”

“No, truly. But the soul of a philosopher would reason thus, and would not think that philosophy ought to set it free, and that when it is freed it should give itself up again to pleasures and pains, to bind it down again, and make her work void, weaving a kind of Penelope’s web the reverse way. On the contrary, effecting a calm of the passions, and following the guidance of reason, and being always intent on this, contemplating that which is true and divine, and not subject to opinion, and being nourished by it, it thinks that it ought to live in this manner as long as it does live, and that when it dies it shall go to a kindred essence, and one like itself, and shall be freed from human evils. From such a regimen as this the soul has no occasion to fear, Simmias and Cebes, while it strictly attends to these things, lest being torn to pieces at its departure from the body it should be blown about and dissipated by the winds, and no longer have an existence any where.”

76. When Socrates had thus spoken, a long silence ensued; and Socrates himself was pondering upon what had been said, as he appeared, and so did most of us: but Cebes and Simmias were conversing a little while with each other. At length Socrates perceiving them, said, “What think you of what has been said? does it appear to you to have been proved sufficiently? for many doubts and objections still remain if any one will examine them thoroughly. If, then, you are considering some other subject, I have nothing to say; but if you are doubting about this, do not hesitate both yourselves to speak and express your opinion, if it appears to you in any respect that it might have been argued better, and to call me in again to your assistance, if you think you can be at all benefited by my help.”

Upon this Simmias said, “Indeed, Socrates, I will tell you the truth: for some time each of us, being in doubt, has been urging and exhorting the other to question you, from a desire to hear our doubts solved, but we were afraid of giving you trouble, lest it should be disagreeable to you in your present circumstances.”

77. But he, upon hearing this, gently smiled, and said, “Bless me, Simmias; with difficulty indeed, could I persuade other men that I do not consider my present condition a calamity, since I am not able to persuade even you; but you are afraid lest I should be more morose now than during the former part of my life. And, as it seems, I appear to you to be inferior to swans with respect to divination, who, when they perceive that they must needs die, though they have been used to sing before, sing then more than ever, rejoicing that they are about to depart to that deity whose servants they are. But men, through their own fear of death, belie the swans too, and say that, they lamenting their death, sing their last song through grief, and they do not consider that no bird sings when it is hungry or cold, or is afflicted with any other pain, not even the nightingale, or swallow, or the hoopoes, which they say sing lamenting through grief. But neither do these birds appear to me to sing through sorrow, nor yet do swans; but in my opinion, belonging to Apollo, they are prophetic, and foreseeing the blessings of Hades, they sing and rejoice on that day more excellently than at any preceding time. 78. But I too consider myself to be a fellow-servant of the swans, and sacred to the same god, and that I have received the power of divination from our common master no less than they, and that I do not depart from this life with less spirits than they. On this account, therefore, it is right that you should both speak and ask whatever you please, as long as the Athenian Eleven permit.”

“You say well,” said Simmias, “and both I will tell you what are my doubts, and he in turn how far he does not assent to what has been said. For it appears to me, Socrates, probably as it does to you with respect to these matters, that to know them clearly in the present life is either impossible, or very difficult: on the other hand, however, not to test what has been said of them in every possible way, so as not to desist until on examining them in every point of view, one has exhausted every effort, is the part of a very weak man. For we ought with respect to these things, either to learn from others how they stand, or to discover them for one’s-self, or, if both these are impossible, then, taking the best of human reasonings and that which is the most difficult to be confuted, and embarking on this, as one who risks himself on a raft, so to sail through life, unless one could be carried more safely, and with less risk, on a surer conveyance or some divine reason. 79. I, therefore, shall not now be ashamed to question you, since you bid me do so, nor shall I blame myself hereafter, for not having now told you what I think; for to me, Socrates, when I consider the matter, both with myself and with Cebes, what has been said does not appear to have been sufficiently proved.”

Then said Socrates, “Perhaps, my friend, you have the truth on your side; but tell me in what respect it was not sufficiently proved.”

“In this,” he answered, “because any one might use the same argument with respect to harmony, and a lyre, and its chords, that harmony is something invisible and incorporeal, very beautiful and divine, in a well-modulated lyre: but the lyre and its chords are bodies, and of corporeal form, compounded and earthly, and akin to that which is mortal. When any one, then, has either broken the lyre, or cut or burst the chords, he might maintain from the same reasoning as yours, that it is necessary the harmony should still exist and not be destroyed; for there could be no possibility that the lyre should subsist any longer when the chords are burst, and that the chords which are of a mortal nature should subsist, but that the harmony, which is of the same nature and akin to that which is divine and immortal, should become extinct, and perish before that which is mortal; but he might say that the harmony must needs subsist somewhere, and that the wood and chords must decay, before it can undergo any change. 80. For I think, Socrates, that you yourself have arrived at this conclusion, that we consider the soul to be pretty much of this kind, namely, that our body being compacted and held together by heat and cold, dryness and moisture, and other such qualities, our soul is the fusion and harmony of these, when they are well and duly combined with each other. If then, the soul is a kind of harmony, it is evident that when our body is unduly relaxed or strained through diseases and other maladies, the soul must of necessity immediately perish, although it is most divine, just as other harmonies which subsist in sounds or in the various works of artizans, but that the remains of the body of each person last for a long time, till they are either burnt or decayed. Consider then what we shall say to this reasoning, if any one should maintain that the soul being a fusion of the several qualities in the body, perishes first in that which is called death.”

81. Socrates, therefore, looking stedfastly at us, as he was generally accustomed to do, and smiling, said, “Simmias indeed speaks justly. If then, any one of you is more prompt than I am, why does he not answer? for he seems to have handled my argument not badly. It appears to me, however, that before we make our reply we should first hear from Cebes, what he too objects to our argument, in order that, some time intervening, we may consider what we shall say, and then when we have heard them, we may give up to them, if they appear to speak agreeably to truth, or if not, we may then uphold our own argument. Come then, Cebes,” he continued, “say what it is that disturbs you, so as to cause your unbelief.”

“I will tell you,” said Cebes; “the argument seems to me to rest where it was, and to be liable to the same objection that we mentioned before. For, that our soul existed even before it came into this present form, I do not deny has been very elegantly, and, if it is not too much to say so, very fully demonstrated: but that it still exists any where when we are dead, does not appear to me to have been clearly proved; nor do I give in to the objection of Simmias, that the soul is not stronger and more durable than the body, for it appears to me to excel very far all things of this kind. 82. ‘Why then,’ reason might say, ‘do you still disbelieve? for, since you see that when a man dies his weaker part still exists, does it not appear to you to be necessary that the more durable part should still be preserved during this period?’ Consider then, whether I say any thing to the purpose in reply to this. For I too, as well as Simmias, as it seems, stand in need of an illustration: for the argument appears to me to have been put thus, as if any one should advance this argument about an aged weaver who had died, that the man has not yet perished, but perhaps still exists somewhere; and as a proof, should exhibit the garment which he wore and had woven himself, that it is entire and has not perished; and if any one should disbelieve him he would ask, whether of the two is the more durable, the species of a man or of a garment, that is constantly in use and being worn; then should any one answer, that the species of man is much more durable, he would think it demonstrated, that beyond all question the man is preserved, since that which is less durable has not perished. 83. But I do not think, Simmias, that this is the case, and do you consider what I say, for every one must think that he who argues thus argues foolishly. For this weaver, having worn and woven many such garments, perished after almost all of them, but before the last I suppose, and yet it does not on this account follow any the more that a man is inferior to or weaker than a garment. And I think the soul might admit this same illustration with respect to the body, and he who should say the same things concerning them would appear to me to speak correctly, that the soul is more durable, but the body weaker and less durable; for he would say that each soul wears out many bodies, especially if it lives many years; for, if the body wastes and is dissolved while the man still lives, but the soul continually weaves anew what is worn out, it must necessarily follow that when the soul is dissolved it must then have on its last garment, and perish before this alone; but when the soul has perished the body would shew the weakness of its nature, and quickly rot and vanish. 84. So that it is not by any means right to place implicit reliance on this argument, and to believe that when we die our soul still exists somewhere. For, if any one should concede to him who admits even more than you do, and should grant to him that not only did our soul exist before we were born, but that even when we die nothing hinders the souls of some of us from still existing, and continuing to exist hereafter, and from being often born, and dying again; for so strong is it by nature, that it can hold out against repeated births; if he granted this, he would not yet concede that it does not exhaust itself in its many births, and at length perish altogether in some one of the deaths. But he would say that no one knows this death and dissolution of the body, which brings destruction to the soul; for it is impossible for any one of us to perceive it. If however, this be the case, it follows that every one who is confident at the approach of death is foolishly confident, unless he is able to prove that the soul is absolutely immortal and imperishable: otherwise it necessarily follows that he who is about to die must be alarmed for his soul, lest in its present disunion from the body it should entirely perish.”

85. Upon this, all of us who had heard them speaking were disagreeably affected, as we afterwards mentioned to each other; because, after we had been fully persuaded by the former arguments, they seemed to disturb us anew, and to cast us into a distrust, not only of the arguments already adduced, but of such as might afterwards be urged, for fear lest we should not be fit judges of any thing, or lest the things themselves should be incredible.

Echec. By the gods, Phædo, I can readily excuse you: for, while I am now hearing you, it occurs to me to ask myself some such question as this, What arguments can we any longer believe? since the argument which Socrates advanced, and which was exceedingly credible, has now fallen into discredit. For this argument, that our soul is a kind of harmony, produces a wonderful impression on me, both now and always, and in being mentioned, it has reminded me, as it were, that I too was formerly of the same opinion: so that I stand in need again, as if from the very beginning, of some other argument which may persuade me that the soul of one who dies does not die with the body. Tell me therefore, by Jupiter, how Socrates followed up the argument; and whether he too, as you confess was the case with yourselves, seemed disconcerted at all, or not, but calmly maintained his position; and maintained it sufficiently, or defectively. Relate every thing to me as accurately as you can.

Phæd. Indeed, Echecrates, though I have often admired Socrates, I was never more delighted than at being with him on that occasion. That he should be able to say something is perhaps not at all surprising; but I especially admired this in him, first of all that he listened to the argument of the young men so sweetly, affably, and approvingly; in the next place, that he so quickly perceived how we were affected by their arguments; and lastly, that he cured us so well and recalled us, when we were put to flight as it were and vanquished, and encouraged us to accompany him, and consider the argument with him.

Echec. How was that?

Phæd. I will tell you: I happened to be sitting at his right hand, near the bed, upon a low seat, but he himself sat much higher than I. Stroking my head, then, and laying hold of the hair that hung on my neck, for he used, often, to play with my hairs, “To-morrow,” he said, “perhaps, Phædo, you will cut off these beautiful locks?”

“It seems likely, Socrates,” said I.

87. “Not if you are persuaded by me.”

“Why so?” I asked.

“To-day,” he replied, “both I ought to cut off mine and you yours, if our argument must die, and we are unable to revive it. And I, if I were you, and the arguments were to escape me, would take an oath, as the Argives do, not to suffer my hair to grow until I had renewed the contest, and vanquished the arguments of Simmias and Cebes.”

“But,” I said, “even Hercules himself is said not to have been a match for two.”

“Call upon me, then,” he said, “as your Iolaus, while it is yet day.”

“I do call on you, then,” I said, “not as Hercules upon Iolaus, but as Iolaus upon Hercules.”

“It will make no difference,” he replied. “But first of all we must beware lest we meet with some mischance.”

“What?” I asked.

“That we do not become,” he answered, “haters of reasoning as some become haters of men; for no greater evil can happen to any one than to hate reasoning. 88. But hatred of reasoning and hatred of mankind both spring from the same source. For hatred of mankind is produced in us from having placed too great reliance on some one without sufficient knowledge of him, and from having considered him to be a man altogether true, sincere, and faithful, and then after a little while finding him depraved and unfaithful, and after him another. And when a man has often experienced this, and especially from those whom he considered his most intimate and best friends, at length, having frequently stumbled, he hates all men, and thinks that there is no soundness at all in any of them. Have you not perceived that this happens so?”

“Certainly,” I replied.

“Is it not a shame?” he said, “and is it not evident that such a one attempts to deal with men, without sufficient knowledge of human affairs? For if he had dealt with them with competent knowledge, as the case really is, so he would have considered that the good and the bad are each very few in number, and that those between both are most numerous.”

89. “How say you?” I asked.

“In the same manner,” he replied, “as with things very little and very large. Do you think that any thing is more rare than to find a very large or a very little man, or dog, or any thing else? and again swift or slow, beautiful or ugly, white or black? Do you not perceive that of all such things the extremes are rare and few, but that the intermediate are abundant and numerous?”

“Certainly,” I replied.

“Do you not think, then,” he continued, “that if a contest in wickedness were proposed, even here very few would be found pre-eminent?”

“It is probable,” I said.

“It is so,” he said; “but in this respect reasonings do not resemble men, for I was just now following you as my leader, but in this they do resemble them, when any one believes in any argument as true without being skilled in the art of reasoning, and then shortly afterwards it appears to him to be false, at one time being so and at another time not, and so on with one after another[34]; and especially they who devote themselves to controversial arguments, you are aware at length think they have become very wise, and have alone discovered that there is nothing sound and stable either in things or reasonings, but that all things that exist, as is the case with the Euripus, are in a constant state of flux and reflux, and never continue in any one condition for any length of time.”

“You speak perfectly true,” I said.

90. “Would it not then, Phædo,” he said, “be a sad thing if, when there is a true and sound reasoning, and such as one can understand, one should then, through lighting upon such arguments as appear to be at one time true, and at another false, not blame one’s-self and one’s own want of skill, but at length through grief should anxiously transfer the blame from one’s-self to the arguments, and thereupon pass the rest of one’s life in hating and reviling arguments, and so be deprived of the truth and knowledge of things that exist?”

“By Jupiter,” I said, “it would be sad indeed.”

“In the first place, then,” he said, “let us beware of this, and let us not admit into our souls the notion, that there appears to be nothing sound in reasoning, but much rather that we are not yet in a sound condition, and that we ought vigorously and strenuously to endeavour to become sound, you and the others, on account of your whole future life, but I, on account of my death, since I am in danger at the present time, of not behaving as becomes a philosopher, with respect to this very subject, but as a wrangler like those who are utterly uninformed. 91. For they, when they dispute about any thing, care nothing at all for the subject about which the discussion is, but are anxious about this, that what they have themselves advanced shall appear true to the persons present. And I seem to myself on the present occasion to differ from them only in this respect; for I shall not be anxious to make what I say appear true to those who are present, except that may happen by the way, but that it may appear certainly to be so to myself. For I thus reason, my dear friend, and observe how interestedly, if what I say be true, it is well to be persuaded of it: but if nothing remains to one that is dead, I shall at least during the interval before death, be less disagreeable to those present by my lamentations. But this ignorance of mine will not continue long, for that would be bad, but will shortly be put an end to. Thus prepared then, Simmias and Cebes,” he continued, “I now proceed to my argument. Do you however, if you will be persuaded by me, pay little attention to Socrates, but much more to the truth, and if I appear to you to say any thing true, assent to it, but if not, oppose me with all your might, taking good care that in my zeal I do not deceive both myself and you, and like a bee depart leaving my sting behind.”

92. “But let us proceed,” he said; “first of all, remind me of what you said, if I should appear to have forgotten it. For Simmias, as I think, is in doubt and fears lest the soul, though more divine and beautiful than the body, should perish before it, as being a species of harmony. But Cebes appeared to me to grant me this, that the soul is more durable than the body, but he argued that it is uncertain to every one, whether when the soul has worn out many bodies, and that repeatedly, it does not, on leaving the last body, itself also perish, so that this very thing is death, the destruction of the soul, since the body never ceases decaying. Are not these the things, Simmias and Cebes, which we have to enquire into?”

They both agreed that they were.

“Whether, then,” he continued, “do you reject all our former arguments, or some of them only, and not others?”

“Some we do,” they replied, “and others not.”

“What then,” he proceeded, “do you say about that argument, in which we asserted that knowledge is reminiscence, and that, this being the case, our soul must necessarily have existed somewhere before it was enclosed in the body?”

93. “I, indeed,” replied Cebes, “was both then wonderfully persuaded by it, and now persist in it, as in no other argument.”

“And I too,” said Simmias, “am of the same mind, and should very much wonder if I should ever think otherwise on that point.”

“Then,” Socrates said, “you must needs think otherwise, my Theban friend, if this opinion holds good, that harmony is something compounded, and that the soul is a kind of harmony that results from the parts compacted together in the body. For surely you will not allow yourself to say that harmony was composed prior to the things from which it required to be composed. Would you allow this?”

“By no means Socrates,” he replied.

“Do you perceive then,” he said, “that this results from what you say, when you assert that the soul existed before it came into a human form and body, but that it was composed from things that did not yet exist? For harmony is not such as that to which you compare it; but first the lyre, and the chords, and the sounds yet unharmonized, exist, and last of all harmony is produced, and first perishes. How then will this argument accord with that?”

“Not at all,” said Simmias.

94. “And yet,” he said, “if in any argument, there ought to be an accordance in one respecting harmony.”

“There ought,” said Simmias.

“This of yours however,” he said, “is not in accordance. Consider then, which of these two statements do you prefer, that knowledge is reminiscence, or the soul harmony?”

“The former, by far, Socrates,” he replied, “for the latter occurred to me without demonstration, through a certain probability and speciousness whence most men derive their opinions. But I am well aware that arguments which draw their demonstrations from probabilities are idle; and unless one is on one’s guard against them, they are very deceptive, both in geometry and all other subjects. But the argument respecting reminiscence and knowledge may be said to have been demonstrated by a satisfactory hypothesis. For in this way it was said that our soul existed before it came into the body, because the essence that bears the appellation of ‘that which is,’ belongs to it. But of this, as I persuade myself, I am fully and rightly convinced. It is therefore necessary, as it seems, that I should neither allow myself nor any one else to maintain that the soul is harmony.”

95. “But what, Simmias,” said he, “if you consider it thus? Does it appear to you to appertain to harmony, or to any other composition, to subsist in any other way than the very things do of which it is composed?”

“By no means.”

“And indeed, as I think, neither to do any thing, nor suffer any thing else, besides what they do or suffer.”

He agreed.

“It does not, therefore, appertain to harmony to take the lead of the things of which it is composed, but to follow them.”

He assented.

“It is then far from being the case that harmony is moved or sends forth sounds contrariwise, or is in any other respect opposed to its parts?”

“Far indeed,” he said.

“What then? is not every harmony naturally harmony, so far as it has been made to accord?”

“I do not understand you,” he replied.

“Whether,” he said, “if it should be in a greater degree and more fully made to accord, supposing that were possible, would the harmony be greater and more full, but if in a less degree and less fully, then would it be inferior and less full?”

“Certainly.”

“Is this then the case with the soul, that, even in the smallest extent, one soul is more fully and in a greater degree, or less fully and in a less degree this very thing, a soul, than another?”

“In no respect whatever,” he replied.

96. “Well then,” he said, “by Jupiter, is one soul said to possess intelligence and virtue, and to be good, and another folly and vice, and to be bad? and is this said with truth?”

“With truth, certainly.”

“Of those, then, who maintain that the soul is harmony, what will any one say that these things are in the soul, virtue and vice? Will he call them another kind of harmony and discord? and say that the one, the good soul, is harmonized, and, being harmony, contains within itself another harmony, but that the other is discordant, and does not contain within itself another harmony?”

“I am unable to say,” replied Simmias, “but it is clear that he who maintains that opinion would say something of the kind.”

“But it has been already granted,” said he, “that one soul is not more or less a soul than another; and this is an admission that one harmony is not to a greater degree or more fully, or to a less degree or less fully, a harmony, than another: is it not so?”

“Certainly.”

“And that that which is neither more nor less harmony, is neither more nor less harmonized: is it so?”

“It is.”

“But does that which is neither more nor less harmonized partake of more or less harmony, or an equal amount?”

“An equal amount.”

97. “A soul, therefore, since it is not more or less this very thing, a soul, than another, is not more or less harmonized?”

“Even so.”

“Such then being its condition, it cannot partake of a greater degree of discord or harmony?”

“Certainly not.”

“And again, such being its condition, can one soul partake of a greater degree of vice or virtue than another, if vice be discord, and virtue harmony?”

“It cannot.”

“Or rather, surely, Simmias, according to right reason, no soul will partake of vice, if it is harmony: for doubtless harmony, which is perfectly such, can never partake of discord?”

“Certainly not.”

“Neither, therefore, can a soul, which is perfectly a soul, partake of vice.”

“How can it, from what has been already said?”

“From this reasoning, then, all souls of all animals will be equally good, if at least they are by nature equally this very thing, souls?”

“It appears so to me, Socrates,” he said.

“And does it appear to you,” he said, “to have been thus rightly argued, and that the argument would lead to this result, if the hypothesis were correct, that the soul is harmony?”

98. “On no account whatever,” he replied.

“But what,” said he, “of all the things that are in man, is there any thing else that you say bears rule except the soul, especially if it be wise?”

“I should say not.”

“Whether by yielding to the passions in the body, or by opposing them? My meaning is this, for instance, when heat and thirst are present, by drawing it the contrary way, so as to hinder it from drinking, and when hunger is present, by hindering it from eating; and in ten thousand other instances we see the soul opposing the desires of the body. Do we not?”

“Certainly.”

“But have we not before allowed that if the soul were harmony, it would never utter a sound contrary to the tension, relaxation, vibration, or any other affection to which its component parts are subject, but would follow, and never govern them?”

“We did allow it,” he replied, “for how could we do otherwise?”

“What, then, does not the soul now appear to act quite the contrary, ruling over all the parts, from which any one might say it subsists, and resisting almost all of them through the whole of life, and exercising dominion over them in all manner of ways, punishing some more severely even with pain, both by gymnastics and medicine, and others more mildly, partly threatening, and partly admonishing the desires, angers, and fears, as if, being itself of a different nature, it were conversing with something quite different? 99. Just as Homer has done in the Odyssey[35], where he speaks of Ulysses: ‘Having struck his breast, he chid his heart in the following words, Bear up, my heart; ere this thou hast borne far worse.’ Do you think that he composed this in the belief that the soul was harmony, and capable of being led by the passions of the body, and not rather that it was able to lead and govern them, as being something much more divine than to be compared with harmony?”

“By Jupiter, Socrates, it appears so to me.”

“Therefore, my excellent friend, it is on no account correct for us to say that the soul is a kind of harmony; for as it appears, we should neither agree with Homer, that divine poet, nor with ourselves.”

“Such is the case,” he replied.

“Be it so, then,” said Socrates, “we have already, as it seems, sufficiently appeased this Theban harmony. But how, Cebes, and by what arguments shall we appease this Cadmus[36]?”

100. “You appear to me,” replied Cebes, “to be likely to find out; for you have made out this argument against harmony wonderfully beyond my expectation. For when Simmias was saying what his doubts were, I wondered very much whether any one would be able to answer his reasoning. It therefore appeared to me unaccountable that he did not withstand the very first onset of your argument. I should not, therefore, be surprised if the arguments of Cadmus met with the same fate.”

“My good friend,” said Socrates, “do not speak so boastfully, lest some envious power should overthrow the argument that is about to be urged. These things, however, will be cared for by the deity, but let us, meeting hand to hand, in the manner of Homer, try whether you say any thing to the purpose. This, then, is the sum of what you enquire: you require it to be proved that our soul is imperishable and immortal; if a philosopher that is about to die, full of confidence and hope that after death he shall be far happier than if he had died after leading a different kind of life, shall not entertain this confidence foolishly and vainly. 101. But to shew that the soul is something strong and divine, and that it existed before we men were born, you say not at all hinders, but that all these things may evince, not its immortality, but that the soul is durable, and existed an immense space of time before, and knew and did many things. But that, for all this, it was not at all the more immortal, but that its very entrance into the body of a man was the beginning of its destruction, as if it were a disease, so that it passes through this life in wretchedness, and at last perishes in that which is called death. But you say that it is of no consequence whether it comes into a body once or often, with respect to our occasion of fear: for it is right he should be afraid, unless he is foolish, who does not know, and cannot give a reason to prove, that the soul is immortal. Such, I think, Cebes, is the sum of what you say; and I purposely repeat it often, that nothing may escape us, and, if you please, you may add to or take from it.”

Cebes replied, “I do not wish at present either to take from or add to it; that is what I mean.”

102. Socrates, then, having paused for some time, and considered something within himself, said, “You enquire into no easy matter, Cebes; for it is absolutely necessary to discuss the whole question of generation and corruption. If you please, then, I will relate to you what happened to me with reference to them; and afterwards, if any thing that I shall say shall appear to you useful, towards producing conviction on the subject you are now treating of, make use of it.”

“I do indeed wish it,” replied Cebes.

“Hear my relation then. When I was a young man, Cebes, I was wonderfully desirous of that wisdom which they call a history of nature: for it appeared to me to be a very sublime thing to know the causes of every thing, why each thing is generated, why it perishes, and why it exists. And I often tossed myself upwards and downwards, considering first such things as these, whether when heat and cold have undergone a certain corruption, as some say, then animals are formed; and whether the blood is that by means of which we think, or air, or fire, or none of these, but that it is the brain that produces the perceptions of hearing, seeing, and smelling, and that from these come memory and opinion, and from memory and opinion, when in a state of rest, in the same way knowledge is produced? 103. And again considering the corruptions of these, and the affections incidental to the heavens and the earth, I at length appeared to myself so unskilful in these speculations, that nothing could be more so. But I will give you a sufficient proof of this: for I then became, by these very speculations, so very blind with respect to things which I knew clearly before, as it appeared to myself and others, that I unlearnt even the things which I thought I knew before, both on many other subjects and also this, why a man grows. For before I thought this was evident to every one, that it proceeds from eating and drinking; for that, when, from the food, flesh is added to flesh, bone to bone, and so on in the same proportion, what is proper to them is added to the several other parts, then the bulk which was small becomes afterwards large, and thus that a little man becomes a big one. Such was my opinion at that time: does it appear to you correct?”

“To me it does,” said Cebes.

104. “Consider this farther. I thought that I had formed a right opinion, when on seeing a tall man standing by a short one, I judged that he was taller by the head, and in like manner one horse than another: and still more clearly than this, ten appeared to me to be more than eight, by two being added to them, and that two cubits are greater than one cubit, by exceeding it a half.”

“But now,” said Cebes, “what think you of these matters?”

“By Jupiter,” said he, “I am far from thinking that I know the cause of these, for that I cannot even persuade myself of this, when a person has added one to one, whether the one to which the addition has been made has become two, or whether that which has been added, and that to which the addition has been made, have become two by the addition of the one to the other. For I wonder, if when each of these was separate from the other, each was one, and they were not yet two, but when they have approached nearer each other, this should be the cause of their becoming two, namely, the union by which they have been placed nearer one another. 105. Nor yet, if any person should divide one, am I able to persuade myself that this, their division, is the cause of its becoming two. For this cause is the contrary to the former one of their becoming two; for then it was because they were brought nearer to each other, and the one was added to the other; but now it is, because one is removed and separated from the other. Nor do I yet persuade myself, that I know why one is one, nor, in a word, why any thing else is produced or perishes, or exists, according to this method of proceeding; but I mix up another method of my own at random, for this I can on no account give in to.

“But having once heard a person reading from a book, written, as he said, by Anaxagoras, and which said that it is intelligence that sets in order and is the cause of all things, I was delighted with this cause, and it appeared to me in a manner to be well that intelligence should be the cause of all things, and I considered with myself, if this is so, that the regulating intelligence orders all things, and disposes each in such way as will be best for it. 106. If any one, then, should desire to discover the cause of every thing, in what way it is produced, or perishes, or exists, he must discover this respecting it, in what way it is best for it either to exist, or to suffer, or do any thing else; from this mode of reasoning, then, it is proper that a man should consider nothing else, both with respect to himself and others, than what is most excellent and best: and it necessarily follows that this same person must also know that which is worst, for that the knowledge of both of them is the same. Thus reasoning with myself, I was delighted to think I had found in Anaxagoras a preceptor who would instruct me in the causes of things, agreeably to my own mind, and that he would inform me, first, whether the earth is flat or round, and when he had informed me, would moreover explain the cause and necessity of its being so, arguing on the principle of the better, and shewing that it is better for it to be such as it is, and if he should say that it is in the middle, that he would moreover explain how it is better for it to be in the middle; and if he should make all this clear to me, I was prepared no longer to require any other species of cause. 107. I was in like manner prepared to enquire respecting the sun, and moon, and the other stars, with respect to their velocities in reference to each other and their revolutions, and other conditions, in what way it is better for both to act and be affected as it does and is. For I never thought that after he had said that these things were set in order by intelligence, he would introduce any other cause for them than that it is best for them to be as they are: hence, I thought, that in assigning the cause to each of them, and to all in common, he would explain that which is best for each, and the common good of all. And I would not have given up my hopes for a good deal, but having taken up his books with great eagerness, I read through them as quickly as I could; that I might as soon as possible know the best, and the worst.

108. “From this wonderful hope, however, my friend, I was speedily thrown down, when, as I advance and read over his works, I meet with a man who makes no use of intelligence, nor assigns any causes for the ordering of all things, but makes the causes to consist of air, ether, and water, and many other things equally absurd. And he appeared to me to be very like one who should say, that whatever Socrates does he does by intelligence, and then, attempting to describe the causes of each particular action, should say, first of all, that for this reason I am now sitting here, because my body is composed of bones and sinews, and that the bones are hard, and have joints separate from each other, but that the sinews, being capable of tension and contraction, cover the bones, together with the flesh and skin which contains them. The bones, therefore, being suspended in their sockets, the nerves relaxing and tightening enable me to bend my limbs as I now do, and from this cause I sit here bent up. 109. And if again, he should assign other similar causes for my conversing with you, assigning as causes voice, and air, and hearing, and ten thousand other things of the kind, omitting to mention the real causes, that since it appeared better to the Athenians to condemn me, I therefore thought it better to sit here, and more just to remain and submit to the punishment which they have ordered; for, by the dog, I think these sinews and bones would have been long ago either in Megara or Bœotia, borne thither by an opinion of that which is best, if I had not thought it more just and honourable to submit to whatever sentence the city might order, than to flee and run stealthily away. But to call such things causes is too absurd. But if any one should say that without possessing such things as bones and sinews, and whatever else I have, I could not do what I pleased, he would speak the truth; but to say that I do as I do through them, and that I act thus by intelligence, and not from the choice of what is best, would be a great and extreme disregard of reason. 110. For this would be not to be able to distinguish that the real cause is one thing, and that another without which a cause could not be a cause: which indeed the generality of men appear to me to do, fumbling as it were in the dark, and making use of strange names, so as to denominate them as the very cause. Wherefore one encompassing the earth with a vortex from heaven, makes the earth remain fixed; but another, as if it were a broad trough, rests it upon the air as its base: but the power by which these things are now so disposed that they may be placed in the best manner possible, this they neither enquire into, nor do they think that it requires any superhuman strength; but they think they will some time or other find out an Atlas stronger and more immortal than this, and more capable of containing all things, and in reality, the good, and that which ought to hold them together and contain them, they take no account of at all. I then should most gladly have become the disciple of any one who would teach me of such a cause, in what way it is. But when I was disappointed of this, and was neither able to discover it myself, nor to learn it from another, do you wish, Cebes, that I should shew you in what way I set out upon a second voyage in search of the cause?”

111. “I wish it exceedingly,” he replied.

“It appeared to me then,” said he, “after this, when I was wearied with considering things that exist, that I ought to beware lest I should suffer in the same way as they do who look at and examine an eclipse of the sun, for some lose the sight of their eyes, unless they behold its image in water, or some similar medium. And I was affected with a similar feeling, and was afraid lest I should be utterly blinded in my soul through beholding things with the eyes, and endeavouring to grasp them by means of the several senses. It seemed to me, therefore, that I ought to have recourse to reasons, and to consider in them the truth of things. Perhaps, however, this similitude of mine may in some respect be incorrect; for I do not altogether admit that he who considers things in their reasons considers them in their images, more than he does who views them in their effects. However, I proceeded thus, and on each occasion laying down the reason, which I deem to be the strongest, whatever things appear to me to accord with this I regard as true, both with respect to the cause and every thing else, but such as do not accord I regard as not true. 112. But I wish to explain my meaning to you in a clearer manner; for I think that you do not yet understand me.”

“No, by Jupiter,” said Cebes, “not well.”

“However,” continued he, “I am now saying nothing new, but what I have always at other times, and in a former part of this discussion, never ceased to say. I proceed then to attempt to explain to you that species of cause which I have busied myself about, and return again to those well-known subjects, and set out from them, laying down as an hypothesis, that there is a certain abstract beauty, and goodness, and magnitude, and so of all other things; which if you grant me, and allow that they do exist, I hope that I shall be able from these to explain the cause to you, and to discover that the soul is immortal.”

“But,” said Cebes, “since I grant you this, you may draw your conclusion at once.”

“But consider,” he said, “what follows from thence, and see if you can agree with me. For it appears to me, that if there be any thing else beautiful, besides beauty itself, it is not beautiful for any other reason than because it partakes of that abstract beauty; and I say the same of every thing. Do you admit such a cause?”

“I do admit it,” he replied.

113. “I do not yet understand,” he continued, “nor am I able to conceive, those other wise causes; but if any one should tell me why any thing is beautiful, either because it has a blooming florid colour, or figure, or any thing else of the kind, I dismiss all other reasons, for I am confounded by them all; but I simply, wholly, and perhaps foolishly, confine myself to this, that nothing else causes it to be beautiful, except either the presence or communication of that abstract beauty, by whatever means and in whatever way communicated: for I cannot yet affirm this with certainty, but only that by means of beauty all beautiful things become beautiful. For this appears to me the safest answer to give both to myself and others, and adhering to this, I think that I shall never fall, but that it is a safe answer both for me and any one else to give, that by means of beauty beautiful things become beautiful. Does it not also seem so to you?”

“It does.”

“And that by magnitude great things become great, and greater things, greater; and by littleness less things become less?”

“Yes.”

114. “You would not then approve of it, if any one said that one person is greater than another by the head, and that the less is less by the very same thing, but you would maintain that you mean nothing else than that every thing that is greater than another is greater by nothing else than magnitude, and that it is greater on this account, that is on account of magnitude, and that the less is less by nothing else than littleness, and on this account less, that is, on account of littleness, being afraid, I think, lest some opposite argument should meet you if you should say that any one is greater and less by the head; as first, that the greater is greater, and the less less, by the very same thing; and next, that the greater is greater by the head, which is small; and that it is monstrous to suppose that any one is great through something small. Should you not be afraid of this?”

To which said Cebes, smilingly, “Indeed I should.”

“Should you not, then,” he continued, “be afraid to say that ten is more than eight by two, and for this cause exceeds it, and not by number, and on account of number? and that two cubits are greater than one cubit by half, and not by magnitude? for the fear is surely the same.”

“Certainly,” he replied.

115. “What then? when one has been added to one, would you not beware of saying that the addition is the cause of its being two, or division when it has been divided; and would you not loudly assert that you know no other way in which each thing subsists, than by partaking of the peculiar essence of each of which it partakes, and that in these cases you can assign no other cause of its becoming two than its partaking of duality; and that such things as are to become two must needs partake of this, and what is to become one, of unity; but these divisions and additions, and other such subtleties, you would dismiss, leaving them to be given as answers by persons wiser than yourself: whereas you, fearing, as it is said, your own shadow and inexperience, would adhere to this safe hypothesis, and answer accordingly? But if any one should assail this hypothesis of yours, would you not dismiss him and refrain from answering him till you had considered the consequences resulting from it, whether in your opinion they agree with or differ from each other? But when it should be necessary for you to give a reason for it, would you give one in a similar way, by again laying down another hypothesis, which should appear the best of higher principles, until you arrived at something satisfactory, but at the same time you would avoid making confusion, as disputants do, in treating of the first principle and the results arising from it, if you really desire to arrive at the truth of things. 116. For they, perhaps, make no account at all of this, nor pay any attention to it, for they are able, through their wisdom, to mingle all things together, and at the same time please themselves. But you, if you are a philosopher, would act, I think, as I now describe.”

“You speak most truly,” said Simmias and Cebes together.

Echec. By Jupiter, Phædo, they said so with good reason: for he appears to me to have explained these things with wonderful clearness, even to one endued with a small degree of intelligence.

Phæd. Certainly, Echecrates, and so it appeared to all who were present.

Echec. And so it appears to me, who was absent, and now hear it related. But what was said after this?

As well as I remember, when these things had been granted him, and it was allowed that each several idea exists of itself[37], and that other things partaking of them receive their denomination from them, he next asked: “If then,” he said, “you admit that these things are so, whether, when you say that Simmias is greater than Socrates, but less than Phædo, do you not then say that magnitude and littleness are both in Simmias?”

“I do.”

117. “And yet,” he said, “you must confess that Simmias’s exceeding Socrates is not actually true in the manner in which the words express it; for Simmias does not naturally exceed Socrates, in that he is Simmias, but in consequence of the magnitude which he happens to have; nor, again, does he exceed Socrates, because Socrates is Socrates, but because Socrates possesses littleness in comparison with his magnitude?”

“True.”

“Nor, again, is Simmias exceeded by Phædo, because Phædo is Phædo, but because Phædo possesses magnitude in comparison with Simmias’s littleness?”

“It is so.”

“Thus, then, Simmias has the appellation of being both little and great, being between both, by exceeding the littleness of one through his own magnitude, and to the other yielding a magnitude that exceeds his own littleness.” And at the same time, smiling, he said, “I seem to speak with the precision of a short-hand writer; however, it is as I say.”

He allowed it.

118. “But I say it for this reason, wishing you to be of the same opinion as myself. For it appears to me, not only that magnitude itself is never disposed to be at the same time great and little, but that magnitude in us never admits the little, nor is disposed to be exceeded, but one of two things, either to flee and withdraw when its contrary, the little, approaches it, or when it has actually come, to perish; but that it is not disposed, by sustaining and receiving littleness, to be different from what it was. Just as I, having received and sustained littleness, and still continuing the same person that I am, am this same little person: but that, while it is great, never endures to be little. And in like manner the little that is in us is not disposed at any time to become or to be great, nor is any thing else among contraries, while it continues what it was, at the same time disposed to become and to be its contrary; but in this contingency it either departs or perishes.”

119. “It appears so to me,” said Cebes, “in every respect.”

But some one of those present, on hearing this, I do not clearly remember who he was, said, “By the gods, was not the very contrary of what is now asserted admitted in the former part of our discussion, that the greater is produced from the less, and the less from the greater, and in a word, that the very production of contraries is from contraries? But now it appears to me to be asserted that this can never be the case.”

Upon this Socrates, having leant his head forward and listened, said, “You have reminded me in a manly way; you do not, however, perceive the difference between what is now and what was then asserted. For then it was said, that a contrary thing is produced from a contrary; but now, that a contrary can never become contrary to itself, neither that which is in us, nor that which is in nature. For then, my friend, we spoke of things that have contraries, calling them by the appellation of those things; but now we are speaking of those very things, from the presence of which things so called receive their appellation, and of these very things we say that they are never disposed to admit of production from each other.” 120. And, at the same time looking at Cebes, “Has any thing that has been said, Cebes, disturbed you?”

“Indeed,” said Cebes, “I am not at all so disposed; however, I by no means say that there are not many things that disturb me.”

“Then,” he continued, “we have quite agreed to this, that a contrary can never be contrary to itself.”

“Most certainly,” he replied.

“But further,” he said, “consider whether you will agree with me in this also. Do you call heat and cold any thing?”

“I do.”

“The same as snow and fire?”fire?”

“By Jupiter, I do not.”

“But heat is something different from fire, and cold something different from snow?”

“Yes.”

“But this, I think, is apparent to you, that snow, while it is snow, can never, when it has admitted heat, as we said before, continue to be what it was, snow and hot, but, on the approach of heat, it must either withdraw or perish?”

“Certainly.”

“And again, that fire, when cold approaches it, must either depart or perish; but that it will never endure, when it has admitted coldness, to continue what it was, fire and cold?”

121. “You speak truly,” he said.

“It happens then,” he continued, “with respect to some of such things, that not only is the idea itself always thought worthy of the same appellation, but likewise something else which is not indeed that idea itself but constantly retains its form so long as it exists. What I mean will perhaps be clearer in the following examples. The odd in number must always possess the name by which we now call it; must it not?”not?”

“Certainly.”

“Must it alone of all things, for this I ask, or is there any thing else, which is not the same as the odd, but yet which we must always call odd, together with its own name, because it is so constituted by nature, that it can never be without the odd? But this I say is the case with the number three, and many others. For consider with respect to the number three; does it not appear to you that it must always be called by its own name, as well as by that of the odd, which is not the same as the number three? Yet such is the nature of the number three, five, and the entire half of number, that though they are not the same as the odd, yet each of them is always odd. And again, two and four, and the whole other series of number, though not the same as the even, are nevertheless each of them always even: do you admit this or not?”not?”

122. “How should I not?” he replied.

“Observe then,” said he, “what I wish to prove. It is this, that it appears, not only that these contraries do not admit each other, but that even such things as are not contrary to each other, and yet always possess contraries, do not appear to admit that idea which is contrary to the idea that exists in themselves, but, when it approaches, perish or depart. Shall we not allow that the number three would first perish, and suffer any thing whatever, rather than endure, while it is still three, to become even?”

“Most certainly,” said Cebes.

“And yet,” said he, “the number two is not contrary to three.”

“Surely not.”

“Not only, then, do ideas that are contrary never allow the approach of each other, but some other things also do not allow the approach of contraries.”

“You say very truly,” he replied.

“Do you wish, then,” he said, “that, if we are able, we should define what these things are?”

“Certainly.”

“Would they not then, Cebes,” he said, “be such things as whatever they occupy, compel that thing not only to retain its own idea, but also that of something which is always a contrary?”contrary?”

“How do you mean?”

123. “As we just now said. For you know surely, that whatever things the idea of three occupies must of necessity not only be three, but also odd?”

“Certainly.”

“To such a thing, then, we assert, that the idea contrary to that form which constitutes this can never come.”

“It cannot.”

“But did the odd make it so?”

“Yes.”

“And is the contrary to this the idea of the even?”

“Yes.”

“The idea of the even, then, will never come to the three?”

“No surely.”

“Three, then, has no part in the even?”

“None whatever.”

“The number three is uneven?”

“Yes.”

“What therefore I said should be defined, namely, what things they are which, though not contrary to some particular thing, yet do not admit of the contrary itself, as in the present instance, the number three though not contrary to the even, does not any the more admit it, for it always brings the contrary with it, just as the number two does to the odd, fire to cold, and many other particulars, consider then, whether you would thus define, not only that a contrary does not admit a contrary, but also that that which brings with it a contrary to that to which it approaches, will never admit the contrary of that which it brings with it. 124. But call it to mind again, for it will not be useless to hear it often repeated. Five will not admit the idea of the even, nor ten, its double, that of the odd. This double then, though it is itself contrary to something else[38], yet will not admit the idea of the odd; nor will half as much again, nor other things of the kind, such as the half and the third part admit the idea of the whole, if you follow me and agree with me that it is so.”

“I entirely agree with you,” he said, “and follow you.”

“Tell me again, then,” he said, “from the beginning; and do not answer me in the terms in which I put the question, but in different ones, imitating my example. For I say this because, besides that safe mode of answering, which I mentioned at first[39], from what has now been said, I see another no less safe one. For if you should ask me what that is, which if it be in the body will cause it to be hot, I should not give you that safe but unlearned answer, that it is heat, but one more elegant, from what we have just now said, that it is fire: nor, if you should ask me what that is, which if it be in the body, will cause it to be diseased, should I say that it is disease, but fever; nor, if you should ask what that is, which if it be in number, will cause it to be odd, should I say that it is unevenness, but unity, and so with other things. But consider whether you sufficiently understand what I mean.”

125. “Perfectly so,” he replied.

“Answer me then,” he said, “what that is, which when it is in the body, the body will be alive?”

“Soul,” he replied.

“Is not this, then, always the case?”

“How should it not be?” said he.

“Does the soul, then, always bring life to whatever it occupies?”

“It does indeed,” he replied.

“Whether, then, is there any thing contrary to life or not?”

“There is,” he replied.

“What?”

“Death.”

“The soul, then, will never admit the contrary of that which it brings with it, as has been already allowed?”

“Most assuredly,” replied Cebes.

“What then? how do we denominate that which does not admit the idea of the even?”

“Uneven,” he replied.

“And that which does not admit the just, nor the musical?”

“Unmusical,” he said, “and unjust.”

“Be it so. But what do we call that which does not admit death?”

“Immortal,” he replied.

“Therefore does not the soul admit death?”

“No.”

“Is the soul, then, immortal?”

“Immortal.”

“Be it so,” he said. “Shall we say then, that this has been now demonstrated? or how think you?”

“Most completely, Socrates.”

“What then,” said he, “Cebes, if it were necessary for the uneven to be imperishable, would the number three be otherwise than imperishable?”

“How should it not?”

“If, therefore, it were also necessary that what is without heat should be imperishable, when any one should introduce heat to snow, would not the snow withdraw itself, safe and unmelted? For it would not perish; nor yet would it stay and admit the heat.”

“You say truly,” he replied.

“In like manner, I think, if that which is insusceptible of cold were imperishable, that when any thing cold approached the fire, it would neither be extinguished nor perish, but would depart quite safe.”

“Of necessity,” he said.

“Must we not then of necessity,” he continued, “speak thus of that which is immortal? if that which is immortal is imperishable, it is impossible for the soul to perish, when death approaches it. For, from what has been said already, it will not admit death, nor will ever be dead, just as we said that three will never be even, nor again will the odd, nor will fire be cold, nor yet the heat that is in fire. 127. But some one may say, what hinders, though the odd can never become even by the approach of the even, as we have allowed, yet, when the odd is destroyed, that the even should succeed in its place? We could not contend with him who should make this objection, that it is not destroyed; for the uneven is not imperishable; since, if this were granted us, we might easily have contended, that on the approach of the even the odd and the three depart; and we might have contended in the same way with respect to fire, heat, and the rest; might we not?”

“Certainly.”

“Wherefore, with respect to the immortal, if we have allowed that it is imperishable, the soul, in addition to its being immortal, must also be imperishable; if not, there will be need of other arguments.”

“But there is no need,” he said, “as far as that is concerned; for scarcely could any thing not admit of corruption, if that which is immortal and eternal is liable to it.”

128. “The deity, indeed, I think,” said Socrates, “and the idea itself of life, and if any thing else is immortal, must be allowed by all beings to be incapable of dissolution.”

“By Jupiter,” he replied, “by all men indeed, and still more, as I think, by the gods.”

“Since, then, that which is immortal is also incorruptible, can the soul, since it is immortal, be any thing else than imperishable?”

“It must of necessity be so.”

“When, therefore, death approaches a man, the mortal part of him, as it appears, dies, but the immortal part departs safe and uncorrupted, having withdrawn itself from death?”

“It appears so.”

“The soul, therefore,” he said, “Cebes, is most certainly immortal and imperishable, and our souls will really exist in Hades.”

“Therefore, Socrates,” he said, “I have nothing further to say against this, nor any reason for doubting your arguments. But if Simmias here or any one else has any thing to say, it were well for him not to be silent: for I know not to what other opportunity beyond the present any one can defer it, who wishes either to speak or hear about these things.”

129. “But indeed,” said Simmias, “neither have I any reason to doubt what has been urged; yet from the magnitude f the subject discussed, and from my low opinion of human weakness, I am compelled still to retain a doubt within myself with respect to what has been said.”

“Not only so, Simmias,” said Socrates, “but you say this well, and moreover the first hypotheses, even though they are credible to you, should nevertheless be examined more carefully; and if you should investigate them sufficiently, I think you will follow my reasoning as far as it is possible for man to do so; and if this very point becomes clear, you will enquire no further.”

“You speak truly,” he said.

“But it is right, my friends,” he said, “that we should consider this, that if the soul is immortal, it requires our care not only for the present time, which we call life, but for all time; and the danger would now appear to be dreadful, if one should neglect it. 130. For if death were a deliverance from every thing, it would be a great gain for the wicked, when they die, to be delivered at the same time from the body, and from their vices together with the soul: but now, since it appears to be immortal, it can have no other refuge from evils, nor safety, except by becoming as good and wise as possible. For the soul goes to Hades, possessing nothing else but its discipline and education, which are said to be of the greatest advantage or detriment to the dead, on the very beginning of his journey thither. For thus it is said; that each person’s demon who was assigned to him while living, when he dies conducts him to some place, where they that are assembled together must receive sentence and then proceed to Hades with that guide, who has been ordered to conduct them from hence thither. But there having received their deserts, and having remained the appointed time, another guide brings them back hither again, after many and long revolutions of time. The journey, then, is not such as the Telephus of Æschylus describes it. For he says that a simple path leads to Hades; but it appears to me to be neither simple nor one: for there would be no need of guides, nor could any one ever miss the way, if there were but one. But now it appears to have many divisions and windings; and this I conjecture from our religious and funeral rites[40]. 131. The well-ordered and wise soul, then, both follows, and is not ignorant of its present condition; but that which through passion clings to the body, as I said before, having longingly fluttered about it for a long time, and about its visible place[41], after vehement resistance and great suffering, is forcibly and with great difficulty led away by its appointed demon. And when it arrives at the place where the others are, impure and having done any such thing as the committal of unrighteous murders or other similar actions, which are kindred to these, and are the deeds of kindred souls, every one shuns it and turns away from it, and will neither be its fellow-traveller or guide, but it wanders about, oppressed with every kind of helplessness until certain periods have elapsed: and when these are completed, it is carried of necessity to an abode suitable to it; but the soul which has passed through life with purity and moderation, having obtained the gods for its fellow-travellers and guides, settles each in the place suited to it. 132. There are indeed many and wonderful places in the earth, and it is itself neither of such a kind, nor of such a magnitude, as is supposed by those who are accustomed to speak of the earth, as I have been persuaded by a certain person.”

Whereupon Simmias said, “How mean you, Socrates? For I too have heard many things about the earth, not however those things which have obtained your belief: I would therefore gladly hear them.”

“Indeed, Simmias, the art of Glaucus[42] does not seem to me to be required to relate what these things are; that they are true however, appears to me more than the art of Glaucus can prove, and besides, I should probably not be able to do it, and even if I did know how, what remains to me of life, Simmias, seems insufficient for the length of the subject. However, the form of the earth, such as I am persuaded it is, and the different places in it, nothing hinders me from telling.”

“But that will be enough,” said Simmias.

“I am persuaded, then,” said he, “in the first place, that, if the earth is in the middle of the heavens, and is of a spherical form, it has no need of air, nor of any other similar force, to prevent it from falling, but that the similarity of the heavens to themselves on every side, and the equilibrium of the earth itself, are sufficient to support it; for a thing in a state of equilibrium when placed in the middle of something that presses it equally on all sides cannot incline more or less on any side, but being equally affected all around remains unmoved. 133. In first place then,” he said, “I am persuaded of this.”

“And very properly so,” said Simmias.

“Yet further,” said he, “that it is very large, and that we who inhabit some small portion of it, from the river Phasis to the pillars of Hercules, dwell about the sea, like ants or frogs about a marsh, and that many others elsewhere dwell in many similar places, for that there are every where about the earth many hollows of various forms and sizes into which there is a confluence of water, mist, and air; but that the earth itself, being pure, is situated in the pure heavens, in which are the stars, and which most persons who are accustomed to speak about such things call ether; of which these things are the sediment and are continually flowing into the hollow parts of the earth. 134. That we are ignorant, then, that we are dwelling in its hollows, and imagine that we inhabit the upper parts of the earth, just as if any one dwelling in the bottom of the sea, should think that he dwelt on the sea, and, beholding the sun and the other stars through the water, should imagine that the sea was the heavens, but through sloth and weakness should never have reached the surface of the sea, nor, having emerged and risen up from the sea to this region, have seen how much more pure and more beautiful it is than the place where he is, nor has heard of it from any one else who has seen it. This then is the very condition in which we are; for, dwelling in some hollow of the earth, we think that we dwell on the surface of it, and call the air heaven, as if the stars moved through this, being heaven itself. But this is because by reason of our weakness and sloth, we are unable to reach to the summit of the air. Since, if any one could arrive at its summit, or, becoming winged, could fly up thither, or emerging from hence, he would see,—just as with us, fishes emerging from the sea, behold what is here,—so any one would behold the things there, and if his nature were able to endure the contemplation, he would know that that is the true heaven, and the true light, and the true earth. 135. For this earth and these stones, and the whole region here, are decayed and corroded, as things in the sea by the saltness; for nothing of any value grows in the sea, nor, in a word, does it contain any thing perfect, but there are caverns and sand, and mud in abundance, and filth, in whatever parts of the sea there is earth, nor are they at all worthy to be compared with the beautiful things with us. But on the other hand, those things in the upper regions of the earth would appear far more to excel the things with us. For, if we may tell a beautiful fable, it is well worth hearing, Simmias, what kind the things are on the earth beneath the heavens.”

“Indeed, Socrates,” said Simmias, “we should be very glad to hear that fable.”

136. “First of all then, my friend,” he continued, “this earth, if any one should survey it from above, is said to have the appearance of balls covered with twelve different pieces of leather, variegated and distinguished with colours, of which the colours found here, and which painters use, are as it were copies. But there the whole earth is composed of such, and far more brilliant and pure than these; for one part of it is purple, and of wonderful beauty, part of a golden colour, and part of white, more white than chalk or snow, and in like manner composed of other colours, and those more in number and more beautiful than any we have ever beheld. And those very hollow parts of the earth, though filled with water and air, exhibit a certain species of colour, shining among the variety of other colours, so that one continually variegated aspect presents itself to the view. In this earth, being such, all things that grow, grow in a manner proportioned to its nature, trees, flowers, and fruits; and again, in like manner, its mountains and stones possess, in the same proportion, smoothness and transparency, and more beautiful colours; of which the well-known stones here that are so highly prized are but fragments, such as sardin-stones, jaspers, and emeralds, and all of that kind. But there, there is nothing subsists that is not of this character, and even more beautiful than these. 137. But the reason of this is, because the stones there are pure, and not eaten up and decayed, like those here, by rottenness and saltness, which flow down hither together, and which produce deformity and disease in the stones and the earth, and in other things, even animals and plants. But that earth is adorned with all these, and moreover with gold and silver, and other things of the kind: for they are naturally conspicuous, being numerous and large, and in all parts of the earth; so that to behold it is a sight for the blessed. There are also many other animals and men upon it, some dwelling in mid-earth, others about the air, as we do about the sea, and others in islands which the air flows round, and which are near the continent: and in one word, what water and the sea are to us, for our necessities, the air is to them; and what air is to us, that ether is to them. 138. But their seasons are of such a temperament that they are free from disease, and live for a much longer time than those here, and surpass us in sight, hearing, and smelling, and every thing of this kind, as much as air excels water, and ether air, in purity. Moreover, they have abodes and temples of the gods, in which gods really dwell, and voices and oracles, and sensible visions of the gods, and such-like intercourse with them; the sun too, and moon, and stars, are seen by them such as they really are, and their felicity in other respects is correspondent with these things.

“And such indeed is the nature of the whole earth, and the parts about the earth; but there are many places all round it throughout its cavities, some deeper and more open than that in which we dwell: but others that are deeper, have a less chasm than our region, and others are shallower in depth than it is here and broader. 139. But all these are in many places perforated one into another under the earth, some with narrower and some with wider channels, and have passages through, by which a great quantity of water flows from one into another, as into basins, and there are immense bulks of ever-flowing rivers under the earth, both of hot and cold water, and a great quantity of fire, and mighty rivers of fire, and many of liquid mire, some purer, and some more miry, as in Sicily there are rivers of mud that flow before the lava, and the lava itself, and from these the several places are filled, according as the overflow from time to time happens to come to each of them. But all these move up and down as it were by a certain oscillation existing in the earth. And this oscillation proceeds from such natural cause as this: one of the chasms of the earth is exceedingly large, and perforated through the entire earth, and is that which Homer[43] speaks of, ‘very far off, where is the most profound abyss beneath the earth,’ which elsewhere both he and many other poets have called Tartarus. For into this chasm all rivers flow together, and from it flow out again: but they severally derive their character from the earth through which they flow. 140. And the reason why all streams flow out from thence, and flow into it, is because this liquid has neither bottom nor base. Therefore it oscillates and fluctuates up and down, and the air and the wind around it do the same; for they accompany it both when it rushes to those parts of the earth, and when to these. And as in respiration the flowing breath is continually breathed out and drawn in, so there the wind oscillating with the liquid, causes certain vehement and irresistible winds both as it enters and goes out. When, therefore, the water rushing in descends to the place which we call the lower region, it flows through the earth into the streams there and fills them, just as men pump up water. But when again it leaves those regions and rushes hither, it again fills the rivers here, and these, when filled, flow through channels and through the earth, and having severally reached the several places to which they are journeying, they make seas, lakes, rivers, and fountains. 141. Then sinking again from thence beneath the earth, some of them having gone round longer and more numerous places, and others round fewer and shorter, they again discharge themselves into Tartarus, some much lower than they were drawn up, others only a little so, but all of them flow in again beneath the point at which they flowed out. And some issue out directly opposite the place by which they flow in, others on the same side: there are also some which having gone round altogether in a circle, folding themselves once or several times round the earth, like serpents, when they had descended as low as possible, discharge themselves again: and it is possiblepossible for them to descend on either side as far as the middle, but not beyond; for in each direction there is an acclivity to the streams both ways.

“Now there are many other large and various streams, but among this great number there are four certain streams, of which the largest, and that which flows most outwardly round the earth, is called Ocean, but directly opposite this, and flowing in a contrary direction, is Acheron, which flows through other desert places, and moreover passing under the earth, reaches the Acherusian lake, where the souls of most who die arrive, and having remained there for certain destined periods, some longer and some shorter, are again sent forth into the generations of animals. 142. A third river issues midway between these, and near its source falls into a vast region, burning with abundance of fire, and forms a lake larger than our sea, boiling with water and mud; from hence it proceeds in a circle, turbulent and muddy, and folding itself round it reaches both other places and the extremity of the Acherusian lake, but does not mingle with its water; but folding itself oftentimes beneath the earth, it discharges itself into the lower parts of Tartarus. And this is the river which they call Pyriphlegethon, whose burning streams emit dissevered fragments in whatever part of the earth they happen to be. Opposite to this again the fourth river first falls into a place dreadful and savage, as it is said, having its whole colour like cyanus[44]: this they call Stygian, and the lake, which the river forms by its discharge, Styx. This river having fallen in here, and received awful power in the water, sinking beneath the earth, proceeds, folding itself round, in an opposite course to Pyriphlegethon, and meets it in the Acherusian lake from a contrary direction. Neither does the water of this river mingle with any other, but it too, having gone round in a circle, discharges itself into Tartarus, opposite to Pyriphlegethon. Its name, as the poets say, is Cocytus.

143. “These things being thus constituted, when the dead arrive at the place to which their demon leads them severally, first of all they are judged, as well those who have lived well and piously, as those who have not. And those who appear to have passed a middle kind of life, proceeding to Acheron, and embarking in the vessels they have, on these arrive at the lake, and there dwell, and when they are purified, and have suffered punishment for the iniquities they may have committed, they are set free, and each receives the reward of his good deeds, according to his deserts: but those who appear to be incurable, through the magnitude of their offences, either from having committed many and great sacrileges, or many unjust and lawless murders, or other similar crimes, these a suitable destiny hurls into Tartarus, whence they never come forth.

144. “But“But those who appear to have been guilty of curable, yet great offences, such as those who through anger have committed any violence against father or mother, and have lived the remainder of their life in a state of penitence, or they who have become homicides in a similar manner, these must of necessity fall into Tartarus, but after they have fallen, and have been there for a year, the wave casts them forth, the homicides into Cocytus, but the parricides and matricides into Pyriphlegethon: but when, being borne along, they arrive at the Acherusian lake, there they cry out to and invoke, some those whom they slew, others those whom they injured, and invoking them, they entreat and implore them to suffer them to go out into the lake, and to receive them, and if they persuade them, they go out, and are freed from their sufferings, but if not, they are borne back to Tartarus, and thence again to the rivers, and they do not cease from suffering this until they have persuaded those whom they have injured, for this sentence was imposed on them by the judges. 145. But those who are found to have lived an eminently holy life, these are they, who, being freed and set at large from these regions in the earth, as from a prison, arrive at the pure abode above, and dwell on the upper parts of the earth. And among these, they who have sufficiently purified themselves by philosophy shall live without bodies, throughout all future time, and shall arrive at habitations yet more beautiful than these, which it is neither easy to describe, nor at present is there sufficient time for the purpose.

“But for the sake of these things which we have described, we should use every endeavour, Simmias, so as to acquire virtue and wisdom in this life; for the reward is noble, and the hope great.

“To affirm positively, indeed, that these things are exactly as I have described them, does not become a man of sense; that however either this, or something of the kind, takes place with respect to our souls and their habitations—since our soul is certainly immortal—this appears to me most fitting to be believed, and worthy the hazard for one who trusts in its reality; for the hazard is noble, and it is right to allure ourselves with such things, as with enchantments; for which reason I have prolonged my story to such a length. 146. On account of these things, then, a man ought to be confident about his soul, who during this life has disregarded all the pleasures and ornaments of the body as foreign from his nature, and who, having thought that they do more harm than good, has zealously applied himself to the acquirement of knowledge, and who having adorned his soul not with a foreign but its own proper ornament, temperance, justice, fortitude, freedom, and truth, thus waits for his passage to Hades, as one who is ready to depart whenever destiny shall summon him. You then,” he continued, “Simmias and Cebes, and the rest, will each of you depart at some future time; but now destiny summons me, as a tragic writer would say, and it is nearly time for me to betake myself to the bath; for it appears to me to be better to drink the poison after I have bathed myself, and not to trouble the women with washing my dead body.”

147. When he had thus spoken, Crito said, “So be it, Socrates, but what commands have you to give to these or to me, either respecting your children, or any other matter, in attending to which we can most oblige you?”

“What I always say, Crito,” he replied, “nothing new; that by taking care of yourselves you will oblige both me and mine, and yourselves, whatever you do, though you should not now promise it; but if you neglect yourselves, and will not live as it were in the footsteps of what has been now and formerly said, even though you should promise much at present, and that earnestly, you will do no good at all.”

“We will endeavour then so to do,” he said; “but how shall we bury you?”

“Just as you please,” he said, “if only you can catch me, and I do not escape from you.” 148. And at the same time smiling gently, and looking round on us, he said; “I cannot persuade Crito, my friends, that I am that Socrates who is now conversing with you, and who methodizes each part of the discourse; but he thinks that I am he whom he will shortly behold dead, and asks how he should bury me. But that which I some time since argued at length, that when I have drunk the poison I shall no longer remain with you, but shall depart to some happy state of the blessed, this I seem to have urged to him in vain, though I meant at the same time to console both you and myself. Be ye then my sureties to Crito,” he said, “in an obligation contrary to that which he made to the judges; for he undertook that I should remain; but do you be sureties that, when I die, I shall not remain, but shall depart, that Crito may more easily bear it, and when he sees my body either burnt or buried, may not be afflicted for me, as if I suffered some dreadful thing, nor say at my interment that Socrates is laid out, or is carried out, or is buried. 149. For be well assured,” he said, “most excellent Crito, that to speak improperly is not only culpable as to the thing itself, but likewise occasions some injury to our souls. You must have a good courage then, and say that you bury my body, and bury it in such a manner as is pleasing to you, and as you think is most agreeable to our laws.”

When he had said thus he rose, and went into a chamber to bathe, and Crito followed him, but he directed us to wait for him. We waited, therefore, conversing among ourselves about what had been said, and considering it again, and sometimes speaking about our calamity, how severe it would be to us, sincerely thinking that, like those who are deprived of a father, we should pass the rest of our life as orphans. When he had bathed, and his children were brought to him, for he had two little sons and one grown up, and the women belonging to his family were come, having conversed with them in the presence of Crito, and given them such injunctions as he wished, he directed the women and children to go away, and then returned to us. And it was now near sun-set; for he spent a considerable time within. 150. But when he came from bathing he sat down, and did not speak much afterwards; then the officer of the Eleven came in, and standing near him, said, “Socrates, I shall not have to find that fault with you that I do with others, that they are angry with me, and curse me, when, by order of the archons, I bid them drink the poison. But you, on all other occasions during the time you have been here, I have found to be the most noble, meek, and excellent man of all that ever came into this place: and, therefore, I am now well convinced that you will not be angry with me, for you know who are to blame, but with them. Now, then, for you know what I came to announce to you, farewell, and endeavour to bear what is inevitable as easily as possible.” And at the same time, bursting into tears, he turned away and withdrew.

151. And Socrates, looking after him, said, “And thou, too, farewell, we will do as you direct.” At the same time turning to us, he said, “How courteous the man is; during the whole time I have been here he has visited me, and conversed with me sometimes, and proved the worthiest of men; and now how generously he weeps for me. But come, Crito, let us obey him, and let some one bring the poison, if it is ready pounded, but if not, let the man pound it.”

Then Crito said, “But I think, Socrates, that the sun is still on the mountains, and has not yet set. Besides, I know that others have drunk the poison very late, after it had been announced to them, and have supped and drunk freely, and some even have enjoyed the objects of their love. Do not hasten then, for there is yet time.”

Upon this Socrates replied, “These men whom you mention, Crito, do these things with good reason, for they think they shall gain by so doing, and I too with good reason shall not do so; for I think I shall gain nothing by drinking a little later, except to become ridiculous to myself, in being so fond of life, and sparing of it when none any longer remains. Go then,” he said, “obey, and do not resist.”

152. Crito having heard this, nodded to the boy that stood near. And the boy having gone out, and staid for some time, came, bringing with him the man that was to administer the poison, who brought it ready pounded in a cup. And Socrates, on seeing the man, said, “Well, my good friend, as you are skilled in these matters, what must I do?”

“Nothing else,” he replied, “than when you have drunk it walk about, until there is a heaviness in your legs, then lie down; thus it will do its purpose.” And at the same time he held out the cup to Socrates. And he having received it very cheerfully, Echecrates, neither trembling, nor changing at all in colour or countenance, but, as he was wont, looking stedfastly at the man, said, “What say you of this potion, with respect to making a libation to any one, is it lawful or not?”

“We only pound so much, Socrates,” he said, “as we think sufficient to drink.”

“I understand you,” he said, “but it is certainly both lawful and right to pray to the gods, that my departure hence thither may be happy; which therefore I pray, and so may it be.” And as he said this he drank it off readily and calmly. Thus far, most of us were with difficulty able to restrain ourselves from weeping, but when we saw him drinking, and having finished the draught, we could do so no longer; but in spite of myself the tears came in full torrent, so that, covering my face, I wept for myself, for I did not weep for him, but for my own fortune, in being deprived of such a friend. But Crito, even before me, when he could not restrain his tears, had risen up. 154. But Apollodorus even before this had not ceased weeping, and then bursting into an agony of grief, weeping and lamenting, he pierced the heart of every one present, except Socrates himself. But he said, “What are you doing, my admirable friends? I indeed, for this reason chiefly, sent away the women, that they might not commit any folly of this kind. For I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up.”

When we heard this we were ashamed, and restrained our tears. But he, having walked about, when he said that his legs were growing heavy, laid down on his back; for the man so directed him. And at the same time he who gave him the poison, taking hold of him, after a short interval examined his feet and legs; and then having pressed his foot hard, he asked if he felt it: he said that he did not. And after this he pressed his thighs; and thus going higher, he shewed us that he was growing cold and stiff. Then Socrates touched himself, and said, that when the poison reached his heart he should then depart. 155. But now the parts around the lower belly were almost cold; when uncovering himself, for he had been covered over, he said, and they were his last words, “Crito, we owe a cock to Æsculapius; pay it, therefore, and do not neglect it.”

“It shall be done,” said Crito, “but consider whether you have any thing else to say.”

To this question he gave no reply; but shortly after he gave a convulsive movement, and the man covered him, and his eyes were fixed; and Crito, perceiving it, closed his mouth and eyes.

This, Echecrates, was the end of our friend, a man, as we may say, the best of all of his time that we have known, and moreover, the most wise and just.

INTRODUCTION TO THE GORGIAS.

Callicles and Polus, two friends of Gorgias, the famous orator of Leontium in Sicily, happening to meet with Socrates and Chærephon, tell the former that he has sustained a great loss in not having been just now present when Gorgias was exhibiting his art. Chærephon admits that the fault is his, but adds that as Gorgias is his friend he can easily persuade him to exhibit to them either then, or at a future time. They accordingly, all four, adjourn to the house of Callicles, where Gorgias is staying. When arrived there, Chærephon, at the suggestion of Socrates, proposes to question Gorgias as to the art he professes; but Polus, his pupil, somewhat impertinently offers to answer for him, on the ground that Gorgias is fatigued. Chærephon therefore asks, what is the art in which Gorgias is skilled, and what he ought to be called? To which Polus answers, “the finest of the arts.” Socrates, not satisfied with this, as being no answer at all, begs Gorgias himself to answer. He says, that rhetoric is the art he professes, and that he is a rhetorician, and able to make others rhetoricians[45].

Socrates, having got Gorgias to promise that he would answer briefly, proceeds to ask him about what rhetoric is employed, and of what it is the science. Gorgias says, “of words,” but Socrates shews, that other arts, in various degrees, make use of words, and that some, such as arithmetic and geometry, are altogether conversant with words; he therefore requests him to distinguish between these arts and rhetoric, and to explain about what particular thing these words are employed. Gorgias confidently answers, about “the greatest of all human concerns and the best.” But the physician, the teacher of gymnastics, the money-getter, in short all men, would say that the end which their own art aims at is the best; what then is this good which you say is the greatest good to men? Gorgias answers, that it is the power of persuading by words. But Socrates objects that other arts do the same, for that every one who teaches any thing persuades what he teaches; you must therefore say of what kind of persuasion, and on what subject rhetoric is the art. It is that which is produced in courts of justice, and other public assemblies, and relates to matters that are just and unjust. But here again Socrates makes Gorgias admit, that there are two kinds of persuasion, one that produces belief without knowledge, the other that produces knowledge; which of these two then does rhetoric produce? doubtless the former. But supposing the question is about the choice of physicians or shipwrights, or the building of walls, or the construction of ports or docks, will a rhetorician be consulted, or a person skilled in these several matters? Here Gorgias answers that on these and all other subjects a rhetorician will speak more persuasively than any other artist whatever: but it is his duty to use his art justly; though if he uses it unjustly, he and not his teacher is to blame[46].

Socrates, here, perceiving an inconsistency in Gorgias’ statement, after deprecating his being offended at the course the discussion might take, asks whether by saying that a rhetorician can speak more persuasively to the multitude on any art, than a person skilled in that art, he does not mean the ignorant by the multitude; and, that being admitted, whether it does not follow that one who is ignorant will be more capable of persuading the ignorant, than one who possesses knowledge? Gorgias allows this to be the case. Is the case, then, the same with respect to what is just and unjust, base and honourable, good and evil? Can a rhetorician persuade the multitude on these subjects, himself being ignorant of them, or must he know them before he learns rhetoric, or will the teacher of rhetoric instruct him in these? Gorgias professes that if a pupil does not know these things he would learn them from him. But surely he who has learnt carpentering is a carpenter, music a musician, medicine a physician; does it not follow then, that he who has learnt justice, must be just, and wish to do just actions? Gorgias admits this too: and yet he had just now allowed that a rhetorician might make an unjust use of his art, and said, that in that case, the teacher ought not to be blamed, but the person who acts unjustly ought to be punished[47].

At this point Polus takes up the discussion, and having elected to ask questions, instead of answering them, begins by asking Socrates what kind of art he considers rhetoric to be. Socrates answers that he does not think it is any art at all, but a kind of skill, employed for procuring gratification and pleasure: in other words, a species of flattery, of which there are many divisions. Polus asks what division it is. “Rhetoric, in my opinion,” says Socrates, “is a semblance of a division of the political art,” and as such is base. This answer, however, is not intelligible either to Gorgias or Polus; at the request of the former, therefore, Socrates explains himself more clearly[48].

As there are two kinds of subject matter, he says, namely, soul and body, so there are two arts, that which relates to the soul is political; the other, relating to the body, he is not able to describe by one name, but there are two divisions of it, gymnastics and medicine. In the political art legislation corresponds to gymnastics, and the judicial art to medicine. But flattery, perceiving that these four take the best possible care of the soul and body respectively, has divided itself fourfold, and feigns itself to be what it pretends, not really caring for what is best, but seducing ignorance by means of pleasure. Thus cookery puts on the garb of medicine, and pretends that it knows the aliment best for the body; and again, personal decoration feigns itself to be gymnastics. Then, he adds, what personal decoration is to gymnastics, that is sophistry to legislation, and what cookery is to medicine, that is rhetoric to justice; and so being proximate to each other, sophists and rhetoricians are confounded with legislators and judges[49].

Are good rhetoricians, then, asks Polus, to be esteemed as vile flatterers in cities? Socrates replies that they appear to him to be of no estimation at all. But have they not the greatest power in cities? Not, if to have power is a good to him who possesses it. For what is it to have power? is it to do what one wishes, or what appears to one to be best? Polus admits that it is not good for a person devoid of understanding to do what appears to him to be best. He must therefore prove that rhetoricians possess understanding, otherwise, since to have power is a good, they cannot do what they wish. Polus, however, is unable to distinguish between doing what one wishes and doing what appears to be best, and therefore agrees to change positions with Socrates, and to answer instead of asking questions[50].

Socrates, then, asks, do men wish what they do for the sake of the thing itself, or for some other end? for instance, do men take medicine because they wish to take it, or in order to health? Again, do men incur the perils of the sea because they wish to be in peril, or for the sake of riches? Clearly the latter, in both and all similar cases. Now some things, such as wisdom, health, and riches, are good, but their contraries evil; but whatever we do, we do for the sake of that which is good. So that if we kill or banish a person, if it is good to do so, we wish it, and do what we wish; but if it is really evil, though it appears to us to be good, we do not what we wish. Polus sees the force of Socrates’ argument, and can only object to it that Socrates himself would like to do what he pleased, and would envy another whom he saw slaying, or spoiling, or imprisoning whom he pleased. But Socrates resolutely denies this, and insists that if he must necessarily either act unjustly or suffer unjustly, he should choose the latter; for that it is better to suffer than to commit injustice[51].

Polus imagines that even a child could confute such a position as this; and in order to do so mentions instances of men whom all have accounted happy, though they were unjust, especially that of Archelaus, king of Macedonia. But Socrates denies that any one who acts unjustly can be happy; and further than this, he contends that a person who acts unjustly, and does not suffer punishment, is more miserable than one who meets with punishment for his injustice. To prove this he argues that it is more base to commit injustice than to suffer it, and if more base it must also be worse; Polus admits the premise, but denies the conclusion. Socrates, therefore, endeavours to make his opponent admit this also by the following arguments. Beautiful things are esteemed beautiful, either on account of their usefulness, or the pleasure they occasion, or both; and in like manner base things are deemed base on account of the pain or evil they occasion, or both; so that when of two things one is more beautiful than the other, it is so because it excels in pleasure or utility, or both; and when of two things one is more base, it must be because it exceeds in pain or evil. But Polus has already admitted that it is more base to commit injustice than to suffer it; it must therefore be so because it exceeds in pain or evil, or both. But to commit injustice does not exceed the suffering it, in pain; it remains, therefore, that it must exceed it in evil: consequently it must be worse, for whatever exceeds another thing in evil must necessarily be worse[52].

Having established his point thus far he now goes on to prove that it is the greatest of evils for one who has committed injustice not to be punished. To suffer punishment and to be justly chastised, are one and the same thing. But all just things are beautiful. Moreover wherever there is an agent there must also be a patient; and the patient suffers what the agent does; so that if the agent punishes justly the patient also suffers justly. But it has been just admitted that all just things are beautiful; and it was proved before that all beautiful things are good, either because they are pleasant or useful; whence it follows that he who is punished suffers that which is good, and is benefited in being freed from the greatest evil, which is depravity in the soul. From all this it is evident that rhetoric can be of no use whatever: for it is generally employed for the purpose of excusing injustice, and screening men from the punishment they deserve, which on the contrary they ought rather to court than to shun[53].

Polus having been thus completely silenced, Callicles takes up the argument and begins by asking whether Socrates is really in earnest. Finding that he is so, he blames Polus for having granted that it is more base to commit injustice than to suffer it; for that there is a difference between nature and law, which Socrates perceiving, confounded that which is more base by nature with that which is so by law, and so made that which is more base by law appear to be more so by nature: whereas by nature it is more base to suffer injustice than to commit it. For the weak and the many make laws with a view to their own advantage, but nature herself avows that it is just that the better should have more than the worse, and the more powerful than the weaker. Callicles then proceeds to inveigh against philosophy and philosophers, and when he has done, Socrates, after having indulged in a vein of pleasant irony at his expense, returns to the subject, and asks what he means by the superior, the better, and the stronger, whether they are the same or different. Callicles says they are the same. Socrates objects, that if that is the case the many being stronger are also the better, and so, inasmuch as they make the laws, law and nature are not contrary to each other. Callicles therefore is compelled to change his ground, and next says that by the better and superior he means the more wise: and at last he says that they are those who are skilled and courageous in administering the affairs of a city. He adds that it is just that the governors should have more than the governed. Socrates, hereupon, asks whether they ought not to govern themselves also and be temperate, which elicits from Callicles the shameless avowal that a man should have as large desires as he can, and indulge them without restraint[54].

Socrates having in vain endeavoured to persuade Callicles to change his opinion by two similitudes of a perforated cask, and a full and an empty one, to which he compares the soul, proceeds to combat his assertion that a happy life consists in having and indulging as large desires as possible. If happiness consists in being hungry and eating, thirsty and drinking, it must follow that to be scabby and itch and scratch one’s self is to live happily. Callicles is forced to admit that this is to live pleasantly, and then if pleasantly, happily; and at length is driven to assert that the pleasant and the good are the same. In order to confute this opinion, Socrates leads him to maintain that science and courage differ from each other and from the good; and then by a series of most subtle questions, too minute to be abbreviated, forces him to this absurd conclusion, that if the pleasant and the good are the same, a bad man, inasmuch as he oftentimes receives more pleasure than a good man, must be accounted better than a good one[55].

Callicles to evade this absurdity is compelled to admit that some pleasures are better than others. From this concession Socrates shews that the end of all human actions is the good and not the pleasant; for that so far is it from being the case that we do any thing merely for the sake of pleasure, that we pursue pleasure itself for the sake of the good[56].

Having established this point, Socrates brings back the discussion to the original subject, and proposes to enquire whether it is better to live in such a manner as Callicles advises, namely to devote one’s self to public business and to study rhetoric, or in such a manner as philosophy persuades. He recurs therefore to his own former arguments, in which he stated that as there are certain skills, not arts, employed for the gratification of the body, so there are other corresponding ones made use of to please the soul, such as flute-playing, harp-playing, dithyrambic and even tragic poetry; now take from these last melody, rhythm and measure, and what else remains but words, that is to say a kind of flattery addressed to the multitude? And is not popular rhetoric similar? Callicles answers that there is a difference to be observed in this respect, for that some do, as Socrates has observed, speak only in order to please, but that others look to the interest of the citizens. “That is enough,” says Socrates. At all events one part of rhetoric is flattery, and when has an instance of that which is honourable, which strives to speak what is best, whether it be pleasant or unpleasant to the hearers, ever been seen? Callicles instances Themistocles, Cimon, Miltiades and Pericles, but Socrates will by no means admit that any of these really endeavoured to make the people better. But before this, Callicles, being hard pressed in argument, breaks off the discussion, and Socrates, at the request of Gorgias, carries it on by himself, and shews at length and with great force and perspicuity the advantages of a virtuous and well regulated life; and in conclusion he describes the future judgment when each man will give account of himself in another world, and be rewarded or punished according as he has lived a good or a bad life.

GORGIAS,

OR,

ON RHETORIC.

Callicles, Socrates, Chærephon, Gorgias, and Polus.

Cal. They say, Socrates, that we should thus take part in war and battle[57].

Socr. Have we then, as the saying is, come after the feast, and are we too late?

Cal. And a very elegant feast. For Gorgias has just now exhibited many fine things to us.

Socr. Chærephon here, Callicles, is the cause of this, by having compelled us to waste our time in the forum.

Chær. It’s of no consequence, Socrates; for I will also find a remedy; for Gorgias is my friend, so that he will exhibit to us now, if you please, or, if you prefer it, at some future time.

2. Cal. What, Chærephon? is Socrates desirous of hearing Gorgias?

Chær. We are come for this very purpose.

Cal. Whenever you please, then, come to my house; Gorgias lodges with me, and will exhibit to you.

Socr. You say well[58], Callicles. But would he be inclined to converse with us? For I wish to learn from him what is the power of his art, and what it is that he professes and teaches: the rest of the exhibition, as you say, he may make at some other time.

Cal. There is nothing like asking him, Socrates: for this is one part of his exhibition: he just now bade all that were in the house ask what question they pleased, and promised to answer every thing.

3. Socr. You say well in truth. Ask him, Chærephon.

Chær. What shall I ask him?

Socr. What he is.

Chær. How mean you?

Socr. Just as, if he happened to be a maker of shoes, he would surely answer you, that he is a shoemaker. Do you not understand what I mean?

Chær. I understand, and will ask him. Tell me, Gorgias, does Callicles here say truly that you promised to answer whatever any one should ask you?

Gorg. Truly, Chærephon: for I just now made that very promise: and I affirm that for many years no one has asked me any thing new.

Chær. Without doubt, then, you will answer easily, Gorgias.

Gorg. You may make trial of that, Chærephon.

Pol. By Jupiter, Chærephon, if you please, make trial of me: for Gorgias appears to me to be fatigued; as he has just now been speaking a great deal.

4. Chær. What, Polus, do you think you can answer better than Gorgias?

Pol. What matters that, if I answer well enough for you?

Chær. Not at all: since you wish it then, answer.

Pol. Ask.

Chær. I ask then, If Gorgias happened to be skilled in the same art as his brother Herodicus is skilled, what name should we rightly give him? Would it not be the same as his brother?

Pol. Certainly.

Chær. In calling him a physician, then, we should speak correctly?

Pol. Yes.

Chær. But if he were skilled in the same art as Aristophon, son of Aglaophon, or his brother, what should we properly call him?

Pol. Evidently, a painter.

Chær. But now, since he is skilled in a certain art, what can we properly call him?

5. Pol. Chærephon, there are many arts among men by experience experimentally discovered: for experience causes our life to proceed according to art, but inexperience according to chance. Of each of these different persons partake of different arts, in different manners; but the best of the best; in the number of whom is Gorgias here, who possesses the finest of the arts.

Socr. Polus appears, Gorgias, to be very well prepared for speaking: but he does not do what he promised Chærephon.

Gorg. How so, Socrates?

Socr. He does not appear to me to answer the question that was asked.

6. Gorg. Do you then, if you please, ask him.

Socr. No, but if yourself would be willing to answer me, I would much rather ask you. For it is evident to me that Polus, from what he has said, has studied more what is called rhetoric, than conversation.

Pol. Why so, Socrates?

Socr. Because, Polus, when Chærephon asked you in what art Gorgias was skilled, you praised his art, as if some one had blamed it, but you did not say what the art itself is.

Pol. Did I not answer, that it was the finest of all arts?

Socr. Certainly. But no one asked you what was the quality of the art of Gorgias, but what it was, and by what name we ought to call Gorgias; just as Chærephon proposed the former questions to you, and you answered him well and in few words. Now, therefore, tell me in the same manner, what art Gorgias professes, and what we ought to call him. Or rather, Gorgias, do you tell us yourself what we ought to call you as skilled in what art.

Gorg. In rhetoric, Socrates.

7. Socr. Ought we, then, to call you a rhetorician?

Gorg. And a good one, Socrates, if you wish to call me, as Homer says, what “I boast myself to be.”

Socr. But I do wish.

Gorg. Call me so, then.

Socr. Shall we say too that you are able to make others rhetoricians?

Gorg. I profess this not only here but elsewhere.

Socr. Are you willing then, Gorgias, to continue, as we are now doing, partly to ask questions and partly to answer, and to defer to some other occasion that prolixity of speech, such as Polus just now began with? But do not belie what you promised, but be willing to answer each question briefly.

Gorg. There are some answers, Socrates, which must necessarily be made at length: however, I will endeavour to make them as short as possible. For this is one of the things which I profess, that no one can say the same things in fewer words than me.

8. Socr. There is need of this now, Gorgias; give me therefore a specimen of this very thing, conciseness of speech, and of prolixity at some other time.

Gorg. I will do so; and you will admit that you never heard any one speak more concisely.

Socr. Well then, since you say that you are skilled in the art of rhetoric, and that you can teach another this art, tell me about what is rhetoric employed? just as the art of weaving is employed in the making of garments, is it not so?

Gorg. It is.

Socr. And is not music also employed in the composing of melodies?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. By Juno, Gorgias, I admire your answers, for you answer as briefly as possible.

Gorg. I think, Socrates, that I do this well enough.

9. Socr. You say well. Come then, answer me thus respecting rhetoric, of what is it the science?

Gorg. Of words.

Socr. What kind of words, Gorgias? Are they such as inform the sick by what kind of diet they may become well?

Gorg. No.

Socr. Rhetoric, then, is not concerned with all kinds of words?

Gorg. Certainly not.

Socr. Yet it makes men able to speak?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. And does it not enable men to think on the same things on which it enables them to speak?

Gorg. Without doubt.

Socr. Does not, then, the medicinal art, of which we just now spoke, make men able to think and speak about the sick?

Gorg. Necessarily so.

Socr. The medicinal art, then, as it appears, is conversant with words?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. And those that concern diseases?

Gorg. Just so.

Socr. And is not the gymnastic art also conversant with words that relate to the good and bad habit of bodies?

Gorg. Certainly.

10. Socr. And it is the same with other arts, Gorgias: each of them is conversant with those words that are employed about that particular thing of which each is the art.

Gorg. It appears so.

Socr. Why, then, do you not call other arts rhetorical, as being conversant with words, since you call that rhetoric which is employed about words?

Gorg. Because, Socrates, almost the whole[59] science of other arts is conversant with manual operations and such-like actions; in rhetoric, however, there is no such manual operation, but all its activity and efficiency is by means of words. For this reason, I consider that the art of rhetoric is conversant with words, herein speaking correctly, as I affirm.

Socr. Do I understand what kind of art you wish to call it? but I shall soon comprehend it more clearly. However, answer me. We have arts, have we not?

Gorg. Yes.

11. Socr. Of all the arts, some, I think, consist principally in workmanship, and stand in need of but few words, and others of none at all, but their work may be accomplished in silence, as painting, statuary, and many others. With such arts, you appear to me to say rhetoric has nothing to do? is it not so?

Gorg. You apprehend my meaning perfectly, Socrates.

Socr. On the other hand, there are other arts which accomplish all by means of words, and require no work at all, or very little, such as theoretical[60] and practical arithmetic, geometry, the game of dice, and many other arts; some of which require almost as many words as actions, and most of them more, so that altogether their whole activity and efficiency is by means of words. You appear to me to say that rhetoric is among arts of this kind.

12. Gorg. You say truly.

Socr. However, I do not think you mean to call any one of these rhetoric, although in the expression you used you so said, that rhetoric has its efficiency by means of words; and any who wished to catch at your words might reply, Do you say then, Gorgias, that arithmetic is rhetoric? But I do not think that you call either arithmetic or geometry rhetoric.

Gorg. You think rightly, Socrates, and apprehend my meaning correctly.

Socr. Come then, complete the answer to my question. Since rhetoric is one of those arts which make great use of words, and there are others of the same kind, endeavour to tell me in reference to what rhetoric has its efficiency in words. 13. Just as if any one should ask me respecting any of the arts which I but now mentioned: Socrates, what is the arithmetical art? I should say to him, as you did just now, That it is one of the arts that have their efficiency in words. And if he should further ask me, In reference to what? I should answer, In reference to the knowledge of even and odd, how many there may be of each. But if again he should ask me, What do you mean by the art of computation? I should answer, that this also is one of those arts whose whole efficiency consists in words. And if he should further ask me, In reference to what? I should answer, as they do who draw up motions in the assemblies of the people, That in other respects computation is the same as arithmetic, for it has reference to the same object, that is to say, the even and the odd; but it differs in this respect, that computation considers what relation even and odd have to themselves and to each other in regard to quantity. 14. And if any one should ask me about astronomy, and after I had said that its whole efficiency consists in words, should say, But Socrates, to what do words employed about astronomy refer? I should answer, That they are employed about the course of the stars, and of the sun and the moon, how they are related to each other with respect to velocity.

Gorg. And you would answer rightly, Socrates.

Socr. Now then do you answer, Gorgias. For rhetoric is one of those arts which accomplish and effect every thing by means of words: is it not so?

Gorg. It is so.

Socr. Tell me then in reference to what? what is the particular thing about which these words are, which rhetoric uses?

Gorg. The greatest of all human concerns, Socrates, and the best.

Socr. But, Gorgias, what you say is questionable, and by no means clear. For I think you must have heard at banquets men singing that song in which the singers enumerate that the best thing is health, the second beauty, and the third, as the author of the song says, riches gained without fraud.

Gorg. I have heard it; but with what object do you mention this?

15. Socr. Because the artificers of those things which the author of the song has commended, namely, the physician, the master of gymnastics, and the money-getter, will forthwith present themselves, and the physician will say: Socrates, Gorgias deceives you. For his art is not employed about the greatest good to men, but mine is. If, then, I should ask him, Who are you that say this? he would probably answer, I am a physician. What then do you say? that the object of your art is the greatest good? How can it be otherwise, Socrates, he would probably say, since its object is health? and what greater good can men have than health? And if after him again the master of gymnastics should say, I too should wonder, Socrates, if Gorgias could shew you any greater good from his art than I can from mine, I should again say to him, And who are you, Sir, and what is your employment? A master of gymnastics, he would say, and my employment is to make men beautiful and strong in their bodies. 16. After the master of gymnastics, the money-getter would say, as I imagine, despising all others, Consider, I beg, Socrates, whether there is any greater good than riches, either with Gorgias, or any one else? I should thereupon say to him, What, then, are you the artificer of this good? He would say, I am. Who are you then? A money-getter. What then? Do you consider riches to be the greatest good to men? I shall say. Assuredly, he will answer. However, Gorgias here contends that his art is the cause of greater good than yours. It is clear then that after this he would ask, And what is this good? let Gorgias answer. Come then, Gorgias, suppose that you are asked by them and by me, and answer, What is this, which you say is the greatest good to men, and of which you are the artificer?

Gorg. That which is in reality, Socrates, the greatest good, and is at the same time the cause of liberty to men, and of their being able to rule over others in their several cities.

Socr. What then do you say it is?

Gorg. I say it is the power of persuading by words judges in a court of justice, senators in the senate-house, and the hearers in a public assembly, and in every other convention of a political nature. Moreover, by this power you will make the physician your slave, and the master of gymnastics your slave, and the money-getter will be found to have gained money, not for himself, but for another, for you who are able to speak, and persuade the multitude.

Socr. At length you appear to me, Gorgias, to have shewn as nearly as possible what kind of art you consider rhetoric to be; and if I understand you rightly, you say that rhetoric is the artificer of persuasion, and that its whole employment and the sum of it terminates in this. Can you say that rhetoric has any further power than that of producing persuasion in the minds of the hearers?

Gorg. By no means, Socrates; but you appear to me to have defined it sufficiently. For that is the sum of it.

18. Socr. Listen then, Gorgias. Be assured that I, as I persuade myself, if there is any one, who in conversing with another, wishes to know the very thing about which the conversation is, be assured, I say, that I am such a person; and I think that you are too.

Gorg. What then, Socrates?

Socr. I will now tell you. The persuasion which you speak of as resulting from rhetoric, what it is, and with what particulars it is conversant, be assured I do not clearly understand, not but that I have a suspicion of what I suppose you mean, and about what it is employed: yet I will not the less ask you what persuasion you mean results from rhetoric, and with what particulars it is conversant. Why then do I who have a suspicion ask you, and not rather myself speak? Not on your account, but on account of the discussion, that it may proceed in such a manner as to make the subject of the discussion most clear to us. 19. For consider whether I seem to you right in putting the question to you: just as if I should ask you what kind of a painter is Zeuxis? if you were to tell me that he paints animals, might I not justly enquire of you, what kind of animals he paints? is it not so[61]?

Gorg. Certainly.

Socr. And would it not be for this reason, because there are also other painters who paint many other animals?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. But if no one else but Zeuxis painted them, you would have answered properly.

Gorg. Assuredly.

Socr. Come then, with respect to rhetoric, tell me, whether it appears to you that rhetoric alone produces persuasion, or do other arts produce it likewise? My meaning is this: Does he who teaches any thing persuade what he teaches, or not?

Gorg. He does certainly persuade, Socrates.

Socr. Again, if we speak of the same arts of which we just now made mention, does not arithmetic teach us such things as relate to number? and does not an arithmetician the same?

Gorg. Certainly.

20. Socr. Does it not also persuade?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. Arithmetic, then, is an artificer of persuasion.

Gorg. It appears so.

Socr. If, then, any one should ask us, What persuasion it produces, and with respect to what? we should answer, That which teaches about the quantity of even and odd. In like manner we may shew, that all the other arts of which we spoke just now, produce persuasion, and what kind of persuasion, and with respect to what: is it not so?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. Rhetoric then, is not alone an artificer of persuasion.

Gorg. You say truly.

Socr. Since then, it does not alone produce this effect, but other arts do the same, we may justly, as in the case of the painter, next enquire of the speaker; of what kind of persuasion, and of persuasion on what subject rhetoric is the art? Does it not appear to you that this question may fairly be asked?

Gorg. It does.

Socr. Answer then, Gorgias, since this appears to you to be the case.

21. Gorg. I speak then, Socrates, of that persuasion which is produced in courts of justice, and in other public assemblies, as I just now mentioned, and with respect to matters that are just and unjust.

Socr. I suspected, Gorgias, that you meant that persuasion, and on such matters. But do not be surprised if I shortly ask you a question that may appear to be evident, but which I shall notwithstanding repeat, for, as I before observed, I ask it for the sake of carrying on the discussion in an orderly manner, and not on your account, but that we may not be in the habit of catching up each other’s words on suspicion; but do you finish what you have to say according to your own plan, just as you please.

Gorg. You appear to me to act rightly, Socrates.

Socr. Come then, let us examine this too. Do you admit that to learn is any thing?

Gorg. I do admit it.

Socr. Again? to believe?

Gorg. I do.

Socr. Whether, therefore, does it appear to you, that to learn and to believe, and learning and belief are the same, or different?

Gorg. I think, Socrates, that they are different.

22. Socr. You think rightly; and you may know from this; if any one should ask you, Is there, Gorgias, a false and true belief? I think you would say there is.

Gorg. I should.

Socr. Well then, is there a false and true science?

Gorg. Certainly not.

Socr. It is clear, therefore, that they (belief and science) are not the same.

Gorg. You say truly.

Socr. Yet both those who learn are persuaded, and those who believe.

Gorg. Such is the case.

Socr. Are you willing, therefore, that we lay down two kinds of persuasion, one that produces belief without knowledge, but the other science?

Gorg. Certainly.

Socr. Which kind of persuasion, then, does rhetoric produce in courts of justice and other public assemblies, respecting what is just and unjust? is it that from which belief springs without knowledge, or that from which knowledge arises?

Gorg. It is evident, Socrates, that it is that from which belief springs.

Socr. Rhetoric then, as it seems, Gorgias, is the artificer of a persuasion which produces belief, and not of that which teaches respecting the just and unjust.

Gorg. It is so.

Socr. A rhetorician, therefore, does not profess to teach courts of justice and other public assemblies, respecting things just and unjust, but only to produce belief. For surely he could not teach so great a multitude in a short time things of such great importance.

Gorg. Certainly not.

23. Socr. Come then, let us see now what we ought to say of rhetoric. For I, indeed, am not yet able to understand what I should say. When an assembly is held in a city, for the choice of physicians, or shipwrights, or any other kind of artificer, is it not the case that the rhetorician will refrain from giving his advice? for it is evident that, in each election, the most skilful artist ought to be chosen. Nor will he be consulted when the question is respecting the building of walls, or the construction of ports or docks, but architects only. Nor, again, when a deliberation occurs respecting the choice of generals, or the marshalling an army against enemies, or the occupation of posts,—but on such occasions those who are skilled in military affairs will give advice, and not rhetoricians. What do you say, Gorgias, on such points? For since you say that you are a rhetorician, and are able to make others rhetoricians, it is proper to enquire of you what are the things about which your art is concerned. And consider that I am labouring for your benefit. For, perhaps, some one who is now within the house may wish to become your disciple; for I perceive some, nay several, who probably are ashamed to question you. 24. In being questioned, therefore, by me, consider yourself to be questioned by them, What would be the consequence to us, Gorgias, if we should put ourselves under your instructions? On what subjects shall we be able to give advice to the city? Whether about the just only and the unjust; or on those subjects of which Socrates just now made mention? Endeavour to answer them.

Gorg. I will endeavour, Socrates, to develope clearly the whole power of rhetoric: for you have admirably led the way. You doubtless know that these docks and walls of the Athenians, and the structure of the ports, were made partly on the advice of Themistocles, and partly on that of Pericles, but not of artificers.

Socr. This is told of Themistocles, Gorgias: and I myself heard Pericles when he gave us his advice respecting the middle wall[62].

Gorg. And when there is an election of any such persons as you mentioned, Socrates, you see that the rhetoricians are the persons who give advice, and whose opinion prevails in such matters.

25. Socr. It is because I wonder at this, Gorgias, that I have been for some time asking you, what is the power of rhetoric. For when I consider it in this manner, it appears to me almost divine in its magnitude.

Gorg. If you knew all, Socrates, that it comprehends under itself almost all powers! And I will give you a strong proof of this. For I have often, ere now, gone with my brother and other physicians to various sick persons, who would neither drink their medicine, nor suffer themselves to be cut or cauterized by the physician, and when the physician was unable to persuade them, I have done so by no other art than rhetoric. I say too, that if a rhetorician and a physician should go to any city you please, and it were necessary to contend by argument in a general assembly, or any other convention, which should be chosen, a rhetorician or a physician, the physician would be held in no account, but he that has the power of speaking would be chosen, if he pleased. 26. And if he should contend with any other artist whatever, the rhetorician would persuade that he himself should be chosen in preference to any one else. For there is no subject on which a rhetorician will not speak to the multitude more persuasively than any other artist whatever. Such, then, and so great is the power of this art. It is right however, Socrates, to use rhetoric in the same way as any other exercise employed in contests: for it is not right to use other exercises against all men alike; nor, because any one has learnt pugilism, and the pancratium, and to fight with arms, so as to be superior both to friends and enemies, is it therefore proper to strike, or pierce, or slay one’s friends. 27. Nor, by Jupiter, if some one who, by having frequented the palæstra, has made his body robust, and become a pugilist, should afterwards strike his father or mother, or any other of his relatives or friends, would it on that account be proper to hate, and expel from cities, the training masters and those who teach how to fight with arms. For they instructed their pupils in these exercises, in order that they might make a proper use of them against enemies, and those that do wrong, for self-defence, and not for attack; but they contrariwise, use their strength and skill improperly. The teachers, therefore, are not wicked, nor is their art either to be blamed, or for this reason wicked, but they, I think, who do not use it properly. 28. The same may be said of rhetoric. For a rhetorician is able to speak against all men, and on every subject; so that he can best persuade the multitude, in a word, on whatever subject he pleases: but he ought not any the more on this account to detract from the reputation of physicians, because he is able to do it, nor of other artificers; but he should use rhetoric justly, as well as other exercises. In my opinion, however, if any one having become a rhetorician abuses this power and art, it is not proper to hate the teacher and expel him from cities, for he imparted the knowledge of it for just purposes, but the other makes a contrary use of it. It is just, therefore, to hate, banish, and slay him who does not make a right use of it, but not the teacher.

29. Socr. I think, Gorgias, that you as well as I, have been present at many discussions, and that you have observed this in them, that it is not easy for men, on whatever subject they undertake to converse, having propounded their ideas to each other, both learning themselves and teaching one another, then to put an end to the conference; but if they have a controversy about any thing, and one says that the other does not speak correctly or clearly, they are indignant, and each thinks that the other is speaking out of envy, from a love of contention, and not seeking what was proposed in the discussion: and some, at length[63], depart in a most disgraceful manner, having[64] reviled each other, and spoken and heard such things that even the bystanders are vexed at themselves for having deigned to listen to such men. 30. But why do I say this? Because you now appear to me to say what does not follow from, or accord with, what you first said respecting rhetoric. I am afraid, therefore, to proceed with my refutation, lest you should suppose that I do not speak with zeal for the subject, that it may be made clear, but out of opposition to you. If, then, you are of that class of men to which I belong, I should gladly question you: but if not, I would forbear to do so. But to what class of men do I belong? To those who are willingly refuted, if they say any thing that is not true, and who willingly refute if any one says any thing that is not true; and who are not less pleased to be refuted than to refute. For I consider the former to be the greater good, inasmuch as it is a greater good one’s-self to be delivered from the greatest evil than to deliver another. For I think no evil so great to man as false opinion on the subjects we are now discussing. If, then, you say that you are such a man, let us continue our discussion; [31.] but if you think we ought to desist, let us give it up, and put an end to the argument.

Gorg. But indeed, Socrates, I profess myself to be such a man as you describe. Perhaps, however, it is right to attend to the wishes of the company who are present. For, some time since, before you came, I explained many things to the present company: and now, perhaps, we shall protract it too far if we continue the discussion. We must, therefore, respect their wishes lest we detain any of them, who have something else to do.

Chær. You yourselves, Gorgias and Socrates, hear the noise these men make, from their anxiety to hear, if you say any thing. For my part, may I never have so much business, as to be obliged to leave such a discussion and so conducted, from having any thing else more important to do.

32. Cal. By the gods, Chærephon, and I too, though I have been present at many conferences, know not whether I have ever been so delighted as now; so that you will gratify me much, should you even be willing to continue the discussion throughout the whole day.

Socr. There is no obstacle on my side, Callicles, if only Gorgias is willing.

Gorg. After this, Socrates, it would be shameful in me not to be willing, especially as I myself announced that any one might ask what he pleased. But, if it is agreeable to the company, continue the discussion, and ask any question you please.

Socr. Hear then, Gorgias, what I wonder at in what you said. For, perhaps, you spoke correctly, and I did not rightly apprehend you. You say that you can make any one a rhetorician, who is willing to be instructed by you?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. So that he can speak persuasively on any subject to the multitude, not teaching, but persuading?

Gorg. Exactly so.

Socr. You said too, that a rhetorician is able to speak more persuasively than a physician, on the subject of health.

Gorg. I did say so, at least to a multitude.

Socr. Does not, then, this expression “to a multitude” mean to the ignorant? for, surely, among the well-informed he will not be better able to persuade than the physician.

Gorg. You say truly.

33. Socr. If then he shall be better able to persuade than the physician, he is better able to persuade than one who possesses knowledge?

Gorg. Certainly.

Socr. Although he is not a physician? is it not so?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. But he who is not a physician must, surely, be unskilled in those things in which a physician is skilled.

Gorg. Clearly so.

Socr. He, therefore, who is ignorant will be more capable than one who possesses knowledge of persuading the ignorant, since a rhetorician is better able to persuade than a physician. Is this the result, or something else?

Gorg. That is the result in this instance.

Socr. The case therefore is the same as concerns a rhetorician and rhetoric with respect to all other arts: I mean, there is no need for it to know the subjects themselves, how they are circumstanced, but only to discover some means of persuasion, so as to appear to the ignorant to know more than those who possess knowledge.

Gorg. Is it not a great advantage, Socrates, without having other arts, but this one only, to be in no respect inferior to artificers?

34. Socr. Whether from this being the case, a rhetorician is inferior, or not inferior to others, we will presently consider, if our argument requires it. But first let us consider this: Whether a rhetorician is in the same condition with reference to the just and the unjust, the base and the honourable, the good and the evil, as he is with reference to health, and other things with which other arts are concerned; I mean, that he does not know them, what is good, or what is evil, what is honourable or what is base, what is just, or what is unjust, but is able to devise some means of persuasion respecting them, so that, though he is ignorant, he appears to the ignorant to know more than one who possesses knowledge; or is it necessary that he should know these, and is it requisite that he who is about to learn rhetoric should have acquired these things before he comes to you; if not, will you, who are a teacher of rhetoric, teach him who comes to you none of these things (for it is not your province), but make him appear to the multitude to know these things, though he does not know them, and to seem to be a good man when he is not so? or shall you be unable to teach him rhetoric at all, unless he knows beforehand the truth respecting these things? What is the case in this respect, Gorgias? And, by Jupiter, as you just now promised, unfold the whole power of rhetoric.

35. Gorg. I think, Socrates, that any one, if he did not know, would learn these things from me.

Socr. Stay; for you say well. If then you make any one a rhetorician, it is necessary that he should know what is just and unjust, either before, or afterwards from your instructions.

Gorg. Certainly.

Socr. What then? Is he who has learnt carpentering, a carpenter, or not?

Gorg. He is.

Socr. And is not he who has learnt music, a musician?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. And he who has learnt medicine, a physician? And so, in the same way, with regard to other things, is not he who has learnt any particular art such a person as each science respectively makes its proficient?

Gorg. Certainly.

Socr. By the same reason, then, does it not follow, that he who has learnt just things is just?

Gorg. Assuredly.

Socr. And he who is just surely performs just actions.

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. Is it not, therefore, necessary[65] that the just man should wish to do just actions?

Gorg. It appears so.

Socr. The just man, therefore, will never wish to act unjustly.

Gorg. Necessarily.

Socr. And it follows from the argument that the rhetorician should be just?

Gorg. Yes.

Socr. A rhetorician, therefore, will never wish to act unjustly?

Gorg. It appears not.

36. Socr. Do you remember that you said a little before that we ought not to accuse the trainers of youth, nor expel them from cities, if a pugilist does not make a good use of the pugilistic art, and acts unjustly? And so, likewise, if a rhetorician make an unjust use of rhetoric, that we should not accuse the teacher, nor expel him from the city, but the person who acts unjustly, and does not make a proper use of rhetoric? Were these things said, or not?

Gorg. They were said.

Socr. But now this very same rhetorician appears incapable of ever acting unjustly. Is it not so?

Gorg. It appears so.

Socr. And it was said, Gorgias, at the commencement of our discussion, that rhetoric is conversant with words, not those respecting the even and the odd, but those respecting the just and the unjust. Was it not so?

37. Gorg. It was.

Socr. When, therefore, you spoke thus, I supposed that rhetoric could never be an unjust thing, since it always discourses concerning justice. But when you said shortly afterwards that a rhetorician might use rhetoric unjustly, then, wondering, and thinking that the two statements did not accord, I made that remark, that if you should think it a gain to be confuted, as I do, it was worth while to continue the discussion, but if not, to give it up. Afterwards, however, when we were investigating the matter, you see yourself that it is again allowed to be impossible for a rhetorician to make an unjust use of rhetoric, and to be willing to act unjustly. How the case really stands, by the dog, Gorgias, requires no little discussion to examine it thoroughly.

38. Pol. What then, Socrates? Have you really such an opinion of rhetoric as you now say? or do you not think that Gorgias was ashamed not to acknowledge that the rhetorician knows what is just, beautiful, and good, and that, if any one should come to him ignorant of these things, he himself would teach them? Then perhaps from this admission some inconsistency in his arguments followed; the very thing which you love, yourself leading the way to such questions. For who do you think will deny that he knows what is just, and can teach it to others? To lead the discussion to such matters is a piece of great rusticity.

Socr. Most excellent Polus! we get ourselves friends and sons, for this express purpose, that when we, through being advanced in years, fall into error, you that are younger, being with us, may correct our life both in deeds and words. If, then, Gorgias and I have fallen into any error in our arguments, do you who are present correct us: you ought to do so. And I wish that if any of the things that have been granted appear to you to have been improperly granted, you would retract whatever you please, only I beg you beware of one thing.

Pol. What is that?

39. Socr. That you would restrain that prolixity of speech which at first you attempted to employ.

Pol. What? shall I not be allowed to speak as much as I please?

Socr. You would indeed be very badly treated, my excellent friend, if, having come to Athens, where of all Greece there is the greatest liberty of speech, you alone should here be deprived of this liberty. But set this against it: if you speak in a prolix manner, and will not answer a question put to you, should not I be badly treated, if I am not allowed to go away and not listen to you? But if you feel any interest in the discussion that has taken place, and wish to correct it, as I just now said, retract whatever you please, and questioning and being questioned in turn, as Gorgias and I did, confute and be confuted. For you profess, surely, to know the same things as Gorgias; is it not so?

Pol. I do.

Socr. Will not you, then, also bid any one ask you what question he pleases, as knowing how to answer him.

Pol. Assuredly.

Socr. Then do whichever of these you please, ask or answer.

40. Pol. I will do so; and do you answer me, Socrates. Since Gorgias appears to you to be in doubt respecting rhetoric, what do you say it is?

Socr. Do you ask me what kind of art I say it is?

Pol. I do.

Socr. To tell you the truth, Polus, it does not appear to me to be an art at all.

Pol. What, then, does rhetoric appear to you to be?

Socr. A thing which you say produced art, in the treatise which I lately read.

Pol. What do you say this is?

Socr. A certain skill.

Pol. Does rhetoric, then, appear to you to be skill?

Socr. To me it does, unless you say otherwise.

Pol. Of what is it the skill?

Socr. Of procuring a certain gratification and pleasure.

Pol. Does not rhetoric, then, appear to you to be a beautiful thing, since it is able to gratify mankind?

Socr. What, Polus? Have you already heard from me what I say it is, that you afterwards ask me, if it does not appear to me to be beautiful?

Pol. Did I not hear you say that it is a certain skill?

Socr. Since, then, you prize giving pleasure, are you willing to give me a little pleasure?

Pol. I am.

41. Socr. Ask me, then, what kind of art cookery appears to me to be.

Pol. I do ask you; what kind of an art is cookery?

Socr. None at all, Polus.

Pol. What is it? say.

Socr. I say, then, it is a certain skill.

Pol. Of what? say.

Socr. I say, of procuring gratification and pleasure, Polus.

Pol. Are cookery and rhetoric the same thing?

Socr. By no means, but a part of the same study.

Pol. Of what study are you speaking?

Socr. I fear it would be too rude to speak the truth, for I hesitate to speak on account of Gorgias, lest he should think that I ridicule his profession. But I know not whether this is the rhetoric which Gorgias studies: for it was not at all clear from our late discussion what his opinion is. But what I call rhetoric is a part of a certain thing which does not rank among things beautiful.

Gorg. Of what thing, Socrates? say, without fear of offending me.

Socr. It appears to me, then, Gorgias, to be a certain study, that does not belong to art, but to a soul that is sagacious and manly, and naturally powerful in its intercourse with men. The sum of it I call flattery. 42. Of this study there appears to me to be many other divisions, and one of them is that of cookery; which, indeed, appears to be an art, but, as I maintain, is not an art, but skill and practice. I also call rhetoric a division of this, and personal decoration, and sophistry, these four divisions relating to four particulars. If, therefore, Polus wishes to enquire, let him enquire, for he has not yet heard what division of flattery I assert rhetoric to be: but he did not observe that I had not yet finished my answer, nevertheless he asks me, if I do not think that it is beautiful. But I shall not answer him, whether I think rhetoric is beautiful or base, till I have first answered what it is. For that would not be right, Polus. If then you wish to enquire, ask me what division of flattery I assert rhetoric to be.

Pol. I ask, then, and do you answer, what division it is.

Socr. Will you understand me when I answer? For rhetoric, in my opinion, is a semblance of a division of the political art.

Pol. What then? Do you say that it is beautiful, or base?

Socr. Base, I say; for I call evil things base: since I must answer you, as now knowing what I mean.

43. Gorg. By Jupiter, Socrates, but I do not myself understand what you mean.

Socr. Very likely, Gorgias: for I have not yet spoken clearly. But Polus here is young and hasty.

Gorg. But leave him alone; and tell me in what way you say that rhetoric is a semblance of a division of the political art.

Socr. I will endeavour to tell you what rhetoric appears to me to be. And if it is not such as I describe it, Polus here will confute me. Do you not call body something, and soul something?

Gorg. How not?

Socr. Do you not, then, think that there is a certain good habit of each of these?

Gorg. I do.

Socr. What then? an apparent good habit, which is not really so? for instance, to explain my meaning, many appear to have a good constitution of body, whom no one but a physician, and a teacher in gymnastics, could easily perceive not to have a good constitution.

Gorg. You say truly.

Socr. I say that there is something of this kind both in the body and in the soul, which causes the body and the soul to appear to be in a good condition, when they are any thing but so.

44. Gorg. Such is the case.

Socr. Come now, if I can, I will explain to you more clearly what I mean. As there are two subject matters, I say there are two arts: and that which relates to the soul I call political, but that which relates to the body I am not able to describe to you off-hand by one name; but of the culture of the body, which is one, I say there are two divisions, one gymnastics, the other medicine. But in the political art I lay down legislation, as corresponding to gymnastics, and the judicial to medicine. Now these respectively communicate with each other, as being concerned about the same subject, medicine with gymnastics, and the judicial art with legislation; yet they in some respect differ from each other. These then being four, and always taking the best possible care, the former of the body, and the latter of the soul, flattery perceiving this, I do not say knowing, but sagaciously guessing it, and having divided itself fourfold, and having stealthily put on the garb of each of these divisions, feigns itself to be that which it has put on; and it is not in the least concerned for what is best; but by means of that which is most pleasant, captivates and seduces ignorance, so as to appear to be of great value. 45. Cookery, therefore, puts on the garb of medicine, and pretends that it knows the aliment best for the body. So that if a cook and a physician had to contend before boys, or before men as foolish as boys, which of the two was acquainted with good and bad aliments, the physician or the cook, the physician would die of hunger. This, then, I call flattery; and I say that a thing of this kind is base, Polus, (for I say this to you,) because it looks to what is agreeable without regard to what is best; and I affirm that it is not an art, but skill, because it has no knowledge of the things which it employs, what they severally are in their nature, so that it is unable to tell the use of each. But I do not call that an art which is a thing without reason. If you are doubtful about these things, I am willing to give you a reason for them. The flattery, then, pertaining to cookery, as I have said, is concealed under medicine; and in the same manner, under gymnastics, personal decoration, which is mischievous, deceitful, ignoble, and illiberal, deceiving by means of gestures and colours, by smoothness and outward appearance; so as to make men put on an adventitious beauty, and neglect that which is their own, and is acquired by gymnastics. 46. That I may not, then, be prolix, I wish to tell you, after the manner of geometricians, (for perhaps you can now follow me,) that what personal decoration is to gymnastics, that is cookery to medicine: or rather thus, that what personal decoration is to gymnastics, that is sophistry to legislation, and that what cookery is to medicine, that is rhetoric to justice. As I have said, they are thus different in their nature: but as they are proximate to each other[66], sophists and rhetoricians are confounded with legislators and judges, and are employed about the same things, and know not what to make of themselves, nor other men of them. For, if the soul did not preside over the body, but the body over itself, and cookery and medicine were not examined into and distinguished by the soul, but the body itself decided, estimating things by its own gratifications, that tenet of Anaxagoras would prevail extensively, friend Polus, (for you surely are acquainted with it,) that is, all things would be confounded together, things medicinal, and healthy, and pertaining to cookery, being undistinguished from each other. 47. You have heard, therefore, what I consider rhetoric to be, corresponding to cookery in the soul, as that in the body. Perhaps, however, I have acted absurdly, in that, though I do not allow you to make a long speech, I myself have extended mine to a great length. But I deserve to be pardoned: for when I spoke briefly you did not understand me, nor were you able to make use of the answer that I gave you, but required an explanation. If, therefore, when you answer, I in my turn shall not know what to make of it, do you also prolong your discourse: but, if I do know, suffer me to do so; for that is fair. And now, if you can make any use of this answer, do so.

Pol. What do you say, then? Does rhetoric appear to you to be flattery?

Socr. I said, indeed, that it was a division of flattery. But do not you remember, Polus, though so young? What will you do by and by?

Pol. Does it seem to you, then, that good rhetoricians are to be esteemed as vile flatterers in cities?

Socr. Do you ask this as a question, or are you beginning an argument?

Pol. I ask a question.

48. Socr. They appear to me to be of no estimation at all.

Pol. How to be of no estimation? Have they not the greatest power in cities?

Socr. Not, if you mean that to have power is a good to him who possesses it.

Pol. But I do say so.

Socr. In that case, rhetoricians appear to me to possess the least power of all men in cities.

Pol. But what? do they not, like tyrants, slay whomever they please, and deprive of their property, and banish from cities whomever they think fit?

Socr. By the dog, Polus, I am doubtful with respect to each of the things you say, whether you assert these things yourself, and declare your own opinion, or ask me.

Pol. I ask you.

Socr. Be it so, my friend. Then you ask me two questions at once.

Pol. How two?

Socr. Did you not just now say, that rhetoricians, like tyrants, slay whomever they please, and deprive them of their property, and banish from cities whomever they think fit?

Pol. I did.

49. Socr. I say, then, that these are two questions, and I will give you an answer to both. For I affirm, Polus, that rhetoricians and tyrants have very little power in cities, as I just now said: for they do scarcely any thing that they wish, though they do what to them appears to be best.

Pol. Is not this, then, to possess great power?

Socr. It is not, at least as Polus says.

Pol. I say not? On the contrary, I say it is.

Socr. By Jupiter, not you. For you said that to have great power is a good to him who possesses it.

Pol. And I repeat it.

Socr. Do you think, then, it is a good for any one to do what appears to him to be best, when he is void of understanding? And do you call this to possess great power?

50. Pol. Not I.

Socr. Prove, therefore, that rhetoricians are possessed of understanding, and that rhetoric is an art, and not flattery, if you mean to confute me. But, if you will leave me unconfuted, rhetoricians and tyrants, who do in cities whatever they please, will derive no good from thence. Power is, as you say, good; but to do, without understanding, whatever one pleases, you yourself admit is an evil. Is it not so?

Pol. I do.

Socr. How then can rhetoricians or tyrants have great power in cities, unless Socrates is persuaded by Polus to admit that they do what they wish?

Pol. What a strange man!

Socr. I deny that they do what they wish: but confute me.

Pol. Did you not just now admit that they do what appears to them to be best?

Socr. And I now admit it.

Pol. They do, therefore, what they wish.

Socr. I deny it.

Pol. But they do what appears best to them?

Socr. I grant it.

Pol. You speak absurdly and monstrously, Socrates.

[51.] Socr. Do not accuse me, most excellent Polus, that I may address you in your own style; but, if you have any other question to ask me, shew that I am deceived; if not, do you answer me.

Pol. I am willing to answer, in order that I may know what you mean.

Socr. Whether, then, do men appear to you to wish the thing that they do from time to time, or that for the sake of which they do the thing that they do? As for instance, do those who drink medicine from physicians appear to you to wish the thing that they do, viz., to drink the medicine, and suffer pain, or do they wish to be well, for the sake of which they drink the medicine?

Pol. It is clear they wish to be well, for the sake of which they drink the medicine.

Socr. In like manner those who sail on the sea, and those who carry on any other commercial business, do not wish the thing that they do from time to time: for who wishes to sail and to encounter danger, and to be harassed with business; but the object for which they sail is to acquire riches; for they sail for the sake of riches.

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. Is it not so then in all cases? whosoever does any thing for the sake of some thing else, does not wish the thing that he does, but that for the sake of which he does it.

Pol. Yes.

52. Socr. Is there any thing in the world, then, that is not either good or evil, or between these, neither good nor evil?

Pol. It must needs be so, Socrates.

Socr. Do you not admit then, that wisdom, and health, and riches, and other things of the same kind, are good, but their contraries evil?

Pol. I do.

Socr. By the things that are neither good nor evil do you not mean such as sometimes partake of good, sometimes of evil, and sometimes of neither, as to sit, to walk, to run, and to sail, and again, stones, wood, and other things of the same kind? Are not these the things that you mean? Or do you call certain other things neither good nor evil?

Pol. No, but these.

Socr. Whether, therefore, do men, when they do these intermediate things, do them for the sake of the good, or the good for the sake of the intermediate.

Pol. The intermediate, surely, for the sake of the good.

Socr. Pursuing the good, therefore, we both walk when we walk, thinking it better, and, on the contrary, we stand when we stand, for the sake of the same thing, viz., the good. Is it not so?

Pol. Yes.

53. Socr. Do we not, therefore, if we slay any one, slay, or banish, or deprive him of his possessions, thinking that it is better for us to do so than not?

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. They, therefore, who do these things do them all for the sake of good.

Pol. I allow it.

Socr. Are we not agreed, then, that we do not wish those things which we do for the sake of something else, but that for the sake of which we do them?

Pol. By all means.

Socr. We do not, then, wish simply to slay, or banish from cities, or deprive any one of his possessions; but if these things are useful we wish to do them, but if they are hurtful we do not wish to do them. For we wish, as you admit, things that are good, but we do not wish such as are neither good nor evil, nor such as are evil. Is it not so? Do I seem to you, Polus, to speak the truth, or not? Why do you not answer?

Pol. You speak the truth.

Socr. Since then we are agreed on these things, if any one slays, banishes from a city, or deprives another of his possessions, whether he is a tyrant or a rhetorician, thinking that it is better for him so to do, though it is really worse, he surely does what seems fit to him: is it not so?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. Does he, then, do what he wishes, if these things are really evil? Why do you not answer?

Pol. He does not appear to me to do what he wishes.

54. Socr. Is it possible, then, that such a man can have great power in the supposed city, if, according to your admission, to have great power is a good?

Pol. It is not possible.

Socr. I spoke truly, then, when I said that it is possible for a man to do what he pleases in a city, and yet not have great power, nor do what he wishes.

Pol. As if, Socrates, you yourself would not like to be allowed to do what you please in a city, rather than not, and would not be envious when you saw any one either slaying whom he pleased, or taking away his possessions, or putting him in bonds.

Socr. Do you mean justly or unjustly?

Pol. Whichever he should do, is he not in either case to be envied?

Socr. Good words, I pray you, Polus.

Pol. But why?

Socr. Because it is not right, either to envy those that are not to be envied, or the wretched; but to pity them.

Pol. What say you? Does such appear to you to be the case with the men of whom I am speaking?

55. Socr. How can it be otherwise?

Pol. Does he, then, who slays whom he pleases, slaying him justly, appear to you to be wretched, and an object of pity?

Socr. Not at all; nor indeed is he to be envied.

Pol. Did you not say just now that he was wretched?

Socr. I said, my friend, that he is wretched who slays another unjustly, and more than that, to be pitied; but that he who slays another justly is not to be envied.

Pol. He surely who dies unjustly is to be pitied, and is wretched.

Socr. Less so, Polus, than he who slays him; and less than he who dies justly?

Pol. How so, Socrates?

Socr. Thus; because to act unjustly is the greatest of evils.

Pol. But is this really the greatest of evils? Is it not a greater evil to suffer unjustly?

Socr. By no means.

Pol. Had you, then, rather suffer unjustly than act unjustly?

Socr. I should wish neither of these: but if I must necessarily either act unjustly or suffer unjustly, I should choose rather to suffer unjustly than to act unjustly.

Pol. Would you not, then, consent to be a tyrant?

Socr. I would not, if by being a tyrant you mean the same that I do.

Pol. I mean by it what I just now said, to have the power to do in a city whatever one pleases; to slay and banish, and do every thing according to one’s own pleasure.

56. Socr. My excellent friend, attend to what I say, and confute me if you can. If, when the forum is full, I should take a dagger under my arm, and say to you, Polus, a certain wonderful power and tyranny has just now fallen to my lot: for, if it seems fit to me that any one of these men whom you see ought immediately to die, he shall die; and if it seems fit to me that any one of them ought to have his head broken, he shall immediately have it broken; or if that his garment should be torn to pieces, it shall be torn to pieces: so great is the power I possess in the city. And if, on your disbelieving me, I should shew you the dagger, perhaps, on seeing it, you would say: According to this, Socrates, all men may have great power, since any house that you please might be burnt in this way, and even the dock-yards of the Athenians, and the triremes, and all the shipping, as well public as private. But surely this is not to possess great power, to do whatever one pleases: do you think so?

Pol. Certainly not in this way.

Socr. Can you tell me, then, why you blame a power of this kind?

Pol. I can.

Socr. Why then? tell me.

Pol. Because it must needs be that one who acts thus should be punished.

Socr. But is not the being punished an evil?

Pol. Certainly.

57. Socr. Therefore, my excellent friend, to have great power appears to you to be, when advantage attends one’s doing what one pleases, and then it is a good; and this, as it seems, is to have great power; but if not, it is an evil, and to have little power. Let us consider this too. Are we not agreed that it is sometimes better to do the things which we just now spoke of, to slay, to banish men, and deprive them of their property, and sometimes not?

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. This, then, as it seems, is agreed on both by you and me?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. When, then, do you say it is better to do these things? Tell me what limit you establish?

Pol. Do you, Socrates, answer this question.

Socr. I say, then, Polus, since it is more agreeable to you to hear it from me, when any one does these things justly, it is better, but when unjustly, it is worse.

Pol. Forsooth, it is difficult to confute you, Socrates! but could not even a child convince you that you do not speak the truth?

Socr. I should be very much obliged to the child, and equally so to you, if you can confute me, and free me from my extravagances. But be not weary in obliging a man who is your friend, but confute me.

58. Pol. However, Socrates, there is no need to confute you by ancient examples. For things that have recently happened are sufficient to confute you, and to prove that many men who have acted unjustly are happy.

Socr. What are these?

Pol. Do you not see, for instance, this Archelaus, son of Perdiccas, ruler of Macedonia?

Socr. If not, at all events I hear of him.

Pol. Does he appear to you to be happy or miserable?

Socr. I do not know, Polus: for I have never yet had any intercourse with him.

Pol. What then? if you had intercourse with him, should you know? And do you not know otherwise, from the circumstances of the case, that he is happy?

Socr. By Jupiter, certainly not.

Pol. It is evident then, Socrates, you will say, that you do not even know whether the great king is happy?

Socr. And I should say the truth. For I do not know what his state is with regard to enlightenment and justice.

Pol. What? Does all happiness consist in this?

Socr. In my opinion, Polus. For I say that an honest and good man or woman is happy; but an unjust and wicked one is miserable.

Pol. This Archelaus, then, is miserable, according to your account?

Socr. At least, my friend, if he is unjust.

59. Pol. But how can he be otherwise than unjust, who had no right to the empire which he now possesses, as he was born of a woman who was the slave of Alcetas, brother of Perdiccas, and according to justice was the slave of Alcetas, and, if he had wished to do what is just, would have served Alcetas as a slave, and would have been happy, according to your account? whereas now he has become wonderfully miserable, since he has committed the greatest injustice. For, first of all, having sent for this his master and uncle, as if he would restore the government which Perdiccas had taken from him, and having entertained and intoxicated both him and his son Alexander, his own cousin, and nearly his equal in age, he forced them into a carriage, and having carried them off by night, had their throats cut and made away with them both. And after he had committed these wrongs, he was not aware that he had become most miserable, and did not repent, but shortly afterwards, he did not wish to become happy by nurturing his legitimate brother, the son of Perdiccas, a child about seven years of age, to whom the government of right belonged, and by restoring it to him; but having thrown him into a well, and suffocated him, he told his mother Cleopatra that he had fallen in in pursuing a goose, and so met with his death. 60. Wherefore since he has committed the greatest wrongs of all in Macedonia, he is the most miserable of all the Macedonians, and not the most happy. And perhaps there are some among the Athenians, beginning with you, who would rather be any other of the Macedonians than Archelaus.

Socr. At the beginning of our conference, Polus, I praised you, because you appeared to me to be well instructed in rhetoric, though you had neglected the art of dialectics. And now, what else is this reasoning, by which even a child could confute me, and I, as you suppose, am now confuted by this reasoning of yours, when I said that a man who acts unjustly is not happy? How so, my friend? For I do not grant you any one of the things you assert.

Pol. Because you are not willing to do so; though it appears to you as I say.

Socr. My excellent friend, you attempt to confute me rhetorically, like those who think they confute their adversaries in courts of justice. For there some fancy they confute others when they produce many reputable witnesses in favour of what they say, whereas the adverse party produces some one only, or none at all. 61. But this mode of confutation is worth nothing with reference to truth. For sometimes a man may be borne down by the false testimony of many witnesses who seem to be somewhat. And now, with respect to what you say, almost all the Athenians and strangers will agree with you, and if you wish to produce witnesses against me to prove that I do not speak the truth, there will testify for you, if you wish it, Nicias, son of Niceratus, and his brothers with him, who gave the tripods that stand in a row in the temple of Bacchus; or again, if you wish it, Aristocrates, son of Scellius, who gave that beautiful offering in the temple of Pythian Apollo; or if you wish it, the whole house of Pericles, or any other family, that you may think proper to choose out of this city. But I, who am but one, do not agree with you. For you do not convince me by arguments, but producing many false witnesses against me, you endeavour to eject me from my substance and the truth. But I, unless I shall be able to adduce you, who are one, as a witness agreeing with what I say, shall think that I have accomplished nothing worthy of mention with respect to the subject of our discussion; nor shall I think that you have done so, unless I, being one, alone testify for you, and you dismiss all those others. 62. This, then, is one mode of refutation, as you and many others think: but there is also another mode, which, on the contrary, I adopt. Let us, therefore, compare them with each other, and consider whether they differ at all from one another. For the matters about which we differ are by no means trifling; but they are indeed such as to know which is most honourable, and not to know most disgraceful, for the sum of them is to know, or to be ignorant, who is happy, and who is not. For instance, in the first place, with respect to the subject of our present discussion, you think it possible that a man may be happy who acts unjustly and is unjust; since you think that Archelaus, though unjust, is happy. Must we not suppose that such is your opinion?

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. But I say it is impossible. On this one point, then, we differ. Be it so. But will he who acts unjustly be happy if he meet with justice and is punished?

Pol. By no means, for in that case he would be most miserable.

Socr. If, therefore, he who acts unjustly does not meet with the punishment he deserves, according to your account he will be happy.

Pol. So I say.

63. Socr. But, according to my opinion, Polus, he who acts unjustly, and is unjust, is in every way miserable; though more miserable if he does not suffer punishment, and does not meet with chastisement for his unjust actions; but less miserable if he suffers punishment, and meets with his just deserts both from gods and men.

Pol. You attempt, Socrates, to advance strange paradoxes.

Socr. Yet I shall endeavour, my friend, to make you say the same things as I do: for I consider you as a friend. Now, then, the things about which we differ are these: and do you also consider. I said in a former part of our discussion, that to commit an injustice is worse than to suffer one.

Pol. Just so.

Socr. But you say it is worse to suffer an injustice.

Pol. Yes.

Socr. And I said that they who act unjustly are miserable, and was confuted by you.

Pol. You were so, by Jupiter.

Socr. At least as you think, Polus.

Pol. And I probably thought the truth.

Socr. But you, on the contrary, said that they who act unjustly are happy, if they do not suffer punishment.

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. But I say that they are most miserable; and that they who suffer punishment are less so. Do you wish to refute this also?

64. Pol. ButPol. But this is more difficult to refute than the former, Socrates.

Socr. By no means, Polus, but it is impossible; for truth can never be refuted.

Pol. How say you? If a man should be detected acting unjustly, as in attempting to compass absolute power, and being detected should be put to the torture, be mutilated, and have his eyes burnt out, and after having himself suffered many other great and various torments, and having moreover seen his children and wife suffer the same, should at last be crucified, or covered with pitch and burnt, will he be more happy, than if, having escaped punishment, he should become a tyrant, and ruling in the city, should pass through life doing whatever he pleases, being envied, and accounted happy, both by citizens and strangers? Do you say that it is impossible to refute these things?

Socr. You are now trying to terrify me, noble Polus, and do not refute me; but just now you adduced witnesses. However, remind me of a trifling circumstance; did you say, if a person should attempt unjustly to compass absolute power?

Pol. I did.

Socr. In that case, neither of them will ever be happier than the other, neither he who has unjustly acquired absolute power, nor he who has been punished. For, of two miserable persons, one cannot be happier than the other; but he is more miserable who escapes punishment and acquires absolute power. 65. What is this, Polus? do you laugh? Is this another species of refutation, when any one asserts any thing, to laugh at him, and not refute him?

Pol. Do you not think you are already refuted, Socrates, when you say such things as no man in the world would assert? for ask any one of these.

Socr. Polus, I am not among the number of politicians: and last year, happening to be chosen a senator, since my tribe held the presidency and it was necessary for me to collect the votes, I occasioned laughter, because I did not know how to collect them. Do not, then, require me to collect the votes of those who are present. But if you have no better mode of refutation than this, as I just now said, give the question up to me in my turn, and make trial of that mode of refutation which I think ought to be adopted. For I know how to procure one witness of what I say, that is, the person with whom I am discoursing, but I let alone the multitude; and I know how to take the vote of one person, but I do not even discourse with the multitude. Consider, then, whether you are willing in your turn to give me an opportunity of refuting by answering the questions I shall put to you. For I think, that you and I, and other men, are of opinion, that to commit injustice is worse than to suffer it; and not to be punished, than to be punished.

66. Pol. But I, on the contrary, think that neither myself nor any other man is of this opinion. For would you rather suffer injustice than commit it?

Socr. Yes, and you, and all other men.

Pol. Far from it; neither would you, nor I, nor any other man.

Socr. Will you not answer, then?

Pol. By all means. For I am anxious to know what you will say.

Socr. Tell me then, that you may know, as if I asked you from the beginning: whether does it appear to you, Polus, worse to commit an injustice or to suffer one?

Pol. To suffer one, in my opinion.

Socr. What then? whether is it more base to commit an injustice or to suffer one? Answer me.

Pol. To commit an injustice.

Socr. Is it not, therefore, worse, since it is more base?

Pol. By no means.

Socr. I understand. You do not think, as it seems, that the beautiful and the good, and the evil and the base, are the same?

Pol. Certainly not.

Socr. But what do you say to this? Beautiful things in general, such as bodies, colours, forms, sounds, and pursuits, do you call them severally beautiful, without reference to any thing else? As, for instance, first of all, with respect to beautiful bodies, do you not say that they are beautiful, on account of their usefulness, in reference to the particular thing for which each is useful, or on account of some pleasure, if in being seen they give delight to the beholders? Have you any thing else besides this to say respecting beauty of body?

Pol. I have not.

67. Socr. Do you not, then, denominate all other things in the same manner beautiful, such as forms and colours, either on account of some pleasure, or utility, or both?

Pol. I do.

Socr. And is not the case the same as to sounds, and every thing that relates to music?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. And moreover, with respect to laws and pursuits, they surely are beautiful, for no other reason except that they are either useful, or pleasant, or both?

Pol. So it appears to me.

Socr. And is it not the same with the beauty of the sciences?

Pol. Certainly. And now, Socrates, you define beautifully, in defining the beautiful by pleasure and good.

Socr. Must not, therefore, the base be defined by the contrary, by pain and evil?

Pol. Necessarily so.

Socr. When, therefore, of two beautiful things, one is more beautiful than the other, it is more beautiful because it excels in one or both of these, either in pleasure, or utility, or both.

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. And when of two things one is more base than the other, it must be more base because it exceeds in pain or evil: is not this necessarily so?

Pol. Yes.

68. Socr. Come then; what did we say just now respecting committing injustice and suffering it? Did you not say that to suffer injustice is more evil, but to commit it, more base?

Pol. I did say so.

Socr. Therefore, since it is more base to commit injustice than to suffer it, it must be more base because it is more painful and exceeds in pain, or evil, or both. Is not this also necessary?

Pol. How can it be otherwise?

Socr. First, then, let us consider whether to commit injustice exceeds in pain the suffering it; and whether they who commit injustice feel greater pain than they who suffer it.

Pol. This is by no means the case, Socrates.

Socr. It does not, then, exceed in pain?

Pol. By no means.

Socr. Therefore, if it does not exceed in pain, it will no longer exceed in both.

Pol. It appears not.

Socr. It remains, therefore, that it exceeds in the other.

Pol. Yes.

Socr. In the evil.

Pol. So it seems.

Socr. Since, therefore, to commit injustice exceeds in evil, it must be more evil than to suffer injustice.

Pol. Evidently so.

69. Socr. Was it not admitted by men in general, and by you to me formerly, that it is more base to commit injustice than to suffer it?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. Now, however, it appears to be worse.

Pol. So it seems.

Socr. Would you, then, rather choose that which is worse and more base, than that which is less so? Do not hesitate to answer, Polus, (for you will not be injured by so doing,) but answer, giving yourself up generously to the discussion as to a physician; and either admit or deny the question I ask.

Pol. Then I should not rather choose it, Socrates.

Socr. Would any other man in the world?

Pol. To me it appears not, according to what has been said.

Socr. I therefore said truly, that neither you, nor I, nor any other man in the world, would rather choose to commit injustice than to suffer it; for it is worse to do so.

Pol. So it appears.

Socr. You see then, Polus, that my mode of proof when compared with your mode of proof, does not at all resemble it; but all others agree with you, except myself. For my part you alone are sufficient for my purpose, agreeing with me and testifying for me; and I, having asked your opinion only, disregard that of others. Let this then be settled between us. 70. And next, let us proceed to consider that which we doubted about in the second place, viz. whether it is the greatest of evils for one who has committed injustice to be punished, as you thought, or whether it is not a greater evil not to be punished, as I thought. And let us consider it thus: To suffer punishment and to be justly chastised, when one has committed injustice, do you not call the same thing?

Pol. I do.

Socr. Can you say, then, that all just things are not beautiful, so far as they are just? When you have well considered, answer me.

Pol. It appears to me that they are, Socrates.

Socr. Consider this also: When a man does any thing, must there not necessarily be something which is passive to him as an agent?

Pol. It appears so to me.

Socr. And does not the patient suffer what the agent does, and just such a thing as the agent does? I mean in this way: If any one strikes, is it not necessary that something should be struck?

Pol. It is necessary.

Socr. And if the striker strikes hard or swiftly, must not the thing struck be stricken accordingly?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. That which is struck, then, undergoes a passion corresponding to that which the striker does.

Pol. Certainly.

71. Socr. In like manner, if any one burns, is it not necessary that something should be burnt?

Pol. How can it be otherwise?

Socr. And if he burns vehemently or painfully, that which is burnt must be burnt according as the burner burns?

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. So, if any one cuts any thing, is not the reasoning the same? for something is cut.

Pol. Yes.

Socr. And if the cut is large or deep, or painful, that which is cut is cut with such a cut as the cutter cuts.

Pol. It appears so.

Socr. In a word, then, see if you grant what I just now said respecting every thing, viz., that according as the agent does, so the patient suffers.

Pol. I do grant it.

Socr. These things, then, being agreed on, whether is the being punished, to suffer, or to do something?

Pol. Necessarily, Socrates, it is to suffer.

Socr. Must it not, therefore, be by some agent?

Pol. Undoubtedly: by him who chastises.

Socr. But does not he who chastises rightly, chastise justly?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. Doing what is just, or not?

Pol. What is just.

Socr. Then, does not he who is chastised, when he is deservedly punished, suffer justly?

Pol. It appears so.

Socr. But what is just has been acknowledged to be beautiful.

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. Of these, then, the one does, and the other, he that is chastised, suffers that which is beautiful.

Pol. Yes.

Socr. And if beautiful, then good; for that which is beautiful is either pleasant or useful.

Pol. Necessarily so.

Socr. He therefore who is punished suffers that which is good.

Pol. So it seems.

72. Socr. He is therefore benefited.

Pol. Yes.

Socr. Is it with such a benefit as I suppose? Does he become better as to his soul, since he is chastised justly?

Pol. That is probable.

Socr. He, therefore, who is punished is freed from a vice of the soul.

Pol. Yes.

Socr. Is he not freed, then, from the greatest evil? Consider the matter thus: in the condition of a man’s property do you perceive any other evil than poverty?

Pol. No other than poverty.

Socr. Well, in the constitution of the body? would you say that weakness, disease, deformity, and the like, are evils?

Pol. I should.

Socr. Do you not think, too, that there is a certain depravity in the soul?

Pol. How otherwise?

Socr. Do you not then call this injustice, ignorance, cowardice, and the like?

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. Have you not said, then, that of these three, property, body, and soul, there are three corresponding evils, poverty, disease, injustice?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. Then which of these evils is the most base? Is it not injustice, and, in a word, the depravity of the soul?

Pol. By far.

Socr. But, if it is most base, then is it not also the worst?

Pol. How mean you, Socrates?

73. Socr. Thus. In every case, that which is most base is so because, from what has been before admitted, it occasions the greatest pain, or harm, or both.

Pol. By all means.

Socr. But injustice and the whole depravity of the soul, have been just now admitted by us to be most base.

Pol. They have been so admitted.

Socr. Is it not, therefore, the most troublesome and most base of these depravities, because it exceeds either in troublesomeness or hurtfulness, or both?

Pol. Necessarily so.

Socr. Is then the being unjust, intemperate, cowardly, and ignorant, more painful than to be poor and diseased?

Pol. It does not appear so to me, Socrates, from what has been said.

Socr. The depravity of the soul, then, is the most base of all, because it exceeds the others by some extraordinarily great harm and wonderful evil, since, according to your argument, it is not exceeded in painfulness.

Pol. So it appears.

Socr. But, surely, that which exceeds in the greatest harmfulness must be the greatest evil of all?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. Then injustice, intemperance, and the other depravities of the soul, are the greatest evils of all.

Pol. So it appears.

74. Socr. What art, then, frees from poverty? Is it not that of money-making?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. What, from disease? Is it not the medicinal?

Pol. Necessarily so.

Socr. What, from depravity and injustice? If in this way you cannot readily answer, consider it thus: whither, and to whom, do we take those that are diseased in body?

Pol. To physicians, Socrates.

Socr. Whether those who act unjustly, and are intemperate?

Pol. Do you mean, to the judges?

Socr. Is it not, then, that they may be punished?

Pol. I grant it.

Socr. Do not then those who chastise rightly chastise by employing a certain justice?

Pol. Clearly.

Socr. The art of money-making, therefore, frees from poverty, medicine from disease, and justice from intemperance and injustice.

Pol. So it appears.

Socr. Which of these, therefore, is the most beautiful?

Pol. Of what are you speaking?

Socr. The art of money-making, medicine, and justice.

Pol. Justice, Socrates, is far superior.

Socr. Does it not, then, produce the greatest pleasure, or utility, or both, since it is the most beautiful?

Pol. Yes.

75. Socr. Is it, then, pleasant to be under the care of a physician? and do they who are under such charge rejoice?

Pol. It does not appear so to me.

Socr. But it is useful. Is it not?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. For they are freed from a great evil; so that it is advantageous to endure pain and be restored to health.

Pol. How can it be otherwise?

Socr. Would the man then, thus be most happy with respect to his body who is under the care of a physician, or who is not diseased at all?

Pol. Clearly he that is not diseased.

Socr. For this is not happiness, as it seems, the being freed from evil; but the never possessing it at all.

Pol. It is so.

Socr. But what? Of two men that have evil, either in body or soul, which is the more miserable, he that is under the care of a physician, and is freed from the evil, or he that is not under the care of a physician, and retains the evil?

Pol. It appears to me, he that is not under the care of a physician.

Socr. And is not punishment the being freed from the greatest evil, depravity?

Pol. It is.

Socr. For justice produces a sound mind, makes men more just, and becomes the medicine of depravity?

Pol. Yes.

76. Socr. He, then, is most happy who has no vice in his soul, since this is proved to be the greatest of evils.

Pol. It is evident.

Socr. The second, surely, is he who is freed from it.

Pol. So it seems.

Socr. But this is he who is admonished, reproved, and punished.

Pol. Yes.

Socr. He, therefore, lives worst, who is afflicted with injustice, and is not freed from it.

Pol. It appears so.

Socr. Is not, then, he one who, having committed the greatest injustice, and employing the greatest injustice, contrives that he may be neither admonished, nor chastised, nor punished, as you said was the case with Archelaus, and other tyrants, rhetoricians, and powerful men?

Pol. So it seems.

Socr. For these, my excellent friend, have managed much the same as one who being afflicted with the worst diseases should contrive not to have his bodily maladies corrected or subjected to medical treatment, fearing, as if he were a child, to be burnt and cut, because these operations are painful. Does it not appear so to you?

Pol. It does.

Socr. Being ignorant, as it seems, of what health is, and a good habit of the body. 77. Now from what we have just agreed on, Polus, those who flee from punishment appear to do something of this kind; they look to the pain attending it, but are blind to its utility, and are ignorant how much more miserable than an unhealthy body it is to dwell with an unhealthy soul, that is corrupt, unjust, and impious. Whence they do every thing that they may not be punished, nor freed from the greatest evil, procuring for themselves riches and friends, and the power of speaking as persuasively as possible. But if we have agreed on what is true, Polus, do you perceive what consequences result from our discourse? do you wish that we should draw the conclusions from them?

Pol. I do, unless you think otherwise.

Socr. Does it not follow that injustice and to act unjustly is the greatest evil?

Pol. It appears so.

Socr. And to suffer punishment was proved to be a means of freedom from this evil.

Pol. It appears to be so.

Socr. But not to suffer punishment is a continuance of the evil.

Pol. Yes.

Socr. To act unjustly, therefore, is the second of evils in magnitude; but to act unjustly and not to suffer punishment is the greatest and chief of all evils.

Pol. So it seems.

78. Socr. Was not this the point, my friend, with respect to which we differed, you considering Archelaus happy, for that having committed the greatest injustice he suffers no punishment; but I on the contrary thinking, that whether Archelaus, or any other man whatever, is not punished when he commits injustice, he must needs be far more wretched than all other men, and that he who commits injustice is ever more wretched than he who suffers it, and he that is not punished than he that is. Are not these the things that I said?

Pol. Yes.

Socr. And has it not been demonstrated that they were said truly?

Pol. It appears so.

Socr. Well then, if these things are true, Polus, what is the great utility of rhetoric? For, from what has been now agreed on, every one ought especially to beware of acting unjustly, for that, if he does so act, he will sustain great evil. Is it not so?

Pol. Certainly.

Socr. And if a man has committed injustice, either himself, or any one else for whom he has regard, he ought of his own accord to betake himself thither, where as soon as possible he will be punished, to a judge as to a physician, taking every pains lest the disease of injustice becoming inveterate should render the soul corrupt and incurable; or what must we say, Polus, if our former admissions are to stand? Do not these things necessarily harmonize with the former in this, but in no other way?

79. Pol. For what else can we say, Socrates?

Socr. For the purpose, then, of excusing injustice, our own, or that of our parents, or friends, or children, or country, when it acts unjustly, rhetoric is of no use to us at all, Polus, unless on the contrary, any one supposes that he ought especially to accuse himself, and afterwards his relatives, and any other of his friends, who may have acted unjustly, and not conceal the crime, but bring it to light, in order that he may be punished, and restored to health; moreover, that he should compel both himself and the others to lay aside fear, and with his eyes shut, and in a manly way, deliver himself up, as to a physician, to be cut and cauterised, pursuing the good and the beautiful, without paying any regard to what is painful; if he has committed a wrong worthy of stripes, delivering himself up to be beaten, if of bonds, to be bound, if of a fine, to pay it, if of exile, to be banished, if of death, to die, being himself the first accuser of himself, and others his relatives, not sparing either himself or them, but employing rhetoric for this very purpose, that, the crimes being exposed, they may be freed from the greatest of evils, injustice. Shall we say thus, Polus, or not?

80. Pol. These things appear to me, Socrates, to be absurd; but it must be admitted, they accord with what was before said.

Socr. Must not, therefore, either our former conclusions be done away with, or these results necessarily follow?

Pol. Yes; such is the case.

Socr. Contrariwise, if it is requisite to do ill to any one, whether to an enemy, or any other person, provided only that he is not himself injured by his enemy; for this is to be guarded against; but if an enemy injures another, we should endeavour by all possible means, both by actions and words, that he may not be punished, nor brought before a judge: but, if he is brought before him, we should contrive so that our enemy may escape, and not suffer punishment: and if he has robbed us of a great quantity of gold, that he should not restore it, but should retain it and spend it on himself and his associates unjustly and impiously; and if he has committed an injustice worthy of death, we should contrive that he may not die, if possible never, but that he may be immortal in depravity, or if this cannot be, that he may live in this state for as long a period as possible. 81. For such purposes, Polus, rhetoric appears to me to be useful, since to him who does not intend to act unjustly, its utility does not appear to me to be great, if indeed it is of any utility at all, as in the former part of our discussion it appeared in no respect to be.

Cal. Tell me, Chærephon, does Socrates say these things seriously, or is he jesting?

Chær. He appears to me, Callicles, to speak most seriously; but there is nothing like asking him himself.

Cal. You are right, by the gods, and I desire to do it. Tell me, Socrates, whether we must say that you are now speaking seriously, or jesting? For, if you are speaking seriously, and if what you say is true, is not our human life altogether subverted, and are not all our actions, as it seems, contrary to what they ought to be?

Socr. If there were not a certain passion, Callicles, common to men, to some, one, to others, another, but each of us had a peculiar passion different from others, it would not be easy for one to make known one’s own affection to another. 82. I speak thus because I perceive that you and I are now affected in the same manner; for, being two, we each of us love two things: I, Alcibiades, son of Clinias, and philosophy, you, the Demus[67] of the Athenians, and the son of Pyrilampes. Now I continually perceive that you, eloquent as you are, are unable to contradict the objects of your love, in whatever they may say, and in whatever manner they may assert a thing takes place, but you are changed by them upwards and downwards. For, in the assembly, if, when you say any thing, the Athenian people say that it is not so, you, changing your opinion, say what they wish; and you are affected in the same manner towards that beautiful youth, the son of Pyrilampes; for you cannot bring yourself to oppose the wishes and discourses of the objects of your love: so that, if any one, when from time to time you say what you do to please them, should wonder at its absurdity, perhaps you would say to him, if you wished to speak the truth, that unless some one shall cause the objects of your love to desist from such discourses, neither can you desist from saying what you do. Think, therefore, that you need to hear the like from me; and do not wonder that I speak thus, but cause philosophy, my favourite, to desist from speaking so. For, my dear friend, she always says what you now hear from me, and is much less fickle than my other loves. 83. For the son of Clinias, here, says different things at different times; but philosophy always the same. And she says the things that you now wonder at; and you have just heard what she said. Either, therefore, confute her, as to what I just now said, and prove that to act unjustly, and when one has acted unjustly not to suffer punishment, is not the worst of all evils; or, if you suffer this to remain unconfuted, then, by the dog, the deity of the Egyptians, Callicles will not agree with you, but will differ from you, Callicles, through the whole of his life. However, I think, my excellent friend, that it would be better for me that my lyre should be out of tune and discordant, and the choir of which I might be the leader, and that most men should not agree with me, but oppose what I say, rather than that I, being one, should be discordant with and contradict myself.

Cal. You seem to me, Socrates, to act the boaster in your discourses, as being in truth a mob-orator: and now you thus declaim, since Polus has met with the same treatment as he objected Gorgias met with from you. 84. For he said that Gorgias, when asked by you, whether if one should come to him, wishing to learn rhetoric without being acquainted with justice, Gorgias would teach him, was ashamed, and said that he would teach him, on account of the custom among men, because they would be displeased if any one were to refuse: and that from this admission Gorgias was compelled to contradict himself, and you were delighted with this very circumstance; for which he then ridiculed you, as it appeared to me, very properly. And now he himself has in turn been treated the very same way; I, however, in this particular, do not commend Polus, because he has conceded to you, that to commit injustice is more base than to suffer it. For, from this admission, he being entangled by you in the discussion, has been brought to a check, because he was ashamed to say what he thought. For you in reality, Socrates, while you profess to be in search of truth, lead to such vulgar and popular things as these which are not beautiful by nature, but by law. For these are, for the most part, contrary to each other, nature and law. 85. If any one, therefore, is ashamed, and dares not say what he thinks, he is compelled to contradict himself. And you, having perceived this subtle distinction, deal unfairly in the discussion; for, if any one speaks of any thing according to law, you cunningly ask him about it according to nature, and if he speaks of things according to nature, you ask him about them according to law; as just now in the present discussion, respecting committing injustice and suffering it, when Polus spoke of that which is more base according to nature, you followed up the law as if it were according to nature. For, by nature, every thing is more base which is also worse, as to suffer injustice, but by law to commit it. For to submit to injustice is not the condition of a man, but of a slave, to whom it is better to die than to live, since, being injured and disgraced, he is unable to defend himself or any one else for whom he has regard. But I think, those who make the laws are the weak and the many: they, therefore, make laws with a view to themselves and their own advantage, and with the same view they bestow praise and impute blame; and to terrify such men as are stronger, and who are able to acquire more, that they may not acquire more than themselves, they say that it is base and unjust to obtain a superiority, and that to endeavour to acquire more than others is to commit injustice. 86. For they are content, I think, if they, being weaker, have an equal portion. For this reason, therefore, by law it is said to be unjust and base to endeavour to possess more than the many, and they call this committing an injustice. But nature herself, I think, evinces, on the contrary, that it is just that the better should have more than the worse, and the more powerful than the weaker. And it is evident in many instances that it is so, both in other animals, and in whole cities and races of men, that the just is so settled that the superior should rule over the inferior, and possess more than they. For, with what justice did Xerxes make war upon Greece, or his father on the Scythians? or ten thousand other instances which one might adduce? But I think they do these things according to natural justice, and, by Jupiter, according to the law of nature; not, perhaps, according to that law which we have framed, taking the best and strongest amongst us from their youth, like lions, we tame them by incantations and juggleries, telling them that it is right to preserve equality, and that this is the beautiful and the just. 87. But, I think, if there should be a man found with sufficient natural power, having shaken off all these trammels, and broken through, and abandoned, and trampled under foot our written ordinances, and quackeries, and incantations, and laws contrary to nature, he, from being our slave, would rise up and prove himself our master; and then natural justice would shine forth. Pindar, too, appears to me to have declared what I now assert, in the ode in which he says that “law is the king of all, both mortals and immortals; and,” he adds, “he with most powerful hand makes use of might, calling it right; and this I infer from the deeds of Hercules, since he drove away the oxen of Geryon unbought.” He speaks pretty much in this manner; for I do not remember the ode by heart. He says, then, that Hercules drove away the oxen of Geryon, without having either bought them, or received them as a gift, as if this were naturally just, that both oxen, and all other possessions, when the property of the worse and inferior, belong to the better and superior. Such, then, is the truth; and you will know that it is so, if, dismissing philosophy, you betake yourself to greater things. 88. For philosophy, Socrates, is an elegant thing, if one handles it moderately in youth; but if one dwells upon it longer then is becoming, it is the ruin of men. For if a man should have excellent abilities, and should study philosophy beyond the period of youth, he must necessarily become unskilled in all things in which he ought to be skilled, who desires to be a worthy, good, and distinguished man. For such men are unskilled in the laws of the city, and in those arguments which any one must use, who is conversant with the business transactions of men, both privately and publicly: they are likewise altogether unskilled in human pleasures and desires, and, in short, in the manners of men. When, therefore, they engage in any private or public business, they make themselves ridiculous, just as, I think, politicians are ridiculous when they meddle with your disputations and arguments. For that saying of Euripides[68] is verified: “Every one shines in this, and to this applies himself, consuming the greater part of the day in whatever he most excels.” But that wherein a man is weak he avoids, and abuses it, and praises the other through self-love, thinking thereby to praise himself: but I think the most correct way is to partake of both. 89. Of philosophy, indeed, so far as is requisite for education, it is well to partake, nor is it any disgrace for one who is young to study philosophy: but when a man who has reached an advanced age, still studies philosophy, Socrates, the thing becomes ridiculous; and I have very much the same feeling towards those who study philosophy, as to those who stammer and sport. For when I see a child whom it still becomes to talk thus stammering and sporting, I am delighted, and his conduct appears to me to be graceful and liberal, and suited to the age of a child. But when I hear a little boy talking with precision, it seems a disagreeable thing to me, and offends my ears, and appears to be somewhat servile. When, however, one hears a man stammering, or sees him sporting, it appears to be ridiculous, unmanly, and worthy of stripes. Now I have this same feeling towards those who study philosophy. For, when I see philosophy in a young man, I am delighted, and it appears to me becoming, and I consider such a man to be of a liberal mind, but if he does not study philosophy, I consider him illiberal, and one who will never think himself worthy of any noble or generous action. When, however, I see a man advanced in years still studying philosophy, and not having abandoned it, such a man, Socrates, appears to me to be deserving of stripes. 90. For, as I just now said, such a man, even though he has excellent abilities, must needs become unmanly, by avoiding the public places of the city, and the forum, in which, as the poet[69] says, men acquire celebrity, and by concealing himself from the public view, he passes the remainder of his life with three or four boys, whispering in a corner, but never utters any thing liberal, great, and becoming. But I, Socrates, am very friendly disposed towards you; and I seem to have the same feeling as Zethus towards Amphion in Euripides, whom I just now mentioned; for it occurs to me to say to you the same that he said to his brother: that you neglect, Socrates, what you ought to attend to, and strive to adorn the nature of a soul thus generous by a certain juvenile form; nor in deliberations of justice are you able to advance an argument correctly, nor lay hold of what is probable and persuasive, nor can you suggest vigorous advice for others. 91. However, my dear Socrates, (and do not be angry with me, for I speak out of good-will to you,) does it not appear to you to be base to be in the state in which I think you are, and others who continually make too great advances in philosophy? For now, if any one should arrest you, or any other of the same character, and should take you to prison, asserting that you had acted unjustly, when you had not, you are aware you would not know what to do for yourself; but you would lose your head and gape, and not have any thing to say; and when you went into a court of justice, having met with a very vile and despicable accuser, you would die, if he chose to charge you capitally. And indeed, Socrates, how can this be wise, if any art meeting with a man of good natural ability renders him worse, and neither able to assist himself, nor preserve either himself or any one else from the greatest dangers, but suffers him to be plundered of all his substance by enemies, and to live in the city utterly without honour? Such a man, (if I may speak somewhat rudely,) one may slap on the face with impunity. 92. But, my friend, be persuaded by me, and give up confuting, cultivate harmony of conduct, and employ yourself in what will give you a reputation for wisdom, leaving to others these graceful subtleties, whether it is proper to call them frivolities, or fooleries, “by which you will come to dwell in an empty house:” and emulate, not men who are able to confute these trifling things, but those who have wealth, renown, and many other goods.

Socr. If I happened to have a golden soul, Callicles, do you not think I should gladly find one of the best of those stones by which they test gold, to which applying it, if it should allow that my soul was well cultivated, I should then know for a certainty that I was in a good state, and that I had no further need of any other test?

Cal. Why do you ask this, Socrates?

Socr. I will now tell you. I think that in meeting with you, I have met with this good fortune.

Cal. Why so?

Socr. I well know, that if you agree with me in those things which my soul entertains, such things are the very truth. For I perceive that he who intends to examine sufficiently respecting his soul whether it lives uprightly or not, ought to possess three qualities, all which you do possess, viz., science, benevolence, and freedom of speech. 93. For I meet with many who are not able to test me, through not being wise as you are; but others are wise, indeed, but are not willing to speak the truth to me, because they are not concerned about me as you are. Thus these two strangers, Gorgias and Polus, are indeed wise, and my friends, but they are deficient in freedom of speech, and are more bashful than is proper. For how should it be otherwise? since they have reached such a pitch of bashfulness that through shamefacedness each of them dares to contradict himself before many persons, and this on the most important subjects. You however possess all these qualities, which the others have not. For you are both well instructed, as many of the Athenians will affirm, and are well-disposed towards me. What proof do I use? I know, Callicles, that you four have studied wisdom together, you, Tisander the Aphidnæan, Andron son of Androtion, and Nausicydes the Cholargean; and I once heard you deliberating how far wisdom ought to be cultivated, and I know that this opinion prevailed among you, that you should not endeavour to study philosophy with great accuracy; but you advised each other to be cautious, lest, by becoming more wise than is proper, you should destroy yourselves without perceiving it. 94. Since, then, I hear you giving me the very same advice that you gave to your most intimate friends, it is to me a sufficient proof that you are really well-disposed towards me. Moreover, that you are able to speak boldly and not be ashamed, both yourself say, and the speech which you just now made, evinces. The case is evidently this, with reference to our present discussion; if you shall agree with me in any thing, in our argument, that point will have been sufficiently examined by you and me, and it will be no longer necessary to put it to another test. For you would never have assented to it, either through deficiency of wisdom, or excess of bashfulness. Nor, again, would you have assented in order to deceive me: for you are my friend, as you have yourself said. In reality, therefore, your and my assent will have reached the perfect truth. But the most beautiful consideration of all, Callicles, with respect to the things about which you have reproved me, is that, viz., what kind of person a man ought to be, what he ought to study, and how far, both when he is advanced in life and when he is young. For, with respect to myself, if I do any thing in my life not rightly, be assured that I do not err willingly, but through my own ignorance. 95. Do you, therefore, as you have begun to advise me, not desist, but shew me clearly what it is that I ought to study, and in what way I may accomplish it. And if you find me now assenting to you, but in time to come not doing the things to which I have assented, then consider me as utterly stupid, and thenceforth give me no more advice, as being a man altogether worthless. But repeat it to me again from the beginning, how say you and Pindar is the case with natural justice? is it that the superior should take by force from the inferior, and that the better should rule over the worse, and that the more excellent should have more than the depraved? Do you say that the just is any thing else than this? or do I remember rightly?

Cal. These things I said then, and I say now.

Socr. But do you call the same person better and superior? For I was not able at the time to understand you, what you meant: whether do you call the stronger superior, and must the weaker submit to the stronger; as you seemed to me to intimate when you said, that great cities attack little ones by natural justice, because they are superior and stronger; as if the superior, the stronger, and the better, were the same; or is it possible to be better, and at the same time inferior and weaker, and to be superior, but more depraved? or is there the same definition of the better and the superior? Define this clearly for me, are the superior, the better, and the stronger, the same, or different?

Cal. Then I tell you clearly, that they are the same.

96. Socr. Are not, then, the many by nature superior to one? since they establish laws for the one, as you just now said?

Cal. How can it be otherwise?

Socr. The laws, then, of the many are those of such as are superior?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Therefore, of the better? For, according to your account, the superior are far better.

Cal. Yes.

Socr. Are not, then, their laws by nature beautiful, since they are superior?

Cal. I admit it.

Socr. Now do not the many think thus, as you just now said, that it is just to possess the equal, and that it is more base to injure than to be injured? Is this so, or not? And take care that you are not detected here in being shamefaced. Do the many think or not that to possess the equal, but not more, is just? and that it is more base to injure than to be injured? Do not refuse me an answer to this, Callicles, in order that, if you agree with me, I may be confirmed in my opinion by you, seeing that a man competent to decide has agreed with me.

97. Cal. The many, then, do think thus.

Socr. Not therefore by law only, but by nature also, it is more base to injure than to be injured, and just to possess the equal. So that you appear not to have spoken the truth before, nor to accuse me rightly, in saying that law and nature are contrary to each other, and that I, knowing this, deal unfairly in the discussion, if any one speaks according to nature, by leading him to law, and if any one speaks according to law, by leading him to nature.

Cal. This man will not cease trifling. Tell me, Socrates, are you not ashamed, at your age, to catch at words, and, if any one makes a mistake in an expression to consider it an unexpected gain? For, do you think that by the superior I mean any thing else than the better? Did I not tell you long since, that I consider the better and the superior to be the same? Do you suppose I mean, that if a crowd of slaves, and all sorts of men of no worth, except perhaps for bodily strength, should meet together, that what they should say[70] would be legal institutions?

Socr. Be it so, most wise Callicles: is that your meaning?

Cal. Certainly.

98. Socr. But I, Sir, long since suspected that you meant some such thing by the superior; and therefore I repeat the question, desiring to understand clearly what you do mean; for you surely do not think that two are better than one, nor that your slaves are better than you because they are stronger than you. Tell me then from the beginning whom you mean by the better, since you do not mean the stronger. And, my admirable friend, teach me in the outset in a milder manner, that I may not leave you.

Cal. You are bantering, Socrates.

Socr. By Zethus, no, Callicles, in whose name you just now bantered me a good deal. But come, tell me who do you mean are the better?

Cal. I mean the more excellent.

Socr. You see, then, that you yourself speak words, but explain nothing. Will you not tell me whether by the better and superior you mean the more wise, or some others?

Cal. But, by Jupiter, I mean these, certainly.

99. Socr. Often, therefore, according to your account, one wise man is superior to ten thousand that are not wise; and it is right that he should govern, and they be governed, and that the governor should have more than the governed. For you appear to me to wish to say this (and I do not catch at expressions), if one man is superior to ten thousand.

Cal. That is what I mean. For I think this is just by nature, that the better and the more wise should both govern and have more than the worthless.

Socr. Stop there. What then do you now say? If we were in the same place, as we now are, many men together, and had, in common, abundance of meat and drink, and were men of various descriptions, some strong, others weak, and one of us being a physician should happen to be more wise respecting these things, and should be (as is likely) stronger than some, and weaker than others, will it not follow that this man who is wiser than we are, will be better and superior with respect to these things?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Should he, therefore, have more of these meats than we, because he is better? Or, because he is chief, ought he not to distribute the whole, but, in consuming and using them for his own body, not take more than others, under pain of injury to himself, but should have more than some, and less than others; and if he should happen to be the weakest of all, though the best, he must have least of all, Callicles? Is it not so, my friend?

100. Cal. You speak of meats and drinks, and physicians, and such trifles; but I do not speak of these.

Socr. Whether, then, do you say that the more wise is better? Grant or deny.

Cal. I do.

Socr. And do you not say that the better ought to have more?

Cal. Not of meats and drinks.

Socr. I understand. But perhaps of clothes, and the most skilful weaver should have the largest garment, and go about most abundantly and beautifully clad.

Cal. What garments do you mean?

Socr. And with respect to shoes, it is clear that he who is more skilled and best, should have more than others; the shoemaker, perhaps, ought to walk about with the largest and greatest number of shoes.

Cal. What shoes? Are you still trifling?

Socr. But if you do not mean such things, perhaps you do the following: for instance, that a husbandman, wise and skilled in the cultivation of land, should perhaps have more seeds than others, and use as much as possible on his own land.

101. Cal. How constantly you repeat the same things, Socrates.

Socr. Not only so, Callicles, but on the same subject.

Cal. By the gods, you never cease talking about shoemakers, fullers, cooks, and physicians, as if our discourse were about them.

Socr. Will you not tell me, then, with respect to what things a person should be superior and more wise, who having more than others, justly has more? Will you neither permit me to suggest, nor say yourself?

Cal. But I have said some time since. First, by the superior I do not mean shoemakers, or cooks, but those who are skilled in the affairs of a city, in what way they can be well administered, and not only skilled, but also brave, able to accomplish what they have conceived, and who do not fail through effeminacy of soul.

Socr. Do you see, most excellent Callicles, that you do not make the same objection to me that I do to you? For you allege that I always say the same things, and blame me for it; and I, on the contrary, complain of you, that you never say the same things on the same subjects; but at one time you defined the better and the superior to be the stronger, and at another time the more wise: and now again you come with something else; and certain persons that are braver are said by you to be the superior and better. But, my friend, tell me once for all, whom you call the better and superior, and in reference to what.

102. Cal. I have already said that they are such as are wise and brave, with respect to the affairs of a city. For it belongs to them to govern cities, and it is just that they should have more than others, the governors than the governed.

Socr. But what? my friend, as governing themselves, or being governed?

Cal. What mean you?

Socr. I mean that each person governs himself. Is there no occasion for this, that a man should govern himself, but only others?

Cal. What do you mean by governing himself?

Socr. Nothing uncommon; but as men frequently say, that a man is temperate, and master of himself, controlling the pleasures and desires that are within himself.

Cal. How ridiculous you are! By the temperate you mean the foolish.

Socr. How otherwise? There is no one but would know that that is my meaning[71].

Cal. Most assuredly, Socrates; since how can a man be happy who is a slave to any one? But this it is which is beautiful, and just according to nature, and which I now freely tell you, namely, that a man who lives rightly should suffer his desires to be as great as possible, and should not restrain them; but should be able, when they are at their height, to minister to them by his courage and prudence, and satisfy each desire as it springs up. 103. This, however, I think, is not possible for the generality of men; wherefore they blame such persons through shame, to conceal their own impotency, and say that intemperance is base; as I said before, enslaving men of a better nature, and themselves not being able to satisfy their own pleasures, they praise temperance and justice, on account of their own effeminacy. For to those whom it has befallen from the first either to be the sons of kings, or who are able by nature to procure for themselves a government, or tyranny, or dynasty, what can be more disgraceful and base than temperance? who, when it is in their power to enjoy the good things of this life, and no one hinders them, impose a master on themselves, the law, discourse, and censure of the multitude? Or how should they be otherwise than miserable through the beauty of justice and temperance, while they impart no more to their friends than to their enemies, and this though they have supreme power in their own city? Thus, then, it stands with the truth, Socrates, which you say you are in search of: luxury, intemperance, and liberty, if they have the proper aids, these are virtue and felicity; but all those other fine things, those compacts contrary to nature, are extravagancies of men, and of no value.

104. Socr. Not at all ignobly, Callicles, have you expressed your opinions, speaking freely; for you now plainly say what others think, indeed, but are unwilling to say. I beg of you, therefore, on no account to relax, in order that it may really become evident how we ought to live. Come tell me: do you say that our desires ought not to be checked, if one intends to be such as one ought, and that, suffering them to be as great as possible, one ought to provide for their satisfaction from every possible source, and that this constitutes virtue?

Cal. I do say so.

Socr. They, therefore, who need nothing, are not rightly said to be happy.

Cal. For thus stones and the dead would be most happy.

Socr. But, indeed, even as you say, life is grievous. For in truth I should not wonder if Euripides speaks the truth when he says: “Who knows whether to live is not death, and to die, life?” And we, perhaps, are really dead; as I have heard from one of the wise, that we are now dead, and that the body is our sepulchre, and that the part of the soul in which the desires are is of such a nature that it can be persuaded different ways, and change upwards and downwards; and this, some skilful man, perhaps a Sicilian, or Italian, turning into a fable, by a slight change of the word[72], called a cask, from its being credulous and easily persuaded, but the foolish he called uninitiated. He further compared that part of the soul of the uninitiated in which the desires are, namely, its intemperate and unclosed part, to a pierced cask, on account of its insatiable greediness. 105. This man, too, quite contrary to you, Callicles, shews that of those in Hades (meaning thereby the invisible world) the most miserable must be the uninitiated, and that they carry water to a perforated cask by a similarly perforated sieve. The sieve, as he who spoke to me said, is the soul. But he likened the soul of the foolish to a sieve, as being perforated and not able to retain any thing, through incredulity and forgetfulness. This probably is somewhat absurd, nevertheless it shews that by proof of which I wish, if by any means I can, to persuade you to change your opinion, and to prefer to an insatiable and intemperate life one that is well regulated, and that is satisfied and contented with the things that are from time to time present. But do I persuade you at all, and do you change your opinion, and admit that the moderate are more happy than the intemperate? or have I produced no impression, and though I tell you many such fables, will you not be any the more disposed to change your opinion?

Cal. In this you have spoken more truly, Socrates.

106. Socr. Come, then, I will mention to you another similitude from the same school as the preceding. For consider whether you would speak thus of each kind of life, the temperate and the intemperate, as if two men had each many casks; and that those of one were sound and full, one of wine, another of honey, a third of milk, and many others of other things; that the fountains of each were rare and difficult to be obtained, and could only be procured by many and severe toils; the one, then, having filled his casks, pours no more into them, nor is at all concerned about them, but on this score is at ease; that the fountains of the other, as of the former one, are possible to be procured, though with difficulty, that his vessels are perforated and defective, and he compelled, both night and day, to fill them, or suffer the most extreme pain. When such is the life of each, do you say that of the intemperate is more happy than that of the moderate man? Do I persuade you at all, by relating these things, to grant that a moderate life is better than an intemperate one, or do I not persuade you?

Cal. You do not persuade me, Socrates. For he that has filled his casks has no longer any pleasure: but this is, what I just now mentioned, to live like a stone, when he has filled them, neither rejoicing any more nor grieving: but a pleasant life consists in as much flowing in as possible.

107. Socr. Is it not, therefore, necessary, if much flows in, that much also should go out, and that there should be certain large holes for its flowing out?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. You speak now of the life of a sea-lark[73], and not of a corpse, or a stone. But tell me, do you mean such a thing as being hungry, and, when hungry, eating?

Cal. I do.

Socr. And of being thirsty, and, when thirsty, drinking?

Cal. I do mean that, and that he who has all other desires, and, having the power to do so, satisfies them, lives a joyful and happy life.

Socr. Well done, my excellent friend! Proceed as you have begun, and take care not to be ashamed. But it is right, too, as it seems, that neither should I be ashamed. And first of all, tell me if, when a man, who is scabby and itches, is able to scratch himself without stint, and passes his life in scratching himself, this is to live happily?

Cal. How absurd you are, Socrates, and a mere babbler.

Socr. Hence it is, Callicles, that I have astonished Polus and Gorgias, and made them ashamed. You, however, will not be astonished nor ashamed, for you are courageous: but only answer me.

108. Cal. I say, then, that he who scratches himself lives pleasantly.

Socr. Therefore, if pleasantly, also happily?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Will this be the case if he only itches in his head, or must I ask you still further? Consider, Callicles, what answer you would give, if any one asks you respecting all the parts of the body in succession. And to take that which is the chief of all, is not the life of catamites dreadful, base, and wretched? Will you dare to call them happy, if they have what they desire, without stint?

Cal. Are you not ashamed, Socrates, to lead the discussion to such subjects?

Socr. Do I lead it hither, noble Sir, or does he who asserts thus broadly, that such as rejoice, in whatever way they rejoice, are happy, and does not distinguish between pleasures, what are good and what are bad? But tell me further still, whether do you say that the pleasant and the good are the same: or that there is something pleasant which is not good?

Cal. In order that my argument may not contradict itself, if I should say they are different, I say that they are the same.

109. Socr. You subvert your former statements, Callicles, and no longer search for the truth with me properly, if you speak contrary to your real opinion.

Cal. And you do the same, Socrates.

Socr. Neither, then, do I act rightly, if I do so, nor do you. But, good Sir, consider whether to rejoice in any way be not good. For it is clear that many base consequences, which were just now hinted at, will follow, if this should be the case, and many others besides.

Cal. As you think, at least, Socrates.

Socr. Do you in reality, Callicles, persist in your assertion?

Cal. I do.

Socr. Shall we then enter on the discussion, as if you were in earnest?

Cal. Most certainly.

Socr. Come, then, since you are of that opinion, explain this to me. Do you call science any thing?

Cal. I do.

Socr. And did you not just now say, that there is a certain courage joined with science?

Cal. I did say so.

Socr. Did you speak of these two, as if courage was different from science?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. But what? Are pleasure and science the same, or different?

Cal. Different, surely, most wise friend.

Socr. Is courage also different from pleasure?

Cal. Undoubtedly.

110. Socr. Come, then, let us retain these things in our memory; that Callicles of Acharne said that the pleasant and the good are the same; but that science and courage are different both from each other and the good.

Cal. But Socrates of Alopecia does not agree to this; does he agree?

Socr. He does not agree: and I think neither will Callicles when he has rightly examined himself. For tell me, do you not think that those who fare well are affected in a manner quite contrary to those who fare ill?

Cal. I do.

Socr. If these, therefore, are contrary to each other, is it not necessary that the case should be the same with them as it is with health and disease? For, surely, a man is not at the same time well and diseased, nor at the same time separated from health and disease.

Cal. How say you?

Socr. For instance, take any part of the body you please, and consider. Has not a man sometimes a disease in the eyes, which is called ophthalmia?

Cal. Undoubtedly.

Socr. And his eyes, surely, are not at the same time well?

Cal. Certainly not.

Socr. But what? When he is freed from the ophthalmia, does he then also lose the health of his eyes, and, in a word, is he at the same time freed from both?

Cal. By no means.

Socr. For that, I think, would be wonderful and absurd. Would it not?

Cal. Assuredly.

111. Socr. But I think he, alternately, receives one, and loses the other.

Cal. I admit it.

Socr. And will it not be the same with regard to strength and weakness?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. And swiftness and slowness?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. And with respect to things good and happiness, and their contraries, things evil and wretchedness, does he receive and part from each of these alternately?

Cal. Most assuredly.

Socr. If, therefore, we should find certain things which a man at the same time parts from and possesses, it is clear that these would not be both good and evil. Do we agree to this? Consider well and answer me.

Cal. I agree entirely.

Socr. Let us then recur to what was before agreed on. Did you say that to be hungry is pleasant, or painful? I mean the very fact of being hungry.

Cal. I said it was painful: though to eat when hungry is pleasant.

Socr. I understand you: but to be hungry of itself is painful; is it not so?

Cal. I admit it.

Socr. And also to be thirsty?

Cal. Assuredly.

112. Socr. Whether, then, shall I ask you any more questions? Or do you allow that all want and desire is painful?

Cal. I allow it; so do not ask.

Socr. Be it so. And do you not say that for a man to drink when he is thirsty is pleasant?

Cal. I do.

Socr. In the instance then of which you are speaking, to be thirsty is, doubtless, painful?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. But to drink is the satisfying of a want, and a pleasure?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. Therefore as to drinking you say that the man rejoices?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. But as to being thirsty?

Cal. I say—

Socr. That he suffers pain?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. Do you perceive then what follows? that you say he who is in pain at the same time rejoices, when you say that he who is thirsty drinks. And does not this happen at the same place and time, with respect either to the soul or body, whichever you please? For I think there is no difference. Is this so, or not?

Cal. It is.

Socr. You admitted, however, that it was impossible for one who fares well at the same time to fare ill.

Cal. I allow it.

Socr. But you have granted that it is possible for one who is in pain to rejoice.

Cal. It appears so.

Socr. To rejoice, therefore, is not to fare well, nor to be in pain, ill: so that the pleasant is different from the good?

Cal. I know not what subtleties you are using, Socrates.

113. Socr. You know, though you pretend not, Callicles.

Cal. Proceed still further, trifling as you are, that you may know how wise you are who take upon yourself to admonish me.

Socr. Does not each of us at the same time cease to be thirsty, and to receive pleasure from drinking?

Cal. I do not know what you mean.

Gorg. Say not so, Callicles; but answer for our sakes, that the discussion may be brought to a conclusion.

Cal. But this is always the way with Socrates, Gorgias, he asks trifling questions, and things that are of no consequence, and then refutes them.

Gorg. But what difference does that make to you? That is no concern at all of yours: but suffer Socrates to argue in whatever way he pleases.

Cal. Ask, then, these trifling and petty questions, since Gorgias thinks proper.

Socr. You are happy, Callicles, in that you have been initiated in the great mysteries before you were in the small: but I thought that was not allowed. Answer me, then, from the point where you left off, does not each of us at the same time cease to be thirsty, and to receive pleasure?

Cal. I admit it.

Socr. And does not one cease to be hungry and to feel other desires and pleasures at the same time?

Cal. Such is the case.

Socr. Does one not, then, at the same time cease to feel both pains and pleasures?

Cal. Yes.

114. Socr. However one does not at the same time cease to experience good and evil, as you admitted; but now do you not admit it?

Cal. I do. But what then?

Socr. It follows, my friend, that good things are not the same with such as are pleasant, nor evil things with such as are painful. For, from these one ceases at the same time, but not from those, because they are different. How, therefore, can pleasant things be the same with such as are good, or painful things with such as are evil? But, if you please, consider it in this way: for I think that you are not even thus agreed with yourself. Consider then. Do you not call the good good, from the presence of good things, just as you call those beautiful to whom beauty is present?

Cal. I do.

Socr. But what? Do you call foolish men and cowards good men? For you did not just now; but you said the brave and prudent were so. Do you not call these good?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. But what? Have you ever seen a boy without understanding, rejoicing?

Cal. I have.

Socr. And have you not also seen a man without understanding, rejoicing?

Cal. I think I have. But to what purpose is this?

Socr. Nothing: answer however.

Cal. I have seen it.

Socr. But what? have you seen a man endued with intellect grieving and rejoicing?

Cal. I have.

115. Socr. But which rejoice and grieve the more; the wise, or the foolish?

Cal. I think there is not much difference.

Socr. That is enough. In war have you ever seen a coward?

Cal. Most assuredly.

Socr. What then? On the departure of the enemy which appeared to you to rejoice the more, the cowards or the brave?

Cal. Both appeared to me to rejoice more: or, if not, in nearly the same degree.

Socr. It is of no consequence. Cowards, then, also rejoice?

Cal. Very much so.

Socr. And the foolish, as it seems?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. But, when the enemy approaches, do cowards only grieve? or do the brave also?

Cal. Both.

Socr. In an equal degree?

Cal. Cowards perhaps more.

Socr. But, when the enemy departs, do they not rejoice more?

Cal. Perhaps so.

Socr. Do not, therefore, as you say, the foolish and the wise, cowards and the brave, similarly grieve and rejoice, much in the same degree, but cowards more than the brave?

Cal. I admit it.

Socr. The wise however and the brave are good, but cowards and the foolish bad?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. The good and the bad, therefore, rejoice and grieve equally?

Cal. I admit it.

116. Socr. Are, then, the good and the bad, good and bad in an equal degree? or are the bad yet more good and bad?

Cal. By Jupiter, I do not know what you mean.

Socr. Do you not know that you said the good are good, through the presence of good things, and the bad through the presence of evil things? And that pleasures are good things, and pains evil?

Cal. I did.

Socr. Are not, therefore, good things, viz., pleasures, present with those that rejoice, if they do rejoice?

Cal. Undoubtedly.

Socr. And since good things are present are not they who rejoice good?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. But what? Are not evil things, viz., pains, present with those that suffer pain?

Cal. They are present.

Socr. But do you not say that the bad are bad, through the presence of evil things? Or do you say so no longer?

Cal. I do.

Socr. Those, therefore, that rejoice, are good; but those that suffer pain are bad?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. And those that are more so, more, but those that are less so, less? and those that are equally so, equally?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. Do you not say, then, that the wise and the foolish, cowards and the brave, rejoice and grieve in an equal degree, or cowards even more?

Cal. I do.

117. Socr. Now in common with me, draw the inferences that result from these admissions. For, they say, it is beautiful to repeat and consider beautiful things twice, and even thrice. We say, that the prudent and brave man is good; do we not?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. But that the foolish man and a coward is bad?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Again, that he who rejoices is good?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. And that he who suffers pain is bad?

Cal. Necessarily so.

Socr. And that the good and the bad suffer pain and rejoice equally, but perhaps the bad more?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. Therefore, the bad man becomes equally bad and good, with the good man, or even more good? Do not these results follow, as well as the former ones, if one says that the pleasant and the good are the same? Are not these consequences necessary, Callicles?

Cal. I have been long listening to you, Socrates, and making concessions, considering with myself that if any one grants you any thing, even in jest, you seize it eagerly as boys do. And can you suppose that I or any other person in the world does not believe that some pleasures are better, and others worse?

118. Socr. Ho, Ho! Callicles, how cunning you are! You treat me as a child, now asserting that these things are in this manner, and now in another manner; trying to deceive me. Though, at the outset, I did not think that I should be purposely deceived by you, because you are my friend. But now I have been mistaken, and as it seems, must needs, according to the old proverb, make good use of what I have, and receive what you give me. What you now say, as it appears, is this, that some pleasures are good, others bad; is it not so?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. And are not the profitable good, and the noxious bad?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. And those which effect a certain good, are profitable, but those which effect a certain evil, bad?

Cal. I admit it.

Socr. Do you not speak then of such as the following; as for instance, with respect to the body, those pleasures which we just now mentioned of eating and drinking; and if some of these produce in the body health or strength, or some other bodily excellences, are they not good, but those that produce the contraries of these, evil?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. And are not pains, in like manner, some beneficial, others injurious?

Cal. Undoubtedly.

Socr. Ought we not, therefore, both to choose and to exercise ourselves in such pleasures and pains as are beneficial?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. But not such as are injurious?

Cal. That is evident.

119. Socr. For, if you remember, it was agreed between us, Polus and me, that all things should be done for the sake of what is good. And do you agree with us in thinking, that the good is the end of all actions, and that all other things ought to be done for its sake, but not it for the sake of other things? Do you accord with us and make up the third?

Cal. I do.

Socr. We ought, then, to do both all other things and such as are pleasant, for the sake of things good, but not good things for the sake of such as are pleasant?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Is every man, therefore, able to choose among pleasant things such as are good, and such as are evil? or is there need of a person skilled in each case?

Cal. Of a person skilled.

Socr. Let us then again call to mind what I said to Polus and Gorgias. I said, if you remember, that there are certain occupations which regard pleasure, and are occupied in this alone, but are ignorant of the better and the worse; but that there are others that know both what is good and what is evil. And I have placed among those which have pleasure for their object, cookery, as a skill relating to the body, but not an art; and among those that have the good for their object I placed the medicinal art. 120. And by the god of friendship, Callicles, think not that you ought to jest with me, nor give any answer that may occur to you contrary to your opinion, nor receive what I say as if I were in jest. For you see that our discourse is on a subject, than which there is none that a man endued even with the smallest understanding would take more pains about, namely in what way we ought to live, whether in such a way as that to which you exhort me, engaging in such employments of a man, as speaking among the people, cultivating rhetoric, and applying oneself to political affairs, in the manner which you now do; or whether we should devote ourselves to a philosophic life, and in what the latter differs from the former. Perhaps, then, it is best, as I just now attempted, to make a distinction; and when we have distinguished and agreed with each other, that these are two kinds of life, then to consider in what they differ from each other, and which of them ought to be pursued. Perhaps, however, you do not yet understand what I mean.

121. Cal. I do not, indeed.

Socr. I will explain it to you more clearly. Since we have agreed, you and I, that there is something good, and something pleasant, and that the pleasant is different from the good, and that there is a certain study and preparation for the acquirement of each of them, one being a search after the pleasant, and the other after the good—however, first of all, grant me this, or not; do you grant it?

Cal. I do.

Socr. Come then, concede to me also what I said to these men, if at the time I appeared to you to speak the truth. I said that cookery does not appear to me to be an art, but a skill; and that medicine is an art; for I said that medicine considers the nature of that which it cures, and the cause of the things that it does, and is able to give an account of each of these: but that the other, being concerned about pleasure, to which its whole attention is directed, proceeds to it without any art at all, neither considering the nature nor the cause of pleasure, altogether without reason, and in a word incapable of giving any account of itself, a mere practice and skill, only preserving the memory of that which usually takes place, by which also it supplies pleasures. 122. First of all, then, consider whether these things appear to you to have been sufficiently established, and that there are also certain other corresponding studies relating to the soul, of which some follow rules of art, and regard what is best for the soul; but others that neglect this, and consider only, as in the former case, the pleasure of the soul, in what way it may be procured; but paying no attention to which pleasure is better or worse, nor caring for any thing else than gratification only, whether it be better or worse. For my part, Callicles, there appear to me to be such studies; and I say that such a thing is flattery, as well in relation to the body as the soul, and to any thing else the pleasure of which one sedulously attends to, without paying any regard to the better and the worse. But do you entertain the same opinion as we do respecting these things, or do you gainsay it?

Cal. No, but I yield this point in order that our discussion may be brought to a close, and that I may gratify Gorgias here.

Socr. Does this take place with respect to one soul, but not with respect to two and several?

Cal. No; but it takes place with respect to two and several.

Socr. Is it not, then, possible to gratify a number of souls collected together, without considering at all what is best?

123. Cal. I think so.

Socr. Can you tell me, then, what those studies are which produce this effect? Or rather, if you please, on my asking, whichever appears to you to be one of these, say so, and which not, deny it. And first of all, let us consider flute-playing. Does it not appear to you to be such a thing, Callicles, as pursues only our pleasure, but regards nothing else?

Cal. It appears so.

Socr. And is it not the case with all such studies, as for instance, harp-playing in the public games?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. And what as to the representation of choruses and dithyrambic poetry? does it not appear to you to be of the same kind? Do you think that Cinesias son of Meles cares at all to express himself in such a way that his hearers may become better? or rather what will gratify the crowd of spectators?

Cal. The latter is clearly the case, Socrates, with respect to Cinesias.

Socr. But what as to his father Meles? Did he appear to you to play on the harp, looking to that which is best? or did not he look to what was most pleasant? For in singing he offended the audience. Consider, however; does not all harp-playing and dithyrambic poetry appear to you to have been invented for the sake of pleasure?

Cal. It does.

124. Socr. But what of that venerable and wonderful art, tragic poetry, at what does it aim? Do its endeavour and aim appear to you to be only to gratify the spectators? or does it strive, if any thing should be pleasing and grateful to them, but mischievous, to avoid saying this, but if it happens to be unpleasant and beneficial, to say and sing this, whether it gratifies the spectators or not? In which of these two ways do you think tragic poetry is framed?

Cal. This is clear, Socrates, that it rather aims at pleasure, and the gratification of the spectators.

Socr. Did we not just now say, Callicles, that a thing of this kind is flattery?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Come then, if any one should take from all poetry, melody, rhythm, and measure, would any thing else than words remain?

Cal. Necessarily so.

Socr. Are not these words, then, addressed to a great multitude, and to the people?

Cal. I admit it.

Socr. Poetry, therefore, is a kind of popular speaking.

Cal. It appears so.

Socr. Therefore it must be a rhetorical method of popular speaking: for do not poets appear to you to employ rhetoric in the theatres?

Cal. They do.

125. Socr. Now, therefore, we have found a certain rhetoric among the people, consisting at the same time of boys and women and men, slaves and free-men, of which we do not altogether approve; for we have called it flattery.

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Well then. But as to the rhetoric addressed to the Athenian people, and the people in other cities consisting of free-men, what shall we say as to that? Do the rhetoricians appear to you always to speak with a view to what is best, aiming at this, that the citizens may be made as good as possible by their discourses? or do they, too, endeavour to gratify the citizens, and neglecting the public interest for the sake of their own private advantage, do they treat the people as children, trying only to gratify them, without being in the least concerned whether they shall become better or worse by these means?

Cal. This is not a simple question that you ask me. For there are some who, looking to the interest of the citizens, say what they do; but others are such as you describe.

126. Socr. That is enough. For, if this also is twofold, one part of it will be flattery, and a base popular speaking, but the other will be honourable, namely, that which endeavours to make the souls of the citizens as good as possible, and strives to speak what is best, whether it be pleasant or unpleasant to the hearers. But you have never yet seen this kind of rhetoric. Or, if you can mention any one of the rhetoricians who is of this stamp, why do you not tell me who he is?

Cal. But, by Jupiter, I cannot instance to you any of the rhetoricians of the present day.

Socr. But what? Can you instance any one of the ancients through whose means the Athenians have become better, after he had begun to harangue them, when previously they had been worse? For I know not who such a one is.

Cal. What? Have you not heard that Themistocles was a good man, and Cimon and Miltiades, and Pericles, who died lately, whom you have also heard?

Socr. If that is true virtue, Callicles, which you before mentioned as such, namely, for a man to gratify both his own desires and those of others. But if this is not the case, but, as we were afterwards compelled to confess, those desires which, when satisfied, make a man better, ought to be indulged, but those which make him worse, not so, and if there is a certain art in this, can you say that any one of these was a man of this kind?

Cal. I know not what to say.

127. Socr. But if you seek well, you will find out. Let us however, consider, and see quietly if any one of these was such. For come, is it not true that a good man, who says what he says with a view to the best, does not speak at random, but looking to some end? just as all other artists, looking each to his own work, does not take at random and employ what he employs in his work, but so that the subject he is at work upon may have a certain form: for instance, if you will look at painters, architects, shipwrights, and any other artists you please, you will see that each places whatever he employs in a certain order, and compels one thing to adapt itself to and harmonize with another, until the whole workmanship is compacted together with order and regularity. And moreover, those other artificers, whom we just now mentioned, who are employed about the body, teachers of gymnastics, and physicians, adorn the body in a way, and dispose it in an orderly manner. Do we allow that this is so or not?

Cal. Let it be so.

128. Socr. A house, then, that has acquired order and regularity will be a good house, but when disorder, a bad one.

Cal. I admit it.

Socr. And a ship in like manner?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. And do we not say the same with respect to our bodies?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. But what as to the soul? when in a state of disorder will it be in a good condition, or when it is in a state of order and regularity?

Cal. From what has been said, it is necessary to grant that the latter must be the case.

Socr. What, then, in the body, is the name of that which results from order and regularity?

Cal. You probably mean health and strength.

Socr. I do. But what, again, is the name of that which subsists in the soul from order and regularity? Endeavour to discover and mention it, as you did the name of the former.

Cal. Why do not you say what it is yourself, Socrates?

Socr. If it pleases you better, I will. But do you, if I seem to you to speak well, assent, if not, confute, and do not spare me. To me, then, it appears that the name belonging to the orderly disposition of the body is the healthful, from which health springs, and every other excellence of the body. Is it so, or not?

Cal. It is.

Socr. But the name belonging to the orderly and regular disposition of the soul is the legitimate and law; whence men become obedient to law and orderly; but these are justice and temperance. Do you admit this or not?

Cal. Be it so.

129. Socr. Will not, then, that good rhetorician who follows the rules of art, looking to these things, address the arguments he uses and all his actions to souls, and if he should bestow a gift, will he not bestow it, and, if he should take any thing away, will he not take it away with the same end, always directing his attention to this, that justice may be produced in the souls of his fellow-citizens, and injustice banished; that temperance may be produced in them, and intemperance banished; and, in short, that every virtue may be planted in them, but vice driven out. Do you grant this, or not?

Cal. I do grant it.

Socr. For where is the utility, Callicles, in giving a body diseased, and ill-disposed, abundance of the most agreeable food or drink, or any thing else, which will not be more profitable to it than the contrary, but, according to right reason, even less? Is this so?

Cal. Be it so.

Socr. For I think it is of no advantage for a man to live with a miserable state of body; for thus it would be necessary for him to live miserably: is it not so?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. And do not physicians generally allow a man in health to satisfy his desires, as, for instance, when hungry to eat as much as he pleases, or when thirsty to drink, but when ill, they scarcely ever allow him to satisfy himself with what he desires? Do you grant this too?

Cal. I do.

130. Socr. And should not the same method, my excellent friend, be adopted with respect to the soul? So long as it is depraved, as being without understanding, intemperate, unjust and unholy, one ought to restrain it from the indulgence of its desires, and not permit it to do any thing except what will render it better? Do you admit this or not?

Cal. I do.

Socr. For this surely is better for the soul itself.

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. And is not to restrain any one from what he desires to punish him?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. To be punished, therefore, is better for the soul than intemperance, as you just now thought.

Cal. I don’t know what you mean, Socrates: ask some one else.

Socr. This man will not submit to be benefited and to suffer the very thing of which we are speaking, viz., punishment.

Cal. I don’t at all heed what you say; I only answered you thus far for the sake of Gorgias.

131. Socr. Be it so. What shall we do then? Shall we break off the discussion in the midst?

Cal. You shall determine.

Socr. But they say it is not right to leave even fables in the midst, but a head should be placed on them, that they may not wander without a head. Answer, therefore, to what remains, that our discussion may have a head to it.

Cal. How importunate you are, Socrates! But, if you will be persuaded by me, you will give up this discussion, or carry it on with some one else.

Socr. Who else is willing? for we must not leave the discussion unfinished.

Cal. Cannot you go through with it yourself, either speaking by yourself or answering yourself?

Socr. That the saying of Epicharmus may be verified in me, “what two men said before, I alone am able to say.” But it appears to be very necessary. If, however, we shall do so, I think we ought all of us to strive heartily that we may understand what is true and what false with respect to the subject we are treating of: for it is for the common interest of all that this should become clear. 132. I will, therefore, go through the matter under discussion, as it appears to me to be: but, if I shall seem to any of you to grant myself what is not true, he must take me up and confute me. For I do not say what I say as knowing it, but I am enquiring in common with you, so that, if he who disputes with me should appear to say any thing to the purpose, I shall be the first to give in to him. I say this, however, in case you think the discussion ought to be finished; but if you do not wish it, let us give it up and depart.

Gorg. But it appears to me, Socrates, that we should not depart yet, but that you should pursue the argument: and it is evident that the others think so. And I, for my part, wish to hear you go through the remainder of the subject.

Socr. But indeed, Gorgias, I would gladly have continued to carry on the discussion with Callicles here, until I had given him back the saying of Amphion for that of Zethus[74]: but since you are not willing, Callicles, to finish the discussion with me, yet listen to me at least, and take me up if I appear to you to say any thing incorrectly. And if you shall confute me, I shall not be angry with you, as you are with me, but you shall be recorded by me as my greatest benefactor.

Cal. Speak then yourself, my good friend, and finish the argument.

133. Socr. Hear me then repeating the argument from the beginning. Are the pleasant and the good the same? They are not the same, as I and Callicles have agreed. But whether is the pleasant to be done for the sake of the good, or the good for the sake of the pleasant? The pleasant for the sake of the good. But is the pleasant that, with which when present we are pleased? and the good that, by which when present we are good? Certainly. Now we are good, both ourselves and all other things that are good, when a certain virtue is present? To me this appears to be necessary, Callicles. But the virtue of each thing, whether instrument, or body, or soul, and moreover of every animal, does not reach a high pitch of perfection by chance, but by order, and rectitude, and the art that is attributed to each of them. Is this so? I admit it. The virtue, then, of every thing is regulated and adorned by order? I should say so. A certain order, then, proper to each, becoming inherent in each, makes each thing good? It appears so to me. The soul, therefore, that has its own order, is better than that which is without order? Necessarily so. That, however, which has order is orderly? How should it not? And that which is orderly is temperate? Most necessarily. 134. A temperate soul, then, is good? I am not able to say any thing against this, my dear Callicles; but do you, if you can do so, inform me.

Cal. Proceed, my good friend.

Socr. I say, then, that if a temperate soul is good, that which is affected contrariwise to the temperate is base: and this surely is the foolish and intemperate? Certainly. Moreover, a temperate man would act becomingly both towards gods and towards men? for he would not be temperate if he acted unbecomingly? It must needs be so. Moreover, by acting becomingly towards men he would act justly, and towards the gods piously; but it is necessary that he who acts justly and piously should be just and pious? It must be so. It is moreover necessary that he should be brave? for it is not the part of a temperate man either to pursue or avoid what is not becoming, but to pursue and avoid those things and men, pleasures and pains, which he ought, and to endure patiently wherever he ought. 135. So that it is absolutely necessary, Callicles, that the temperate man, as we have described him, being just, brave, and pious, should be a perfectly good man, and that a good man should do whatever he does well and honourably, and that he who does well should be blessed and happy, but that the wicked, who does ill, should be wretched: but this latter would be directly contrary to the temperate man, namely, the intemperate, whom you praised. I, therefore, thus lay down these things, and affirm that they are true. But if they are true, as it seems, he who wishes to be happy must pursue and practise temperance, and must avoid intemperance, every one of us with all his might, and must endeavour never to stand in need of punishment, but if he does need it, either he or any of his family, whether it be the case of a private person, or a city, justice must be administered, and punishment inflicted, if he is to be happy. This appears to me to be the mark to which we ought to look for the guidance of our life, and referring all private and public actions to this point, that justice and temperance may be ever present with him who will be blessed, and to act accordingly, not suffering his desires to be intemperate, nor endeavouring to satisfy them, which is an irremediable evil, causing a man to live like a robber. For such an one could neither be dear to any other man, nor to God; for it is impossible there can be any communion between them; and where there is no communion there can be no friendship. 136. The sages[75] too, say, Callicles, that heaven and earth, gods and men, are held together by communion, friendship, order, temperance, and justice, and for this reason, my friend, they call this universe, order[76], and not disorder or intemperance. You, however, appear to me not to attend to these things, and this though you are wise; but it has escaped your observation that geometrical equality has great power both among gods and among men; on the contrary you think that every one should strive to get more than others; for you neglect geometry. Well then; either this argument of mine must be confuted, and it must be shewn that the happy are not happy from the possession of justice and temperance, and the wretched, wretched from vice; or, if the argument is true, we must consider what are its results. Now, Callicles, all those things before mentioned, with respect to which you asked me if I was speaking in earnest, result from it, to the effect that a man should accuse himself, his son, and his friend, if he committed any injustice, and should employ rhetoric for this purpose. And what you thought Polus granted through shame was therefore true, that by how much it is more base to do an injury than to be injured, by so much is it worse: and that he who would be a good orator ought to be just and skilled in the knowledge of things just; which, again, Polus said Gorgias acknowledged through shame.

137. This then being the case, let us consider what it is that you find fault with in me, and whether you are right or not in saying that I can neither assist myself, nor any of my friends or domestics, nor save myself from the greatest dangers, but that I am in the power of any one who chooses, like men marked with infamy, if he pleases, according to that petulant expression of yours, to strike me on the face, or to take away my property, or expel me from the city, or, worst of all, to kill me, and that to be thus circumstanced, is the most disgraceful of all things, according to your opinion. But mine is this, it has indeed been often mentioned, yet nothing prevents its being again repeated; I deny, Callicles, that to be struck in the face unjustly is most disgraceful, or for my body or purse to be cut, but that to strike unjustly and to cut me and mine, is both more disgraceful and worse, and that to rob, enslave, break open a house, and, in short, to injure in any respect me and mine, is both more disgraceful and worse for him who does the injury than for me who am injured. 138. These things, that were proved to be thus in the former part of our discussion, as I affirm, are held and bound (though it is somewhat rude to say so) in reasons of iron and adamant, as would really appear to be the case, so that unless you or some one stronger than you can break them, it is not possible that any one who says otherwise than as I now say can speak correctly; for my statement is always the same, that I know not how these things are, but that of all the persons with whom I have ever conversed, as now with you, no one, who says otherwise, can avoid being ridiculous. I therefore again assert that these things are so. But if this is the case, and injustice is the greatest of evils to him that commits it, and if, great as this evil is, it is still a greater, if possible, for one who acts unjustly not to be punished, what kind of help will that be, which, if a man cannot procure for himself, he would be really ridiculous? will it not be that which would avert from us the greatest harm? But there is an absolute necessity that this should be most disgraceful, for a man not to be able to assist either himself, or his friends and domestics, next to that, an inability to avoid the second evil, and the third, an inability to avoid the third evil, and so on with the rest; in proportion to the magnitude of each evil, so is it beautiful to be able to avoid each of them, and disgraceful not to be able. Is the case thus or otherwise, Callicles?

Cal. No otherwise.

139. Socr. Of these two things then, the doing injustice and receiving an injury, we say that to do injustice is a greater evil, but to receive an injury a less one. By recourse to what means, then, could a man so assist himself as to have both these advantages, that of not doing injustice, and that of not receiving an injury? Is it by power, or will? I mean thus: whether, if a man wishes not to be injured, will he not be injured, or, if he has acquired the power of not being injured, will he not be injured?

Cal. It is clear that he will not, if he has acquired the power.

Socr. But what with respect to doing injustice? Whether, if any one wishes not to do injustice, is this sufficient, (for in that case he will not do it,) or, besides this, is it requisite to acquire a certain power and art, so that, unless he has learned and practised them, he will do injustice? Come then, answer me this question, Callicles; whether do Polus and I appear to you to have been compelled, rightly or not, to make that admission in the former part of our discussion, when we admitted that no one willingly commits injustice, but that all who do commit it do so unwillingly?

Cal. Let that point be granted, Socrates, in order that you may bring the argument to a conclusion.

Socr. For this purpose, then, as it appears, we must acquire a certain power and art, in order that we may not commit injustice.

Cal. Certainly.

140. Socr. What then is the art by means of which a man will receive no injury at all, or scarcely any? Consider, if it appears to you the same as it does to me. For to me it appears thus; either that he ought to govern in a city or even have absolute power, or be a friend of the existing government.

Cal. Do you observe, Socrates, how ready I am to praise you, if you say any thing well? This you appear to me to have said remarkably well.

Socr. Consider also, whether I appear to you to say this well. Each person seems to me for the most part to be a friend to each, according as the ancient sages say “like to like:” does it not seem so to you?

Cal. It does.

Socr. Wherever, therefore, a savage and uneducated tyrant governs, if there should be any one in the city much better than him, would not the tyrant fear him, and never be able to be cordially his friend?

Cal. Such is the case.

Socr. Nor yet, if any one should be much worse than the tyrant, would he become his friend; for the tyrant would despise him, nor ever feel any affection for him as a friend.

Cal. This also is true.

141. Socr. It remains, therefore, that he alone would be a friend, worthy of notice, to such a man, who, having a similar disposition, should blame and praise the same things, and be willing to be governed by and submit to his sway. Such a person will have great influence in this city, and no one will injure him with impunity. Is it not so?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. If, therefore, any young man in this city should consider within himself, “How could I obtain influence, and be injured by no one?” this, as it seems, must be his method, he must from his very youth accustom himself to rejoice and grieve at the same things as the despot, and contrive to make himself as like him as possible. Is it not so?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. Will not he, then, have managed so as not to be injured, and to have great power in that city, according to your argument?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Will he also manage not to commit injustice? or far from it, since he will be like the governor, who is unjust, and will have great influence with him? I think, for my part, that quite contrariwise he will contrive so as to be able to commit the greatest injustice and not to be punished for it. Will he not?

Cal. It appears so.

Socr. Will not, then, the greatest evil befal him, in consequence of being depraved in his soul, and tainted through imitation of the despot and his influence with him?

142. Cal. I know not, Socrates, how you always turn the arguments upside down. Do you not know, that he who imitates can kill him who does not imitate the despot if he pleases, and deprive him of his property?

Socr. I do know it, good Callicles, unless I am deaf, since I have just now heard it often both from you and Polus, and from almost every one else in the city. But do you in your turn listen to me: he will kill him if he pleases, but a depraved man, one who is upright and good.

Cal. And is not this a thing to be indignant at?

Socr. Not to a man of sense, as our argument proves. Do you think that a man should aim at this; to live as long as possible, and should study those arts which always preserve us from dangers, as rhetoric which you bid me study, and which saves us in courts of justice?

Cal. I do, by Jupiter, and therein I advise you well.

143. Socr. What then, my excellent friend, does the science of swimming too appear to you to be very fine?

Cal. No, by Jupiter.

Socr. And yet this too saves men from death, when they fall into such a danger as requires this science. But if this appears to you to be mean, I will mention to you one more important than this, namely that of piloting a ship, which not only saves lives, but also bodies and property from extreme danger, just as rhetoric does. And this art is moderate and modest, and does not brag and strut as if it accomplished something wonderful, but when it has accomplished the same thing as the forensic art, if it has brought us safe here from Ægina, it demands, I think, two oboli, and if from Egypt or the Pontus, for so great a benefit in having brought safe what I now mention, ourselves and children, our property and wives, and in having landed them in port, it usually demands two drachms, and the man who possesses this art, and accomplishes these things, when he has disembarked, walks by the sea and his ship, with a modest gait. 144. For he knows, I think, how to reason with himself, that it is uncertain whom of his passengers he has benefited by not allowing them to be drowned, and whom he has injured, knowing that he has not put them ashore in any respect better than they were when they went on board, either as to their souls or bodies. He therefore reasons with himself, that if one who is afflicted in his body with severe and incurable diseases should happen not to be drowned, such a man is indeed miserable for having escaped death, and has received no benefit from him; but if any one labours under many and incurable diseases in that which is more precious than the body, his soul, such a one ought[77] not to live, nor would he benefit him, if he saved him from the sea, or from a court of justice, or from any other danger, for he knows that it is not better for a depraved man to live, because he must needs live badly. For this reason, it is not usual for a pilot to boast, although he saves our lives; nor, my admirable friend, is it usual for an engineer who is sometimes able to save, no less than a general of an army, not to mention a pilot or any other person; for sometimes he saves whole cities. Does it not appear to you that he is fit to be compared with a forensic orator? though, if he chose to speak, Callicles, as you do, extolling his own art, he would overwhelm you with words, urging and exhorting you to the fitness of your becoming an engineer, for that other things are of no consequence; and he would have enough to say. 145. You, however, would nevertheless despise him and his art, and, by way of reproach would call him an engineer, and would neither give your daughter to his son, nor accept his daughter for your son. Though, if from the reasons for which you praise your own art, on what just pretext do you despise the engineer, and the others whom I have just now mentioned? I know that you would say you are better, and of a better family. But if that which is better is not what I say it is, but if excellence consists in this, for a man to save himself and his property, whatever kind of man he may be, then your contempt for the engineer and the physician, and for whatever other arts are pursued for the purpose of preservation, is ridiculous.

But, my good friend, consider whether that which is noble and good is not something else than to save and be saved; and whether that principle, that one should live as long as one can, is not to be given up by one who is truly a man, and life not too fondly loved, but that leaving these things to the care of the deity, and believing the women, who say that no man can avoid his fate, one should consider this, by what means one may pass the remainder of one’s life in the best possible manner, whether by conforming one’s-self to the government under which one dwells. 146. And in that case whether it is right that you should resemble as much as possible the Athenian people, if you wish to be dear to them, and to have great influence in their city? Consider whether this is advantageous to you and to me, lest, my admirable friend, we should suffer what they say the Thessalian[78] witches did, who drew down the moon, and our choice of this power in the city should be attended with the loss of what is dearest to us. If, however, you think that any man in the world can teach you any such art, as will cause you to have great power in this city, while you are unlike the character of the people, whether for the better or the worse, as appears to me, Callicles, you are not rightly advised. For you must not only be an imitator of, but like them in your natural disposition, if you mean to do any thing effectual towards gaining the friendship of the Athenian people, and, by Jupiter, you must towards that of the son of Pyrilampes. Whoever, therefore, shall make you most like them, will make you a politician and an orator, such as you desire to be. For all men are delighted with arguments suited to their own dispositions, but are angry with such as are strange to them; unless you, my dear friend, have any thing to say to the contrary. 147. Have we any objection to make to this, Callicles?

Cal. I do not know how it is, Socrates, you appear to me to speak well. Yet that which happens to most happens to me; I am not quite persuaded by you.

Socr. For the love of the people, Callicles, dwelling in your soul, resists me; but perhaps, if we should often and more fully examine into these same matters, you would be persuaded. Remember, then, that we said there were two methods for the cultivation of each, both the body and the soul, and that one had reference to pleasure, but the other to that which is best, not by gratifying, but opposing the inclinations. Is not this what we before settled?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. The one, then, that looks to pleasure is ignoble, and nothing else than flattery; is it not?

Cal. Be it so, if you please.

Socr. But the other endeavours that that which we cultivate may be made as excellent as possible, whether it be the body or the soul?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Must we then so endeavour to cultivate the city and the citizens, that we may make the citizens themselves as good as possible? For without this, as we discovered before, it is of no advantage to confer any other benefit upon them, unless the mind of those who are about to receive either great riches, or dominion or any other power, be upright and good. Shall we lay this down, as being so?

Cal. Certainly, if it is more agreeable to you.

148. Socr. If, therefore, Callicles, when setting about some public works, we were to exhort one another to works of architecture, as to very large buildings of walls, or docks or temples, would it be necessary that we should consider and examine ourselves, first, whether we are skilled or not in the art of architecture, and from whom we learnt it? Would this be necessary or not?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. Then, secondly, we should consider this, whether we have ever constructed any private building, either for any one of our friends, or for ourselves, and whether this building is beautiful or ugly. And if on examination we found that our masters had been good and famous, and that we have constructed, in conjunction with our masters, many and beautiful buildings, and many privately by ourselves, after we had left our masters, in that case it would become men of sense to undertake public works: but if we were not able to shew that we had a master, nor any building at all, or many and those of no account, it would surely in that case be foolish to attempt public works, and to exhort one another to undertake them. Shall we admit that this is well said, or not?

Cal. Certainly.

149. Socr. And is not this the case with all other things, and if, attempting to serve the public in the capacity of physicians, we should exhort each other, as if we were skilful physicians, should not you and I examine each other thus: By the gods, in what state is Socrates with respect to bodily health? Has any other person, whether slave or freeman, been cured by Socrates of any disease? And I too, I think, should make similar enquiries about you. And if we did not find that any one, whether stranger or citizen, man or woman, had been improved in health by our means, by Jupiter, Callicles, would it not be truly ridiculous, that men should come to such a pitch of folly, as before they had practised much in private, as best they could, and had succeeded in many cases, and thoroughly exercised the art, to attempt to learn the potter’s art in making a pitcher, as the proverb goes, and attempt to serve the public in the capacity of physician, and exhort others to do the same? Does it not appear to you that it would be foolish to act thus?

Cal. It does.

150. Socr. But now, O best of men, since you have yourself just now begun to busy yourself in affairs of state, and you exhort and reprove me because I do not busy myself about them, should we not examine each other; Come then, whom of the citizens has Callicles yet made better? Is there any one who, being before depraved, unjust, intemperate, and foolish, has become upright and good through Callicles, whether stranger or citizen, slave or free-man? Tell me, Callicles, if any one should ask you these questions, what will you say? Who will you say has been made better by associating with you? Are you ashamed to answer, whether you have done any such work while you were in a private capacity, before you attempted to interfere in public affairs?

Cal. You are cavilling, Socrates.

Socr. I do not ask you from a desire to cavil, but really wishing to know in what way you think public affairs ought to be conducted by us; whether on undertaking the management of affairs of state we ought to attend to any thing else than how we may become as good citizens as possible. Have we not already often admitted that a politician ought to do this? Have we admitted it or not? Answer. We have admitted it; I will answer for you. 151. If, then, a good man ought to endeavour to procure this for his city, now call to mind and say with respect to those men whom you a little before mentioned, whether they still appear to you to have been good citizens, Pericles, Cimon, Miltiades and Themistocles.

Cal. To me they do.

Socr. If, therefore, they were good citizens, it is evident that each of them made their fellow-citizens better instead of worse. Did they so, or not?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. When Pericles, therefore, began to speak in public, were the Athenians worse than when he addressed them for the last time?

Cal. Perhaps so.

Socr. There is no ‘perhaps’ in the case, my good friend, but this is a necessary consequence from what has been admitted, if he really was a good citizen.

Cal. But what then?

Socr. Nothing. But tell me this moreover, whether the Athenians are supposed to have become better through Pericles, or quite the contrary, to have been corrupted by him. For so I hear, that Pericles made the Athenians idle, cowardly, talkative and avaricious, having been the first to give them pay.

Cal. You hear this, Socrates, from those whose ears have been bruised[79].

152. Socr. However, I no longer hear this, but I know well and so do you, that Pericles at first bore a high character, and that the Athenians passed no ignominious sentence upon him, when they were worse, but when by his means they had become upright and good, towards the close of the life of Pericles, they condemned him for peculation, and were on the point of sentencing him to death, clearly as being a bad citizen.

Cal. What then? Was Pericles on this account a bad man?

Socr. Such an one, indeed, would be thought a bad manager of asses, horses, and oxen, if having received them, neither kicking, nor butting, nor biting, he should make them do all these things through vice. Does not every trainer of any animal whatever appear to you to be a bad one, who, having received it gentle, has made it more vicious than he received it? Does he appear so, or not?

Cal. Certainly, that I may gratify you.

Socr. Gratify me, then, by answering this too, whether man is of the class of animals, or not?

Cal. How should he not be?

Socr. Had not Pericles, then, the care of men?

Cal. Yes.

153. Socr. What then? Ought they not, as we just now admitted, to have become more just, instead of more unjust, under his management, if he who took charge of them was a good politician?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. And are not the just gentle, as Homer[80] says? What say you? Is it not so?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. However, he made them more savage than he received them, and this against himself, which he would least of all have wished.

Cal. Do you wish that I should agree with you?

Socr. If I seem to you to speak the truth.

Cal. Be it so, then.

Socr. If, then, he made them more savage, he must have made them more unjust, and worse?

Cal. Be it so.

Socr. According to this reasoning, then, Pericles was not a good politician?

Cal. Not, as you say.

Socr. By Jupiter, nor as you say either, from what you have admitted. But, again, tell me with respect to Cimon. Did not they whom he took care of pass a sentence of ostracism upon him, in order that they might not hear his voice for ten years? And did they not do the very same to Themistocles, and beside punish him with exile? And did they not sentence Miltiades, the conqueror at Marathon, to be thrown into the Barathrum, and but for the Prytanis, would he not have been thrown into it? These, however, if they had been good men, as you say, would never have suffered these things. 154. Good drivers, surely, do not at first keep themselves from falling from their cars, but, when they have trained their horses, and have themselves become better drivers, then fall off. This is never the case, either in driving, or in any other employment. Does it appear so to you?

Cal. To me it does not.

Socr. Our former statements, then, as it appears, are true, that we do not know any man who has been a good politician in this city. You admit that you know of none at present, but you say that formerly there were some, and you have selected these men: but these have appeared to be much the same as those of the present day, so that, if they were orators, they did not make use of the true rhetoric, for in that case they would not have fallen, nor yet did they employ flattery.

Cal. However, Socrates, it is far from being the case, that any one of the present day will ever do such deeds as were done by any one of those.

Socr. Neither, my excellent friend, do I blame these men, as servants of the city, but they appear to me to have been more efficient than those of the present day, and better able to procure for the city what it desired. But in changing and repressing their desires, by persuading and compelling them to such a course as would make the citizens become better, they scarcely differed at all from those of the present day; yet that is the only duty of a good citizen. But, with respect to providing ships, walls, and docks, and many other such things, I agree with you, that they were more able than the men of our day. 155. You and I, however, act ridiculously in our discussion. For during the whole time that we have been conversing we have not ceased to go round and round the same subject, and to misunderstand each what the other says. I think that you have often admitted and acknowledged that there is a twofold method of treatment, both with respect to the body and with respect to the soul: and that the one is ministerial, by which we are enabled to procure food, if our bodies are hungry, drink, if they are thirsty, and if they are cold, garments, coverlids, shoes, and all other things which the body stands in need of. And I purposely speak to you through these images, in order that you may understand me more easily. For when any one supplies these things, being either a retail tradesman or a merchant, or a manufacturer of any of them, a baker, a cook, a weaver, a shoemaker, or tanner, it is not at all surprising that such a person should appear, both to himself and others, to be concerned in the care of the body, that is, to all who are ignorant that, besides all these, there is a gymnastic and medicinal art, to which the care of the body really belongs, and whose duty it is to rule over all these arts, and to use their respective productions, through knowing what meats or drinks are good and bad for the health of the body, whereas all those others are ignorant of this; for which reason all those other arts are servile, ministerial, and base, as regards the management of the body, but the gymnastic art and medicine are justly the mistresses of these. 156. That the case is the same with respect to the soul, you, at one time, appeared to me to have understood, and admitted it as if you knew what I meant; but shortly afterwards you went on to say that there have been good and upright men in this city, and when I asked you who they were, you appeared to me to adduce men very similar with respect to politics, as if, on my asking with respect to gymnastics, who have been or are good managers of the body, you had very seriously said to me, Thearion the baker, Mithæcus, who wrote on Sicilian cookery, and Sarambus the tavern-keeper, and that they take wonderful care of the body, the first making admirable bread, the second, made-dishes, and the third, wine. Perhaps, then, you would be angry if I said to you, My friend, you know nothing about gymnastics; you tell me of men who are ministers and purveyors to desires, but who do not understand any thing great and good respecting them, and who, it may so happen, having filled men’s bodies, and made them gross, and having been praised by them, end by ruining their old flesh. These men, on the other hand, through their ignorance, will not blame those who have pampered their appetites, as being the causes of their diseases, and of the loss of their old flesh, but they who may happen to have been with them, and to have given them some advice, when, after a long time, repletion, having been indulged in without any regard to health, comes bringing disease with it, these they will accuse and blame, and do them some mischief if they can, but those others, who are the causes of their maladies, they will extol. 157. And now you, Callicles, act in very much the same way; you extol men who have pampered the Athenians by satiating their desires, and who they say have made the city great; and they do not perceive that it is swollen, and unsound through means of those ancient politicians: for, without considering temperance and justice, they have filled the city with harbours and docks, and walls and tributes, and such trifles. When, therefore, the crisis of their weakness comes, they will blame the advisers who are then present, but will extol Themistocles, Cimon, and Pericles, who were the causes of the mischief: and you perhaps, unless you are on your guard, and my friend Alcibiades, they will seize, when they have lost what they had before in addition to what they have acquired, although you are not the causes of the mischief, but perhaps accomplices. 158. Moreover, I both now see a very foolish thing happening, and I hear of it with respect to men of former times. For I perceive that when a city punishes any of its politicians as guilty of wrong, they are angry, and complain bitterly that they are treated shamefully; and having done the city many good services, they are then unjustly ruined by it, as they allege. But the whole is a falsehood. For no president of a city can ever be unjustly ruined by the very city over which he presides. For the case seems to be the same with such as profess themselves to be politicians, as it is with the sophists. For the sophists, though wise in other things, commit this absurdity; whereas they affirm that they are teachers of virtue, they often accuse their disciples of acting unjustly towards them, by defrauding them of their wages, and not making other requitals for the benefits they have received from them. But what can be more unreasonable than such language as this, that men who have become good and just, who have been freed from injustice by their teacher, and have acquired justice, should yet act unjustly from that very quality which they have not? Does not this, my friend, appear to you to be absurd? Of a truth, Callicles, you have compelled me to make a speech by your unwillingness to answer me.

159. Cal. But should you not be able to speak unless some one answered you?

Socr. It seems as if I could: for now I have carried my discourse to a great length, seeing that you will not answer me. But my good friend, tell me, by Jupiter, the guardian of friendship, does it not appear to you unreasonable, that a man who says he has made another person good, should blame that person, because having been made good through his means, and being so, he has afterwards become bad?

Cal. To me it appears so.

Socr. Do you not, then, hear those speak in this manner who profess to instruct men in virtue?

Cal. I do. But what can you say of men of no worth?

Socr. What then can you say of those, who, while they profess to preside over the city, and to take care that it shall be as good as possible, then accuse it, when it so happens, as being very bad? Do you think that these differ at all from the former? My good man, a sophist and an orator are the same thing, or nearly so, and very like, as I said to Polus[81]. But you, through ignorance, think that rhetoric is something exceedingly beautiful, and despise the other. But, in truth, the sophist’s art is as much more beautiful than rhetoric, as the legislative is than the judicial, and the gymnastic art than medicine. 160. But I for my part think that public speakers and sophists alone ought not to complain of the very thing that they teach, as being mischievous to themselves, or that in the very same charge they should at the same time accuse themselves for not having at all benefited those whom they profess to have benefited. Is it not so?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. And surely to impart a benefit without a stipulated reward, as is probable, is proper for these men only, if they assert what is true. For one who has received any other kind of benefit, as, for instance, who has acquired swiftness of foot through the instructions of a teacher of gymnastics, perhaps might deprive him of his gratuity, if the teacher of gymnastics had left it to him, without having made an agreement for a fixed price, that he should be paid the money as nearly as possible at the same time that he imparted his skill to him. For men, I think, do not act unjustly through slowness, but through injustice. Do they not?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. If, therefore, any one should take away this, I mean injustice, there would be no danger of his ever being treated unjustly, but he alone might safely impart this benefit, if in truth he is able to make men good. Is it not so?

Cal. I admit it.

161. Socr. For this reason then, as it appears, it is not at all disgraceful to take money for giving advice about other things, as, for instance, about architecture, or other arts.

Cal. So it appears.

Socr. But with respect to this study, by what means a man may become as good as possible, and may best govern his own family or a city, it is reckoned disgraceful to withhold advice, except one should give him money. Is it not so?

Cal. Yes.

Socr. For it is evident that this is the reason that this alone of all benefits makes the person who has received it desirous of requiting it; so that it appears to be a good sign, if he who has imparted this benefit shall be recompensed in return; but otherwise not. Is this so?

Cal. It is.

Socr. To which method, then, of taking care of the city do you advise me? explain to me; whether to that of thwarting the Athenians, in order that they may become as good as possible, as if I were a physician, or to that by which I should serve them, and curry favour with them. Tell me the truth, Callicles. For, as you begun to speak freely to me, it is right you should continue to say what you think. And now speak well and nobly.

Cal. I say, then, that I advise you to serve them.

162. Socr. You advise me, therefore, most noble Sir, to employ flattery.

Cal. Unless you prefer calling him a Mysian[82], Socrates; for if you will do so—

Socr. Do not repeat what you have often said, that any one who pleases will kill me, lest I too should say again, that a bad man would slay a good one; nor that he will take away my property, if I have any, lest I too should say again, that after he has taken it away he will not be able to make any use of it, but as he has unjustly taken it from me, so having got it, he will make an unjust use of it; and if unjustly, basely; and if basely, wickedly.

Cal. How confident you seem to me to be, Socrates, that you will never suffer any of these things, as being one who lives out of harm’s way, and who can never be brought before a court of justice by a man, perhaps, utterly depraved and vile!

Socr. I should indeed be foolish, Callicles, if I did not think that any one in this city might suffer any thing that might happen. This however I well know, that if I should go before a court of justice, and be exposed to any of the dangers you mention, he who takes me thither will be a bad man. For no good man would accuse one who has not committed injustice. And it would not be at all wonderful, if I should be condemned to death. Do you wish I should tell you why I expect this?

Cal. By all means.

163. Socr. I think that I, in conjunction with a few Athenians, (that I may not say alone,) apply myself to the true political art, and alone of those of the present day perform the duties of a citizen. Since, then, in the conversations which I enter into from time to time, I do not speak for the purpose of conciliating popular favour, but with a view to that which is best, and not to that which is most agreeable, and as I am not willing to do those fine things that you advise, I shall not have any thing to say in a court of justice. And the same illustration occurs to me that I mentioned to Polus. For I should be judged as a physician would be judged by children, with a cook for his accuser. For consider what defence such a man would make when taken before them, if one should accuse him as follows: ‘O boys, this man has done you a great deal of mischief, and destroys both you and even the youngest of you, for, by cutting, cauterizing, weakening and choking you, he reduces you to great straits, giving you the bitterest draughts, and compelling you to hunger and thirst; not as I do who feed you with many sweet and various dainties.’ What do you think a physician when brought to such an extremity would have to say? If he should say the truth, ‘I did all these things, boys, for your health,’ what a clamour do you think such judges would raise against him? Would it not be loud?

Cal. Probably; one must think so, at least.

164. Socr. Do you not think, then, that he would be altogether at a loss what to say?

Cal. Certainly.

Socr. And I know that I should be treated just in the same way, if I came before a court of justice. For I should not be able to mention any pleasures which I had procured for them, which they consider as benefits and advantages; but I neither envy those who procure them, nor those for whom they are procured. And if any one should say that I corrupt younger men, by causing them to doubt, or that I revile the elder men, by speaking bitter words, either privately or publicly, I should not be able to say the truth, that “I say and do all these things justly, and for your advantage, judges, and nothing else.” So that I should probably suffer whatever might happen.

Cal. Does a man, then, appear to you, Socrates, to be well off in a city who is thus circumstanced, and is unable to help himself?

165. Socr. If there is that in him, Callicles, which you have often allowed, namely, if he can assist himself, by neither having said or done any thing unjust towards men or towards gods. For this aid has often been acknowledged by us to be the best that a man can have for himself. If, therefore, any one could convict me of being unable to afford this assistance either to myself or another, I should be ashamed, whether convicted before many or few, or alone by myself, and if I should be put to death for this inability I should be deeply grieved: but if I should die through want of flattering rhetoric, I well know that you would behold me meeting death cheerfully. For death itself no one fears, who is not altogether irrational and cowardly, but he does fear to commit injustice; for to go to Hades with a soul full of crimes is the worst of all evils. But, if you please, I will tell you a story to shew that such is the case.

Cal. Since you have brought the rest to a conclusion, bring this to a conclusion also.

166. Socr. Hear then, as they say, a very beautiful tale, which you will consider a fable, as I think, but I a tale; for what I am about to tell you, I tell you as being true. As Homer says[83], then, Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto, divided the government among themselves, after they had received it from their father. This law, then, respecting men was in existence in the time of Saturn, and always was, and still is, established among the gods, that a man who has passed through life justly and piously when he dies should go to the isles of the blessed, and dwell in all perfect happiness free from evil, but that he who has lived unjustly and impiously should go to a prison of punishment and justice, which they call Tartarus. During the reign of Saturn, and even recently when Jupiter held the government, there were living judges of the living, who passed sentence on the very day on which any one was about to die. In consequence of this sentences were awarded badly. Pluto, therefore, and the guardians of the blessed isles, went to Jupiter, and informed him that men came to them who did not deserve either sentence. 167. Jupiter, therefore, said, I will prevent this in future. For now sentences are badly awarded, because those that are judged are judged clothed, for they are judged while living. Many, therefore, he continued, whose souls are depraved are invested with beautiful bodies, nobility of birth, and riches, and when the judgment takes place, many witnesses come in their behalf, to testify that they have lived justly. Hence the judges are awed by these things, and moreover, they too pass sentence when clothed, for their minds are veiled with eyes and ears, and the whole body. All these things, then, are obstacles to them, as well their own clothing as that of those that are judged. First of all, then, they must no longer be allowed to know beforehand the time of their death: for at present they do know it beforehand. Prometheus, therefore, has orders to deprive them of this power: next they must be judged divested of all these things; for they must be judged after they are dead: the judge too must be naked and dead, and examine with his soul the soul of each immediately after death, destitute of all his kindred, and leaving all that ornament on the earth, in order that the judgment may be just. 168. Now I had observed these things before you, and accordingly have appointed my sons as judges, two from Asia, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and one from Europe, Æacus. These, then, when they are dead, shall judge in the meadow, at the three roads, of which two lead one to the isles of the blessed, the other to Tartarus. And Rhadamanthus shall judge those from Asia, and Æacus those from Europe. But to Minos I will give the prerogative of deciding in case any doubt occurs to the two others, in order that the judgment respecting the path men are to take may be as just as possible.

These are the things, Callicles, which I have heard, and believe to be true: and from these statements I infer the following results. Death, as it appears to me, is nothing else than the separation of two things, the soul and the body, from each other. But when they are separated from each other, each of them possesses pretty much the same habit that the man had when alive, the body its own nature, culture and affections, all distinct. 169. So that if any one’s body, while living, was large by nature, or food, or both, his corpse when he is dead is also large; and if corpulent, his corpse is corpulent when he is dead; and so with respect to other things. And if again he took pains to make his hair grow long, his corpse also has long hair. Again, if any one has been well whipped, and while living had scars in his body, the vestiges of blows, either from scourges or other wounds, his dead body also is seen to retain the same marks. And if the limbs of any one were broken or distorted while he lived, these same defects are distinct when he is dead. In a word, of whatever character any one has made his body to be while living, such will it distinctly be, entirely or for the most part, for a certain time after he is dead. The same thing too, Callicles, appears to me to happen with respect to the soul; all things are distinctly manifest in the soul after it is divested of body, as well its natural disposition, as the affections which the man has acquired in his soul, from his various pursuits. 170. When, therefore, they come to the judge, those from Asia to Rhadamanthus, Rhadamanthus, having made them stand before him, examines the soul of each, not knowing whose it is, but often meeting with the soul of the great king, or of some other king or potentate, he sees nothing sound in the soul, but finds it thoroughly marked with scourges and full of scars, through perjuries and injustice, which the actions of each has imprinted on his soul, and he finds all things distorted through falsehood and arrogance, and nothing upright, in consequence of its having been nurtured without truth; he also sees the soul full of disproportion and baseness through power, luxury, wantonness and intemperate conduct. On seeing it he forthwith sends it ignominiously to prison, where on its arrival it will undergo the punishment it deserves. But it is proper that every one who is punished, if he is rightly punished by another, should either become better, and be benefited by it, or should be an example to others, that they, beholding his sufferings, may be made better through fear. 171. But those that are benefited, at the same time that they suffer punishment both from gods and men, are such as have been guilty of curable offences; their benefit however both here and in Hades, accrues to them through means of pain and torments; for it is not possible to be freed from injustice in any other way. But those who have committed the most extreme injustice, and have become incurable through such crimes, serve as examples to others, and these are not benefited at all, as being incurable, but others are benefited by beholding them suffering for ever the greatest, most bitter, and most dreadful punishments for their sins, being suspended in the prison of Hades altogether as examples, a spectacle and warning to the unjust men who are constantly arriving. Of these, I say, Archelaus will be one, if Polus says true, and every other tyrant that resembles him. I think too, that the most of these examples will consist of tyrants, kings, and potentates, and such as have governed the affairs of cities; for these through their power commit the greatest and most impious crimes. 172. Homer[84] also bears witness to this; for he makes those to be kings and potentates, who are punished for ever in Hades, Tantalus, Sisyphus and Tityus; but Thersites, or any other private man who was depraved, no one has represented as suffering great punishments as if incurable; for I think it was not in his power to commit them; on which account he was more happy than those who had the power. But, Callicles, the most wicked men are amongst the powerful; nothing however hinders but that good men may be found amongst them; and when they are found they deserve the highest admiration: for it is a difficult thing, Callicles, and deserves high praise, when one who has great power of acting unjustly, passes through life justly. There are however a few men of this kind; for they have existed both here and elsewhere, and I think there will be hereafter good and upright men, endued with the virtue of administering justly whatever is committed to their charge. There has been one who is very celebrated among all the Greeks, Aristides, son of Lysimachus. But, my excellent friend, the generality of potentates prove wicked. 173. As I said, then, when Rhadamanthus has got any such person in his power, he knows nothing else about him, neither who he is, nor who are his parents, but only that he is wicked; and on discerning this, he sends him away to Tartarus, signifying at the same time whether he appears to be curable or incurable; but he arriving thither suffers according to his deserts. Sometimes, Rhadamanthus beholding another soul that has passed through life piously and with truth, whether it be of some private man, or any other, but I say, Callicles, especially of a philosopher, who has attended to his own affairs, and has not made himself very busy during life, he is delighted, and sends it to the isles of the blessed. Æacus too, does the very same things. And each of them passes sentence, holding a rod in his hand. But Minos sits apart looking on, and is the only one that has a golden sceptre, as the Ulysses of Homer[85] says he saw him; “bearing a golden sceptre, and administering justice to the dead.” I therefore, Callicles, am persuaded by these accounts, and consider how I may exhibit my soul before the judge in the most healthy condition. Wherefore, disregarding the honours that most men value, and looking to the truth, I shall endeavour in reality to live as virtuously as I can, and when I die, to die so. 174. And I invite all other men, to the utmost of my power, and you too I in turn invite to this life and this contest, which I affirm surpasses all contests here, and I upbraid you because you will not be able to assist yourself, when you will have to undergo the sentence and judgment which I have just now mentioned; but when you shall come before the judge, the son of Ægina, and when he shall seize you and bring you before his tribunal, you will there gape and become dizzy, no less than I should here, and perhaps some one will strike you ignominiously on the face, and treat you with every species of contumely.

Perhaps, however, these things appear to you to be like an old woman’s fable, and you accordingly despise them. And it would not be at all wonderful that we should despise them, if on investigation we could find any thing better and more true than them. But now you see that you three, who are the wisest of the Greeks of this day, you, Polus, and Gorgias, are unable to prove that we ought to live any other life than such as appears to be advantageous hereafter, but among so many arguments, while others have been refuted, this alone remains unshaken, that we ought to beware of committing injustice rather than of being injured, and that above all a man ought to study not to appear good, but to be so, both privately and publicly: and that if any one is in any respect wicked, he should be punished, and that this is the next good to the being just, to become so[86], and to submit to the punishment one deserves; and that all flattery, whether of one’s-self or others, whether of few or many, must be avoided; and that rhetoric, and every other action, is always to be employed with a view to what is just.

175. Be persuaded by me then, and follow me to that place, by going to which you will be happy, both living and after you are dead, as your own argument proves. And suffer any one to despise you as senseless, and to treat you with contumely, if he pleases, and by Jupiter, do you cheerfully let him strike that ignominious blow; for you will suffer nothing dreadful, if you are in reality upright and good, and devoted to the practice of virtue. And when we have thus exercised ourselves in common, we will then, if it should appear desirable, apply ourselves to politics, or we will deliberate on whatever we shall think desirable, being better qualified to deliberate than we now are. For it is disgraceful, being in the condition in which we appear to be at present, to pride ourselves, like youths, as if we were something, who yet never retain the same opinion on the same subjects, and these of the greatest moment; to such a pitch of ignorance have we reached! Let us use as our guide, then, the reasoning that has now been made clear to us, which teaches us, that this is the best mode of life, to live and to die in the exercise of justice and the other virtues. This, then, let us follow, and invite others to do the same, not that, to which you confidently invited me: for it is of no value, Callicles.

INTRODUCTION TO THE PROTAGORAS.

In this dialogue Socrates relates to a friend, whose name is not given, a discussion which he had just had with Protagoras the sophist, of Abdera.

Hippocrates, a young Athenian, had roused Socrates very early in the morning and entreated him to accompany him on a visit to Protagoras, who was then at Athens staying at the house of Callias, and whose pupil he was anxious to become. On arriving there, they find the sophist attended by a crowd of admirers, and moreover Hippias of Elis and Prodicus of Ceos, surrounded by their respective followers[87].

After Socrates had made known the object of his visit to Protagoras, Callias proposes that the whole party should sit down and listen to the conversation. When all are seated, Socrates repeats to Protagoras, that Hippocrates is desirous of becoming his pupil, and wishes to know what advantage he may expect to derive from associating with him. Protagoras tells him that from the very first day of their intercourse he will become a better man than he was before, and will daily make further progress. But, asks Socrates, in what will he become better, and in what make further progress? In the management of his domestic and public affairs, that is to say, in the political art. To this Socrates objects that the general opinion is that political virtue cannot be taught, and that, whereas with respect to arts and sciences it was usual only to consult persons who had made them their study and were skilled in them, in affairs of state every one, of whatever condition, was at liberty to give his opinion; he therefore begs Protagoras to prove that virtue can be taught[88]. To this end Protagoras relates a fable in which he explains how the capacity of becoming virtuous was imparted by Jupiter to mankind; and then argues that as men are punished for injustice, impiety, and the like, it follows that they must think that these virtues ought to be possessed and may be acquired by all men, for that they would not punish them for a mere defect of mind any more than of body, if it were natural and not attributable to the fault of the individual[89].

Socrates having complimented him on his eloquence, according to his usual method, begs that he will answer his questions briefly; and then expresses his surprise at having heard Protagoras speak of justice, temperance, holiness, and the like, as if they were collectively virtue. He therefore wishes to know whether virtue is one thing, and justice, temperance and holiness, parts of it, or whether they are all names of one and the same thing. Protagoras answers that virtue is one thing, and these several qualities parts of it. Are they then parts like the parts of a face, the mouth, nose, eyes, and ears, or like the parts of gold, which do not differ from each other? Like the former. In that case holiness and justice must be different from each other, which, as Protagoras is at length compelled, though unwillingly, to admit, is absurd[90].

Again, each several thing has only one contrary; for instance, strength is contrary to weakness, swiftness to slowness, ugliness to beauty, evil to good; in the same way each virtue must have its contrary. This being granted, Protagoras is led to admit that folly is contrary to temperance, and also to wisdom; but in that case wisdom and temperance cannot be different from each other, as was before stated, but must be one and the same thing. A similar course of enquiry is instituted by Socrates, in order to shew that justice and prudence likewise are one and the same, but the impatience of Protagoras at finding himself driven to repeated admissions which contradict the theory with which he set out, interrupts the discussion; at length, however, the breach is repaired by the interference of the company, and it is agreed that each shall question the other in turn. Protagoras begins by getting Socrates to allow that an ode of Simonides is beautiful, but that it cannot be beautiful if the poet contradicts himself. He then shews that in one part of the ode it is said “that to become a good man is difficult,” and in another part, “that he is not pleased with the saying of Pittacus, where he says that it is difficult to continue to be good.” Socrates, however, justifies the opinion he had expressed by a minute and subtle examination of the object the poet had in view in composing the ode[91].

Having concluded his criticism of the ode, Socrates is anxious to bring back the discussion to the original subject, and having with difficulty prevailed on Protagoras to consent to this, repeats the question with which they set out, which was to this effect: whether wisdom, temperance, courage, justice, and holiness are five parts of virtue, differing from each other as the parts of the face do? Protagoras answers that they all are parts of virtue, four of them very like each other, but the fifth, courage, very different from all the rest. But this distinction Socrates overthrows as follows: you admit that the courageous are daring; but they who, like divers, are bold in a matter in which they are skilled are commended as courageous, whereas they who are unskilled and yet bold are not courageous but mad; so that according to this reasoning wisdom and courage are the same. Protagoras, however, tries to avoid this conclusion by saying that Socrates has mis-stated his former admission, for that he allowed only that the courageous are bold, not that the bold are courageous. But Socrates, with a view more certainly to convict his opponent of error, changes his ground, and asks whether all pleasant things are good, and all painful things evil? Protagoras is in doubt what answer to give; Socrates, therefore, shews that pleasure is in itself a good, but that men mistake as to what things are pleasant; for knowledge alone ought to govern man, and if a man knows good and evil he will never be overcome by any thing so as to do any thing else but what knowledge bids him. Yet there are some who say that they are overcome by pleasure or pain; but what is it to be overcome by pleasure? nothing else than to choose present pleasure which will result in greater evil; in other words, to embrace a greater evil rather than a greater good; they, therefore, who are overcome by pleasure are so from ignorance[92].

Having established this, Socrates recurs to the statement of Protagoras, that courage differs from the other parts of virtue, because the most unholy, most unjust, most intemperate, and most ignorant men, are sometimes most courageous. It is admitted that no one willingly exposes himself to things that he believes to be evil; a brave man, therefore, incurs dangers which he knows to be honourable and good, and therefore pleasant, and is influenced by no base fear, nor inspired with base confidence; but the coward, on the contrary, is influenced by base fear and inspired by base confidence; he errs, therefore, through ignorance and want of knowledge, whence it follows that courage is contained in knowledge. The result of the whole is that virtue, since it consists in knowledge, can be taught, and so it turns out that Socrates, who began by maintaining that it could not be taught, has been arguing all along that it can, and Protagoras, who asserted that it could be taught, has been arguing that it cannot.

PROTAGORAS,

OR

THE SOPHISTS.

A Friend, Socrates, Hippocrates, Protagoras, Alcibiades,

Callias, Critias, Prodicus, and Hippias.

Fr. Whence come you, Socrates? can there be any doubt but that it is from a chase after the beauty of Alcibiades? and to me, indeed, when I saw him lately, the man appeared still beautiful, though between ourselves, Socrates, he is a man and is now getting a pretty thick beard.

Socr. But what of that? Do you not approve of Homer[93], then, who says, that the most graceful age is that of a youth with his first beard, which is now the age of Alcibiades?

Fr. What have we to do with that now? Do you come from him? And how is the youth disposed towards you?

Socr. Very well, I think, and not least so to-day; for he has said many things in my favour, assisting me, and indeed I have just now come from him. However, I have something strange to tell you: for though he was present I paid no attention to him, and even frequently forgot him.

2. Fr. But what great affair can have happened between you and him? for surely you have not met with any one else more beautiful, in this city at least?

Socr. By far.

Fr. What say you? A citizen, or a stranger?

Socr. A stranger.

Fr. From whence?

Socr. From Abdera.

Fr. And did this stranger appear to you so beautiful that you thought him more beautiful than the son of Clinias?

Socr. But how, my dear friend, can the wisest be thought otherwise than more beautiful?

Fr. Have you come then, Socrates, from meeting one of our wise men?

Socr. Yes, and from the wisest of the present day, if you think Protagoras is the wisest.

Fr. Ha! What say you? Is Protagoras here?

Socr. And has been, these three days.

Fr. And are you just now come from his company?

Socr. I have, and from a very long conversation with him.

3. Fr. Why then should you not relate this conversation to us, unless something hinders you, having made this boy rise up, and seating yourself in his place?

Socr. Certainly; and I shall be obliged to you if you will listen to me.

Fr. And we to you, if you will tell us.

Socr. The obligation will be mutual. Listen then. This morning, while it was yet dark, Hippocrates, son of Apollodorus and brother of Phason, knocked very hard at my gate with his stick, and as soon as it was opened to him he came in, in great haste, and calling out with a loud voice, said, “Socrates, are you awake or asleep?” And I, knowing his voice, said, “Hippocrates is here: do you bring any news?”

“None,” he replied, “but what is good.”

“You say well,” said I, “but what is it? and why have you come so early?”

“Protagoras is come,” said he, standing by my side.

4. “He came the day before yesterday,” said I, “and have you only just heard of it?”

“By the gods,” he replied, “only yesterday evening,” and at the same time feeling about my bed, he sat down at my feet, and said, “Yesterday evening, very late, on my return from the village of Œnoe, for my slave Satyrus ran away, and I was purposing to tell you that I was going in pursuit of him, but something else put it out of my head; but when I had returned, and we had supped, and were going to bed, then my brother told me that Protagoras was arrived, and my first thought was to come immediately to you, but afterwards it appeared to me too late at night. As soon, however, as sleep had refreshed me after my fatigue, I immediately arose and came here.”

5. And I, knowing his earnestness and excitability, said, “What is this to you? Does Protagoras do you any harm?”

And he, laughing, said, “By the gods, Socrates, he does, because he alone is wise, and does not make me so.”

“But, by Jupiter,” said I, “if you give him money and persuade him, he will make you wise too.”

“Would that, O Jupiter and ye gods,” he said, “it depended on that, for I would spare nothing of my own or of my friend’s property either, and I have now come to you for this very purpose, that you may speak to him in my behalf. For besides that I am too young, I have never yet seen Protagoras or heard him speak, for I was but a boy when he came here before. However, Socrates, all men praise him, and say that he is the wisest man to speak. But why do we not go to him that we may find him within? He is staying, as I have heard, with Callias son of Hipponicus. Let us go then.”

6. I said to him: “We will not go there yet my friend, it is too early; but let us rise up and go into our court, and spend the time there walking about, until it is light; then we will go. For Protagoras stays mostly within; therefore cheer up, we shall probably find him at home.”

After this we rose and walked about the court, and I in order to try the strength of Hippocrates, examined and questioned him; “Tell me,” said I, “Hippocrates, you are now purposing to go to Protagoras, and to pay him money as a fee for teaching you something; to what kind of person do you think you are going, and what do you expect to become? Just as if you thought of going to your own namesake, Hippocrates of Cos, one of the Asclepiads, and were to pay him money as a fee for teaching you, if any one asked you, ‘Tell me, Hippocrates, you are about to pay a fee to Hippocrates, in what capacity?’ what should you answer?”

“I should say,” he replied, “in that of a physician.”

“And what do you expect to become?” “A physician,” said he.

“But if you thought of going to Polycletus the Argive, or Phidias the Athenian, and were to pay them a fee for teaching you, if any one asked you, ‘In what capacity do you intend to pay this money to Polycletus and Phidias?’ what should you answer?”

“I should say, in that of statuaries.”

“And what do you expect to become yourself?”

“Clearly, a statuary.”

“Be it so,” said I. “But we are now going, you and I, to Protagoras, and we are prepared to pay him money as a fee for teaching you, if our money is sufficient for the purpose, and we can persuade him by it; but if not, we mean to borrow from our friends. If, then, some one seeing us thus earnestly bent on this, should ask; ‘Tell me, Socrates and Hippocrates, in what capacity do you intend to pay money to Protagoras?’ what answer should we give him? What other name do we hear given to Protagoras, as that of statuary is given to Phidias, and that of poet to Homer? What name of this kind do we hear given to Protagoras?”

“They call him a sophist, Socrates,” he replied.

“As to a sophist, then, we are going to pay him money?”

“Assuredly.”

8. “If, then, any one should ask you this further question, ‘What do you expect to become yourself by going to Protagoras?’”

Upon which he said, blushing, (for the day was now beginning to dawn, so that I could see him,) “If this case is at all like the former, it is evident that I expect to become a sophist.”

“But, by the gods,” said I, “should you not be ashamed to shew yourself as a sophist before the Greeks?”

“By Jupiter, I should, Socrates, if I must say what I think.”

“Do you suppose, then, Hippocrates, that the instruction of Protagoras will not be of this kind, but such as you received from a grammarian, a musician, or a teacher of gymnastics? for you were not instructed in each of these for the sake of the art, meaning to become a professor yourself, but by way of accomplishment, as is proper for a private person and a freeman.”

“Just so,” he said, “such rather appears to me to be the instruction given by Protagoras.Protagoras.”

“Do you know, then,” said I, “what you are about to do, or does it escape you?”

“About what?”

“That you are about to entrust your soul to the care of a man, who, as you admit, is a sophist; and yet I should wonder if you know what a sophist is. Though, if you are ignorant of this, neither do you know to what you are confiding your soul, whether to a good or a bad thing.”

“But I think I know,” he said.

“Tell me, then, what you think a sophist is.”

“I think,” said he, “as the name imports, that he is one learned in wisdom.”

“This, however,” I replied, “may be said of painters and architects, that they too are learned in wisdom. And if any one should ask us in what wisdom painters are learned, we should surely say to him, in that which relates to the production of pictures, and so on with respect to the rest. But if any one should ask this question, ‘In what wisdom is a sophist learned?’ what answer should we give him? of what production is he a master?”

“What else should we say he is, Socrates, but a master of the art that makes men able speakers?”

10. “Perhaps,” said I, “we should say truly, yet not sufficiently. For this answer requires from us another question, about what a sophist makes men able speakers; just as the musician, surely, makes a man speak ably on the subject in which he is learned, on music. Is it not so?”

“Yes.”

“Well; on what subject, then, does a sophist make a man an able speaker? clearly on that in which he is learned?”

“Apparently.”

“What then is that in which the sophist is both learned himself and makes his pupil learned?”

“By Jupiter,” he replied, “I am unable to tell you.”

11. After this I said, “What then? are you aware to what danger you are going to expose your soul? if you had occasion to entrust your body to some one, on the risk of its becoming healthy or diseased, should you not consider very carefully whether you ought to entrust it or not, and would you not summon your friends and relations to a consultation, and deliberate many days? But that which you esteem far more than the body, your soul, and on which your all depends, either to fare well or ill, according as it becomes healthy or diseased, concerning this do you neither communicate with your father nor your brother, nor with any of us your friends, whether or not you should commit your soul to this stranger who has arrived here, but having heard of his arrival yesterday evening, as you say, do you come before daybreak, and take no thought or advice on the matter, whether it is proper or not to entrust yourself to him, but are ready to spend both your own and your friends’ property, as having already resolved that you must in any event associate with Protagoras, whom you neither know, as you admit, nor have ever spoken to; but you call him a sophist, though what a sophist is, to whom you are about to entrust yourself, you are evidently ignorant?”

12. And he having heard me, replied, “It seems so, Socrates, from what you say.”

“Is not a sophist, then, Hippocrates, a kind of merchant or retailer of commodities by which the soul is nourished? To me, at least, he appears to be so.”

“But by what is the soul nourished, Socrates?”

“By learning,” I replied. “But we must take care, my friend, that the sophist does not deceive us by praising what he sells, as those others do with respect to nutriment for the body, the merchant and the retailer. For neither do they themselves know which of the commodities in which they traffic are good or bad for the body, though they praise all that they sell, nor do those who buy from them, unless one happens to be a professor of gymnastics or a physician. In like manner, those who hawk about learning through cities, and who sell and retail it to every one that desires it, praise all that they sell, though perhaps some of these too, my excellent friend, may be ignorant which of the things they sell is good or bad for the soul; and this also may be the case with those that buy from them, unless some one happen to be skilled in the medicine of the soul. 13. If then you happen to know which of these is good or bad, you may safely buy learning from Protagoras or any one else; but if not, beware my good friend, that you do not hazard and imperil that which is most precious. For there is much greater danger in the purchase of learning than in that of food. For when one has purchased meat and drink from a retailer or merchant one may take them away in different vessels, and, before receiving them into one’s body by eating or drinking, one may set them down at home, and calling in some person who understands the matter, consult him as to what may be eaten and drunk, and what not, and how much and when; so that in this purchase there is no great danger. But it is not possible to carry away learning in a different vessel; but it is necessary, when one has paid the price, having received instruction in the soul itself and learnt it, to depart either injured or benefited. 14. Let us therefore consider these things with persons older than we are: for we are too young to decide on a matter of such importance. Now however, since we have made up our minds, let us go and hear the man, and after we have heard him, let us communicate with others. For not only is Protagoras there, but Hippias of Elis, and I think also Prodicus of Ceos, and many other wise men.”

This resolution taken, we set out. When we arrived at the front door, we stopped and discussed a question that had fallen out between us on the way; in order therefore that it might not be left unfinished, but that we might bring it to a conclusion and then enter the house, we stood at the front door talking together until we had agreed with each other. 15. Now it appears to me that the porter, who was a eunuch, overheard us, and he seems from the number of sophists to be out of humour with all who come to the house. For when we had knocked at the door, he having opened it and seeing us, said, “Ha, more sophists: he is not at leisure.” And at the same time with both his hands, he slammed to the door with all his might. Thereupon we knocked again, and he answering with the door shut, said, “Sirs, did not you hear me say that he is not at leisure?” “But, my good friend,” said I, “we are not come to Callias, nor are we sophists; cheer up then: for we are come wanting to see Protagoras: so announce us.” At length, with difficulty the fellow opened the door to us. 16. When we entered, we found Protagoras walking up and down in the portico, and in a line with him, there walked on one side Callias son of Hipponicus, and his brother by the mother’s side, Paralus son of Pericles, and Charmides son of Glaucon, and on the other side Xanthippus, the other son of Pericles, and Philippides son of Philomelus, and Antimœrus of Mende, who is the most famous of all the pupils of Protagoras, and who is learning professionally, meaning to become a sophist himself. Behind these there followed others who listened to what was said, the greater part appeared to be strangers, whom Protagoras brings with him from the several cities through which he passes, bewitching them by his voice like Orpheus, and they follow his voice, bewitched. Some of our countrymen also were in the band. 17. I was particularly pleased in observing this band, how well they took care never to be in the way of Protagoras by getting before him, but whenever he and those with him turned round, these listeners, in a good and regular manner, opened to the right and left, and wheeling round, always ranged themselves behind him in admirable order.

“After him I perceived,” as Homer[94] says, Hippias of Elis sitting on a high seat in the opposite side of the portico, and round him on benches sat Eryximachus, son of Acumenus, Phædrus of Myrrhine, Andron son of Androtion, and some strangers partly his fellow citizens and others. They appeared to be asking Hippias questions on physics and astronomy; but he, sitting on a high seat, gave answers to each of them and resolved their questions. 18. “Moreover I saw Tantalus[95];” for Prodicus of Ceos had lately arrived, but he was in a building which Hipponicus had before used as a store-room, but now, owing to the multitude of guests, Callias had emptied it and turned it into a lodging for strangers. Now Prodicus was still in bed wrapt up in a great number of skins and bed-clothes, as it appeared; and there were seated near him on sofas Pausanias of Ceramis, and with Pausanias a youth, quite a lad, as I thought of an excellent disposition, and of a very beautiful form. I thought I heard them call him Agathon, and I should not wonder if he was Pausanias’s favourite. This lad then was there, and the two Adimantuses, the one the son of Cepis, and the other of Leucolophides, and some others. But I was not able to learn from the outside what they were talking about, although I was exceedingly anxious to hear Prodicus; for he appears to me to be a very wise, nay a divine man, but owing to the harshness of his voice a kind of humming in the room made what he said indistinct.

19. We had just entered, and immediately after us there came in Alcibiades, the beautiful as you say, and as I am persuaded he is, and Critias, son of Callæschrus.

After we had entered, then, and waited a little while and observed what was going on, we went up to Protagoras, and I said, “Protagoras, I and Hippocrates here have come to see you.”

“Do you wish to speak with me alone,” he said, “or in the presence of the rest?”

“To us,” I replied, “it makes no difference, but when you have heard on what account we have come, you can determine yourself.”

“What is it then,” said he, “that you are come for?”

“Hippocrates here is a native of this country, son of Apollodorus, of a great and wealthy family; in natural ability he seems to be a match for the youth of his age; and he appears to me to be desirous of becoming a person of note in the city; and he thinks that he shall most readily become so, if he associates with you. Do you then determine, whether we ought to converse apart with you on this subject, or in the presence of others.”

20. “You very properly take precautions on my behalf, Socrates,” he replied. “For a stranger who visits powerful cities, and persuades the most distinguished of the youth in them to quit the society of others, both kindred and not kindred, both old and young, and associate with him, in the expectation of being improved by his society, ought in doing this to be very cautious, for things of this kind are attended with no slight jealousies and enmities, and even plots. For my part, I say that the art of a sophist is ancient, but the men who professed it in ancient times, fearing the odium attached to it, sought to conceal it, and veiled it over, some under the garb of poetry, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, and others under that of the mysteries and prophecies, such as Orpheus and Musæus, and their followers, and some I perceive have veiled it under the gymnastic art, as Iccus of Tarentum, and one of the present day who is a sophist, inferior to none, Herodicus of Selymbria, who was originally of Megara. But your own Agathocles, who was a great sophist, concealed it under the garb of music, as did Pythoclides of Ceos, and many others. 21. All these, as I say, through fear of jealousies, employed these arts as veils. I, however, in this respect, do not agree with any of them; for I think that they did not by any means effect the object they wished; for they did not escape the observation of men of authority in the cities, on whose account they had recourse to these disguises, for the multitude perceive scarcely any thing at all, but whatever the former give out, that they sing. Now to try to escape and not to be able to do so, but to be detected, both shews great folly in the attempt, and necessarily makes men much more hostile: for they think that such a man is moreover an impostor. 22. I therefore have taken a path quite contrary to them, and I acknowledge that I am a sophist and teach men, and I think that this precaution is better than the other, to confess rather than to deny: I have also planned other precautions besides this; so that by God’s help I have suffered no harm through confessing that I am a sophist; though I have exercised this art now many years; for my age is very great, and there is not one amongst you all whose father I am not old enough to be. So that it will be by far the most agreeable to me, if you are willing, to discuss this matter in the presence of all who are in the house.”

I then, for I suspected that he wished to shew and make a display of himself before Prodicus and Hippias, that we had come as his admirers— 23. “Why then,” said I, “do we not summon Prodicus and Hippias, and their party, to listen to us?”

“By all means,” said Protagoras.

Callias therefore said, “Would you wish us to prepare seats, that you may sit down and converse?” It was agreed that this should be done. And we all of us, in great delight, as being about to listen to wise men, laid hold of the stools, and benches, and couches, and placed them in order near Hippias; for the stools were there already; meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades brought Prodicus and his party with them, having made him get out of bed.

When, therefore, we were all seated, “Now Socrates,” said Protagoras, “since they are all here, you may repeat what you just now mentioned to me respecting this youth.”

24. And I said, “My commencement, Protagoras, is the same as it was just now, namely, with what design we came to you. Hippocrates here is very desirous of your society, and says he shall be glad to hear what advantage he may expect to derive from associating with you. Such is our errand.”

Thereupon Protagoras said in reply, “Young man, the advantage which you will derive from associating with me is this, that on the very day of your being with me you will go home a better man than you were before, and the same on the second day, and on each succeeding day you will make some further progress.”

25. And I, on hearing this, said, “Protagoras, this is nothing wonderful that you say, but very natural, since you too, old and wise as you are, would become better, if any one should teach you what you do not happen to know. But that is not what we require, but just as if Hippocrates here should on the instant change his mind, and desire to associate with the youth who has lately arrived, Zeuxippus of Heraclea, and coming to him as he now does to you, should be told by him the very same things that he has been by you, that by associating with him he would every day become better, and make further progress; if he should further ask him, ‘In what do you mean I shall become better, and in what make further progress?’ Zeuxippus would answer him, ‘In the art of painting.’ And if he were to attach himself to Orthagoras of Thebes, and being told by him the very same things that he has been by you, should further ask him in what he would daily become better by associating with him, he would reply, ‘In flute-playing.’ In like manner do you also reply to the youth, and to me who ask for him: Hippocrates here, by associating with Protagoras, on the very day in which he associates will go home a better man, and on each succeeding day will in like manner make further progress; in what Protagoras, and with respect to what?”

26. Protagoras, on hearing me thus speak, said, “You put the question fairly, Socrates, and I delight in answering those who put their questions well. For Hippocrates, if he comes to me, will not be treated as he would be treated if he were to attach himself to any other of the sophists. For others injure youth; for when they have shewn an aversion to the arts they drag them back again and force them to study the arts by teaching them arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, and music; and at the same time he looked aside at Hippias: but if he comes to me, he will not learn anything else than that for which he came. The instruction that he will receive is this, the method of consulting well about his domestic affairs, in what way he may best govern his own house, and with respect to public affairs, how he may be best able to act and speak on affairs of state.”

27. “Do I follow your meaning?” I replied, “for you appear to me to mean the political art, and to promise to make men good citizens.”

“That,” said he, “Socrates, is the very profession that I do make.”

“What an admirable skill you possess,” said I, “if you really do possess it; for I will say nothing else to you but what I think. For I imagined, Protagoras, that this could not be taught, yet since you say so, I know not how to disbelieve you. It is right, however, that I should tell you why I think it cannot be taught, nor acquired by men from men. For I, as well as the other Greeks, say that the Athenians are wise. I see, then, when we are met in the assembly, and when it is necessary for the city to settle any thing respecting architecture, that the architects are sent for and consulted about the buildings, and when respecting ship-building, ship-builders; and so with all other things which they think can be taught and learnt. But should any one else, whom they think is not an artist, attempt to give them advice, even though he may be very honourable, and rich and noble, they pay no more attention to him on this account, but laugh at him and make an uproar, until either he of his own accord desists from speaking, through being hooted down, or the archers drag him away or remove him by order of the prytanes. 28. Thus they proceed with respect to matters which they think pertain to art. But when it is necessary to consult on any matter which relates to the government of the city, any one rises up and gives his advice on such subjects, whether he be a builder, a brazier, a shoemaker, a merchant, a ship’s captain, rich, poor, noble or ignoble, and no one objects to them, as to the others, that without having received any instruction, or had any preceptor, they yet attempt to give advice; for it is clear that they think this cannot be taught. And not only are the public in general of this opinion, but privately, the wisest and best of our citizens are unable to impart to others the excellence which they possess: for Pericles, the father of these youths, as far as depended on masters, had them educated liberally and well; but in those things in which he is wise, he neither instructs them himself, nor entrusts them to any one else to be instructed; but they, roaming about, feed as it were without restraint, if by chance they may of themselves light on virtue. 29. If you will too, this very same Pericles, being guardian to Clinias the younger brother of this Alcibiades, and fearing lest he might be corrupted by Alcibiades, separated him from him and sent him to be educated by Ariphron; however, before six months had elapsed, Ariphron, being unable to do any thing with him, returned him to Pericles. I could also mention very many others to you, who being good themselves, have never made any one else better, either of their own kindred or others. I therefore, Protagoras, looking to these things, think that virtue cannot be taught. When, however, I hear you saying what you do, I waver, and am of opinion that there is something in what you say, because I think that you are a man of great experience, and that you have learnt many things and discovered some yourself. If, therefore, you can prove to us, more clearly, that virtue can be taught, do not grudge doing so, but prove it.”

“Indeed, Socrates,” he said, “I shall not grudge it. But whether shall I prove it by relating a fable to you, as an older to younger men, or shall I discuss it by way of argument?”

Thereupon many of those who sat with him, answered, that he might explain it in any way he pleased. “It appears to me, then,” said he, “more agreeable to relate a fable to you.

30. “There was once a time, when gods were, but mortal races were not. But when also their destined time of creation came, the gods fashioned them within the earth, composing them of earth and fire, and such things as are mingled with fire and earth. And when they were about to bring them into light, they commanded Prometheus and Epimetheus to adorn them and to distribute to each such faculties as were proper for them. But Epimetheus besought Prometheus that he might make this distribution. ‘And,’ he said, ‘when I have made it, do you examine it.’ Having thus persuaded him, he made the distribution. But in his distribution, to some he assigned strength without swiftness, and the weaker he adorned with swiftness; some he armed, but giving to others an unarmed nature, he devised some other faculty for their security: for to such of them as he clad with littleness, he assigned wings to fly with, or a subterranean abode; but such as he increased in magnitude he preserved by this very means; and thus he made the distribution, equalizing all things; he adapted these contrivances taking care that no race should be destroyed.

31. “When he had supplied them with the means of avoiding mutual destruction, he contrived means to defend them against the seasons, by clothing them with thick hairs and solid skins, sufficient to keep off cold and capable of averting heat, and so that, when they went to rest, these very things might serve each of them as his proper and natural bed; and under their feet he furnished some with hoofs, and some with hairs and solid and bloodless skins. After that he provided different food for different animals, for some, herbs from the earth, for others, the fruit of trees, for others, roots; and to some he gave the flesh of other animals as food: and to these he attached the property of producing few offspring, but to those that are consumed by them, fecundity, providing for the preservation of the race. However, as Epimetheus was not very wise, he ignorantly exhausted all the faculties at his disposal on irrational animals. 32. The human race, therefore, still remained to him unadorned, and he was in doubt what to do. While he is doubting, Prometheus comes to examine the distribution, and sees other animals provided with every thing suitable for them, but man naked and unshod, unbedded and unarmed. But now the destined day was at hand, on which it was necessary that man should go forth from earth to light. Prometheus, therefore, being in doubt what safety he can find for man, steals the artificial wisdom of Vulcan and Minerva, together with fire, for it was impossible that it could be acquired or used by any one without fire, and accordingly he presents it to man. 33. Thus, then, man became possessed of the wisdom pertaining to life, he had not, however, political wisdom; for that was with Jupiter; and Prometheus was no longer permitted to enter the citadel, the habitation of Jupiter; moreover the guards of Jupiter were terrible; but he secretly enters the common abode of Minerva and Vulcan, in which they practised their arts, and having stolen the fiery art of Vulcan, and the other that belonged to Minerva, he gives them to man, and from this man derives the means of sustenance, but afterwards, as it is said, through Epimetheus, punishment for the theft overtook Prometheus.

34. “When, therefore, man had become partaker of a divine condition, first of all through this relationship to deity, he alone of all animals acknowledged gods, and set about building altars and statues of gods: next, by art, he soon articulated sounds and words, and devised houses and garments, and shoes and beds, and food from the earth. Thus provided however, at first men lived dispersed; for cities were not: wherefore they were destroyed by wild beasts, through being every where weaker than them; and the mechanical art was indeed sufficient aid for their support, but was inadequate to the war with wild beasts; for they did not yet possess the political art, of which the military is a part. They sought therefore to collect themselves together, and to preserve themselves by building cities. When, however, they were thus collected, they injured one another, from not possessing the political art; so that, being again dispersed, they were destroyed. 35. Jupiter, therefore, fearing for our race, lest it should entirely perish, sends Hermes to carry shame and justice to men, that they might be ornaments of cities, and bonds to cement friendship. Hermes, therefore, asked Jupiter in what manner he was to give shame and justice to men. ‘Whether, as the arts have been distributed, so shall I distribute these also? for they have been distributed thus: one man who possesses the medicinal art is sufficient for many not skilled in it, and so with other craftsmen. Shall I thus dispense shame and justice among men, or distribute them to all?’ ‘To all,’ said Jupiter, ‘and let all partake of them: for there would be no cities, if a few only were to partake of them, as of other arts. Moreover enact a law in my name, that whosoever is unable to partake of shame and justice shall be put to death as a pest of a city.’

36. “Thus, then, Socrates, and for these reasons, as well others as the Athenians, when a question arises about excellence in building, or any other mechanical art, think that few only should give their advice; and if any one, who is not of the number of the few, should offer to give advice, they do not allow him, as you say; and properly, as I say: but when they proceed to a consultation respecting political excellence, which ought to depend entirely on justice and temperance, they very properly allow every man to speak, because it is the duty of every one to partake of this excellence, otherwise there can be no cities. This, Socrates, is the cause of this fact.

37. “And that you may not think that you are deceived, when you are told that in reality all men are of opinion that every one partakes of justice, and of the other political excellences, take this additional proof. For in other kinds of excellence, as you say, if any one asserts that he is a good flute-player, or skilled in any other art, of which he is ignorant, they either ridicule him, or are indignant, and his friends go to him and admonish him as a madman; but in justice and other political virtues, even though they know of any man that he is unjust, yet if he himself tells the truth of himself in the presence of many persons, what in the other case they considered prudence, to speak the truth, in this case they consider madness; and they say that all men ought to say they are just, whether they are so or not, or that he is mad who does not lay claim to justice, because it is necessary that every one should, in some respect, partake of it, or no longer be a man.

38. “I say these things to shew that they very properly permit every man to give advice concerning this virtue, because they think that every one partakes of it. But that men think that it exists not naturally or spontaneously, but that it is taught and acquired by study, by whomsoever it is acquired, this I will in the next place endeavour to shew. For whatever evils men think others respectively have by nature or fortune no one is angry with, nor admonishes, or teaches, or punishes the possessors of them, in order to make them otherwise than they are, but pity them. For instance, who would be so foolish as to attempt to do any of these things to the deformed, or the little, or the weak? For they know, I think, that these things, such as are beautiful and the contraries, happen to men by nature and fortune: but such advantages as they think result to men from study, practice, and instruction, if any one does not possess them but their contrary evils, for these things anger, and punishment, and admonition, are had recourse to: of these one is injustice, and so is impiety, and in short, every thing that is contrary to political virtue. Here, then, every man is angry with and admonishes every other, clearly because he thinks it may be acquired by study and instruction. 39. For if you will consider, Socrates, of what avail it is to punish those who act unjustly, this very thing will teach you that men think virtue is to be acquired. For no one punishes those who act unjustly, merely attending to this and for this reason, that any one has so acted, unless it be one who like a brute avenges himself irrationally; but he who endeavours to punish with reason, does not exact vengeance for the sake of past offence, (for what has been done he cannot make undone,) but for the sake of the future, that neither this man himself, nor any other who sees him punished, may again act unjustly. And he who entertains such a thought must think that virtue may be taught; he punishes certainly for the sake of deterring from wickedness. 40. All, therefore, have this opinion who inflict punishment, either privately or publicly. Now all other men, and especially the Athenians, your fellow-citizens, inflict punishment on and correct those who they think act unjustly; so that, according to this reasoning, the Athenians also are among the number of those who think that virtue may be acquired and taught. That your fellow-citizens, therefore, very properly allow a brazier and a shoemaker to give advice in political affairs, and that they think that virtue may be taught and acquired, has been sufficiently demonstrated to you, Socrates, at least as it appears to me.

41. “There still, however, remains a doubt which you entertain respecting those good men, why, in the world they have their sons instructed in such things as depend on masters, and make them wise, but in the virtue which they themselves possess do not make them better than others. With respect to this, then, Socrates, I shall no longer speak to you in fable, but argument. For consider the matter thus. Whether is there some one thing or not, of which it is necessary all the citizens should partake, if a city is to be? for in this or in no other way, the doubt which you entertain is solved. For if there is, and if this one thing is neither the art of a builder, nor of a brazier, nor of a potter, but is justice, and temperance, and holiness, and in a word I call it by one name, the virtue of a man; if this be the thing, of which all must partake, and with which every man if he wishes to learn or do any thing else, must learn or do it, but not without this, or if one who does not partake of it must be taught and punished, whether boy, or man, or woman, till through being punished he becomes better, and he who is not obedient, when punished or taught, is to be banished from cities, or put to death as incurable; if this is the case, and if, notwithstanding this, good men teach their children other things, but not this, consider what strange people those good men are: 42. for we have shewn that they think it may be taught, both privately and publicly. But since it may be taught, and acquired by study, do they teach their children other things, for which death is not imposed as a penalty, if they do not know them; but where the penalty of death or exile is imposed on their children, if they are not instructed or exercised in virtue, and besides death, the confiscation of their property, and in short the ruin of their families, do you think that they do not teach them these things nor bestow their whole care upon them? We must think they do, Socrates.

“Beginning from childhood they both teach and admonish them as long as they live. For as soon as any one understands what is said, nurse, mother, pedagogue, and the father himself, vie with each other in this, how the boy may become as good as possible; in every word and deed teaching and pointing out to him that this is just, and that unjust, this is honourable and that base, this is holy and that unholy, and this you must do and that you must not do. And if the boy obeys willingly, it is well; but if not, like a tree twisted and bent they make him straight by threats and blows. 43. After this they send him to masters, and give them much more strict injunctions to attend to the children’s morals than to their reading and music: and the masters do attend to this, and when the boys have learnt their letters, and are able to understand what is written, as before words spoken, they place before them on their benches to read, and compel them to learn by heart the compositions of good poets, in which there are many admonitions, and many details, and praises, and encomiums, of good men of former times, in order that the boy may imitate them through emulation, and strive to become such himself. Again, the music-masters, in the same way, pay attention to sobriety of behaviour, and take care that the boys commit no evil: besides this, when they have learnt to play on the harp, they teach them the compositions of other good poets, and those lyric, setting them to music, and they compel rhythm and harmony to become familiar to the boys’ souls, in order that they may become more gentle, and being themselves more rhythmical and harmonious, they may be able both to speak and act; for the whole life of man requires rhythm and harmony. 44. Moreover, besides this, they send them to a teacher of gymnastics, that having their bodies in a better state, they may be subservient to their well-regulated mind, and not be compelled to cowardice, through bodily infirmity, either in war or other actions. And these things they do who are most able; but the richest are the most able, and their sons beginning to frequent masters at the earliest time of life leave them the latest. And when they are set free from masters, the state still further compels them to learn the laws, and to live by them as a pattern, that they may not act at random after their own inclinations, but exactly as writing masters having ruled lines with a pen for those boys who have not yet learnt to write well, so give them the copy-book, and compel them to write according to the direction of the lines, so the state having prescribed laws which were the inventions of good and ancient legislators, compels them both to govern and be governed according to these, but whoso transgresses them, it punishes; and the name given to this chastisement, both among you, and in many other places, is correction, since punishment corrects. 45. So great therefore being the attention paid to virtue, privately and publicly, do you wonder and doubt, Socrates, whether virtue may be taught? There is no need, however, to wonder, but much more if it could not be taught.

“Why then are there many bad sons of good fathers? Learn again the reason of this; for it is not at all wonderful, if what I have before said is true, that, if a state is to subsist, no one must be unskilled in this thing, virtue. For if what I say is the case, (and it assuredly is), consider the matter by selecting any other study and subject of instruction whatever. 46. For instance, suppose that a city could not subsist unless we were all of us flute-players, each according to his capacity, and suppose every one should teach his neighbour, both privately and publicly, and should chide any one who did not play well, and should not grudge doing this, as now no one grudges a knowledge of what is just and legal, or conceals it, as is the case in other arts, for mutual justice and virtue are, I think, advantageous to us; and for this reason every one most willingly tells and teaches others what is just and legal. If then in the same way, in flute-playing, we had a perfectly willing and ungrudging disposition to teach each other, do you think, Socrates,” said he, “that the sons of good flute-players would become good players, rather than the sons of bad ones? I indeed think not; but the man’s son who happened to have the best natural talent for flute-playing, would rise to distinction; and the man’s son who had no such natural talent, would be undistinguished; and the son of a good flute-player would often turn out a bad one, and the son of a bad one would often turn out a good one. However, all would be sufficiently good flute-players, compared with those who are untaught, and who know nothing of flute-playing. 47. In like manner think that the man who appears to you to be the most unjust of those who are trained in the laws, and among civilized men, is just and a proficient in justice, when compared with men, who have neither instruction nor courts of justice, nor laws, nor any necessity that constantly compels them to attend to virtue, but may be considered as savages, such as those whom the poet Pherecrates represented last year, at the Lenæan festival. Assuredly, if you should chance to be thrown among such men as the misanthropes in that play, you would rejoice if you met with a Eurybates and a Phrynondas[96], and you would deplore with regret the depravity of the men here. But now you are fastidious, Socrates, because all are teachers of virtue as far as they are severally able, though no one appears to you to be so. Again, if you were to enquire for a teacher of the Greek language, not one would be found: nor, I think, if you were to enquire for one who could instruct the sons of our artificers in the very art which they have learnt from their father, so far as the father and the father’s friends who follow the same art are able to teach it, if, I say, you were to enquire for one who could instruct them, I think, Socrates, that a teacher would not easily be found for them, but for those who are utterly unskilled, a teacher would easily be found, and so with respect to virtue and every thing else. 48. But if there is any one who excels us even but a little in advancing others in the road to virtue, we ought to be content. Of these, then, I think I am one, and that far above other men I know certain things by which a man will be made upright and good, and that worth the remuneration which I demand, and even more, as also my pupils think. Therefore I adopt the following method in my demand for remuneration; when any one has learnt from me, if he is willing, he pays the sum that I demand; but if not, having gone to a temple and sworn how much my instructions are worth, he pays that sum.

“Thus much, Socrates,” he continued, “I have said by way of fable and argument, to prove that virtue may be taught, and that the Athenians are of that opinion, and that it is not at all wonderful that the sons of good fathers should turn out bad, or of bad fathers, good, since even the sons of Polycletus, who are of the same age with Paralus and Xanthippus here, are nothing compared with their father, and so with respect to the sons of other artists; these youths, however, do not yet deserve to be blamed in this respect; for we have still hopes in them, as they are young.”

49. Protagoras having made such and so long a display, ceased speaking; and I, having continued for a long time enchanted, still looked at him, expecting that he would say something more, and desiring to hear him. But when I perceived that he had in reality ceased, I with difficulty collected myself, and looking towards Hippocrates, said, “O son of Apollodorus, how thankful I am to you for having urged me to come hither; for I esteem it a great privilege to have heard what I have heard from Protagoras; for before this, I thought it was no human care by which good men become good, but now I am persuaded that it is. However, I feel a slight difficulty, which, doubtless, Protagoras will easily explain, since he has explained so much. For if any one should converse with any one of the popular orators on these subjects, he would perhaps hear similar arguments, as from Pericles, for instance, or some other able speaker; but if he should ask them any further questions, like books they are unable either to give an answer or to ask any question themselves. And if one should put any trifling question to them respecting what has been said, as brass when struck sounds for a long time, and prolongs its sound, unless some one lays hold of it, so these orators, when asked some trifling question, answer in a speech drawn out to a great length. 50. But Protagoras here is able to make long and beautiful speeches, as the fact proves, and is also able, when asked a question, to answer briefly, and when questioning, to wait and receive the answer, which are qualities possessed but by a few. Now then, Protagoras, I need a trifle only, so that I shall have all I want if you will answer me this. You say that virtue may be taught; and I, if I could be persuaded by any man, should be persuaded by you. But, what I wondered at your saying, satisfy my mind as to that. For you said that Jupiter sent justice and shame to men; and afterwards, in many parts of your discourse, justice, temperance, holiness, and all qualities of that kind, were spoken of by you, as if they were collectively one thing, virtue. Therefore explain this accurately to me, whether virtue is one thing, and justice, temperance, and holiness, parts of it; or whether these that I have now mentioned are all names of one and the same thing. This is what I still want to know.”

51. “But it is easy,” said he, “Socrates, to answer this question, that the qualities about which you ask are parts of virtue, which is one thing.”

“Whether,” said I, “are they parts like the parts of a face, the mouth, nose, eyes, and ears; or like the parts of gold, which in no respect differ from each other and from the whole, except in magnitude and littleness?”

“Like the former, it appears to me Socrates, as the parts of the face are to the whole face.”

“Whether, then,” said I, “do men possess these parts of virtue, some one and others another part? or is it necessary that he who has received one should have all?”

“By no means,” he replied, “since many men are brave, but unjust, and again just, but not wise.”

“Are these, then, parts of virtue,” said I, “wisdom and courage?”

“Most assuredly,” he replied, “and wisdom is chief of all the parts.”

“And is every one of them,” said I, “different from every other?”

“Yes.”

“And has each of them its proper function, like the parts of the face? For instance, an eye is not like the ears, nor is its function the same; nor is any one of the others like any other, either as to its function, or in any other respect. Thus, then, with the parts of virtue, is not any one like any other, either in itself, or in its function? Is it not clear that such is the case, since it resembles our example?”

“Such is the case, Socrates,” he replied.

52. Then I said, “Therefore none of the other parts of virtue are like science, or like justice, or like courage, or like temperance, or like holiness.”

“No,” he said.

“Come then,” said I, “let us examine together what the character of each of them is. And first of all, thus; is justice a thing, or not a thing? to me it appears to be a thing; but what does it appear to you to be?”

“To me also it appears to be a thing,” he replied.

“What then? If some one were to ask you and me, ‘Protagoras and Socrates, tell me with respect to this very thing which you have just now named, justice, whether is it in itself just or unjust?’ I should answer him that it is just: but what decision would you give? the same as mine, or different?”

“The same,” he replied.

“‘Justice, then, is precisely similar to being just,’ I should say in answer to one who asked the question. And would not you, too?”

“Yes,” he said.

“If, then, after this, he should ask us, ‘Do you not also say that holiness is something?’ we should reply, I think that we do?”

“Yes,” he said.

“‘Do you not say that this too is a thing?’ should we say it is, or not?”

He allowed that we should say it is.

“‘But whether do you say that this very thing is of such a nature as to be unholy, or holy?’ I for my part,” I said, “should be indignant at the question, and should say, ‘Speak properly, my good sir, for scarcely could any thing else be holy, if holiness itself be not holy.’ But what should you say? should not you give the same answer?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“If, then, after this, he should ask us, and say, ‘What then did you mean a little while ago? Or did I not hear you aright? For you appeared to me to say that the parts of virtue are so disposed to each other, that no one of them resembles any other;’ I, for my part should reply, ‘In other respects you heard aright, but in thinking that I too said this, you were mistaken; for Protagoras gave this answer, and I put the question.’ If then he should say, ‘Does he speak the truth, Protagoras; do you say that no one part of virtue is like any other of its parts? Is this your assertion?’ what answer would you give him?”

“I must needs admit it, Socrates,” he replied.

“After admitting this, Protagoras, what answer should we give him, if he further asked us, ‘Is not holiness then of such a nature as to be a just thing, nor justice such as to be a holy thing, but such as to be not holy; and holiness such as to be not just, but unjust, and the former unholy? What answer should we give him? I, for myself, should say both that justice is holy, and holiness just. And for you, if you would permit me, I should make the very same answer, that justice is the same with holiness, or very like it, and that justice bears the nearest possible resemblance to holiness, and holiness to justice. But consider whether you would forbid me to give this answer, or does it seem so to you also?”

“It does not altogether appear to me, Socrates,” he said, “to be so absolutely true, that I can grant that justice is holy, and holiness just; but there appears to me to be a difference between them. However what matters that?” he continued: “if you wish it, let it be admitted between us that justice is holy, and holiness just.”

55. “Not so,” I replied, “for I do not require to examine into an ‘If you wish it,’ and ‘If you think so,’ but into what I think and what you think; but in saying ‘what I think and what you think,’ I mean this, I am of opinion that our argument will be best discussed if we put it out of the question altogether.”

“Well then,” he said, “justice has some resemblance to holiness, for every thing resembles every other thing in some respect, for white in some sort resembles black, and hard, soft, and so with respect to other things which appear to be most contrary to each other; and the things which we just now said have different functions, and are not the one like the other, as the parts of the face do in a certain respect resemble each other; so that in this way you could prove this, if you pleased, that all things are similar to each other; yet it is not right to call things that have a certain similarity, similar, nor things that have a certain dissimilarity, dissimilar, though the similarity is very trifling.”

56. And I, wondering, said to him, “Do you think then that the just and the holy are so related to each other, that they have but a trifling similarity to one another?”

“Not quite so,” he said, “nor on the other hand do I consider them in the same way as you appear to me to do.”

“However,” said I, “since you appear to me to be vexed at this, we will dismiss it, and consider this of the other things that you said. Do you call folly any thing?”

He admitted he did.

“And is not wisdom the direct contrary to this thing?”

“It appears so to me,” he replied.

“But when men act rightly and profitably, do they then appear to you to act temperately[97], in so acting, or the contrary[98]?”

“To act temperately,” he replied.

“And are they not temperate by temperance?”

“Necessarily so.”

“Do not they, then, who act wrongly, act foolishly, and are they not intemperate in so acting?”

“I agree with you,” he said.

“Acting foolishly, then, is the contrary to acting temperately.”

He said it was.

“Are not, therefore, things which are done foolishly, done through folly, and things done temperately through temperance?”

He agreed.

“If then any thing is done through strength, is it not done strongly, and if through weakness, weakly?”

“It appears so.”

“And if any thing is done with swiftness, swiftly, and if with slowness, slowly?”

He said it was.

“And if any thing is done in the same manner, is it not done by the same means, and if in a contrary manner by the contrary means?”

He granted it.

57. “Come then,” I said, “is there any thing beautiful?”

He admitted there was.

“Is any thing contrary to this except the ugly?”

“There is not.”

“But what? Is there any thing good?”

“There is.”

“And is any thing contrary to this except evil?”

“There is not.”

“What? is there any thing high in voice?”

He said there is.

“And is any thing contrary to this except the low?”

“There is not,” he said.

“Therefore,” said I, “to each several contrary there is only one contrary, and not many.”

He granted it.

“Come then,” said I, “let us reckon up our admissions. We have admitted that one thing only is contrary to one, but not more?”

“We have.”

“And that what is done contrariwise, is done by contraries?”

He assented.

“We admitted also that what is done foolishly is done contrariwise to that which is done temperately?”

He assented.

“And that what is done temperately is done by temperance, and what foolishly, by folly?”

He agreed.

“If therefore it is done contrariwise, must it not be done by a contrary?”

“Yes.”

“And the one is done by temperance, and the other by folly?”

“Yes.”

“Contrariwise?”

“Certainly.”

“Through contraries therefore?”

“It appears so.”

“Folly therefore is contrary to temperance?”

“So it appears.”

“Do you remember, however, that we before admitted that folly is contrary to wisdom?”

He allowed it.

“And that one thing only is contrary to one?”

“I grant it.”

58. “Which, then, of these positions must we retract, Protagoras? That which says, that one thing only is contrary to one, or that in which it was asserted, that wisdom is different from temperance, but that each is a part of virtue, and that besides being different, both they and their functions are dissimilar, in the same manner as the parts of the face? Which of these, then, must we retract? for these two positions taken together are not set down in a very musical manner; for they neither accord, nor harmonize with each other. For how can they accord, since it is necessary that one thing only should be contrary to one, but not to more, but wisdom and temperance are found to be contrary to folly, which is one. Is it so, Protagoras,” I asked, “or otherwise?”

He admitted that it was so, though very unwillingly.

“Must not, then, temperance and wisdom be one and the same thing? Before, moreover, justice and holiness were found to be nearly the same. 59. Come, however,” said I, “Protagoras, let us not be disheartened, but examine the rest. Does a man who acts unjustly, appear to you to be prudent[99], because he acts unjustly?”

“I should be ashamed, Socrates,” he said, “to acknowledge this, though many men do say so.”

“Whether, then, shall I address my argument to them,” I asked, “or to you?”

“If you please,” said he, “discuss this statement first, the statement of the many.”

“But it makes no difference to me, if only you will answer, whether these things appear so to you or not: for I am most anxious to sift the statement itself, though it may possibly happen, that both I who question, and you who answer, may ourselves be sifted.”

At first, then, Protagoras began to give himself airs, for he objected that the subject was difficult; afterwards however, he agreed to answer.

60. “Come then,” said I, “answer me from the beginning. Do persons who act unjustly, appear to you to be prudent?”

“Be it so,” he replied.

“And by being prudent, do you mean thinking rightly?” He assented.

“And by thinking rightly that they are well advised when they act unjustly?”

“Be it so,” said he.

“Is this the case,” I asked, “if they fare well in acting unjustly, or if they fare ill?”

“If they fare well.”

“Do you say then that certain things are good?”

“I do.”

“Are those things good, then,” I asked, “which are advantageous to men?”

“By Jupiter,” said he, “and some things though they are not advantageous to men I call good.”

61. Protagoras now appeared to me to be ruffled and annoyed, and to be set against answering any more: when, therefore, I saw him in this state, I was cautious, and asked him gently: “Whether,” said I, “Protagoras, do you mean things that are advantageous to no man, or things that are advantageous in no respect whatever? and do you call such things good?”

“By no means,” said he; “but I know many things which are useless to men, meats and drinks, and drugs, and ten thousand other things, and some things that are advantageous; and some things that are neither the one nor the other to men, but are to horses, and some to oxen only, and others to dogs, others again to neither of these, but to trees, and others that are good for the roots of trees, but pernicious to their buds, for instance, dung is good when applied to the roots of all plants, but if you were to put it on their branches and young shoots, it destroys the whole. Oil too is very injurious to all plants, and is most destructive to the hairs of all animals except man, but it is of service to the hairs of man, and to the rest of his body. 62. So various and diversified a thing is good, that this very thing is good for the external parts of the human body, but most pernicious to the inward parts. And on this account all physicians forbid the sick to use oil, except only a very small quantity in what they are going to eat, just sufficient to overcome the disagreeable smell of the food and seasoning.”

Protagoras having said this, those that were present loudly applauded him, for that he spoke well. And I said, “Protagoras, I happen to be a forgetful sort of man, and if any one makes me a long speech, I forget what the discussion is about. As, therefore, if I happened to be deaf, you would have thought it necessary, if you were about to converse with me, to speak louder than you do to others, so now, since you have met with a forgetful person, curtail your answers for me, and make them briefer, if I am to follow you.”

“How do you bid me answer briefly? Must I answer you,” said he, “more briefly than is requisite?”

“By no means,” I replied.

“But at such length as is requisite?” he asked.

“Yes,” said I.

“Whether, then, must I answer at such length as I think requisite, or as you?”

63. “I have heard,” I replied, “that you are both yourself able, and can teach others to make a long speech on the same subject if you please, so as never to be in want of words, and again to speak so briefly, that no one can express himself in fewer words than you. If, therefore, you mean to converse with me, use the other method with me, that of brevity.”

“Socrates,” said he, “I have ere this entered into discussion with many men, and if I had done what you bid me, that is, had conversed as my antagonist bade me converse, I should not have appeared to excel any one, nor would the name of Protagoras have been celebrated in Greece.”

64. Then I (for I perceived that he was not pleased with his former answers, and that he would not willingly carry on the conversation by answering my questions) thinking that I had no longer any business to be present at the conference, said, “Protagoras, I am not anxious to continue our conference contrary to your wish; but whenever you are willing to converse in such a manner that I can follow you, I will then converse with you. For you, as is reported of you, and as you admit yourself, are able to carry on a conference both with prolixity and brevity; for you are wise; but I am unable to follow these long speeches; though I wish that I could. But it was fitting, that you, who are capable of doing both, should yield to me, in order that the conference might continue: now however, since you are not willing and I have business to attend to, and am unable to stay while you are extending your speeches to a great length (for I have somewhere to go to), I will take my departure; though otherwise perhaps I might have listened to these things with pleasure.”

65. And as I spoke thus, I rose to depart. And as I was rising, Callias takes hold of me with his right hand, and with his left seized my cloak, and said, “We shall not let you go, Socrates; for if you go away, our conversation will no longer be the same. I beseech you, therefore, stay with us; for there is no one I would more gladly hear than you and Protagoras conversing together; therefore oblige us all.”

To this I said—I already stood up ready to go—“Son of Hipponicus, I always admire your love of wisdom; but I now both praise and love it; so that I should wish to gratify you, if you asked me what was possible. But now it is as if you should ask me to keep up with Crison of Himera, a runner in his prime, or to run a race and keep up with one of the long-distance runners or day-couriers; I should say to you, that I wish much more than you do that I could keep pace with these runners, but I cannot, but if you wish to see me and Crison running together, you must request him to slacken his pace; for I am not able to run swiftly, but he is able to run slowly. So if you desire to hear me and Protagoras, you must request him to continue to answer as he did at first, briefly and to the question. But if not, what kind of conversation will arise? I for my part thought that it is one thing to converse together, and another to harangue.”

66. “But you see, Socrates,” said he, “Protagoras appears to ask what is just, in requiring that he may be allowed to converse as he pleases, and you as you please.”

Alcibiades, thereupon, taking up the discourse, said, “You do not speak fairly, Callias; for Socrates here admits that he has not the faculty of making long speeches, and yields to Protagoras, but in the power of conversing, and knowing how to give and receive a reason, I should wonder if he yielded to any man. If then, Protagoras confesses that he is inferior to Socrates in conversing, that is enough for Socrates; but if he pretends to rival him, let him carry on the conversation by question and answer, not making a long speech in answer to each question, evading the argument and not choosing to give a reason, but prolonging his speech until most of the hearers forget what the question was about. For as for Socrates, I will be his surety that he will not forget, notwithstanding he jests and says he is forgetful. To me, therefore, Socrates appears to make the fairer proposition; for it is right that every one should declare his own opinion.”

67. After Alcibiades, it was Critias, I think, who said, “Prodicus and Hippias, Callias appears to me to be very much on the side of Protagoras; but Alcibiades is always fond of contention, to whatever he applies himself. We, however, ought not to contend with each other, either for Socrates or Protagoras, but we should join in requesting them both not to break up the conference in the middle.”

When he had spoken thus, Prodicus[100] said, “You seem to me to say well, Critias: for it is right that those who are present at discussions of this kind should be common, but not equal hearers of both speakers. For it is not the same thing: for it is requisite to hear both in common, but not to give equal attention to each of them, but to the wiser more, and to the less learned less. 68. I too, Protagoras and Socrates, beg of you to make concessions to each other, and to argue with one another, but not to wrangle; for friends argue with friends out of good will, but adversaries and enemies wrangle with one another. And thus the conference will be most admirably conducted. For you, the speakers, will thus be highly approved, not praised, by us the hearers; for approbation is felt in the mind of the hearers, and is without deception; but praise is bestowed in words, by persons often who speak untruly, contrary to their real opinion; again, we, the hearers, shall thus be highly delighted, not pleased, for delight takes place when one learns something and acquires wisdom in one’s mind, but pleasure when one eats something, or experiences some other agreeable sensation in one’s body.”

69. When Prodicus had thus spoken, many of those that were present approved of what he said. But after Prodicus, Hippias the wise spoke: “My friends who are here present,” said he, “I regard you all as kinsmen, relatives, and fellow-citizens by nature, though not by law; for like is by nature akin to like, but law being a tyrant over men, compels many things to be done contrary to nature. It were disgraceful, then, for us to know the nature of things, to be the wisest of the Greeks, and in this very character to have met together in the city of Greece, which is the very prytaneum of wisdom, and in the noblest and wealthiest house in this city, and then to exhibit nothing worthy of this high rank, but like the lowest of men to disagree with each other. 70. I therefore both entreat and advise you, Protagoras and Socrates, to come to terms under our authority, who as arbitrators will bring you to an agreement; and neither do you, Socrates, require that exact form of dialogue, which is so very concise, unless it is agreeable to Protagoras, but relax somewhat and give the reins to your discourse, that it may appear to us with more majesty and grace; nor on the other hand, do you, Protagoras, stretching every rope, and carrying all sail, scud to an ocean of words out of sight of land, but both of you keep a middle course. Do thus then, and be persuaded by me to choose a moderator, president, and prytanis, who will oblige you to keep within moderate bounds on either side.”

This pleased those that were present, and all approved, and Callias said that he would not let me go, and they urged me to choose a president. 71. I said therefore, “that it would be a shame to choose an umpire for our arguments; for if the person chosen should be our inferior, it would not be right that the inferior should preside over his superiors, nor if he should be equal, would this be right; for one that is equal will act the same as we do, so that the choice will be superfluous. But you will choose some one better than we are; in reality I think it impossible for you to choose any one wiser than Protagoras here: but if you should choose one in no respect superior, though you shall affirm that he is, this also will be a disgrace to him, to have a president chosen for him, as if he were a common person: for as to myself it makes no difference. I am willing, then, to act as follows, that our conference and conversation may continue, which you so earnestly desire: if Protagoras is not willing to answer, let him ask questions, and I will answer; and at the same time I will endeavour to shew him, how I say one who answers ought to answer. But when I have answered all the questions that he chooses to ask, let him in his turn, in like manner, reply to me. If, however, he should not appear disposed to answer the exact question put to him, both you and I will join in intreating of him, as you now do of me, not to destroy the conversation. And for this purpose there is no occasion for one president to be appointed, but you will all be presidents in common.”

72. It appeared to all that this was what ought to be done. And though Protagoras was not very willing to comply, yet he was compelled to consent to ask questions, and when he had asked enough in his turn to reply to my questions with brevity. He began therefore pretty nearly as follows:

“I think,” said he, “Socrates, that the most important part of a man’s education consists in being skilled in poetical composition; that is, to be able to understand what has been said by the poets, both what has been correctly composed and what incorrectly, and to know how to distinguish and to give a reason when asked about them. And now the question shall be on the very subject about which you and I have been conversing, virtue, but it shall be transferred to poetry. For Simonides somewhere says to Scopas, son of Creon the Thessalian, ‘That to become a good man is truly difficult, square as to his hands and feet and mind, fashioned without fault.’ Do you know the ode, or shall I repeat the whole to you?”

73. I said, “There is no necessity, for I know it, and have studied the ode with great attention.”

“You say well,” he then observed, “Whether, does it appear to you to have been composed beautifully and correctly or not?”

“Certainly,” said I, “both beautifully and correctly.”

“But does it appear to you to have been composed beautifully if the poet contradicts himself?”

“Not beautifully,” I replied.

“Consider it, then, more attentively,” said he.

“But my good friend, I have examined it sufficiently.”

“You know, then,” said he, “that in the course of the ode he says somewhere, ‘That saying of Pittacus does not please me, though uttered by a wise man, wherein he says, it is difficult to continue to be good.’ Do you observe, that the same person makes both this and the former remark?”

“I know it,” I replied.

“Does it appear to you then,” said he, “that the one agrees with the other?”

“It appears so to me.” And at the same time I was afraid lest there should be something in what he said. “But,” said I, “does not it appear so to you?”

“How can he who made both these assertions agree with himself, who first of all laid it down in his own person, that it is truly difficult to become a good man, and a little further on this person forgets himself and blames Pittacus for saying the same thing that he had said himself, ‘that it is difficult to be good,’ and asserts that he cannot approve of his saying the very same thing as himself. Surely in blaming a man who says the same things as himself, it is clear that he blames himself, so that in the former or the latter place he does not speak correctly.”

74. In saying this he elicited applause and praise from many of the hearers. And I, at first, as if I had been hit by a skilful boxer, was blinded, and made giddy, by his saying this, and by the applause of the others; but afterwards, to tell you the truth, that I might have time to consider what the poet meant, I turned to Prodicus, and calling out to him, said, “Prodicus, Simonides was your fellow-citizen; you are bound to assist the man. I seem then, to call upon you, in the same manner as Homer[101] says Scamander, when assailed by Achilles, called upon Simois, saying, ‘Dear brother, let us unite to repel the prowess of this man.’ So I call upon you, let not Protagoras overthrow Simonides. For the defence of Simonides requires that exquisite skill of yours, by which you distinguish between to will and to desire, as not being the same, and by which you just now established many and beautiful distinctions. And now consider, whether your opinion agrees with mine: for Simonides does not appear to me to contradict himself. But do you, Prodicus, first declare your opinion. Does it appear to you that to become and to be are the same or different?”

“Different by Jupiter,” said Prodicus.

75. “Has not Simonides himself then,” said I, “in the first passage, declared his own opinion, that it is in truth difficult to become a good man?”

“You say truly,” replied Prodicus.

“But he blames Pittacus,” I continued, “not as Protagoras thinks, for saying the same thing that he had said, but something different. For Pittacus does not say that this is the difficulty, to become a good man, as Simonides does, but this, to be so; but Protagoras, as Prodicus here says, to be and to become are not the same; and if to be and to become are not the same, Simonides does not contradict himself. And perhaps Prodicus here, and many others, may say with Hesiod,[102] ‘that it is difficult to become good; for that the gods have placed sweat before virtue; but when any one has reached its summit, it is then easy to acquire, though before it was difficult.’”

76. Prodicus, on hearing this, commended me; but Protagoras said, “Your defence, Socrates, is more erroneous than the passage which you defend.”

And I said, “Then I have done ill, as it seems, Protagoras, and I am an absurd physician; in attempting to cure, I make the disease worse.”

“So it is however,” he said.

“But how?” I asked.

“Great must have been the poet’s ignorance,” he replied, “if he asserts that virtue is so easy a thing to be acquired, whereas it is the most difficult of all, as all men think.”

77. And I said, “By Jupiter, Prodicus here is very opportunely present at our discussion. For the wisdom of Prodicus appears, O Protagoras, to have been of old divine, whether it began with Simonides, or is even still more ancient. But you, who are skilled in many other things, appear to be unskilled in this, and not skilled in it as I am, from being the disciple of this Prodicus. And now you appear to me not to be aware that Simonides probably did not understand this word ‘difficult,’ in the same sense as you understand it; but as with the word δεινὸς, (terrible and clever,) Prodicus here is continually taking me to task, when in praising you, or any one else, I say, that Protagoras is a wise and terrible man, he asks if I am not ashamed of calling good things terrible, for what is terrible, he says, is evil; hence no one ever speaks of terrible riches, or terrible peace, or terrible health, but every one says terrible disease, and terrible war, and terrible poverty, since whatever is terrible is evil. Perhaps, therefore, the Ceans and Simonides understand by the word difficult either that which is bad, or something else that you are not aware of. 78. Let us then ask Prodicus; for it is right to enquire of him the meaning of words used by Simonides; what, Prodicus, does Simonides mean by the word difficult?”

“Evil,” he replied.

“For this reason, then,” I continued, “Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying that it is difficult to be good, as if he had heard him say that it is evil to be good.”

“But what else but this, Socrates,” he asked, “do you think Simonides meant and found fault with in Pittacus, that he did not know how to distinguish terms rightly, as being a Lesbian, and educated in a barbarous dialect?”

“Do you hear Prodicus,” said I, “Protagoras? And have you any objection to make to this?”

Thereupon Protagoras said, 79. “This is far from being the case, Prodicus; for I am very sure that Simonides meant by the word difficult the same that we all do, not what is evil, but that which is not easy, but is accomplished by much toil.”

“And I too think, Protagoras,” I said, “that Simonides meant this, and that Prodicus here knows he did, but he is jesting, and is willing to try whether you are able to maintain your own assertion. For that Simonides does not by the word difficult mean evil, is strongly confirmed by the expression immediately after this; for he says, that ‘God alone possesses this privilege,’ not surely meaning that it is evil to be good; then he adds that God alone possesses this, and he attributes this privilege to God alone; for in that case Prodicus would call Simonides a profligate, and by no means a Cean. But I am willing to tell you what appears to me to have been the design of Simonides in this ode, if you think proper to make trial of my poetical skill, as you call it; or if you prefer it, I will listen to you.”

80. Protagoras, therefore, hearing me speak thus, said, “If you please, Socrates;” but Prodicus, Hippias, and the rest, urged me very much.

“I will endeavour, then,” said I, “to explain to you what I think of this ode. Philosophy is most ancient and most prevalent in Crete and Lacedæmon of all Greece, and sophists are more numerous there than any where else. They deny it, however, and pretend to be ignorant, in order that they may not be discovered to surpass the rest of the Greeks in wisdom, like those sophists whom Protagoras mentioned, but that they may appear to excel in fighting and courage, thinking that, if it were known in what they excel, all men would engage in the same pursuit. But now, concealing this, they deceive those who affect Spartan manners in other cities, for some, in imitation of them, have their ears bruised, and bind their arms with the thongs of the cestus, and devote themselves to gymnastic exercises, and wear short garments, as if in these things the Lacedæmonians excelled the other Greeks. But the Lacedæmonians, now that they wish to converse without restraint with the sophists among them, and are wearied with conversing with them in secret, expelling these imitators of Spartan manners, and any other stranger that is living in their country, converse with the sophists unknown to all strangers; and they do not suffer any of their young men to go out to other cities, as neither do the Cretans, lest they should unlearn what they have taught them. 81. And in these cities there are not only men that pride themselves on their learning, but women also. And you may know, that in this I speak truly, and that the Lacedæmonians are admirably instructed in philosophy and the art of speaking, from the following circumstance: for if any one wishes to converse with the meanest of the Lacedæmonians, he will find him, for the most part, apparently an ordinary person in conversation, but afterwards, when a proper opportunity presents itself, he sends forth, like a skilful lancer, a notable saying, brief and pointed, so that he who converses with him will appear to be nothing better than a boy. Accordingly some persons, both of the present day and of former times, have observed this very thing, that to imitate Spartan manners consists much more in studying philosophy, than devoting one’s-self to gymnastic exercises, since they know that to be able to utter such sayings is a proof of a highly educated man. 82. Among these were Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mitylene, Bias of Priene, our own Solon, Cleobulus of Lindus, Myson of Chene, and the seventh among them was reckoned the Lacedæmonian Chilo. These all were emulators, lovers, and disciples of the Lacedæmonian education, and any one may discover that their wisdom was of this kind, brief and memorable sayings uttered by each of them. These men also, having met together, consecrated the first-fruits of their wisdom to Apollo in the temple at Delphi, inscribing those sentences which all men have in their mouths: ‘Know thyself,’ and ‘Nothing in extremes.’

“But why do I mention these things? To shew that this was the mode of philosophy among the ancients, a certain laconic brevity of diction. Amongst the rest this particular saying of Pittacus was noised abroad, being extolled by the wise men: ‘It is difficult to be good.’ Simonides, therefore, as being ambitious of a reputation for wisdom, knew that if he could overthrow this saying, as if it were a famous wrestler, and could master it, he himself would become famous amongst the men of his own time. In opposition to this sentence, therefore, and with this object, designing to put it down, he composed the whole of this ode, as it appears to me.

83. “Let all of us, however, examine it together, to see whether what I say is true. For the very commencement of the ode would appear to be insane, if, wishing to say that it is difficult to become a good man, he had afterwards inserted the particle ‘indeed.’ For this appears to have been inserted for no purpose whatever, unless we suppose that Simonides is speaking as if he were quarrelling with the saying of Pittacus; and that when Pittacus says, that ‘it is difficult to be good,’ he, disputing this, says, ‘Not so,’ but it is indeed difficult, Pittacus, to become good in very truth; not ‘truly good.’ For he does not use the word truly in this way, as if some men were truly good, and others good indeed, but not truly so, for this would have been silly, and not worthy of Simonides; but it is necessary to transpose the word ‘truly’ in the ode, understanding the saying of Pittacus somewhat as follows, as if we were to make Pittacus himself speak, and Simonides answer, saying, ‘O men, it is difficult to be good,’ but the latter answers, ‘Pittacus, your assertion is not true: for not to be, but to become indeed a good man, square as to one’s hands and feet, and mind, fashioned without blame, is truly difficult.’ Thus it appears that the particle ‘indeed’ is inserted with good reason, and that the word ‘truly’ is rightly placed at the end. And all that follows bears witness to this, that such is the meaning. 84. Many things might be said to prove with respect to each several passage in this ode, that it is well composed; for it is very elegant and elaborate; but it would be too long to go through the whole of it in this way. Let us then consider its whole outline and design, which is nothing else than a refutation of the saying of Pittacus throughout the ode. For he says shortly after this, proceeding as if he would say, to become a good man is truly difficult, it is possible however for a certain time: but having become to continue in this condition, and to be a good man, as you say, Pittacus, is impossible and more than human, but God alone possesses this privilege; ‘but it cannot be that a man should be otherwise than evil, whomsoever irresistible calamity prostrates.’ 85. Whom, then, does irresistible calamity prostrate in the command of a ship? Clearly not a private person, for the private person is always prostrate; as therefore no one can throw down a man who is lying on the ground, but sometimes one may throw down one who is standing upright, so as to make him lie on the ground, but not one already lying there, so an irresistible calamity may sometimes prostrate a skilful man, but never one who is always unskilful; and a violent storm bursting on a pilot may make his skill of no avail, and a bad season befalling a farmer may make his skill of no avail, and the same with a physician: for it befals a good man to become evil, as is also testified by another poet, who says, ‘A good man is sometimes evil, and sometimes good:’ but it does not befal the evil to become so, but he must needs always be so. So that when an irresistible calamity prostrates a skilful, wise, and good man, it is not possible for him not to be evil; but you say, Pittacus, that it is difficult to be good; but the difficulty is to become good, though it is possible, but impossible to be so. 86. ‘For every man who fares well is good, but evil if he fares ill.’ What then is faring well with respect to literature? and what makes a man good in literature? Clearly the being instructed in it. What faring well makes a good physician? Clearly the being instructed in the art of curing the sick. ‘And evil if he fares ill.’ Who then would become an evil physician? Clearly he to whom it happens first to be a physician, and then a good physician; for he may become an evil physician. But we who are ignorant of the medical art, can never by faring ill become either physicians, or builders, or any thing else of the kind; but whoever cannot become a physician by faring ill, clearly cannot become an evil physician. Thus also a good man may sometime or other become evil, either from length of time, or labour, or disease, or some other accident, for this alone is a faring ill, to be deprived of knowledge, but the evil man can never become evil, for he is always so; but if he is to become evil, it is necessary for him first to become good. So that this part of the ode tends to this, that it is not possible to be a good man, so as to continue good; but that it is possible to become good, and for the same person to become evil: ‘and they are for the longest time best whom the gods love.’

87. “All these things therefore are said against Pittacus, and the following parts of the ode shew this still more clearly. For he says, ‘Wherefore I shall never, searching for that which cannot be, throw away a portion of my life on an empty impracticable hope, searching for an all-blameless man among us who feed on the fruits of the wide earth. When I have found one, I will inform you;’ he adds. So vehemently, and through the whole of the ode, does he attack the saying of Pittacus. ‘But I praise and willingly love all who do nothing base; but with necessity not even gods contend.’ And this is spoken against that same saying. For Simonides was not so ill informed as to say that he praised those who did no evil willingly, as if there were some who did evil willingly. For I am pretty much of this opinion, that no wise man thinks that any man errs willingly, nor willingly commits base and evil actions, but they well know that all those who do base and evil things, do them unwillingly. 88. Moreover Simonides does not say, that he praises those who do not willingly do evil, but he uses this word ‘willingly’ of himself. For he thought that a good and upright man is frequently compelled to love and praise a certain person; for instance, it often happens to a man to have a perverse mother or father, or country, or something else of the kind. Now depraved men, when any such thing happens to them, are as it were glad to see it, and blaming make known and divulge the depravity of their parents or country, that when they neglect them, men may not accuse or reproach them for their neglect, so that they blame them still more than they deserve, and add voluntary to necessary enmity. But the good conceal the faults and compel themselves to praise, and if they are angry with their parents or country from having been injured by them, they pacify themselves and become reconciled, compelling themselves to love and praise their own connections. And I think Simonides also himself frequently considered it right to praise and extol a tyrant, or some one else of the kind, not willingly, but by compulsion. 89. This, too, he says to Pittacus; I, Pittacus, do not blame you on this account, because I am fond of blaming; for ‘it is enough for me if a man is not evil or too helpless, a sane man, acquainted with justice that benefits the state; I will not censure him, for I am not a lover of censure; for the race of fools is infinite;’ so that he who delights in blaming may satiate himself in censuring them. ‘All things are beautiful with which base things are not mingled.’ His meaning in this, is not as if he had said, all things are white with which black is not mingled, for this would be in many ways ridiculous, but that he himself admits of a mean, so as not to blame it. ‘And I do not seek,’ he adds, ‘an all-blameless man, among us who feed on the fruits of the wide earth; when I have found him, I will inform you.’ For this reason, therefore, I shall praise no one, but it is enough for me if a man be moderate, and does no evil, for I ‘love and praise all.’ Here too he uses the language of the Mitylenæans, as speaking to Pittacus, ‘I praise and love all willingly,’ (here it is necessary after ‘willingly’ to distinguish in the pronunciation,) ‘who do nothing base,’ but there are some whom I praise and love unwillingly. Thee therefore, Pittacus, if thou hadst spoken with moderate reason and truth, I should never have blamed, but now, since you lie excessively and in matters of the greatest moment, while you think you are speaking the truth, for this reason I blame you. 90. Such appears to me, Prodicus and Protagoras,” said I, “to have been the design of Simonides in the composition of this ode.”

Upon this Hippias said, “You seem to me, Socrates, to have given a good explanation of this ode, and I too,” he added, “have some pretty good remarks to make on it, which I will communicate to you, if you please.”

“Do so, Hippias,” said Alcibiades, “but at another time; but now it is right to carry out the agreement which Protagoras and Socrates made with each other, and, if Protagoras wishes to ask any more questions, for Socrates to answer, but if he wishes to answer Socrates, then for the latter to ask questions.”

91. Then I said, “I leave it to Protagoras to choose whichever is more agreeable to him; but if he is willing, let us have done with odes and poems, but I would gladly, Protagoras, examine with you and come to a conclusion on the subject about which I first questioned you. For a discussion about poetry appears to me very like the festivities of mean and uneducated men; for they, through not being able to converse with one another over their cups, with their own voices and their own words, in consequence of deficiency of education, enhance the pay of female flute-players, and hiring at a great price the foreign voices of flutes, converse with each other through their voices. But when worthy, good, and well-educated men meet together at a banquet you will see neither flute-playing women, nor dancing-girls, nor harpists, but you will find that they are able to converse with themselves, without these trifles and pastimes, by means of their own voices, both speaking and listening to each other in turn, in good order, even though they have drunk a great deal of wine. 92. In like manner, such meetings as the present, when they are composed of such men as most of us profess ourselves to be, have no need of foreign voices, or of poets, of whom it is not possible to ask the meaning of what they say, and most of those who introduce them in their arguments say that the poet means some one thing and some another, disputing about a matter which they can never determine. But they dismiss such topics of conversation as these, and converse with each other through their own resources, and in their discussions receive and give proof of each other’s capacity. It appears to me, that you and I ought rather to imitate such persons as these, and setting aside the poets should discourse with each other, from our own resources, and receive proof of the truth and of ourselves. And if you still wish to question me, I am ready to offer myself to answer you; but if you do not wish it, do you offer yourself to me, so that we may bring to a conclusion the subject that we broke off in the middle.”

93. On my saying these and other things of the same kind, Protagoras did not distinctly declare which of the two he would do. Alcibiades, therefore, looking to Callias, said, “Callias, does Protagoras appear to you to act rightly now, in not being willing to declare whether he will answer or not? For to me he does not. But let him either continue the conversation, or say that he is not willing to continue it, that we may know this from him, and that Socrates may converse with some one else, or whoever else wishes to do so with some other.”

And Protagoras, being ashamed, as it seemed to me, when Alcibiades spoke thus and Callias and nearly all who were present entreated him, was with great difficulty prevailed on to renew the conversation and bade me question him, for that he would answer.

94. I then said to him, “Protagoras, think not that I converse with you with any other design, than to examine thoroughly into things about which I am continually in doubt. For I think that Homer[103] speaks very much to the purpose, when he says, ‘When two come together, one apprehends before the other.’ For all of us men are thus more prompt in every deed, and word, and thought, but when any one apprehends alone[104], he immediately goes about and searches for some one to whom he may communicate it, and with whom he may establish it, until he finds him. So I too, for this reason, am better pleased to converse with you than with any one else, thinking that you are best able to investigate both other subjects which a good man is likely to examine into, and especially virtue. For who else can do it but you? Since you not only think yourself to be a good and worthy man, as some others also are virtuous, but are not able to make others so; you however are both good yourself, and are able to make others good, and you have such confidence in yourself, that while others conceal this art, you openly proclaim yourself to all the Greeks designating yourself a sophist, publishing yourself as a professor of erudition and virtue, and you are the first that has thought fit to receive pay for this. 95. How then, is it not right to call upon you to the examination of these matters, and to question and communicate with you respecting them? It cannot be otherwise. Now therefore I am desirous that the questions which I first asked you on these subjects, should, from the commencement, be partly called to mind by you, and partly to consider them with you. The question, I think, was this; whether these, wisdom, temperance, courage, justice, and holiness, which are five names, belong to one thing, or whether a certain peculiar essence is attached to each of these names, and each thing has its own function, and no one of them is the same as any other? You said, then, that these were not names belonging to one thing, but that each of these names was applied to a distinct thing, and that all these are parts of virtue, not in the same manner as the parts of gold are similar to each other, and to the whole of which they are parts, but just as the parts of the face are dissimilar to the whole of which they are parts, and to each other, each possessing its peculiar function. If these things still appear to you as they did then, say so; if otherwise, explain the difference, since I shall not think you in any way accountable, if you happen to speak differently; for I should not wonder if you said these things before for the purpose of trying me.”

96. “But I,” he said, “tell you, Socrates, that all these are parts of virtue, and four of them are very like each other, but courage is very different from all these. And thus you will know that I speak the truth; for you will find many men who are most unjust, most unholy, most intemperate, and most ignorant, yet eminently courageous.”

“Hold,” said I, “for what you say is worth examining. Do you mean that courageous men are daring, or some thing else?”

“I do,” he replied, “and bold to rush headlong on dangers which most men are afraid to encounter.”

“Come then; do you say, that virtue is something beautiful? and as being a beautiful thing do you offer to teach it?”

“Most beautiful,” he replied, “unless I am out of my senses.”

97. “Whether then,” said I, “is one part of it base, and another beautiful, or, is it all beautiful?”

“All beautiful, surely, in the highest degree.”

“Do you know, then, who boldly dive into wells?”

“I do, divers.”

“Whether because they know how to do it, or for some other reason?”

“Because they know how to do it.”

“But who are they that fight boldly on horseback? whether good riders or bad?”

“Good riders.”

“And who with targets? those that are targeteers, or those that are not?”

“Those that are targeteers. And in every thing else,” said he, “if this is what you are enquiring about, you will find that those who are skilled, are bolder than the unskilled, and the same men, after they have learnt are bolder than they were before they learnt.”

98. “But did you ever see any,” said I, “who, though unskilled in all these things, were yet bold with respect to each of them?”

“I have,” he replied, “and very bold.”

“Are those bold persons, then, courageous also?”

“If they were,” he replied, “courage would be a base thing; for these men are mad.”

“How then,” I asked, “do you describe the courageous? did you not say that they are the bold?”

“And I say so now,” he replied.

“Do not those then,” I said, “who are thus bold appear to be not courageous, but mad? And again, in the former instances, the wise are the boldest, and being the boldest, are most courageous? And according to this reasoning, will not wisdom be courage?”

99. “You do not rightly remember, Socrates,” said he, “what I said, and what answer I gave you? For when asked by you if the courageous were bold, I admitted that they were; but I was not asked, whether the bold also were courageous; for if you had asked me this, I should have said not all. But that the courageous are bold, which was my admission, you have no where shewn that I made that admission improperly. In the next place, you shew that men, who have skill, surpass themselves in boldness, and others who are unskilled, and from this, you conclude that courage and wisdom are the same. By proceeding in this way, you might also come to the conclusion that strength is wisdom. For, first of all, if proceeding thus you should ask me, whether the strong are powerful, I should say they are; and in the next place, whether those who are skilled in wrestling are more powerful than those who are unskilled, and they than themselves, after they have learnt, than before they learnt, I should say they are; 100. and on my admitting this, by using the same argument, you might allege, that according to my own admission, wisdom is strength; I however, do not here or any where admit that the powerful are strong, but I do that the strong are powerful, for power and strength are not the same; but the one arises from skill, and from madness too, and passion, but strength from nature, and good nurture of the body. In like manner, boldness and courage are not the same; so that it happens that the courageous are bold, but the bold are not all courageous. For boldness, like power, arises in men from skill, and from passion too and madness, but courage arises from nature, and the good culture of the soul.”

101. “Do you allow, Protagoras,” said I, “that some men live well, and others ill?”

He said he did.

“Does a man, then, appear to you to live well, if he lives in grief and pain?”

He said not.

“But what, if he should die after having passed his life pleasantly, would he not in that case appear to you to have lived well?”

“To me he would,” said he.

“To live pleasantly, then, is a good, but unpleasantly an evil thing.”

“Yes,” he said, “if he has lived taking pleasure in honest things.”

“What then, Protagoras, do you, like the multitude, call some pleasant things evil, and some painful things good? I mean, as far as they are pleasant are they not so far good, unless something else results from them? And again, in the same way with regard to things painful; are they not evil so far as they are painful?”

“I know not, Socrates,” he replied, “whether I should answer you as absolutely as you ask me, that pleasant things are all good, and painful things all evil; but it appears to me, not only with reference to the present answer, but also with reference to all the rest of my life, to be more safe to answer, that there are some pleasant things which are not good, and again, that there are some painful things which are not evil, and there are some which are a third sort, and which are neither the one nor the other, neither good or evil.”

102. “But do you not call those things pleasant,” I said, “which partake of pleasure, or occasion pleasure?”

“Certainly,” said he.

“I ask this, then, whether they are not good, so far as they are pleasant, meaning to ask whether pleasure itself is not a good thing.”

“As you frequently say, Socrates,” he replied, “we must examine this, and if the examination shall appear to be connected with our subject, and the same thing shall appear to be both pleasant and good, we must grant it; but if not, we must controvert it.”

“Whether, then,” said I, “do you wish to take the lead in the examination, or shall I?”

“You ought to take the lead,” he replied, “for you began the discussion.”

103. “Do you think, then,” said I, “that it will become clear to us in the following manner? just as if any one, examining a man from his form either with reference to his health, or any other operations of his body, on beholding his face and hands, should say, Come, strip, and shew me your breast and back, that I may examine you more closely; so I require something of the kind in reference to the present enquiry; perceiving that you are so affected as you say you are, with reference to the good and the pleasant, I have need to say some such thing as this, Come, Protagoras, lay your mind open to me on this point, how are you affected with respect to knowledge? Does it appear to you as it does to most men, or otherwise? Most men think of knowledge in some such way as this; that it is not a strong, nor a guiding, nor a governing thing; nor do they conceive of it as being any thing of the kind; but though knowledge is often found in a man, they do not think that knowledge governs him, but something else, at one time passion, at another pleasure, at another pain, sometimes love, and frequently fear, absolutely forming their conceptions of knowledge, as of a slave dragged about by all the rest. Is such your opinion of it, or do you think that knowledge is a noble thing, and able to govern man, and that if a man knows good and evil he can never be overcome by any thing, so as to do any thing else than what knowledge bids him, and that wisdom is sufficient to protect mankind?”

104. “It appears to me,” he replied, “as you say, Socrates: and moreover, if for any man, it would be disgraceful for me not to assert that wisdom and knowledge are the most powerful of all human things.”

“You say well and with truth,” I replied. “You are aware, however, that most men do not believe you and me, but say that many who know what is best are unwilling to do it, when it is in their power, but do other things. And all of whom I have asked what is the cause of this, have replied, that being overcome by pleasure, or mastered by pain, or some one of the things which I have just now mentioned, those who do these things are led to do them.”

“I think, Socrates,” he remarked, “that men say many other things incorrectly.”

“Come then, join me in endeavouring to persuade men, and to teach them what that affection of theirs is which they call being overcome by pleasures, and on that account not doing what is best, though they know it. For, perhaps, on our saying, ‘You do not speak correctly, my friends, but are deceived,’ they would ask us, ‘Protagoras and Socrates, if this affection is not the being overcome by pleasure, what is it then, and what do you say it is, tell us?’”

“But why, Socrates, need we consider the opinion of the generality of men, who say any thing that occurs to them?”

105. “I think,” said I, “that this will be of some service to us towards discovering with respect to courage how it is related to the other parts of virtue. If, therefore, you are willing to abide by what we just now agreed on, that I should take the lead, follow me where I think the matter will become exceedingly clear; but if you had rather not, I will dismiss it, if you please.”

“You say rightly,” he replied; “finish then, as you have begun.”

“Again, then,” said I, “if they were to ask us, ‘What do you say this is, which we call being overcome by pleasures?’ I, for my part, should answer them as follows: ‘Hear then, for Protagoras and I will endeavour to tell you. Do you not say, friends, that this happens to you under the following circumstances? for instance, being often mastered by meats and drinks, and the delights of love, which are pleasant things, though you know that they are baneful, yet do you not indulge in them?’ They would say that such is the case. 106. You and I should then ask them again, ‘In what respect do you say that they are baneful? Is it because they afford pleasure, and each of them is pleasant, for the moment? or because they occasion diseases for the future, and make way for poverty, and many other things of the kind? or if they make way for none of these things for the future, but only occasion a man to rejoice, are they nevertheless evil, because they make a man rejoice in any way whatever?’ Can we suppose, Protagoras, that they will give any other answer than that they are not evil from the momentary pleasure which they produce, but on account of the after results, diseases and other things?”

“I think,” said Protagoras, “that the many would answer thus.”

“‘Do they not, then, by occasioning diseases, occasion pain, and by occasioning poverty, occasion pain?’ They would admit this, I think.”

Protagoras assented.

107. “‘Does it not appear to you then, my friends, as Protagoras and I say, that these things are evil, for no other reason than because they end in pain, and deprive you of other pleasures?’ Would they admit this?”

We both assented.

“If, again, we should reverse the question, ‘In saying, friends, that good things are painful, do you not mean such things as gymnastic exercises, military service, and treatment of diseases by physicians, by cautery, the knife, physic, and starving, that these things are good, but painful?’ They would say they did.”

He assented.

“‘Whether, then, do you call them good, because, at the moment, they give extreme pain and torture; or because afterwards health results from them, and a good habit of body, and the safety of cities, and dominion over others, and wealth?’ They would say, I think, because of the latter.”

He assented.

108. “‘But are these things good for any other reason than because they end in pleasures, and deliverance from and prevention of pains? or can you mention any other end, to which you look when you call them good, except pleasures and pains?’ They would say not, I think.”

“I think so too,” said Protagoras.

“‘Do you not, then, pursue pleasure as being good, and avoid pain as evil?’”

He assented.

“‘This, then, you esteem to be evil, pain, and pleasure, good, since you say that enjoyment itself is then evil when it deprives of greater pleasures than those it brings with it, or when it makes way for pains greater than the pleasures contained in it: for if you call enjoyment itself evil on any other account, and looking to any other end, you would be able to tell us; but you cannot.’”

“Nor do I think they can,” said Protagoras.

109. “Again, is not the case precisely the same with respect to pain itself? do you not then call pain itself a good, when it delivers from greater pains than those contained in it, or makes way for pleasures greater than the pains? for if you look to any other end than to that which I mention, when you call pain itself a good, you can tell us; but you cannot.”

“You speak truly,” said Protagoras.

“Again, therefore,” said I, “if you should ask me, my friends, ‘Why in the world do you speak so much and so frequently about this,’ ‘Pardon me,’ I should say. For, in the first place, it is not easy to prove what this is which you call being overcome by pleasures; and, in the next place, the whole proof depends on this. But even now you are at liberty to retract, if you are able to say that good is any thing else than pleasure, or evil any thing else than pain; or is it enough for you to pass your life pleasantly without pain? If it is enough, and you cannot mention any thing else that is good or evil, which does not end in these, hear what follows: 110. for I say to you, that if this be the case, the assertion is ridiculous, when you say that frequently, a man who knows that evil things are evil, nevertheless does them, when it is in his power not to do them, in consequence of being led away and overpowered by pleasures; and again, when you say that a man who knows what is good, is not willing to do it in consequence of immediate pleasures, by which he is overcome. For it will be manifest that these things are ridiculous, if we do not make use of many names, such as pleasant and painful, good and evil, but, since these things appear to be two, call them also by two names, first, good and evil, next, pleasant and painful. Having settled this, let us say, that a man knowing evil to be evil, nevertheless does it. If, then, any one should ask us, ‘why?’ we shall answer, ‘because he is overcome.’ ‘By what?’ he will ask us. But we are no longer at liberty to say, ‘by pleasure;’ for it has assumed another name instead of pleasure, namely, good. We must, however, answer him, and say, ‘because he is overcome.’ ‘By what?’ he will ask. ‘By good,’ we shall answer, by Jupiter. 111. Now if he who questions should happen to be somewhat insolent, he will laugh at us and say, ‘A ridiculous thing is this you mention, if a man does evil, knowing that it is evil, when he ought not to do it, because he is overcome by good.’ ‘Is it,’ he will ask, ‘because the good is not worthy to overcome the evil in you, or because it is worthy?’ We shall clearly say in answer, that it is because it is not worthy; for otherwise he would not err whom we say is overcome by pleasures. But perhaps he will ask, ‘in what respect are good things unworthy to overcome the evil, or evil to overcome the good? Is it in any other respect than that the one is greater and the other less? or that the one is more, and the other fewer in number?’ We shall not be able to say any thing else than this. ‘It is clear then,’ he will say, ‘that by being overcome you mean to receive greater evil instead of less good.’ And thus much for this part of the question.

“Let us now change the names, and again apply the words pleasant and painful to these same things, and let us say, that a man does things, we before called them evil, but let us now call them painful, knowing that they are painful, being overcome by pleasant things, clearly such as are unworthy to prevail. And what other value is there of pleasure in comparison with pain, except that of excess or defect in one or the other? that is, of their being greater or less, more or fewer in number, stronger or weaker than one another. 112. For if any one should say, ‘But Socrates, immediate pleasure is very different from future pleasure or pain,’ ‘Is it,’ I should ask, ‘in any thing else than in pleasure and pain?’ for it cannot differ in any thing else. But like a man expert at weighing, having put together the pleasant things, and having put together the painful, and having placed those which are near, and those which are remote, in the scales, say which are the more numerous. For if you weigh pleasures with pleasures, the greater and more numerous are always to be chosen, and if pains with pains, the less and the fewer in number. But if you weigh pleasures with pains, if the pains are exceeded by the pleasures, whether those that are near by those that are remote, or those that are remote by those that are near, the same course must be pursued, in whichever the excess is; but if the pleasures are exceeded by the pains, it must not be pursued. ‘Can these things be settled in any other way, my friends,’ I should ask? 113. I know that they could not mention any other.”

It seemed so to him likewise.

“Since then, this is the case, I shall say ‘Answer me this, do the same magnitudes appear to your sight greater when near, and less when at a distance, or not?’ They will say they do. ‘And things bulky, and things numerous, in like manner? and are not equal sounds greater when near, but less when at a distance?’ They would say they are. If then, our well-being consisted in this, in making and choosing great masses, but in avoiding and not making little ones, what means of safety should we seem to have in life? Would it be the art of mensuration, or the faculty of judging by appearances? or would the latter lead us into error, and often cause us to vary in our choice of the same thing, now choosing one and now another, and to repent both in our actions and our selections of things great and little, but would the art of mensuration do away with this outward show, and making manifest the truth, cause the soul to be at ease, abiding in the truth, and preserve our life?’life?’ Would the men upon this admit that the art of mensuration preserves us, or some other art?”

114. “The art of mensuration,” he admitted.

“‘But what, if the safety of our life consisted in the choice of even and odd, when more ought properly to be chosen, and when less, each with reference to itself, or one with reference to the other, whether they might be near or distant, what, in this case, would preserve our life? Would it not be a science? and would it not be one of mensuration, since it is an art of excess and defect? But since it has relation to even and odd, can it be any other than arithmetic?’ Would the men grant us this, or not?”

It appeared also to Protagoras that they would.

“‘Be it so, my friends; but since the safety of our life has appeared to consist in the right choice of pleasure and pain, and of more and fewer, greater and smaller, more distant and nearer; does it not first of all appear to be an art of mensuration, since it is a consideration of excess and defect and equality of these with respect to each other?’ ‘Necessarily so.’ ‘But since it has to do with mensuration, it must of necessity be an art and a science.’ 115. They will assent to this. What then this art and science may be, we will consider hereafter; but that it is a science is sufficient for the proof of that which Protagoras and I had to make good in answer to the question you asked us. You asked, if you remember, when we agreed with each other that nothing is more powerful than knowledge, but that it always gets the mastery, wherever it may be, both of pleasure and every thing else; but you said that pleasure often gets the mastery, even of a man possessed of knowledge, and when we did not agree with you, you thereupon asked us, ‘Protagoras‘Protagoras and Socrates, if this affection is not the being overcome by pleasure, what is it then, and what do you say it is? tell us.’ 116. If, then, we had immediately said to you, that it is ignorance, you would have laughed at us. But now if you laugh at us, you will also laugh at yourselves. For you have admitted that they err through want of knowledge, who err in the choice of pleasures and pains; but these are things good and evil; and not only through want of knowledge, but as you afterwards further admitted, a knowledge of mensuration. Now an erroneous action done without knowledge, as you must yourselves know, is done through ignorance: so that to be overcome by pleasure is the greatest ignorance; of which Protagoras here says he is a physician, and so do Prodicus and Hippias. But you, because you think it is something else than ignorance, neither go yourselves, nor send your children to the teachers of these things, the sophists, as if this knowledge could not be taught, but by saving your money, and not giving it to these men, you fare badly, both in private and public. 117. Such is the answer we should give to the many. But I ask you, Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras, for let the conversation be common to you all, whether I appear to you to speak the truth, or to speak falsely?”

What had been said appeared to all to be eminently true.

“You admit, then,” said I, “that the pleasant is good, but the painful evil. But I deprecate Prodicus’s verbal distinctions: for whether you call it pleasant, or delightful, or enjoyable, or from whatever derivation or in whatever way you please to denominate such things, most excellent Prodicus, use your own word and answer what I wish.”

118. Prodicus, therefore, laughing, agreed with me, as did the others.

“But what, my friends,” I continued, “do you say to this? All actions that tend to this, that we may live without pain and pleasantly, are they not beautiful? and is not a beautiful action good and profitable?”.

They agreed.

“If then,” I said, “the pleasant is good, no one who either knows or thinks that other things are better than what he is doing, and that they are possible, still continues to do the same, when it is in his power to do the better; nor is to be overcome by one’s-self any thing else than ignorance, nor to be master of one’s-self any thing else than wisdom.”

All agreed to this.

“What then? Do you say that ignorance is a thing of this kind, to have a false opinion, and to be deceived about matters of great importance?”

To this, likewise, all agreed.

“Is it not the case then,” I said, “that no one willingly sets about things evil, or things which he thinks are evil, nor is this, as it seems, in the nature of man willingly to engage in things which he thinks are evil, instead of such as are good; and when of two evils he is compelled to choose one, no one will choose the greater, when it is in his power to choose the less.”

119. All these things were assented to by us all.

“What then,” said I, “do you call dread and fear something? and the same that I do, (I address myself to you, Prodicus,) I mean by it a certain expectation of evil, whether you call it fear or dread.”

It appeared to Protagoras and Hippias that dread and fear were of this nature, but to Prodicus that dread was, but fear not.

“But,” said I, “it is of no consequence, Prodicus; but this is; if what we before said is true, will any man deliberately engage in things which he dreads, when it is in his power to engage in things which he does not dread? or is not this impossible from our former admissions? for it has been admitted that what he dreads he considers to be evil; and what he considers to be evil, no one either engages in or willingly receives.”

These things, likewise, were agreed to by all.

120. “These points, then, being established,” I said, “Prodicus and Hippias, let Protagoras here defend himself and shew us how his first answer is correct, no, not quite the first, for he then said, that there being five parts of virtue, no one of them was like any other, but that each had a peculiar function of its own. I do not however mean this, but what he said afterwards. For afterwards he said, that four of them very much resembled each other, but that one was altogether different from the rest, namely courage. And he said I should know it by the following proof. ‘You will find men, Socrates, who are most unholy, most unjust, most intemperate, and most ignorant, who are yet most courageous; by which you will know that courage differs much from the other parts of virtue.’ And I indeed, at the moment, was very much astonished at the answer, and I have been still more so since I have discussed these things with you. I therefore asked him if he meant that courageous men are bold? He said he did, and ready to rush headlong. 121. Do you remember, Protagoras,” said I, “that you gave this answer?”

He admitted it.

“Come then,” said I, “tell us on what you say the courageous are ready to rush headlong? Is it on the same things as cowards?”

He said not.

“On different things, therefore.”

“Yes,” he replied.

“But whether do cowards attempt things which they can venture on with confidence, but the courageous on such as are dreadful?”

“It is said so, Socrates, by the generality of men.”

“You say truly,” I replied. “I do not, however, ask this: but on what do you say courageous men are ready to rush headlong, on dreadful things, thinking that they are dreadful, or on such as are not dreadful?”

“But this,” he said, “in the arguments which you just now used, was shewn to be impossible.”

“And in this,” I replied, “you say truly. So that if this point was proved correctly, no one attempts things which he considers to be dreadful, since to be overcome by one’s-self was found to be ignorance.”

He admitted it.

“All men, however, attempt things in which they have confidence, both the cowardly and the courageous, and thus both the cowardly and the courageous attempt the same things.”

122. “But indeed, Socrates,” said he, “the things which the cowardly and the courageous attempt are quite contrary to each other; for instance, the latter are willing to engage in war, but the former are unwilling.”

“Whether,” said I, “is it honourable to engage in it, or base?”

“Honourable,” he replied.

“If, therefore, it is honourable, have we not already admitted that it is good, for we have admitted that all honourable actions are good.”

“You say truly, and I am always of this opinion.”

“Right,” said I. “But which of the two do you say are unwilling to engage in war, though it is honourable and good?”

“Cowards,” he replied.

“If therefore,” said I, “it be honourable and good, is it not also pleasant?”

“That has been granted,” he said.

“Are the cowardly, then, unwilling to attempt what they know to be more honourable and better, and more pleasant?”

“But,” said he, “if we admitted this, we should destroy our former admissions.”

123. “But what with respect to the brave man? Does he not engage in what is more honourable, better, and more pleasant?”

“It is necessary,” said he, “to admit that he does.”

“On the whole, then, is it not the case, that the courageous, when they are afraid, have no base fear, nor are they inspired with base confidence.”

“True,” said he.

“But if not base, are they not honourable?”

He assented.

“And if honourable, also good?”

“Yes.”

“And are not the cowardly, and the bold, and the mad, on the contrary, influenced by base fears, and inspired with base confidence?”

He admitted that they are.

“And are they bold in what is base and evil, through any thing else than ignorance and want of knowledge?”

“So it is,” he replied.

“What then? Do you call this, through which cowards are cowardly, cowardice or courage?”

“Cowardice,” said he.

“But have not cowards appeared to be what they are, through not knowing what is dreadful?”

“Certainly,” said he.

“They are cowardly then, through this want of knowledge?”

He admitted it.

“But that through which they are cowardly, you have admitted is cowardice?”

He assented.

“Must not, then, the not knowing what is dreadful, and not dreadful, be cowardice?”

He nodded assent.

“However,” said I, “courage is contrary to cowardice.”

He said it was.

“Is not then the knowledge of what is dreadful, and notnot dreadful, contrary to a want of knowledge of these things?”

And here he still nodded assent.

“But is not the want of knowing these things cowardice?”

He, here, with great difficulty, nodded assent.

“Is not the knowledge therefore, of what is dreadful, and not dreadful, courage, being contrary to a want of knowledge of these things?”

124. Here he would no longer nod assent, but was silent.

So I said, “Why, Protagoras, do you neither admit nor deny what I ask?”

“Do you conclude the subject,” he said.

“I have only one more question to ask you,” said I, “whether some men still appear to you as at first, to be most ignorant, and yet most courageous.”

“You seem to be very anxious, Socrates, that I should be the person to answer. I will therefore indulge you, and I say, that from what has been granted, it appears to me to be impossible.”

“I ask all these questions,” said I, “on no other account, than because I wish to examine how the case stands with respect to things pertaining to virtue, and what virtue itself is. For I know that when this is discovered, that other will be clearly ascertained, about which you and I have both of us held so long a discussion, I maintaining that virtue cannot be taught, but you that it can. 125. And the present issue of our discussion appears to me, as if it were a man, to accuse and laugh at us, and if it had a voice, it would say, Absurd men ye are, Socrates and Protagoras; you, who at the outset maintained that virtue cannot be taught, are now contending in opposition to yourself, and endeavouring to shew that all things are knowledge, as justice, temperance, and courage, according to which method of proceeding it will certainly appear that virtue may be taught. For if virtue were any thing else than knowledge, as Protagoras endeavours to maintain, it clearly could not be taught; but now, if it shall appear to be altogether knowledge, as you contend, Socrates, it will be wonderful if it cannot be taught. Protagoras on the other hand, who at first insisted that it could be taught, now seems to contend for the contrary, that it may appear to be almost any thing else rather than knowledge; and so can on no account be taught. 126. I therefore, Protagoras, seeing all these things terribly confused, this way and that, am exceedingly anxious that they should be made clear, and should wish, now we have discussed these things, to proceed to enquire what virtue is, and to examine again respecting it, whether it can be taught, or not, lest by chance that Epimetheus of yours should treacherously deceive us in our enquiry, just as he neglected us in the distribution which he made, as you say. Now in the fable, Prometheus pleased me more than Epimetheus, and making use of him, and looking forward with forethought to my whole life, I diligently attend to all these matters; and if you are willing, as I said at the beginning, I would most gladly join with you in examining them thoroughly.”

To this Protagoras said, “I, Socrates, praise your zeal, and your method of unfolding arguments. For I am not in other respects, I think, a bad man, and least of all men envious: indeed I have often said of you to many, that I admire you more than all whom I am in the habit of meeting, and far above those of your own age: and I add, that I should not wonder if you were to rank among men renowned for wisdom. And these matters we will further discuss hereafter, when you please; but it is now time for me to attend to other business.”

“It is right so to do,” I replied, “if you think fit. For I too ought long since to have gone where I had to go, but I staid to oblige the beautiful Callias.”

Having said and heard these things, we departed.

INTRODUCTION TO THE PHÆDRUS.

Phædrus, whom we have already[105] met with among the followers of the sophist Hippias, happening to meet with Socrates, tells him that he has just left the orator Lysias, who had written and recited a speech on the subject of love, in which he argued that a youth ought rather to shew favour to one who is not in love than to one who is. Socrates, who pretends to be very anxious to hear the speech, begs Phædrus to repeat it from memory as well as he is able, for he cannot doubt but that he has learnt it by heart, so great is his admiration for its author. Phædrus affects shyness, though in reality desirous of practising himself on Socrates: at length, however, Socrates discovers that he has a copy of it under his cloak, so they proceed on their walk, talking by the way, till they reach a plane-tree on the banks of the Ilissus, outside the walls of Athens, under whose ample shade they lie down[106].

Phædrus reads the speech, which in addition to the faults of obscurity, inconclusiveness, and tautology, takes a very low and sensual view of the passion of love[107]. When it is ended, Phædrus asks Socrates what he thinks of it, and whether it is not a wonderful composition, especially as to the language. Socrates at first praises it ironically, but on being pressed by Phædrus points out some of its faults, and says that even Lysias himself could not be satisfied with it, and that many others have both spoken and written finer things on the same subject, with which at that very instant his breast is full. Phædrus catches at this, and insists on Socrates repeating these fine things, promising that if he says any thing that excels the speech of Lysias he will erect his statue in gold in Olympia[108].

As it is the present design of Socrates to take the same low view of love that Lysias had done, he determines to speak with his face covered, that he may not falter through shame. He begins by a definition of love, which he represents to be desire hurried on to the pleasure derived from personal beauty; and then he goes on to shew, with great perspicuity, how a person under the influence of such a passion must needs be anxious that the beloved object should not excel himself or be admired by others. Then with regard to the body, he will wish to make it effeminate, and be anxious that his beloved should be as much as possible dependent on him; and at length he will become unfaithful, forget all his former vows and promises, and leave his favourite despised and destitute, who will suffer most of all in this, that he has been debarred from cultivating his soul, than which, he adds, there neither is nor ever will be any thing more precious in the sight of gods and men[109].

Phædrus expects that Socrates will not only shew the disadvantages of granting favours to a lover, but also go on to point out the advantages of granting them to one who is not in love. This, however, he refuses to do; and then, conscience-stricken for that he has been guilty of an offence against the deity of Love in speaking of him in so impious a manner, he determines on making his recantation, by uttering a speech which shall describe that deity in his true character. He begins by condemning his former assertion that favour ought rather to be shewn to one who is not in love than to a lover, because the latter is mad and the former in his sober senses. For, he argues, it is not universally true that madness is an evil, so far from it, that the greatest blessings spring from madness, for even prophetic inspiration is a species of madness and derives its very name from it. And love is one of many kinds of madness, and as such the source of the greatest happiness to man. To prove this, he says, it is necessary to examine into the nature of the soul, both human and divine. The soul, then, is immortal, because it contains the principle of motion within itself (a subtle argument which it may be observed was not adduced in the Phædo, where the soul’s immortality was the immediate point under discussion.) Still, to explain what the soul is would require a divine and lengthened exposition; he must therefore content himself with saying what it is like. He therefore compares the soul to a pair of winged steeds and a charioteer. The horses and charioteers of the gods are all good, but all others are mixed. While the soul is perfect and winged it soars aloft, but when it loses its wings it is borne downward and becomes united with a body in which it takes up its abode, and the two united are called mortal. He then describes how Jupiter goes first, driving a winged chariot, and is followed by a host of gods and demons distributed into eleven divisions: in their flight they reach the external regions of heaven, and behold truth, justice, temperance, science, in their essences. Other inferior souls endeavour to follow and imitate them; few, however, can do so: those that get a glimpse of any of the true essences are free from harm till the next revolution, but those that are unable to do so are weighed down and lose their wings, and become implanted in earthly natures of various orders, and then, according to their conduct in this condition, are either restored to their former state or still further degraded. The mind of the philosopher, however, is alone furnished with wings, because his memory dwells on that which is divine[110].

This then is the madness above spoken of, when one, beholding beauty in this lower world, is reminded of the true, and looking upwards to it despises things below and is deemed to be affected with madness. But he who has become corrupted is not easily carried hence to beauty itself, nor does he reverence it when he beholds it, but looks upon it with carnal sensuality; whereas he, who has not been so far corrupted, when he beholds the imitation of beauty here, reverences it as a god, and, but for the imputation of madness, would sacrifice to it. Then his wings begin to swell again and endeavour to burst forth anew; but when separated from the beautiful object the soul becomes parched and the passages through which the wings shoot forth become closed. Thus alternately tormented with agony and joy, it becomes frantic and runs about trying to see the possessor of the beauty. This affection men call love. Now when a follower of Jupiter is thus seized, he is better able to bear the burden of the winged god: for such a one seeks one who resembles Jupiter to be the object of his love; and when he has found him, he endeavours to make him like his own god[111].

As each soul was before divided into three parts, two having the form of horses, and the third that of a charioteer, so that division must still be maintained. When therefore the charioteer beholds the love-inspiring sight, the obedient horse is easily restrained, but the other compels them to hurry to the favourite, and longs to indulge in the delights of love. But the charioteer, on approaching him, is carried back to absolute beauty, and being awe-struck falls backward and throws the horses on their haunches. When by being repeatedly checked in this way the vicious horse has laid aside his insolence, he becomes humbled and the soul of the lover follows his favourite with reverence and awe. And the beloved being worshipped by one who does not feign the passion but who really feels it, requites the affection of his worshipper, and in turn longs for the lover in the same manner that he is longed for, possessing love’s image, love returned. If then the better parts of their mind prevail so as to lead to a well-regulated life and philosophy, they pass their life in bliss and concord, and when they depart this life, they become winged and win one of the three truly Olympic contests, a greater good than which neither human prudence nor divine madness can bestow on man. If however, they have adopted a coarser and less philosophic mode of life, but still honourable, in the end they find the body without wings indeed, yet making an effort to become winged and so carry off no trifling prize of impassioned madness[112].

When Socrates had ended his recantation to Love, Phædrus expresses great admiration of his speech; and adds that he doubts whether Lysias will ever venture to write speeches again. But Socrates shews him that such an expectation is altogether groundless; and after a charming little episode on the origin of grasshoppers, proposes to consider in what a correct mode of speaking and writing consists[113].

The first essential is that the speaker should know the truth of the subject on which he is about to speak. And though it is commonly said that an orator need not know what is really just, but only what will appear so to the multitude, yet Socrates with great force destroys this fallacy, and shews that such rhetoric is not an art but an inartistic trick; for a genuine art of speaking neither does nor can exist without laying hold of truth. Rhetoric must be an art that leads the soul by means of argument. Now in courts of justice and popular assemblies men succeed by making things appear similar to each other so far as they are capable of being made appear so; and deception will more frequently occur in things that nearly resemble each other, so that a person who means to persuade or deceive another must be able to distinguish accurately the similarity and dissimilarity of things, and so lead his hearer by means of resemblances. Taking this as his principle, Socrates proceeds to shew that the speech of Lysias is altogether inartistic, for that he ought first of all to have defined Love and divided it into its different species and shewn of which class he was going to speak, whereas he begins where he should have ended, and throughout speaks at random without any definite design. He then proceeds to comment on his own two speeches. In one he argued that favour ought to be shewn to one that is in love, in the other to a person that is not in love. In one he said that love was a kind of divine madness, and then dividing this madness into four parts he shewed that the madness of Love is the best. In these speeches, then, are seen the two methods of arguing correctly, definition and division, the former of which contemplates many things under one aspect and brings them together under one general idea, the latter separates that general idea into species[114].

Socrates then ridicules the rules of rhetoric laid down by many of the sophists, and having passed a high eulogium on Pericles, shews that a perfect orator must know the real nature of the things to which he will have to apply his speeches, and that is the soul; for as the power of speech consists in leading the soul, he must know how many kinds of soul there are, and by what arguments each kind is most easily persuaded[115].

From speaking he proceeds to writing, and tells a pleasant story of the invention of letters, and remarks that the evil of writing is, that, like painting, if you ask it a question it cannot answer; and when once written it is tossed from hand to hand, as well among those who understand it as those who do not. But there is another kind of discourse far more excellent, which is written in the learner’s mind, and knows when to speak and when to be silent. The conclusion of the whole is that a speaker should be acquainted with the true nature of each subject on which he speaks or writes, be able to define, and divide things into their species until he reaches the indivisible, and to investigate the nature of the soul and apply his discourses to each soul according to its capacity.

Then, with a message, in accordance with these principles, to Lysias, and a high encomium on Isocrates, who promised to be led by a diviner impulse to holier and higher things, he concludes by praying that Pan would grant him to be beautiful in the inner man, and that all outward things might be at peace with those within. That he may deem the wise man rich: and may have such a portion of gold as none but a prudent man can bear or employ.

PHÆDRUS.

Socrates. Phædrus.

Socr. My dear Phædrus, whither are you going, and from whence come you?

Phæ. From Lysias, son of Cephalus, Socrates; but I am going for a walk outside the walls; for I have spent a long time there, sitting from very early in the morning; but in obedience to your and my friend Acumenus, I take my walks in the open roads; for he says that they are more refreshing than those in the course.

Socr. He says rightly, my friend: Lysias then, as it seems, was in the city?

Phæ. Yes, with Epicrates in the Morychian house here, near the Olympium.

Socr. What was your employment there? Without doubt Lysias feasted you with speeches?

Phæ. You shall hear, if you have leisure to go on with me and listen.

Socr. What then? do you not think that, according to Pindar[116], I should consider it a matter above all want and leisure, to listen to the conversation between you and Lysias?

Phæ. Proceed then.

Socr. Do you begin your story.

2. Phæ. And indeed, Socrates, the subject is suited to you. For the question, in which we spent our time, I know not how, was amatory. For Lysias had written a speech in which he described a beautiful youth as being courted, but not by a lover; and on this very point he argued with great subtilty; for he maintains that favour ought to be shewn to one who is not in love, rather than to one who is in love.

Socr. Generous man! I wish he had written that favour should be shewn to a poor man rather than a rich one, and to an old than a young, and so on with respect to such things as happen to me and the most of us; for then his discourses would be charming and of general usefulness. I, for my part, am so very desirous to hear his speech, that even if you prolong your walk to Megara, and, after Herodicus, when you have reached the wall, turn back again, I shall on no account lag behind you.

3. Phæ. How say you, most excellent Socrates? Do you think, that what Lysias, the most able writer of the day, composed at his leisure in a long space of time, I who am but a novice could repeat from memory in a manner worthy of him? Far from it; though I would rather be able to do so than be the possessor of a large sum of gold.

Socr. Phædrus, if I know not Phædrus, I have also forgotten myself; but neither of these is the case; for I know well that on hearing Lysias’s speech he not only heard it once, but urged him to read it repeatedly, and he readily complied; neither was this sufficient for Phædrus, but at length having got hold of the book, he examined the parts he liked best; and having done this, sitting from very early in the morning, he was fatigued and went out for a walk, as I believe, by the dog, having learnt the whole speech by heart, if it is not a very long one. And he was going outside the walls, that he might con it over, and, [4.] meeting with one who has a desire for hearing speeches, was delighted at seeing him approach, because he would have one to share his enthusiasm, and bade him accompany him in his walk. But when that lover of speeches begged him to recite it, he affected shyness, as if he did not wish to repeat it, though at length he would have compelled one to listen to it even though one was not willing to do so. Do you then, Phædrus, entreat him to do now what he will soon do at all events.

Phæ. It is, in truth, far best for me to repeat it as well as I can; for I see you are determined not to let me go, until I have delivered it some how or another.

Socr. You think perfectly right.

Phæ. I will do it then; but in truth, Socrates, I have by no means learnt the words of this oration by heart, though the general outline of all the several parts, in which he said the claims of one who is in love and one who is not differ from each other, I can go through summarily and in order, beginning from the first.

5. Socr. But shew me first, my dear friend, what you have got there in your left hand, under your cloak; for I suspect that you have got the speech itself: and if this is the case, think thus of me, that I love you very much, but that, when Lysias is present, I have by no means made up my mind to lend myself to you to practise upon. Come then, shew it me.

Phæ. Stop, you have dashed down the hope I had, Socrates, of practising upon you. But where do you wish we should sit down and read?

Socr. Let us turn down here, and go near the Ilissus, then we will sit down quietly, wherever you please.

Phæ. Very seasonably, as it appears, I happen to be without shoes, for you are always so. It will be easiest for us then to walk by the shallow stream, wetting our feet, and it will not be unpleasant, especially at this season of the year, and this time of the day.

Socr. Lead on then, and at the same time look out for a place where we may sit down.

6. Phæ. Do you see that lofty plane-tree?

Socr. How should I not.

Phæ. There, there is both shade and a gentle breeze, and grass to sit down upon, or, if we prefer it, to lie down on.

Socr. Lead on, then.

Phæ. But tell me, Socrates, is not Boreas reported to have carried off Orithya from somewhere about this part of the Ilissus?

Socr. So it is said.

Phæ. Must it not have been from this spot? for the water hereabouts appears beautiful, clear and transparent, and well suited for damsels to sport about.

Socr. No, but lower down, as much as two or three stadia, where we cross over to the temple of the Huntress, and where there is, on the very spot, a kind of altar sacred to Boreas.

Phæ. I never noticed it. But tell me, by Jupiter, Socrates, do you believe that this fabulous account is true?

7. Socr. If I disbelieved it, as the wise do, I should not be guilty of any absurdity: then having recourse to subtleties, I should say that a blast of Boreas threw her down from the neighbouring cliffs, as she was sporting with Pharmacea, and that having thus met her death she was said to have been carried off by Boreas, or from Mars’ hill; for there is also another report that she was carried off from thence and not from this spot. But I, for my part, Phædrus, consider such things as pretty enough, but as the province of a very curious, painstaking, and not very happy man, and for no other reason than this, that after this he must set us right as to the form of the Hippocentaurs, and then as to that of the Chimæra; besides there pours in upon him a crowd of similar monsters, Gorgons and Pegasuses, and other monstrous creatures, incredible in number and absurdity, which if any one were to disbelieve and endeavour to reconcile each with probability, employing for this purpose a kind of vulgar cleverness, he will stand in need of abundant leisure. 8. But I have not leisure at all for such matters; and the cause of it, my friend, is this; I am not yet able, according to the Delphic precept, to know myself. But it appears to me to be ridiculous, while I am still ignorant of this to busy myself about matters that do not concern me. Wherefore dismissing these matters, and receiving the popular opinion respecting them, as I just now said, I do not enquire about them, but about myself, whether I happen to be a beast, with more folds and more furious than Typhon, or whether I am a more mild and simple animal, naturally partaking of a certain divine and modest condition. But, my friend, to interrupt our conversation, is not this the tree to which you were leading me?

Phæ. This is the very one.

9. Socr. By Juno, a beautiful retreat. For this plane-tree is very wide-spreading and lofty, and the height and shadiness of this agnus castus are very beautiful, and as it is now at the perfection of its flowering, it makes the spot as fragrant as possible. Moreover, a most agreeable fountain flows under the plane-tree, of very cold water, to judge from its effect on the foot. It appears from these images and statues to be sacred to certain nymphs, and to Achelous. Observe again the freshness of the spot how charming and very delightful it is, and how summer-like and shrill it sounds from the choir of grasshoppers. But the most delightful of all is the grass, which with its gentle slope is naturally adapted to give an easy support to the head, as one reclines. So that, my dear Phædrus, you make an admirable stranger’s guide.

10. Phæ. And you, my wonderful friend, appear to be a most surprising being: for as you say, you are just like a stranger who is being shewn the sights, and not a native of the place. This comes from your never quitting the city, or going beyond the boundaries, nor do you seem to me ever to go outside the walls.

Socr. Pardon me, my excellent friend; for I am a lover of learning: now the fields and trees will not teach me any thing, but men in the city do. You, however, appear to me to have discovered a charm to entice me out. For as those, who, by shaking leaves or some fruit before them, lead their hungry flocks, so do you, by holding out written speeches before me, seem as if you could lead me about all Attica, and wherever else you please. But now, for the present, since I am come here, I am resolved to lay me down, and do you in whatever posture you think you can read most conveniently, take this and read.

Phæ. Listen then. 11. “You are well acquainted with the state of my affairs, and I think you have heard that it would be for our advantage if this took place. And I claim, not for this reason to fail in my request, because I do not happen to be one of your lovers: for they repent of the benefits they have conferred, as soon as their desires cease; but the others have no time at which it is convenient for them to repent; since not from necessity, but voluntarily, they confer benefits according to their ability, so as but to consult their own interests. Besides, lovers consider what of their affairs they have managed badly by reason of their love, and what benefits they have conferred, and adding thereto what labour they have undergone, they think that they have long since conferred sufficient favours on the objects of their love. But those who do not love have no pretence to make of the neglect of their own affairs on this score, nor can they take into account the labours they have undergone, nor make differences with their friends a pretext: so that, all such evils being removed, nothing remains for them but to do cheerfully whatever they think they will gratify them by doing. 12. Besides, if for this reason it is right to make much of those who love, because they say they are most devotedly attached to those whom they love, and are always ready, both in words and deeds, to incur the enmity of others, so that they can but gratify the objects of their love, it is easy to discover whether they speak the truth, because those whom they afterwards fall in love with they will prize more highly than the former, and it is evident that if the latter require it, they will behave ill to the former. And how is it reasonable to lavish such a treasure[117] on one afflicted with such a calamity, as no experienced person would ever attempt to avert? for they themselves confess that they are rather diseased than in their right minds, and that they know that they are out of their senses, but are unable to control themselves. How therefore, when they recover their senses, can they think that those things were right about which they were so anxious when in that state of mind? 13. Moreover, if you should choose the best from among your lovers, your choice must be made from a few; but if from among all others the one most suited to you, from many: so that there is much more hope that among the many there is one worthy of your affection. If, therefore, you respect the established usages of mankind, and are afraid lest, when men discover it, it should be a disgrace to you, it is probable that lovers, thinking that they are envied by others in the same way that they envy each other, should be so elated as to talk, and, out of ambition, publish to the world that they have not bestowed their labour in vain; but that such as are not in love, having a control over themselves, should prefer what is best to celebrity amongst men. 14. Besides, it must needs happen that many should hear of and see lovers following the objects of their affection, and doing this sedulously, so that when they are seen conversing with one another men think that they are together on account of desire already indulged or about to be so: but they do not attempt to blame those who do not love, on account of their familiarity, being aware that it is necessary to converse with some one, either on account of friendship or some other pleasure. 15. Moreover, if you have experienced uneasiness from the consideration that it is difficult for friendship to last, but that when a difference takes place under other circumstances a common calamity happens to both; but that when you have lavished what you prize most highly great injury would befal you, you would with good reason be more afraid of those who love. For there are many things that grieve them, and they think that every thing is done to their detriment. Wherefore they prohibit the objects of their love from associating with others, fearing those who possess wealth, lest they should get the better of them by means of their riches, and the well-educated, lest they should surpass them in intelligence; and they are apprehensive of the influence of every one who possesses any other advantage. By persuading you, then, to keep aloof from such as these, they cause you to be destitute of friends. If, therefore, regarding your own interest, you pursue a wiser course than they recommend, you are sure to quarrel with them. 16. But such as are not in love, but have obtained the accomplishment of their wishes through merit, will not envy your associating with others, but will rather hate those who will not associate with you, thinking that you are despised by them, and are benefited by those who associate with you. So that there is much more reason to hope that friendship will be produced between these by this means, than enmity. Moreover, most lovers conceive a desire for the person before they know their habits or are acquainted with their own qualities, so that it is uncertain whether they will still wish to be their friends when their desire has ceased; but with those who are not in love, and who have done this, having been friends with each other before, it is not probable that acts of kindness will make their friendship less, but that they will be left as monuments of future services. 17. Besides, it will tend to your improvement if you are persuaded by me rather than by a lover. For they, contrary to your best interests, praise all that you say and do, partly fearing lest they should offend you, partly being themselves depraved in their judgment, through desire, for love shews itself in such things: it makes the unsuccessful consider as distressing things which occasion no pain to others, and compels the successful to praise things which are not worthy the name of pleasures; so that it is much more proper to pity than envy those that are loved. 18. But if you will be persuaded by me, first of all I will associate with you, not attending to present pleasure, but future advantage, not overcome by love, but controlling myself, not conceiving violent enmities for trifling offences, but slowly indulging slight anger for great offences, pardoning involuntary faults, and endeavouring to divert you from such as are voluntary; for these are the marks of a friendship that will endure for along time. If, however, it has occurred to you that it is not possible for affection to be strong unless one is in love, you should consider that in that case we should not be very fond of our children or our fathers and mothers, nor acquire faithful friends, who have become such not from desire of this kind, but from other useful qualities. 19. Moreover, if it is right to gratify those most who most need it, it is right also with respect to others to benefit, not the best men, but the most needy; for, being delivered from the greatest evils, they will feel the deepest gratitude towards us. And besides this, in private entertainments it will not be proper to invite our friends, but mendicants and those who are in need of a hearty meal; for these will greet and follow us, and will come to our doors, and be highly delighted, and feel the utmost gratitude, and pray for many blessings upon us. 20. But surely it is right to gratify those not who are exceedingly needy, but who are best able to repay a kindness, nor those who love only, but those who deserve this favour; nor such as will enjoy the bloom of your youth, but who, when you are old, will share their own fortune with you; nor those who, when they have effected their object, will boast of it to others, but who, out of modesty, will be silent towards all men; nor those who are devoted to you for a short time, but who will be greatly attached to you throughout life; nor who, when their desire has ceased, will seek a pretext for quarrelling, but who, when your bloom is gone, will then exhibit their own excellence. 21. Do you, then, remember what I have said, and consider this, that friends admonish lovers that their course of life is a bad one, but no one ever yet found fault with those who are not in love, as if, on that account, they consulted ill for their own interests. Perhaps, however, you may ask me whether I advise you to gratify all who are not in love. But I think that not even a lover would exhort you to be thus affected towards all your lovers: for neither if one considers the matter reasonably is such a course deserving of equal gratitude, nor if you wished it, is it equally possible to keep it secret from others; but it is requisite that no harm should result from the business; on the contrary, advantage to both. I, for my part, think that enough has been said, but if you require any thing more, under the impression that it has been omitted, question me.”

22. What do you think of the speech, Socrates? Does it not appear to you to be wonderfully composed in other respects, and especially as to the language?

Socr. Divinely indeed, my friend, so much so that I am amazed. And I had this feeling through you, Phædrus, by looking at you, for you appeared to me to be enraptured with the speech while you were reading it. For supposing you to understand such matters better than I do, I followed you, and, in following you, I felt the same enthusiasm with you, my inspired friend.

Phæ. Well; do you think proper to jest in this manner?

Socr. Do I appear to you to jest, and not to be in earnest?

Phæ. Don’t, Socrates! But tell me truly, by Jupiter the god of friendship, do you think that any other man in Greece could speak more ably and fully than this on the same subject?

23. Socr. But what? ought the speech to be praised by you and me for this reason, that its composer has said what he ought, and not only because every word is clear, and rounded, and accurately polished off? For, if it ought, it may be granted for your sake, since it escaped me by reason of my nothingness: for I attended only to its rhetoric, but this I did not think that even Lysias himself would think sufficient. And to me, indeed, it seemed, Phædrus, unless you say otherwise, that he has repeated the same things twice and thrice, as if he had not the faculty of saying much on the same subject, or perhaps he did not care about this. Moreover he appeared to me to make a wanton display of his ability to express these things in different ways, and both ways most elegantly.

24. Phæ. You say nothing to the purpose, Socrates: for the speech has this very merit in the highest degree. For he has omitted nothing belonging to his subject, which was worthy to be mentioned: so that, beyond what has been said by him, no one could ever say more things or of greater weight.

Socr. On this point I am no longer able to agree with you; for the ancient and wise, both men and women, who have spoken and written on this subject, would confute me, if I were to admit this out of compliment to you.

Phæ. Who are they? and where have you heard better things than these?

Socr. I am unable to say on the moment; but I am sure that I have heard them from some one or other, either from the beautiful Sappho, or the wise Anacreon, or some other writer. Whence do I form this conjecture? some how or other, my divine friend, my breast is full, and I feel that I could say other things in addition to those and not inferior to them. That I understand none of them of myself, I am well aware, being conscious of my ignorance. It remains then, I think, that I must have filled myself, like a vessel, by means of hearing, from some foreign source; but owing to my stupidity I have forgotten even this, both how and from whom I heard it.

25. Phæ. You have told me excellent news, my noble friend. For though you cannot tell me from whom and how you heard it, even if I bid you, yet do the very thing that you say; promise that you will say other things better and not less in quality than those contained in the book, without making use of any thing in it. And I promise you, after the manner of the nine Archons, that I will dedicate at Delphi, a golden statue as large as life, not only of myself, but also of you.

Socr. You are very kind, Phædrus, and really worth your weight in gold, if you suppose I mean that Lysias was entirely wrong, and that it is possible to say something altogether different from what he has said; for I do not think that this could happen even to the poorest writer. 26. For instance with respect to the subject in hand; do you think that any one who was maintaining that favours ought to be shewn to one who is not in love rather than to one who is, if he neglected to extol the prudence of the former and to blame the folly of the latter, these being obvious points, could have any thing else to say? But I think that such points are to be allowed and granted to a speaker, and that of such things not the invention but the method of handling is to be praised, but of things which are obvious, and which are not difficult to discover, the invention as well as the method of handling.

Phæ. I grant what you say; for you appear to me to have spoken fairly. I will therefore do thus; I will allow you to suppose that one who is in love is more diseased than one who is not, but for the rest if you say other things more fully and of greater weight than Lysias, you shall stand in Olympia, of solid gold, near the offering of the Cypselidæ.

27. Socr. You are quite serious, Phædrus, because in teasing you I have attacked your favourite, and you think that I shall really attempt to say something more skilfully wrought than his wisdom has produced.

Phæ. For that matter, my friend, you have given me as good a hold on you; for you must speak, at all events, as well as you are able. And take care that we are not compelled to have recourse to that troublesome method of comedians, of retorting upon one another, and do not compel me to say[118], “If I, Socrates! know not Socrates, I have also forgotten myself,” and, “he longed to speak, but affected shyness.” But make up your mind that we shall not leave this spot before you have given utterance to what you said you have in your breast. For we two are by ourselves, in a lonely place, and I am both stronger and younger; from all this understand what I mean, and on no account prefer speaking by compulsion rather than willingly.

28. Socr. But, my excellent Phædrus, it would be ridiculous in me, who am but a novice in comparison with an experienced author, to attempt to speak extempore on the same subject.

Phæ. Do you know how the case stands? Let me have no more of your airs; for I have that to say which will force you to speak.

Socr. On no account say it then.

Phæ. Nay, but I will say it. And what I have to say is an oath. For I swear to you, by whom, by what god? shall it be by this plane-tree? that unless you make a speech to me before this very tree, I will never again either shew or repeat to you another speech by any one whomsoever.

Socr. Ah, wicked one! how well have you found out how to compel a lover of speeches to do whatever you bid him.

Phæ. Why then do you hesitate?

Socr. I shall not any longer, since you have sworn this oath. For how should I ever be able to debar myself of such a feast?

Phæ. Begin then.

Socr. Do you know then, what I mean to do?

Phæ. About what?

Socr. I shall speak with my face covered, that I may run through my speech as quickly as possible, and that I may not, by looking at you, be put out through shame.

Phæ. Do but speak; and as to the rest, do as you please.

29. Socr. Come then, ye Muses, whether from the character of your song, ye are called tuneful[119], or whether ye derive this appellation from the musical race of the Ligyans, assist me in the tale which this best of men compels me to relate, that so his friend, who heretofore appeared to him to be wise, may now appear still more so.

There was once a boy, or rather a youth, of exceeding beauty; and he had very many lovers. One of them was a cunning fellow; who though he was no less in love than the rest, persuaded the boy that he was not in love. And once, as he was courting him, he endeavoured to persuade him that favour ought to be shewn to one who was not in love, in preference to one who was. And he spoke as follows.

On every subject, my boy, there is one method of beginning, for those who mean to deliberate well; they must know what the thing is about which the deliberation is to be, or else of necessity go altogether astray. But it has escaped the notice of most men that they do not know the essence of each several thing. As if they did know, then, they do not agree with each other at the outset of the enquiry, and as they proceed they pay the probable penalty, for they agree neither with themselves nor with each other. Let not you and I, then, fall into the error which we condemn in others, but since the question proposed to us is, whether we ought rather to enter into a friendship with one who is in love or not, having by mutual agreement settled on a definition of love, what it is, and what power it has, and looking back and referring to this, let us prosecute our enquiry whether it occasions advantage or detriment. 30. That love, then, is a kind of desire, is clear to every one; and we know that they who are not in love, desire beautiful things. How then shall we distinguish a lover from one who is not in love? Here it is necessary to observe, that in each of us there are two ruling and leading principles, which we follow wherever they lead, one being an innate desire of pleasures, the other an acquired opinion, which aims at what is most excellent. These sometimes agree in us, and sometimes are at variance; and sometimes one gets the upper hand, at other times the other. When opinion therefore with the aid of reason leads to that which is best, and gets the upper hand, we give the name of temperance to this power; but when desire drags us irrationally to pleasures and rules within us, this ruling power takes the name of excess. But excess has many names; for it has many limbs and many forms. 31. And of these principles whichever happens to get the predominance gives its own designation to the person who possesses it, and that neither honourable nor worth acquiring. For instance with respect to food, desire that gets the better of the highest reason, and of the other desires, will be called gluttony, and will cause the person who possesses it to be called by the same name; again with respect to drinking, when it has usurped dominion, by leading its possessor in this direction, it is clear what designation it will acquire: and with respect to other things akin to these, and the names of kindred desires, it is manifest how they ought to be called, according as each for the time being happens to be dominant. Why all this has been said is already pretty evident, but every thing becomes in a manner more clear by being mentioned than if not mentioned. 32. For desire without reason having got the upper hand of opinion that tends to what is right, and being driven towards the pleasure derived from beauty, and being strongly impelled by its kindred desires to corporeal beauty, receives its name from this very strength and is called love[120]. But, my dear Phædrus, do I appear to you, as I do to myself, to be moved by some divine influence?

Phæ. Assuredly, Socrates, an unusual fluency has got possession of you.

Socr. Listen to me then in silence. For in truth the place appears to be divine. If, therefore, in the progress of my speech I should be frequently entranced by the genius of the spot, you must not be surprized. For what I utter now is not very far removed from dithyrambics.

Phæ. You say most truly.

33. Socr. Of this, however, you are the cause. But hear the rest; for perhaps the attack of the trance may be averted: though this will be the care of the deity, but let us again direct our discourse to the boy.

Well then, my excellent boy, what that is, about which we are to deliberate, has been declared and defined. Keeping this in view, then, let us proceed to consider what advantage or detriment will probably accrue from one who is in love and one who is not, to him that shews favour to them.

He that is ruled by desire and is a slave to pleasure, must necessarily, I think, endeavour to make the object of his love as agreeable to himself as possible. But to one diseased every thing is pleasant that does not oppose his wishes; but that which is superior and equal is hateful to him. A lover therefore will never willingly allow his favourite to be either superior to or on an equality with himself, but is always endeavouring to make him inferior and more deficient. An ignorant person is inferior to a wise one, a coward to a brave one, one who is unable to speak to a rhetorician, a dull to a clever one. 34. Since so many evils, and even more than these, are engendered or naturally exist in the mind of the beloved object, the lover must of necessity rejoice at the existence of the one sort and endeavour to introduce the others, or be deprived of immediate pleasure. He must therefore needs be envious, and by debarring his favourite from much other and that profitable society, whence he might become most manly, he is the occasion of great harm, and of the greatest by debarring him of that by means of which he would become most wise; and this is divine philosophy, from which a lover must needs keep his favourite at a distance, through the fear of being despised; and must so manage every thing else, that he may be ignorant of every thing, and look to the lover for every thing, thus being most agreeable to him, but most detrimental to himself. As concerns the mind, then, a man that is in love is in no respect a profitable guardian and companion.

But as to the habit and care of the body, what it will be and how he will attend to it, of which a man has become the lord, who is compelled to pursue the pleasant in preference to the good, is next to be considered. 35. He will be seen pursuing some delicate and not hardy youth, not reared in the open air but under the shade of mingled trees, a stranger to manly toil, and dry sweats, but no stranger to a delicate and effeminate mode of life, adorned with foreign colours and ornaments, through want of such as are natural, and studious of all such other things as accompany these: what they are, is clear, and it is not worth while to enter into further detail; but having summed them up under one head, we will proceed to another part of our subject. Such a body both in battle and other great emergencies, enemies will look upon with confidence, but friends and lovers themselves will fear for. This, however, as sufficiently evident, may be dismissed. 36. In the next place we must declare what advantage or what detriment, with respect to our possessions, the society and guardianship of one in love will occasion. But this indeed is manifest to every one, and especially to a lover, that he would desire above all things that the object of his love should be bereft of his dearest, fondest, and holiest treasures: for he would have him gladly deprived of father and mother, kindred and friends, thinking that they are an hindrance to, and blamers of the sweetest intercourse with him. Moreover if he has abundance of gold, or any other property, he will think that he cannot be so easily caught, nor when caught easily managed. Wherefore it must of necessity happen that a lover should grudge his favourite possession of abundance, and should rejoice at its loss. Further still, a lover will wish his favourite to continue as long as possible without a wife, without child, and without home, from a desire to enjoy his own delights for as long a time as possible. 37. There are, indeed, other evils besides these, but some deity has mingled present pleasure with most of them: with a flatterer, for instance, a dreadful beast and great bane, nature has nevertheless mingled a kind of pleasure that is by no means inelegant. And some one perhaps may blame a mistress as detrimental, and many other similar creatures and pursuits, which for the day, however, afford the greatest enjoyment; but to a favourite, a lover besides being detrimental, is the most disagreeable of all for daily intercourse. For the ancient proverb says, that equal delights in equal; I suppose, because an equality of age leading to equal pleasures produces friendship by similarity of tastes. But still the intercourse even of these brings satiety: and moreover, necessity is said to be irksome to every one in every thing; and this in addition to their dissimilarity is especially the case with a lover towards his favourite. 38. For an old man who associates with a young one, does not willingly leave him, either by day or night, but is driven on by necessity and frenzy, which leads him on by constantly giving him pleasure, through seeing, hearing, touching, and by every sense feeling the presence of the beloved object, so that he would with pleasure cling constantly to him: but by giving what solace or what pleasures to the object of his love, can he prevent him during an intercourse of equal duration, from feeling the utmost disgust, while he sees a face old and no longer in its bloom, with the other things that accompany it, which are unpleasant even to hear spoken of, much more so to have actually to do with from an ever-pressing necessity; when he has too to keep a suspicious watch over himself at all times and in all company, and has to listen to unreasonable and extravagant praises, and reproaches as well, which when the lover is sober are intolerable, and when he is drunk, are not only intolerable but disgraceful from the loathsome and undisguised freedom of his language. 39. Thus he that is in love is detrimental and disgusting, but when he ceases to love, he is thenceforth unfaithful towards him who by many promises and with many oaths and entreaties he could hardly prevail on at that time to endure his troublesome familiarity in the hope of advantage. But now, when payment ought to be made, having received within himself another ruler and master, reason and prudence, instead of love and madness, he has become another man unknown to his favourite. He then demands a return for former favours, reminding him of what was done and said, as if he was talking to the same person; but the other through shame, dares neither say that he has become another man, nor is he able to adhere to the oaths and promises of the former insensate reign, now that he has got possession of his senses and has become prudent, fearing lest, by doing the same things as before, he should become like what he was, and the same thing again. 40. Hence he becomes a runaway, and of necessity a defrauder, who was before a lover, and the shell being turned[121], he changes from pursuit to flight; but the other is forced to pursue him with indignation and curses, having been ignorant from the very beginning that he ought never to have granted favours to one that is in love and of necessity out of his senses, but much rather to one who is not in love, and in his right mind; otherwise he must necessarily give himself up to one that is unfaithful, morose, envious, disgusting, detrimental to his property, detrimental to his bodily habit, but far more detrimental to the cultivation of his soul, than which in truth there neither is nor ever will be any thing more precious in the sight of gods and men. It is right, therefore, my boy, to reflect on these things, and to know that the attachment of a lover is not united with good will, but like food for the sake of repletion, “as wolves love a lamb, so lovers love a boy.”

This is it, Phædrus; you must not expect to hear me say another word, but must let my speech end here.

41. Phæ. But I thought it was only in the middle, and that it would say as much about one who is not in love, that he ought rather to be favoured, mentioning in turn what advantages he has. Why then, Socrates, do you stop short now?

Socr. Did you not observe, my excellent friend, that I was now uttering epics, and no longer dithyrambics, and this while giving expression to blame? If then I should begin to praise the other, what do you think would become of me? Do you not know that I shall be thrown into an exstacy by the Nymphs, to whom you have purposely exposed me? I say then, in one word, that whatever vices I have attributed to the one, to the other the contrary advantages belong. What need then is there for a long speech? for enough has been said about both. Thus the story will be treated as it ought to be treated: I will, therefore, cross over the river and go home, before I am compelled by you to do something more difficult.

42. Phæ. Not yet, Socrates, before the heat has passed away. Do you not see that it is now nearly high-noon, as it is called? Let us, then, remain here, and converse together about what has been said, and as soon as it grows cool, we will go home.

Socr. You are a strange man for speeches, Phædrus, and really wonderful. For I think that of all the speeches made during your life-time no one has been the occasion of more being made than yourself, whether by speaking them yourself, or in some way or other compelling others. I except Simmias of Thebes; but you far surpass all the rest. And now again you appear to me to be the occasion of another speech being made.

Phæ. You do not announce war indeed. But how and what speech is this?

43. Socr. When I was about to cross the river, my good friend, the divine and wonted signal was given me, (it always deters me from what I am about to do,) and I seemed to hear a voice from this very spot, which would not suffer me to depart before I had purified myself, as if I had committed some offence against the deity. Now I am a prophet, though not a very good one, but like bad writers, am good enough for my own purposes. Accordingly, I clearly perceive my offence: for, my friend, the soul is in some measure prophetic; and mine troubled me some time since as I was delivering the speech, and some how I was cast down, as Ibycus says, for fear I should offend the gods, and gain honour from men in exchange. But now I perceive my offence.

Phæ. What do you say it is?

Socr. A dreadful, dreadful speech, Phædrus, you both brought here yourself, and compelled me to utter.

Phæ. How so?

Socr. Foolish, and in some sort impious: and can any thing be more dreadful than this?

44. Phæ. Nothing, if you say truly.

Socr. What then? Do you not think that Love is son of Venus, and a god?

Phæ. So it is said.

Socr. Yet not by Lysias, nor by that speech of yours which was uttered through my mouth when bewitched by you. But if Love be, as indeed he is, a god, or something divine, he cannot be in any respect evil; yet both our late speeches spoke of him as such. In this therefore they committed an offence against Love, besides their silliness was very amusing, in that they said nothing sound or true, yet they prided themselves as if they were something, because they might perhaps impose on some simpletons and gain their approbation. It is necessary, therefore, my friend, that I should purify myself. But there is an ancient purification for those who offend in matters relating to mythology, which Homer was not acquainted with, but Stesichorus was. For, being deprived of sight for defaming Helen, he was not ignorant like Homer, but as a friend of the Muses, knew the cause, and immediately composed the following lines: “This tale is not true, thou didst not go on board the well-benched ships, nor reach the towers of Troy.” Thus having composed this entire recantation as it is called, he immediately recovered his sight. I however, will be wiser than them in this respect; for before I suffer any harm for defaming Love, I will endeavour to present him my recantation, with my head bare, and not, as before, covered through shame.

45. Phæ. There is nothing, Socrates, that you could say to me more agreeable than this.

Socr. For, my good Phædrus, you must be sensible how shamelessly both our speeches were composed, as well mine as that which was read from the book. For, if any generous man, and of mild disposition, who is either now in love with, or has formerly been enamoured of another like himself, had happened to hear us say that lovers contract violent enmities for trifling causes, and are envious of, and detrimental to, their favourites, can you suppose that he would do otherwise than think he was listening to men brought up among sailors, and who had never witnessed an ingenuous love, and would be far from assenting to the censures we cast upon Love?

Phæ. Probably he would, by Jupiter, Socrates.

Socr. Out of respect to him, then, and fear of Love himself, I am anxious to wash out as it were the brackish taste by a sweet speech. And I advise Lysias, too, to write as soon as possible, that it is proper, under similar circumstances, to favour a lover rather than one who is not in love.

46. Phæ. You may be well assured that this will be done; for, when you have spoken in praise of the lover, Lysias must needs be compelled by me to write another speech on the same subject.

Socr. This I believe, while you continue the man you are.

Phæ. Speak then with confidence.

Socr. But where is my boy, to whom I spoke? that he may hear this too, and may not, from not hearing it, hastily grant favours to one who is not in love.

Phæ. Here he is always very near to you, whenever you want him.

Socr. Understand then, my beautiful boy, that the former speech was that of Phædrus, son of Pythocles, a man of Myrrhinus; but that which I am now about to deliver is the speech of Stesichorus, son of Euphemus, of Himera. It must begin thus:

“The assertion is not true which declares that when a lover is present favour ought rather to be shewn to one who is not in love, because the one is mad and the other in his sober senses. 47. For if it were universally true that madness is evil, the assertion would be correct. But now the greatest blessings we have spring from madness, when granted by divine bounty. For the prophetess at Delphi, and the priestesses at Dodona, have, when mad, done many and noble services for Greece, both privately and publicly, but in their sober senses, little or nothing. And if we were to speak of the Sybil and others, who, employing prophetic inspiration, have correctly predicted many things to many persons respecting the future, we should be too prolix in relating what is known to every one. 48. This, however, deserves to be adduced by way of testimony, that such of the ancients as gave names to things did not consider madness as disgraceful or a cause of reproach: for they would not have attached this very name to that most noble art by which the future is discerned, and have called it a mad art; but considering it noble when it happens by the divine decree, they gave it this name; but the men of the present day, by ignorantly inserting the letter τ, have called it the prophetic art[122]. Since also with respect to the investigation of the future by people in their senses, which is made by means of birds and other signs, inasmuch as men by means of reflection, furnished themselves by human thought with intelligence and information, they gave it the name of prognostication[123], which the moderns, by using the emphatic long õ, now call augury. But how much more perfect and valuable, then, prophecy is than augury, one name than the other, and one effect than the other, by so much did the ancients testify that madness is more noble than sound sense, that which comes from God than that which proceeds from men. 49. Moreover, for those dire diseases and afflictions, which continued in some families in consequence of ancient crimes committed by some or other of them, madness springing up and prophesying to those to whom it was proper, discovered a remedy, fleeing for refuge to prayers and services of the gods, whence obtaining purifications and atoning rites, it made him who possessed it sound, both for the present and the future, by discovering to him, who was rightly mad and possessed, a release from present evils. There is a third possession and madness proceeding from the Muses, which seizing upon a tender and chaste soul, and rousing and inspiring it to the composition of odes and other species of poetry, by adorning the countless deeds of antiquity, instructs posterity. But he who without the madness of the Muses approaches the gates of poesy under the persuasion that by means of art he can become an efficient poet, both himself fails in his purpose, and his poetry, being that of a sane man, is thrown into the shade by the poetry of such as are mad.

50. So great and even more noble effects of madness proceeding from the gods I am able to mention to you. Let us not, therefore, be afraid of this, nor let any argument disturb and frighten us so as to persuade us that we ought to prefer a sane man as our friend in preference to one who is under the influence of a divine impulse; but let him carry all the victory when he was shewn this in addition, that love is sent by the gods for no benefit to the lover and the beloved. But we, on the other hand, must prove that such madness is given by the gods, for the purpose of producing the highest happiness. Now the proof will be incredible to the subtle, but credible to the wise. It is necessary, therefore, first of all to understand the truth with respect to the nature of the soul both divine and human, by observing its affections and operations. 51. This then is the beginning of the demonstration.

Every soul is immortal: for whatever is continually moved is immortal; but that which moves another and is moved by another, when it ceases to move, ceases to live. Therefore that only which moves itself, since it does not quit itself, never ceases to be moved, but is also the source and beginning of motion to all other things that are moved. But a beginning is uncreate: for every thing that is created must necessarily be created from a beginning, but a beginning itself from nothing whatever; for if a beginning were created from any thing, it would not be a beginning. 52. Since then it is uncreate it must also of necessity be indestructible; for should a beginning perish, it could neither itself be ever created from any thing, nor any thing else from it, since all things must be created from a beginning. Thus then the beginning of motion is that which moves itself: and this can neither perish nor be created, or all heaven and all creation must collapse and come to a stand-still, and never again have any means whereby it may be moved and created. 53. Since then it appears that that which is moved by itself is immortal, no one will be ashamed to say that this is the very essence and true notion of soul. For every body which is moved from without, is soulless, but that which is moved from within of itself, possesses a soul, since this is the very nature of soul. But if this be the case, that there is nothing else which moves itself except soul, soul must necessarily be both uncreate and immortal. This then may suffice for its immortality.

But respecting its idea we must speak as follows: what it is, would in every way require a divine and lengthened exposition to tell, but what it is like, a human and a shorter one: in this way then we will describe it. 54. Let it then be likened to the combined power of a pair of winged steeds and a charioteer. Now the horses and charioteers of the gods are all both good themselves and of good extraction, but all others are mixed. In the first place, then, our ruling power drives a pair of steeds, in the next place, of these horses it has one that is beautiful and noble, and of similar extraction, but the other is of opposite extraction, and opposite character; our driving therefore is necessarily difficult and troublesome. But we must endeavour to explain in what respect an animal is called mortal or immortal. All soul takes care of all that is without soul, and goes about all heaven, appearing at different times in different forms. 55. While it is perfect, then, and winged, it soars aloft and governs the universe: but when it has lost its wings it is borne downward, until it meets with something solid, in which having taken up its abode, by assuming an earthly body, which appears to move itself by means of its own power, the whole together is called an animal, soul and body compounded, and takes the appellation of mortal. But the immortal derives its name from no deduction of reasoning, but as we neither see, nor sufficiently understand God, we represent him as an immortal animal possessed of soul, and possessed of body, and these united together throughout all time. Let these things, however, so be and be described as God pleases. But let us now discover the cause of the loss of the wings, why they fall off from the soul. It is something of the following kind:

56. The natural power of a wing, is to carry up heavy substances by raising them aloft to the regions where the race of the gods dwells; and of the parts connected with the body, it probably partakes most largely of that which is divine. But that which is divine is beautiful, wise, good, and every thing of that kind. By these then the wings of the soul are chiefly nourished and increased, but by what is base and vile, and other similar contraries, it falls to decay and perishes. Now the mighty chief in heaven, Jupiter, goes first, driving a winged chariot, ordering and taking care of all things; and there follows him a host of gods and demons, distributed into eleven divisions, for Vesta remains alone in the dwelling of the gods: but of the others all that have been assigned a station as chief gods in the number of the twelve, lead in the order to which they have been severally appointed. 57. But there are many delightful sights and paths within heaven among which the race of the blessed gods move, each performing his own proper work; and whoso has both will and power accompanies them; for envy stands aloof from the heavenly choir. But when they proceed to a banquet and feast, they now ascend by an up-hill path to the highest arch of heaven: and the chariots of the gods, which from being equally poised are obedient to the rein, move easily, but all others with difficulty; for the horse that partakes of vice weighs them down, leaning and pressing heavily towards the earth, if he happens not to have been well trained by his charioteer. Here then the severest toil and trial is laid upon the soul. For those that are called immortal, when they reach the summit, proceeding outside, stand on the back of heaven, and while they are stationed here, its revolution carries them round, and they behold the external regions of heaven. 58. But the region above heaven no poet here has ever yet sung of, nor ever will sing of, as it deserves. It is, however, as follows: for surely I may venture to speak the truth, especially as my subject is truth. For essence, that really exists, colourless, formless and intangible, is visible only to intelligence that guides the soul, and around it the family of true science have this for their abode. As then the mind of deity is nourished by intelligence and pure science, so the mind of every soul that is about to receive what properly belongs to it, when it sees after a long time that which is, is delighted, and by contemplating the truth, is nourished and thrives, until the revolution of heaven brings it round again to the same point. And during this circuit it beholds justice herself, it beholds temperance, it beholds science, not that to which creation is annexed, nor that which is different in different things of those which we call real, but that which is science in what really is. And in like manner, having beheld all other things that really are, and having feasted on them, it again enters into the interior of heaven, and returns home. 59. And on its return, the charioteer having taken his horses to the manger, sets ambrosia before them, and afterwards gives them nectar to drink. And this is the life of the gods.

But, with respect to other souls, that which best follows and imitates a god, raises the head of its charioteer to the outer region, and is carried round with the rest in the revolution, yet is confused by its horses, and scarcely able to behold real existences; but another at one time rises, at another sinks, and owing to the violence of the horses, partly sees, and partly not. The rest follow, all eager for the upper region, but being unable to reach it they are carried round sunk beneath the surface, trampling on and striking against each other, in endeavouring to get one before another. Hence the tumult, and struggling, and sweating is extreme; and here through the fault of the charioteers many are maimed, and many break many of their feathers; and all of them having undergone much toil depart without having succeeded in getting a view of that which is, and after their departure they make use of the food of mere opinion. 60. And this is the reason for the great anxiety to behold the field of truth, where it is; the proper pasture for the best part of the soul happens to be in the meadow there, and it is the nature of the wing by which the soul is borne aloft, to be nourished by it; and this is a law of Adrastia[124], that whatever soul, in accompanying a deity, has beheld any of the true essences, it shall be free from harm until the next revolution, and if it can always accomplish this, it shall be always free from harm: but whenever from inability to keep up it has not seen any of them, and from meeting with some misfortune, has been filled with oblivion and vice, and so weighed down, and from being weighed down has lost its wings, and fallen to the earth, then there is a law that this soul should not be implanted in any brutal nature in its first generation, but that the soul which has seen most, should enter into the germ of a man who will become a philosopher or a lover of the beautiful, or a votary of the Muses and Love; but that the second should enter into the form of a constitutional king, or a warrior and commander, the third into that of a statesman, or economist, or merchant, the fourth into one who loves the toil of gymnastic exercises, or who will be employed in healing the body, the fifth will have a prophetic life or one connected with the mysteries, to the sixth the poetic life or some other of those employed in imitation will be best adapted, to the seventh a mechanical or agricultural life, to the eighth the life of a sophist or mob-courtier, to the ninth that of a tyrant. 61. But among all these, whosoever passes his life justly afterwards obtains a better lot, but who unjustly, a worse one. For to the same place, whence each soul comes, it does not return till the expiration of ten thousand years; for it does not recover its wings for so long a period, except it is the soul of a sincere lover of wisdom, or of one who has made philosophy his favourite[125]. But these in the third period of a thousand years, if they have chosen this life thrice in succession, thereupon depart, with their wings restored in the three thousandth year. But the others, when they have ended their first life, are brought to trial; and being sentenced, some go to places of punishment beneath the earth and there suffer for their sins, but others, being borne upwards by their sentence to some region in heaven, pass their time in a manner worthy of the life they have lived in human form. But in the thousandth year, both kinds coming back again for the allotment and choice of their second life, choose that which they severally please. And here a human soul passes into the life of a beast, and from a beast he who was once a man passes again into a man. 62. For the soul which has never seen the truth, cannot come into this form: for it is necessary that a man should understand according to a generic form, as it is called, which proceeding from many perceptions is by reasoning combined into one. And this is a recollection of those things which our soul formerly saw when journeying with deity, despising the things which we now say are, and looking up to that which really is. Wherefore, with justice, the mind of the philosopher is alone furnished with wings; for, to the best of his power, his memory dwells on those things, by the contemplation of which even deity is divine. But a man who makes a right use of such memorials as these, by constantly perfecting himself in perfect mysteries, alone becomes truly perfect. And by keeping aloof from human pursuits, and dwelling on that which is divine, he is found fault with by the multitude as out of his senses, but it escapes the notice of the multitude that he is inspired.

63. To this then comes our whole argument respecting the fourth kind of madness, on account of which any one, who, on seeing beauty in this lower world, being reminded of the true, begins to recover his wings, and, having recovered them, longs to soar aloft, but being unable to do it, looks upwards like a bird, and despising things below, is deemed to be affected with madness. Our argument comes to this then, that this is the best of all enthusiasmsenthusiasms, and of the best origin, both for him who possesses and for him who partakes of it, and that he who loves beautiful objects, by having a share of this madness, is called a lover. For, as we have mentioned, every soul of man has, from its very nature, beheld real existences, or it would not have entered into this human form; for it is not easy for every one to call to mind former things from the present, neither for those who then had but a brief view of the things there, nor for those who after their fall hither, were so unfortunate as to be turned aside by evil associations to injustice, and so to have forgotten the sacred things they formerly beheld. Few therefore are left who have sufficient memory. But these, when they see any resemblance of the things there, are amazed and no longer masters of themselves, and they know not what this affection is, because they do not thoroughly perceive it. 64. Now of justice and temperance and whatever else souls deem precious, there is no brightness in the resemblances here, but by means of dull instruments with difficulty a few only, on approaching the images, are able to discern the character of that which is represented. But beauty was then splendid to look on, when with that happy choir, we in company with Jupiter, and others with some other of the gods, beheld that blissful sight and spectacle, and were initiated into that which may be rightly called the most blessed of all mysteries, which we celebrated when we were whole and unaffected by the evils that awaited us in time to come, and moreover when we were initiated in, and beheld in the pure light, perfect, simple, calm, and blessed visions, being ourselves pure, and as yet unmasked with this which we now carry about with us and call the body, fettered to it like an oyster to its shell.

65. Let this much be said out of regard to memory, on account of which, from a longing for former things, I have now spoken at greater length than I ought. But with respect to beauty, as we observed, she both shone among things there, and on our coming hither we found her, through the clearest of our senses, shining most clearly. For sight is the keenest of our bodily senses, though wisdom is not seen by it. For vehement would be the love she would inspire, if she came before our sight and shewed us any such clear image of herself, and so would all other loveable things; but now beauty only has this privilege of being most manifest and most lovely. 66. He, then, who has not been recently initiated, or who has become corrupted, is not speedily carried hence thither to beauty itself, by beholding here that which takes its name from it. So that he does not reverence it when he beholds it, but, giving himself up to pleasure, like a beast he attempts to mount it and to have intercourse with it, and in his wanton advances he is neither afraid nor ashamed of this unnatural pursuit of pleasure. But he who has been recently initiated, and who formerly beheld many things, when he sees a god-like countenance, or some bodily form that presents a good imitation of beauty, at first shudders and some of the former terrors come over him, then as he looks stedfastly at it, he reverences it as a god, and if he did not dread the imputation of excessive madness, he would sacrifice to his favourite, as to a statue or a god. 67. But after he has beheld it, as commonly happens, after shuddering, a change, a sweating and unusual heat comes over him. For having received the emanation of beauty through his eyes, he has become heated, so that the wings that are natural to him are refreshed; and by his being heated, the parts where they grow are softened, which having been long closed up through hardness prevented them from shooting out. But when this nutriment flows in, the quill of the wing begins to swell, and makes an effort to burst from the root, beneath the whole form of the soul; for of old it was all winged. In this state, then, the whole boils and throbs violently, and as is the case with infants cutting their teeth, when they are just growing out there is a pricking and soreness of the gums, in the same way the soul is affected of one who is beginning to put forth his wings, it boils and is sore, and itches as it puts them forth. 68. When, therefore, by beholding the beauty of a boy, and receiving particles that proceed and flow from thence, which are for that reason called desire, it becomes refreshed and heated; it is relieved from pain and filled with joy: but when it is separated and becomes parched, the orifices of the passages through which the wing shoots forth, become closed through drought and shut up the germ of the wing. But it being shut in together with desire, leaping like throbbing veins, strikes against each passage that is shut against it, so that the whole soul, being pricked all round, is frantic and in agony; but again retaining the memory of the beautiful one, it is filled with joy. 69. And from both these mingled together, it is tormented by the strangeness of the affection, and not knowing what to do becomes frenzied, and being in this frantic state it can neither sleep at night, nor remain quiet by day, but runs about with longing wherever it may hope to see the possessor of the beauty. And on beholding him and drawing in fresh supplies of desire, it loosens the parts that were closed up, and recovering breath has a respite from stings and throes, and again for the present enjoys this most exquisite pleasure. Wherefore, it never willingly leaves him, nor values any one more than the beautiful one, but forgets mothers and brothers and friends all alike, and if its substance is wasting through neglect, it reckons that as of no consequence, and despising all customs and decorums in which it formerly prided itself, it is ready to be a slave and to lie down wherever any one will allow it as near as possible to the object of its longing. For in addition to its reverence for the possessor of beauty, it has found that he is the only physician for its severest troubles.

70. Now this affection, my beautiful boy, you I mean to whom I am speaking, men call love, but when you hear what the gods designate it, you will probably laugh, on account of your youth. Some Homerics, I think, adduce out of their secret poems two verses on love, of which the second is very insolent, and not altogether delicate: they sing as follows: “Him mortals indeed call winged Eros, but immortals Pteros (Flyer) for his flighty nature[126].”

These verses then, you are at liberty to believe, or not; however, this assuredly is the cause and the condition of lovers. 71. Now when one of the attendants upon Jupiter is seized, he is able to bear with greater firmness the burden of the wing-named god; but such as are in the service of Mars and went round heaven with him, when they are caught by Love, and think that they are at all injured by the object of their love, are blood-thirsty, and ready to immolate both themselves and their favourite. And so with respect to each several god, whose choir each followed, he spends his life in honouring and imitating him to the best of his power, so long as he remains free from corruption, and is living here his first generation; and in this way he associates with and behaves to his beloved and all others. 72. Every one, therefore, chooses his love out of the objects of beauty according to his own taste, and, as if he were a god to him, he fashions and adorns him like a statue, as if for the purpose of reverencing him and celebrating orgies in his honour. They then that are followers of Jupiter seek for some one who resembles Jupiter in his soul, to be the object of his love. They therefore consider whether he is by nature a lover of wisdom, and fitted to command; and when, on finding one, they have become enamoured of him, they do every thing in their power to make him such. If, then, they have not already entered upon this study, they now set about it, and learn it from whatever source they can, and themselves pursue it; and by endeavouring to discover of themselves the nature of their own deity, they succeed by being compelled to look stedfastly on their god, and when they grasp him with their memory, being inspired by him, they receive from him their manners and pursuits, as far it is possible for man to participate of deity. 73. And considering the object of their love as the cause of all this, they love him still more, and if they have drawn their inspiration from Jupiter, like the Bacchanals, they pour it into the soul of their beloved, and make him as much as possible resemble their own god. But such as attended Juno seek after a royal favourite, and when they have found one, they act towards him in precisely the same manner. And such as attended Apollo, and each of the other gods, following the example of their several deities, desire that their favourite may have a corresponding character, and when they have gained such an one, both by imitation on their own part, and by persuading and alluring their favourite, they lead him to the peculiar pursuit and character of that god; not, indeed, by employing envy or illiberal severity towards their favourite, but endeavouring by every means in their power to lead him to a perfect resemblance of themselves and their god, they act accordingly. 74. A zeal, then, on the part of those who truly love, and an initiation, as I call it, if they succeed in what they desire, so beautiful and blessed, falls to the lot of the beloved one at the hands of him that is maddened by love, if only he be won. But he that is won, is won in the following manner.

As in the beginning of this account I divided each soul into three parts, two of them having the form of horses, and the third that of a charioteer, so let us still maintain that division: but of the horses, one, we said, was good and the other not: what however is the virtue of the good one, or the vice of the bad one, we have not yet explained, but must now declare. That one of them, then, which is in the nobler condition, is in form erect, finely-moulded, high-necked, hook-nosed, white-coloured, black-eyed, a lover of honour, with temperance and modesty, and a companion of true glory, without the whip is driven by word of command and voice only: the other, on the other hand, is crooked, thick set, clumsily put together, strong-necked, short-throated, flat-faced, black-coloured, gray-eyed, hot-blooded, a companion of insolence and swaggering, shaggy about the ears, deaf, scarcely obedient to whip and spur together. 75. When, therefore, the charioteer beholds the love-inspiring sight, his whole soul becoming heated by sensation, he is filled with irritation and the stings of desire, the horse that is obedient to the charioteer, then as ever, overpowered by shame restrains himself from leaping on the beloved object: but the other, no longer heeds either the whip or the spurs of the charioteer, but bounding forward is carried violently along, and giving every kind of trouble to his yoke-fellow and the charioteer, compels them to hurry to the favourite, and to indulge in the delights of love. They at first resist from indignation at being compelled to such a dreadful and lawless course: but at length, when there is no end to the evil, they go on as they are led, having submitted and consented to do what they are ordered; and now they come up to him and behold the gleaming countenance of the favourite. 76. But the memory of the charioteer when he beholds him is carried back to the nature of absolute beauty, and again sees her together with temperance standing on a chaste pedestal. And, on beholding, it[127] shudders, and awe-struck falls down backward, and at the same time is compelled to draw back the reins so violently, as to throw both the horses on their haunches, the one indeed willingly, from his not resisting, but the insolent one very much against his will. When they have withdrawn to some distance, the former through shame and amazement drenches the whole soul with sweat, but the other, having got rid of the pain which he suffered from the bit and the fall, when he has scarcely recovered his breath, bursts out into passionate revilings, vehemently reproaches the charioteer and his yoke-fellow, for having abandoned their station and compact from cowardice and effeminacy. And again compelling them against their wills to approach, he with difficulty yields to their entreaties to defer it to a future time. 77. But when the time agreed on comes, reminding them who pretend to forget it, plunging, neighing, and dragging forward, he compels them again to approach the favourite for the same purpose. And when they are near, bending down his head and extending his spear, he champs the bit and drags them on with wantonness. But the charioteer being affected as before, though more strongly, as if he were falling back from the starting rope, pulls back the bit with still greater violence from the teeth of the insolent horse, and covers his railing tongue and jaws with blood, and forcing his legs and haunches to the ground, tortures him with pain. 78. But when by being often treated in the same way, the vicious horse has laid aside his insolence, being humbled he henceforth follows the directions of the charioteer, and when he beholds the beautiful object, he swoons through fear. So that it comes to pass, that thenceforth the soul of the lover follows its favourite with reverence and awe. Since then he is worshipped with all observance as if he were a god, not by a lover who feigns the passion, but who really feels it, and since he is by nature inclined to friendship, he directs his affection to accord with that of his worshipper, even though in past times he may have been misled by his associates or some others, who told him that it was disgraceful to allow a lover to approach him, and he may for this reason have rejected his lover, yet in process of time his age and destiny induce him to admit his lover to familiarity. 79. For surely it was never decreed by fate, that the evil should be a friend to the evil, or the good not a friend to the good. When, therefore, he has admitted him and accepted his conversation and society, the benevolence of the lover being brought into close contact astonishes the beloved, when he perceives that all his other friends and relatives together exhibited no friendship at all towards him in comparison with his inspired friend. But when he has spent some time in doing this, and has approached so near as to come in contact in the gymnastic schools and other places of social intercourse, then the fountain of that stream to which Jupiter, when in love with Ganymede, gave the name of desire, streaming in great abundance upon the lover, partly sinks into him, and partly flows out from him when he is full. And as a wind or any sound rebounding from smooth and hard substances, is borne back again to the place from whence it proceeded, so this stream of beauty, flowing back again to the beautiful one through the eyes, by which way it naturally enters the soul, and having returned thither and fledged itself anew, refreshes the outlets of the feathers, and moves him to put forth wings, and in turn fills the soul of the beloved one with love. 80. Accordingly he is in love, but with whom he knows not; neither is he aware nor is he able to tell what has happened to him, but like a person who has caught a disease in the eyes from another, he is unable to assign the cause, and is not aware that he beholds himself in his lover, as in a mirror. And when the lover is present, he is freed from pain in the same way as the lover is; but, when he is absent, he in turn longs for him in the same manner that he is longed for, possessing love’s image, love returned; but he calls it and considers it to be not love but friendship. And he desires, in the same way as the lover, though more feebly, to see, to touch, to kiss, to lie down with him; and, as is probable, he soon afterwards does all this. 81. In this lying down together, then, the unbridled horse of the lover has something to say to its charioteer, and begs to be allowed some small enjoyment in recompence for his many toils, but the same horse of the favourite has nothing to say, but swelling with love and in doubt, embraces the lover, and kisses him as he would kiss a very dear friend, and when they are laid down together, he is unable to refuse, as far as in his power, to gratify his lover in whatever he requires. But his yoke-fellow, together with the charioteer, resists this familiarity with shame and reason. If, then, the better parts of their mind have prevailed so as to lead them to a well-regulated mode of living and philosophy, they pass their life here in bliss and concord, having obtained the mastery over themselves, and being orderly, through having brought into subjection that part of the soul in which vice was engendered, and having set free that in which was virtue: and when they depart this life, becoming winged and light, they have been victorious in one of the three truly Olympic contests, a greater good than which neither human prudence nor divine madness can possibly bestow on man. 82. If, however, they have adopted a coarser and less philosophic mode of living, yet still honourable, but perhaps in a fit of drunkenness or some other thoughtless moment, their two unbridled beasts finding their souls unguarded, and bringing them together to one place, have made and consummated that choice which most men deem blissful; and having once consummated it they continue to practise it for the future, though rarely, in that they are doing what is not approved by their whole mind. These too, then, pass their life dear to each other, but less so than the others, both during the period of love and after it, thinking that they have both given to and received from each other the strongest pledges, which it were impious to violate, and so at any time become alienated. 83. But in the end, without wings indeed, yet making an effort to become winged, they quit the body, so as to carry off no trifling prize of impassioned madness: for there is a law that those who have already set out in the heavenward path should never again enter on darkness and the paths beneath the earth, but that, passing a splendid life, they should be happy walking with each other, and that, for their love’s sake, whenever they become winged, they should be winged together.

These so great and divine things, my boy, will the affection of a lover confer on you. But the familiarity of one who is not in love, being mingled with mortal prudence, and dispensing mortal and niggardly gifts, generating in the beloved soul an illiberality which is praised by the multitude as virtue, will cause it to be tossed about the earth and beneath the earth for nine thousand years, devoid of intelligence. 84. To thee, beloved Love, this recantation, the most beautiful and the best, according to my ability, is presented and duly paid, both in other respects and by certain poetical phrases, of necessity, adorned for the sake of Phædrus. But do thou, pardoning my former speech, and graciously accepting this, propitiously and benignly, neither take from me the art of love which thou hast given me, nor maim it in thy wrath, but grant that even more than now I may be honoured by the beautiful. And if, in our former speech, Phædrus and I have said any thing offensive to thee, blaming Lysias as the author of the speech, make him desist from such speeches in future, and convert him to philosophy, as his brother Polemarchus has been converted, so that this lover of his may no longer remain neutral as now, but may wholly devote his life to love, in conjunction with philosophic discourses.

Phæ. I join with you in praying, Socrates, that if this is better for us, so it may be. 85. But I have been long wondering at your speech, how much more beautiful you have made it than the former one; so that I am afraid that Lysias will appear to me but poor, even if he should be willing to produce another in opposition to it. For only the other day, my admirable friend, one of our public men, as he was attacking him, upbraided him with this very thing, and throughout the whole of his attack called him a writer of speeches. Perhaps, therefore, for ambition’s sake he will refrain from writing any more.

Socr. The opinion you express, my youth, is ridiculous; and you very much mistake your friend, if you imagine him to be so easily frightened. Perhaps, too, you think that his assailant really meant what he said.

86. Phæ. He seemed to do so, Socrates; and you are doubtless yourself aware, that the most powerful and considerable men in a city are ashamed to write speeches, and to leave their own compositions behind them, through fear of the opinion of posterity, lest they should be called sophists.

Socr. It has escaped your notice, Phædrus, that the proverb “a sweet bend” is derived from that long bend in the Nile: and as well as the bend, it escapes your notice, that these public men who think most highly of themselves are most fond of writing speeches, and of leaving their compositions behind them; and moreover, whenever they write a speech, they so love its supporters, that they prefix their names who on each occasion commend them.

87. Phæ. How do you mean? for I don’t understand you.

Socr. Don’t you understand, that at the beginning of a statesman’s writing, the name of its supporter is written first.

Phæ. How?

Socr. “Approved,” I think the writing itself says, “by the council, or the people, or both,” and he who proposed it, speaking very pompously of and extolling himself, namely the composer, after this makes a speech so as to display his own wisdom to his supporters, sometimes making a very long composition. Does this appear to you to be any thing else than a written speech?

Phæ. It does not to me.

88. Socr. If, then, it happens to be approved, the composer goes home from the theatre delighted. But if it should be rubbed out, and he debarred from writing speeches, and from the dignity of an author, both he and his friends take it greatly to heart.

Phæ. Just so.

Socr. It is clear, then, that they do not despise this practice, but admire it exceedingly.

Phæ. Certainly.

Socr. What then, when an orator or a king has proved himself competent to assume the power of a Lycurgus, or a Solon, or a Darius, and to become immortal as a speech-writer in a state, does he not deem himself godlike, while he is yet alive, and do not posterity think the very same of his writings?

Phæ. Just so.

89. Socr. Do you think then that any person of this sort, however ill-disposed he may be towards Lysias, would upbraid him merely because he is a writer?

Phæ. It does not seem probable from what you say; for in that case, as it appears, he would upbraid his own passion.

Socr. This, then, must be clear to every one, that the mere writing of speeches is not disgraceful.

Phæ. Why should it be?

Socr. But this I think now is disgraceful, not to express and write them well, but shamefully and ill.

Phæ. Clearly so.

Socr. What then is the method of writing well or ill? Have we not occasion, Phædrus, to enquire about this from Lysias or some one else, who has at some time or other written or means to write, either a political or private composition, in metre as a poet, or without metre as a prose-writer?

Phæ. Do you ask, if we have occasion? For what purpose in the world should any one live, but for the sake of pleasures of this kind? Not, surely, for those which cannot even be enjoyed unless they are preceded by pain, which is the case with nearly all the pleasures connected with the body; on which account they are justly called servile.

90. Socr. We have leisure, however, as it seems: and moreover the grasshoppers, while, as is their wont in the heat of the day, they are singing over our heads and talking with one another, appear to me to be looking down upon us. If, then, they should see us too, like most men, not conversing at mid-day, but falling asleep and lulled by them, through indolence of mind, they would justly laugh us to scorn, thinking that some slaves or other had come to them in this retreat, in order like sheep to take a mid-day sleep by the side of the fountain. But if they see us conversing, and sailing by them, as if they were Syrens unenchanted, the boon which they have from the gods to confer upon men, they will perhaps out of admiration bestow upon us.

Phæ. But what is this that they have? For I happen not to have heard of it, as it seems.

Socr. Yet it is not proper that a lover of the Muses should not have heard of things of this kind. It is said, then, that these grasshoppers were men before the Muses were born; but that when the Muses were born, and song appeared, some of the men of that time were so overcome by pleasure, that through singing they neglected to eat and drink, until they died unawares. 91. From these the race of grasshoppers afterwards sprung, having received this boon from the Muses, that they should need no nourishment from the time of their birth, but should continue singing without food and without drink till they died, and that after that they should go to the Muses and inform them who of those here honoured each of them. Therefore by informing Terpsichore of those who honour her in the dance they make them dearer to her; and Erato they inform of her votaries in love; and so all the rest in a similar manner, according to the kind of honour belonging to each. But the eldest, Calliope, and next to her Urania, they tell of those who pass their lives in philosophy, and honour their music; and these most of all the Muses, being conversant with heaven, and discourse both divine and human, pour forth the most beautiful strains. For many reasons, therefore, we should converse and not sleep at mid-day.

Phæ. We should converse, indeed.

Socr. Therefore, as we lately proposed to consider, we should enquire in what consists a correct method of speaking and writing, and in what not.

Phæ. Evidently.

92. Socr. Is it not, then, essential, in order to a good and beautiful speech being made, that the mind of the speaker should know the truth of the subject on which he is about to speak?

Phæ. I have heard say on this subject, my dear Socrates, that it is not necessary for one who purposes to be an orator to learn what is really just, but what would appear so to the multitude, who will have to judge; nor what is really good or beautiful, but what will appear so: for that persuasion proceeds from these, and not from truth.

Socr. We ought not to reject a saying[128], which wise men utter, but should consider whether they say any thing worth attending to. Wherefore we must not pass by what you have now said.

93. Phæ. You are right.

Socr. Let us then consider it as follows.

Phæ. How?

Socr. Suppose I should persuade you to purchase a horse for the purpose of repelling enemies, but both of us should be ignorant what a horse is, suppose, however, I did happen to know this much, that Phædrus believes a horse to be that tame animal which has the longest ears.

Phæ. That would be ridiculous indeed, Socrates.

Socr. Wait a moment: if I should earnestly persuade you, by composing a speech in praise of the ass, calling him a horse, and asserting that it is well worth while to purchase this beast both for domestic purposes and for military service, that he is useful to fight from, and able to carry baggage, and serviceable in many other respects.

Phæ. This, now, would be perfectly ridiculous.

Socr. But is it not better that a friend should be ridiculous, than dangerous and mischievous?

Phæ. Clearly so.

94. Socr. When an orator, therefore, who is ignorant of good and evil, having found a city that is likewise so, endeavours to persuade it, not by celebrating the praises of an ass’s shadow[129], as if it were a horse, but of evil, as if it were good, and having studied the opinions of the multitude should persuade them to do evil instead of good, what kind of fruit do you suppose rhetoric will afterwards reap from such a sowing?

Phæ. By no means a good one.

Socr. But have we not, my good friend, reviled the art of speaking more roughly than is proper? for she may, perhaps, say: “Why, sirs, do you talk so foolishly? For I compel no one who is ignorant of the truth to learn how to speak: but if my advice is worth any thing, when he has acquired that, he then has recourse to me. This, then, I insist on, that without me one who knows the truth will not for all that be able to persuade by art.”

Phæ. Will she not speak justly, in asserting this?

95. Socr. I admit it, at least if the arguments that assail her testify that she is an art. For I think I have heard some arguments coming up and insisting that she lies and is not an art, but an inartistic trick. But a genuine art of speaking, says the Spartan, without laying hold of truth, neither exists, nor ever can exist hereafter.

Phæ. We must have these arguments, Socrates; so bring them forward and examine what they say, and in what manner.

Socr. Come hither then, ye noble creatures, and persuade Phædrus with the beautiful children, that, unless he has sufficiently studied philosophy, he will never be competent to speak on any subject whatever. Let Phædrus answer then.

Phæ. Put your questions.

Socr. Must not then rhetoric in general be an art that leads the soul by means of argument, not only in courts of justice, and other public assemblies, but also in private, equally with respect to trivial and important matters? and is its right use at all more valued when employed about grave than about trifling things? What have you heard said about this?

96. Phæ. By Jupiter, nothing at all of this kind; but it is for the most part spoken and written according to art in judicial trials, and it is spoken also in popular assemblies; but I have never heard any thing further.

Socr. What, have you heard only of the rhetorical arts of Nestor and Ulysses, which they composed during their leisure in Ilium, and have you never heard of those by Palamedes?

Phæ. And, by Jupiter, I have not even heard of those by Nestor, unless you make Gorgias a Nestor, or Thrasymachus and Theodorus a Ulysses.

Socr. Perhaps I do. But let us pass over these; do you say however; in courts of justice what do adversaries do? do they not contradict each other? or what shall we say?

Phæ. That very thing.

Socr. And respecting the just and unjust?

Phæ. Yes.

Socr. Will not he, then, who accomplishes this by art, make the same thing appear to the same persons, at one time just, and, when he pleases, unjust?

Phæ. How not?

Socr. And in a popular assembly the same things seem to the state at one time good, and at another the contrary?

Phæ. Just so.

97. Socr. And do we not know that the Eleatic Palamedes[130] spoke by art in such a manner that the same things appeared to his hearers similar and dissimilar, one and many, at rest and in motion?

Phæ. Assuredly.

Socr. The art, then, of arguing on both sides has not only to do with courts of justice and popular assemblies, but as it seems, it must be one and the same art, if it is an art, with respect to all subjects of discourse, by which a man is able to make all things appear similar to each other so far as they are capable of being made appear so, and to drag them to light, when another attempts to make them appear similar and conceals his attempt.

Phæ. What mean you by this?

Socr. I think it will be evident if we enquire as follows: Does deception more frequently occur in things that differ much or little?

Phæ. In things that differ little.

Socr. But by changing your position gradually, you will more easily escape detection in going to the opposite side, than by doing so rapidly.

98. Phæ. How not?

Socr. It is necessary, then, that he who means to deceive another, but not be deceived himself, should be able to distinguish with accuracy the similarity and dissimilarity of things.

Phæ. It is indeed necessary.

Socr. Will he be able, then, if ignorant of the truth of each particular thing, to discern the smaller or greater similarity of the thing of which he is ignorant, in other things?

Phæ. Impossible.

Socr. It is clear, therefore, that in the case of those who have formed opinions contrary to the truth and are deceived, this error has found its way in by means of certain resemblances.

99. Phæ. It doubtlessly does happen so.

Socr. Is it possible, then, that one, who is ignorant of what is the nature of each particular thing, should have sufficient art to bring over any one by degrees by leading him through means of resemblances, from each several truth to its opposite, or himself to escape from being so led?

Phæ. Never.

Socr. He therefore, my friend, who does not know the truth, but hunts after opinions, will, as it appears, produce but a ridiculous and inartistic art of speaking.

Phæ. It seems so.

Socr. Are you willing, then, in the speech of Lysias, which you have with you, and in those which I delivered, to look for instances of what I assert is inartistic and artistic?

Phæ. I should like it of all things; for now we are speaking in a bald sort of way, for want of sufficient examples.

100. Socr. And, indeed, by some lucky chance, as it seems, two speeches have been made which furnish examples, of how one who is acquainted with the truth, while he is jesting in his arguments, can lead his hearers astray. And for my part, Phædrus, I attribute that to the deities of the spot. Perhaps, also, the interpreters of the Muses, the songsters over head, have inspired us with this gift; for I at least have no part in any art of speaking.

Phæ. Be it as you say, only make your meaning clear.

Socr. Come then, read out to me the beginning of Lysias’s speech.

100. Phæ. “You are well acquainted with the state of my affairs, and I think you have heard that it would be for our advantage if this took place. And I claim, not for this reason to fail in my request, because I do not happen to be one of your lovers: for they repent”—

Socr. Stop. We are to say, then, in what he errs, and acts inartistically: are we not?

Phæ. Yes.

Socr. Now is it not plain to every one, that in some things of this kind we are agreed, on others at variance?

Phæ. I think I understand what you mean; but explain yourself still more clearly.

Socr. When any one pronounces the word iron or silver, do we not all understand the same thing?

Phæ. Assuredly.

Socr. But what when any one pronounces the word just, or good? are we not carried different ways, and do we not differ both with one another and with ourselves?

Phæ. Certainly.

Socr. In some things, therefore, we agree, in others not.

Phæ. Just so.

Socr. In which class of things, then, are we more easily deceived? and in which of the two has rhetoric greater power?

Phæ. Clearly in that in which we are easily led astray.

102. Socr. He, therefore, who means to pursue the art of rhetoric, ought first of all to have distinguished these methodically, and to have discovered a certain character of each species, both of that in which the generality of men must necessarily be led astray, and of that in which that is not the case.

Phæ. He who has attained to this, Socrates, will have devised a noble classification of species.

Socr. Then, I think, when he comes to each particular case, he ought not to be at a loss, but should perceive quickly to which of the two classes the subject, on which he is going to speak, belongs.

Phæ. How not?

Socr. What then with respect to Love? shall we say that he belongs to things doubtful, or to such as are not so?

Phæ. To things doubtful, surely; otherwise do you think he would have allowed you to say what you just now said about him, that he is both a mischief to the beloved and the lover, and again, that he is the greatest of blessings?

Socr. You speak admirably. But tell me this too, for from being carried away by enthusiasm, I do not quite remember whether I defined love at the beginning of my speech.

Phæ. By Jupiter you did, and with wonderful accuracy.

103. Socr. Alas; how much more artistic in speech-making do you say the nymphs of Acheloüs and Pan son of Mercury are than Lysias son of Cephalus! Or am I wrong, and did Lysias too, in the beginning of his love-speech, compel us to conceive of Love, as some one particular thing, which he wished it to be, and then complete all the rest of his speech in accordance with this? Are you willing that we should read over again the beginning of his speech?

Phæ. If you wish it; though what you seek is not there.

Socr. Read, however, that I may hear him in person.

104. Phæ. “You are well acquainted with the state of my affairs, and I think you have heard, that it would be for our advantage if this took place. And I claim, not for this reason to fail in my request, because I do not happen to be one of your lovers: for they repent of the benefits they have conferred, as soon as their desires cease.”

Socr. He seems to be far indeed from doing what we are seeking for, since in making his speech he attempts to swim backwards, with his face uppermost, not setting out from the beginning, but from the end, and he begins with what the lover would say to his favourite at the close of his speech. Have I said nothing to the purpose, Phædrus, my dear friend?

Phæ. It is indeed, Socrates, the end of the subject about which he is speaking.

105. Socr. But what as to the rest? do not the other parts of the speech appear to have been put together at random? or does it appear that what is said in the second place ought from any necessity to have been placed second, or any thing else that he said? For it seems to me, who however know nothing about the matter, that the writer has without any scruple said whatever came uppermost, But do you know of any rule in speech-writing, in conformity to which he disposed his sentences in the order he has done one after another?

Phæ. You are pleasant, in supposing that I am able to see through his compositions so accurately.

Socr. But this at least I think you will allow, that every speech ought to be put together like a living creature, with a body of its own, so as to be neither without head, nor without feet, but to have both a middle and extremities, described proportionately to each other and to the whole.

106. Phæ. How not?

Socr. Consider, then, your friend’s speech, whether it is so or otherwise; and you will find that it is in no respect different from the epigram which some say is inscribed on the tomb of Midas the Phrygian.

Phæ. What is it, and what is there remarkable in it?

Socr. It is as follows;

“I am a maiden of brass and I lie on Midas’s sepulchre,

So long as water flows and tall trees flourish,

Remaining here on the tomb of Midas,

I will tell all passers by, that Midas is buried here.”

That it makes no difference which line is put first or last, you must perceive, I think.

Phæ. You are jesting at our speech, Socrates.

107. Socr. That you may not be angry, then, we will have done with this; (though it appears to me to contain very many examples, which any one might examine with advantage, so long as he does not at all attempt to imitate them;) and let us proceed to the two other speeches; for there was something in them, I think, fit to be looked into by those who wish to examine into the subject of speeches.

Phæ. What do you mean?

Socr. They were in a manner opposed to each other. For one said that favour ought to be shewn to a person that is in love, the other to a person that is not in love.

Phæ. And this, most strenuously.

Socr. I thought you were going to say, with truth, madly. However, this is the very thing I was seeking for. For we said that love was a kind of madness, did we not?

Phæ. Yes.

Socr. But there are two kinds of madness, one arising from human diseases, the other from an inspired deviation from established customs.

Phæ. Certainly.

108. Socr. But dividing the divine mania of the four deities into four parts, and assigning prophetic inspiration to Apollo, mystic to Bacchus, poetic to the Muses, and the fourth to Venus and Love, we said that the madness of Love is the best, and I know not how representing the passion of love, probably lighting on some truth and perhaps carried off elsewhere, we compounded a speech not altogether improbable, and sang a kind of mythical hymn, in a seemly and devotional manner, in honour of my lord and thine, Phædrus, Love, the guardian of beautiful boys.

Phæ. And one by no means unpleasant to me to hear.

Socr. Let us endeavour to find out, then, from the speech itself, how it was able to pass from censure to praise.

Phæ. What mean you by this?

109. Socr. To me it appears that in all other respects we have really been jesting; but as regards the two methods[131] that are seen in these casually uttered speeches, if any one could apprehend their power by art, it would be by no means an unwelcome circumstance.

Phæ. What methods are these?

Socr. The one is to see under one aspect and to bring together under one general idea, many things scattered in various places, that, by defining each, a person may make it clear what the subject is that he wishes to discuss, as just now with respect to love, its nature being defined, whether it was well or ill described; at all events for that reason my speech was able to attain perspicuity and consistency.

Phæ. And what is the other method you speak of, Socrates?

110. Socr. The being able, on the other hand, to separate that general idea into species, by joints, as nature points out, and not to attempt to break any part, after the manner of an unskilful cook; but as, just now, my two speeches comprehended mental derangement under one common class. But as from one body there spring two sets of members bearing the same name, one called the left the other the right, so my speeches having considered mental derangement as naturally one class in us, then the speech that had to divide the left part, did not leave off dividing this again until having found in its members a kind of left-handed love, it reviled it deservedly: but the other taking us to the right hand side of madness, and having found a kind of love bearing the same name as the former, but divine, brought it to light and commended it as the cause of the greatest blessings to us.

111. Phæ. You speak most truly.

Socr. For my part, Phædrus, I am not only myself a lover of these divisions and generalisations, in order that I may be able both to speak and think; but if I perceive any one else able to comprehend the one and the many, as they are in nature, him “I follow behind as in the footsteps of a god[132].” But whether I designate those who are able to do this, rightly or not, God knows, however I have hitherto called them dialecticians. But now, tell me by what name ought we to call those who take lessons from you and Lysias? is this that art of speaking, by the use of which Thrasymachus and others have become able speakers themselves, and make others so who are willing to bring presents to them, as to kings?

Phæ. They are indeed royal men, yet not skilled in the particulars about which you enquire. However you appear to me to call this method rightly, in calling it dialectical; but the rhetorical appears to me still to escape us.

112. Socr. How say you? A fine thing indeed that must be, which is destitute of this and yet can be apprehended by art. It must on no account be neglected by you and me; but we must consider what is the remaining part of rhetoric.

Phæ. There are indeed very many things, Socrates, which you will find in the books written on the art of speaking.

Socr. You have reminded me very opportunely. The exordium, I think, must first be spoken at the beginning of the speech. You mean these, do you not? the refinements of the art?

Phæ. Yes.

Socr. And secondly a kind of narration, and evidence to support it; thirdly, proofs; fourthly, probabilities; and I think that a famous Byzantian tricker-out of speeches mentions confirmation and after-confirmation.

Phæ. Do you mean the excellent Theodorus?

Socr. I do. He says, too, that refutation and after-refutation must be employed both in accusation and defence. And must we not adduce the most illustrious Parian, Evenus, who first discovered subordinate intimations and bye-praises? and some say that he put into metre bye-censures, to assist the memory: for he is a wise man. 113. But shall we suffer Tisias and Gorgias to sleep, who found out that probabilities were more to be valued than truths, and who by force of words make small things appear great, and great things small, and new things old, and the contrary new, and who discovered a concise method of speaking and an infinite prolixity on all subjects? When Prodicus once heard me tell this, he laughed, and said that he alone had discovered what speeches are required by art; that we require them neither long nor short, but of a moderate length.

Phæ. Most wisely, Prodicus.

Socr. But do we not mention Hippias? for I think our Elean friend was of the same opinion with him.

Phæ. Why not?

114. Socr. But how shall we describe Polus’s new-fangled method of speaking, as his reduplication of words, his sentences, his similitudes, and the words which Licymnius made him a present of, in order to produce a graceful diction.

Phæ. But was not the system of Protagoras, Socrates, something of this kind?

Socr. His was a correctness of diction, my boy, and many other fine things besides, but in the art of dragging in speeches to excite commiseration for old age and poverty, the Chalcedonian hero appears to me to have carried off the palm. He was moreover a powerful man to rouse the anger of the multitude, and again, when enraged, to soothe them by enchantment, as he used to say; he was most skilful in raising and removing calumnies, on any ground whatever. But all seem to agree in the same opinion with respect to the conclusion of speeches, to which some have given the name of recapitulation, others a different name.

Phæ. You mean the summarily reminding the hearers, at the conclusion, of the several things that have been said.

115. Socr. I mean that, and now consider if you have any thing else to say about the art of speaking.

Phæ. Only some trifling things, and not worth mentioning.

Socr. Let us pass over trifles; and rather examine these things in the clear light, and see what influence they have in art, and on what occasion.

Phæ. A very powerful influence, Socrates, at least in assemblies of the people.

Socr. They have indeed. But, my admirable friend, do you also observe whether their web does not appear to you to be very wide as it does to me.

Phæ. Explain what you mean.

Socr. Tell me then: If any one should go to your friend Eryximachus, or his father Acumenus, and should say, “I know how to apply such things to the body, as will make it warm or cold, as I please, and if I think proper, I can produce vomitings, and again purgings, and many other things of the kind, and as I know these things I consider myself a physician, and that I can make any one else so, to whom I impart the knowledge of these particulars:” what do you think they would say on hearing this?

Phæ. What else, but ask him if he knew besides to what persons, and when, and how far, he ought to do each of these things?

116. Socr. If then, he should say, “Not in the least; but I expect that he who should learn these things from me, would be able to do what you ask?”

Phæ. He would say, I think, that the man is mad; and that, having heard from some book or other, or having met with certain drugs, he fancies that he has become a physician, though he knows nothing at all about the art.

Socr. But what if any one were to go to Sophocles and Euripides, and tell them, that he knew how to make very long speeches on a trifling subject, and very short ones on a great subject, and whenever he pleased, piteous and contrariwise, terrible and threatening speeches, and other things of the kind, and that by teaching these he thought he could impart the power of writing tragedy?

117. Phæ. They too, I think, Socrates, would laugh, if any one should suppose that tragedy was any thing else than the composition of all these, so disposed as to be consistent with each other and the whole.

Socr. But, I think, they would not upbraid him rudely, but as a musician, who happened to meet with a man who believes himself to be skilled in harmony, because he knows how to make the highest and lowest note, would not harshly say to him, “Miserable fellow, you are stark mad;” but, being a musician, he would speak more mildly; “My excellent man, it is indeed necessary for one who means to be skilled in harmony, to know these things, but at the same time there is nothing to hinder a person from possessing the knowledge you have without his understanding harmony in the least; for you know what is necessary to be learnt before harmony, but not harmony itself.”

Phæ. Most correctly.

118. Socr. In like manner, Sophocles might reply to the person who displayed his learning to them, that he knew the things before tragedy, but not tragedy itself; and Acumenus, that the medical pretender knew things before medicine, but not medicine itself.

Phæ. Most assuredly.

Socr. But what must we think the sweet-voiced Adrastus, or even Pericles would do, if they were to hear of the beautiful contrivances which we have just now enumerated, the short sentences and similitudes, and all the rest, which when we went through them, we said must be examined by the clear light, whether they, as you and I did, would rudely make some ill-mannered remark against those who had written and who teach such things as if they constituted the art of rhetoric, or, as being wiser than we are, would they not reprove us, saying, 119. “Phædrus and Socrates, you ought not to be angry with, but rather to excuse those who, through being ignorant of dialectics, are unable to define what rhetoric is, and who, in consequence of this ignorance, possessing the things necessary to be learnt preparatory to the art, think that they have discovered rhetoric itself, and, suppose that by teaching these things to others, they can teach them rhetoric in perfection; but how each of them is to be used persuasively, and the whole combined together, this, as being of no consequence in the world, they think their pupils ought to acquire for themselves in composing their speeches.”

Phæ. Such indeed, Socrates, appears to be the case with the art which these men teach and write about as rhetoric; and you seem to me to have spoken the truth: but how and from whence can one acquire the art of true rhetoric and persuasion?

120. Socr. The ability, Phædrus, to become a perfect proficient, probably, or rather necessarily, depends on the same things as in other cases: for, if you naturally possess rhetorical abilities, you will be a distinguished orator by adding science and practice; but in whichever of these you are deficient, in that respect you will be imperfect. But so far as it is an art, its method, I think, will not be found in the way that Lysias and Thrasymachus are proceeding.

Phæ. In what way then?

Socr. Pericles, my excellent friend, appears, with good reason, to have been the most perfect of all men in rhetoric.

Phæ. How so?

Socr. All the great arts require a subtle and speculative research into the law of nature: for that loftiness of thought and perfect mastery over every subject seems to be derived from some such source as this; which Pericles possessed in addition to a great natural genius. For meeting, I think, with Anaxagoras, who was a person of this kind, and being filled with speculative research, and having arrived at the nature of intelligence and want of intelligence, about which Anaxagoras made that long discourse, he drew from thence to the art of speaking whatever could contribute to its advantage.

121. Phæ. What mean you by this?

Socr. The method of the art of rhetoric is, in a manner, the same as that of medicine.

Phæ. How so?

Socr. In both it is requisite that nature should be thoroughly investigated, the nature of the body in the one, and the soul in the other, if you mean not only by practice and experience, but by art, to give health and strength to the former by applying medicine and diet, and to impart such persuasion as you please and virtue to the latter, by means of speeches and legitimate employments.

Phæ. This indeed seems probable, Socrates.

Socr. But do you think it possible rightly to understand the nature of the soul, without understanding the nature of the universe?

Phæ. If we are to believe Hippocrates, of the family of Æsculapius, we cannot understand even the nature of body without this method.

Socr. For he says well, my friend. But it is necessary, in addition to the authority of Hippocrates, to examine our argument, and consider whether it is consistent.

Phæ. I agree.

122. Socr. Consider, then, with respect to nature, what Hippocrates and true reason say. Is it not thus necessary to examine into the nature of any thing? In the first place, whether that is simple or manifold about which we are desirous, both ourselves to be skilled, and to be able to make others so; and, in the next place, if it be simple, to examine the power it naturally possesses of acting on each particular thing, or of being acted upon by each particular thing? And if it possesses several species, having enumerated these, as in the case of the one, ought we not to consider this in each of them, what active and passive power they naturally have?

Phæ. It seems so, Socrates.

123. Socr. The method, then, that neglected these, would resemble the walk of a blind man. He however who proceeds by art, ought on no account to be compared either to a blind or a deaf man; but it is clear that whosoever teaches another speaking by art, should accurately shew the real nature of the things to which he will have to apply his speeches; and this surely is the soul.

Phæ. How not?

Socr. His whole endeavour, therefore, must be directed to this; for in this he attempts to produce persuasion. Is it not so?

Phæ. Yes.

Socr. It is clear, therefore, that Thrasymachus, and any one else who seriously endeavours to teach the art of rhetoric, will in the first place describe with all possible accuracy, and make it be seen whether the soul is naturally one and similar, or, like the form of the body, composed of different elements; for this we say is to make known nature.

Phæ. Most assuredly.

Socr. And, in the second place, in what respect it naturally acts or is acted upon by any thing.

124. Phæ. How not?

Socr. In the third place, having set in order the different kinds of speech and of soul, and the different manners in which these are affected, he will go through the several causes, adapting each to each, and teaching what kind of soul is necessarily persuaded, and what not persuaded, by particular kinds of speech, and for what reason.

Phæ. It will assuredly be best done in this way, as it seems.

Socr. Never then, my dear friend, will any thing that is otherwise explained or spoken, be spoken or written by art, either in any other case or in this. But the modern writers on the art of speech-making, whom you yourself have heard, are dissemblers, and conceal the very admirable knowledge they have of the soul. Until, then, they both speak and write according to this method, let us never be persuaded that they write artistically.

Phæ. What method is this?

Socr. It is not easy to mention the very words themselves; but how it is proper to write, if a man means to be as artistic as he possibly can, I am willing to tell you.

Phæ. Tell me then.

125. Socr. Since the power of speech is that of leading the soul, it is necessary that he who means to be an orator should know how many kinds of soul there are: but they are so many, and of such and such kinds; whence some men are of this character and some of that character. These then being thus divided, there are again so many kinds of speech, each of a certain character. Now men of such a character are for this particular reason easily persuaded by certain speeches, and persons of a different character are for these reasons with difficulty persuaded. It is necessary, therefore, that he, after having sufficiently understood all this, when he afterwards perceives these very things taking place in actions, and being done, should be able to follow them rapidly by perception, otherwise he will know nothing more than the very things which he formerly heard from his preceptor. 126. But when he is sufficiently competent to say, what kind of person is persuaded by what kind of speeches, and is able, when he sees him before him, to point out to himself that this is the person and this the nature for which those speeches were formerly made now actually present before me, and to which these particular speeches are to be addressed, in order to persuade him to these particular things,—when he has acquired all this, and has learnt moreover the proper seasons for speaking and being silent, and again has made himself master of the seasonable and unseasonable occasions for brevity, plaintiveness, and vehemence, and all the other several kinds of speech which he has learnt, then his art will be beautifully and perfectly accomplished, but not before. But whoever is deficient in any of these particulars, either in speaking, or teaching, or writing, and yet asserts that he speaks by art, is overcome by the person who will not be persuaded. 127. “What then,” perhaps the writer on rhetoric will say, “does it appear to you, Phædrus and Socrates, that the art of speaking, as it is called, must be obtained in this or some other way?”

Phæ. It is impossible, Socrates, that it should be obtained in any other way; though it seems to be a work of no small labour.

Socr. You say truly. And on this account we ought to turn over all speeches again and again, and consider whether any easier and shorter way to it can be found, in order that we may not in vain go by a long and rough one, when we might have taken a short and smooth one. If, therefore, you have heard of any thing that will assist us, from Lysias or any one else, endeavour to call it to mind, and tell it me.

Phæ. If the endeavour were enough I should be able to do so, but just at present I cannot.

128. Socr. Are you willing, then, that I should repeat to you a statement which I heard from persons who take an interest in such matters?matters?

Phæ. How not?

Socr. It is said, however, Phædrus, to be right to state even the wolf’s case.

Phæ. And do you do so.

Socr. They say, then, that there is no occasion to treat these matters so solemnly, nor to carry them back so far, by such long windings. For as we said in the beginning of our discussion, there is no need at all for one who wishes to become a competent orator to have any thing to do with the truth respecting actions just or good, or men who are such, either by nature or education. For that in courts of justice no attention whatever is paid to the truth of these things, but only to what is plausible, and that it is probability to which one who wishes to speak by art ought to apply himself. And that sometimes even facts that have actually happened must not be stated, unless they are probable, but probabilities both in accusation and defence: and, in short, that a speaker should pursue the probable, and pay no regard at all to truth. For that when this method is observed throughout the whole speech, it constitutes the perfection of the art.

129. Phæ. You have described the very things, Socrates, which they say who profess to be skilled in speech-making; and I remember that we touched briefly upon this in a former part of our discussion; but this appears to be matter of the utmost consequence to those who study these things.

Socr. However you have thoroughly fumbled Tisias himself. Let Tisias then tell us this, whether he means any thing else by the probable than that which accords with the opinion of the multitude.

Phæ. What else can it be?

Socr. Having made, then, as it seems, this wise and artistic discovery, he has written, that if a weak but brave man should be brought to trial for having knocked down a strong and cowardly one, and for having robbed him of his clothes or any thing else, then that neither of them ought to speak the truth, but the coward should say that he was not knocked down by the brave man alone, and the latter should prove this, that they were alone, and then urge this; “How could a man like me ever attack a man like him?” But the other will not admit his own cowardice, but, in attempting to tell some other falsehood, will perhaps supply his adversary with the means of refuting him. And in other cases, such things as these are said according to art. Is it not so, Phædrus?

130. Phæ. How not?

Socr. Wonderfully clever seems to have been the inventor of this abstruse art, whether Tisias or whoever else he was, and by whatever name he delights to be called. But, my friend, shall we say to him or not?

Phæ. What?

Socr. Tisias, long since before your arrival, we happened to say, that this probability of yours derives its influence with the multitude from its resemblance to truth; and we just now concluded that in all cases he knows best how to discover resemblances who is best acquainted with the truth. So that, if you have any thing else to say about the art of speaking, we will listen to you; but if not, we shall hold to the conclusions we have lately come to, that unless a man has reckoned up the different natures of those who will have to hear him, and is able to divide things themselves into species, and to comprehend the several particulars under one general idea, he will never be skilled in the art of speaking so far as it is possible for a man to be so. 131. But this he can never acquire without great labour, which a wise man ought not to bestow for the purpose of speaking and acting amongst men, but that he may be able to speak such things as are acceptable to the gods, and act acceptably to them, to the utmost of his power. For, as wiser men than we say, Tisias, a man of understanding ought not to make it his principal study to gratify his fellow-servants, except by the way, but good masters and of good extraction. If therefore the circuit be long, wonder not; 132. for it is to be undertaken for the sake of great ends, not such as you think. And even these, as our argument proves, if any one is willing, will be best attained by those means.

Phæ. This appears to me, Socrates, to be very finely said, if only a man could attain to it.

Socr. But when one is attempting noble things, it is surely noble also to suffer whatever it may befal us to suffer.

Phæ. Assuredly.

Socr. As regards, then, the art and want of art in speaking, let this suffice.

133. Phæ. How should it not?

Socr. But as regards elegance and inelegance in writing, in what way it may be done well, and in what way inelegantly, remains to be considered. Does it not?

Phæ. Yes.

Socr. Do you know, then, how you may best please God with regard to speeches, both acting and speaking?

Phæ. Not at all. Do you?

Socr. I can tell a story I have heard of the ancients, its truth they know. But if we ourselves could discover this, do you think we should any longer pay any regard to the opinions of men?

Phæ. Your question is ridiculous; but relate what you say you have heard.

134. Socr. I have heard then, that at Naucratis, in Egypt, there was one of the ancient gods of that country, to whom was consecrated the bird, which they call Ibis; but the name of the deity himself was Theuth. That he was the first to invent numbers and arithmetic, and geometry and astronomy, and moreover draughts and dice, and especially letters, at the time when Thamus was king of all Egypt, and dwelt in the great city of the upper region which the Greeks call Egyptian Thebes, but the god they call Ammon; to him Theuth went and shewed him his arts, and told him that they ought to be distributed amongst the rest of the Egyptians. Thamus asked him what was the use of each, and as he explained it, according as he appeared to say well or ill, he either blamed or praised them. 135. Now Thamus is reported to have said many things to Theuth respecting each art, both for and against it, which it would be tedious to relate. But when they came to the letters, “This knowledge, O king,” said Theuth, “will make the Egyptians wiser, and better able to remember; for it has been invented as a medicine for memory and wisdom.” But he replied, “Most ingenious Theuth, one person is able to give birth to art, another to judge of what amount of detriment or advantage it will be to those who are to use it, and now you, as being the father of letters, out of fondness have attributed to them just the contrary effect to that which they will have. For this invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn it through the neglect of memory, for that through trusting to writing, they will remember outwardly by means of foreign marks, and not inwardly by means of their own faculties. So that you have not discovered a medicine for memory, but for recollection. And you are providing for your disciples the appearance and not the reality of wisdom. For hearing many things through your means without instruction, they will appear to know a great deal, although they are for the most part ignorant, and will become troublesome associates, through thinking themselves wise instead of being so.”

136. Phæ. Socrates, you easily make Egyptian and any other country’s tales you please.

Socr. But, my friend, those who dwell in the temple of Dodonæan Jupiter said that the first prophetic words issued from an oak. It was sufficient for the men of those days, seeing they were not wise like you moderns, in their simplicity, to listen to an oak and a stone, if only they spoke the truth: and does it make any difference to you, forsooth, who the speaker is, and to what country he belongs? For you do not consider that only, whether the case is so or otherwise.

Phæ. You have very properly reproved me; and the case with regard to letters appears to me just as the Theban says.

137. Socr. He therefore, who thinks to leave an art in writing, and again, he who receives it, as if something clear and solid would result from the writing, must be full of simplicity, and in reality ignorant of the prophecy of Ammon, since he thinks that written words are of further value than to remind one who already knows the subject of which the writings treat.

Phæ. Most correct.

Socr. For writing, indeed, Phædrus, has this inconvenience, and truly resembles painting. For its productions stand out as if they were alive, but, if you ask them any question, they observe a solemn silence. And so it is with written discourses; you would think that they spoke as though they possessed some wisdom, but if you ask them about any thing they say, from a desire to understand it, they give only one and the self-same answer. And when it is once written, every discourse is tossed about every where, equally among those who understand it, and among those whom it in no wise concerns, and it knows not to whom it ought to speak, and to whom not. And when it is ill-treated and unjustly reviled, it always needs its father to help it; for, of itself, it can neither defend nor help itself.

138. Phæ. This, too, you have said most correctly.

Socr. But what? shall we consider another discourse, this one’s legitimate brother, in what manner it is produced, and how far better and more powerful it naturally is than this?

Phæ. What is that, and how do you say it is produced?

Socr. That which is written with science in the learner’s soul, which is able to defend itself, and knows before whom it ought to speak and be silent.

Phæ. You mean the discourse of a man endued with knowledge that has life and soul, of which the written may be justly called an image.

Socr. Assuredly. But tell me this. Would an intelligent husbandman, who has seeds that he cares for and which he wishes to be fruitful, seriously sow them in summer-time in the gardens of Adonis, and rejoice at seeing them growing up beautifully within eight days, or would he do this, if he did it at all, for the sake of sport or pastime; but the seed which he treats seriously, availing himself of the husbandman’s skill and sowing it in its proper soil, would he be content that what he has sown shall come to maturity in the eighth month?

139. Phæ. Just so, Socrates, he would do the one seriously, and the other, as you say, for amusement.

Socr. But shall we say that he who possesses a knowledge of what is just, beautiful and good, shews less intelligence than a husbandman in the management of his own seeds?

Phæ. By no means.

Socr. He will not, then, seriously write them in water, sowing them with ink by means of a pen, with words that are unable to defend themselves by speech, and unable adequately to teach the truth.

Phæ. In all probability he will not.

Socr. Surely not. But, as it seems, he will sow and write, when he does write, in the gardens of letters for the sake of diversion, treasuring up memoranda for himself, when he comes to the forgetfulness of old age, and for all who are going on the same track, and he will be delighted at seeing them in their tender growth, and while other men pursue other diversions, refreshing themselves with banquets, and other pleasures akin to these, he, as it appears, instead of these, will pass his time in the diversions I have mentioned.

140. Phæ. You speak of a very noble in comparison of a mean diversion, Socrates, when a man is able to divert himself with discourses, telling stories about justice and the other things you mention.

Socr. It is so indeed, my dear Phædrus. But, in my opinion, a far more noble employment results from this, when a man availing himself of dialectic art, on meeting with a congenial soul, plants and sows scientific discourses which are able to aid both themselves and him that planted them, and are not unfruitful but contain seed within themselves, from whence others springing up in other minds are able to make this seed immortal, and make their possessor happy as far as it is possible for man to be so.

Phæ. This that you mention is far more noble.

Socr. Now then, Phædrus, since this is agreed on, we are able to determine our former questions.

Phæ. What are they?

Socr. Those which, in our desire to consider them, led us to the present point: namely, that we might examine into the reproach cast on Lysias for writing speeches, and then speeches themselves, which are written by art or without art. Now that which is artistic and that which is not appears to me to have been tolerably well explained.

141. Phæ. It appears so. But remind me of it again, in what way.

Socr. Before a man knows the truth of each subject on which he speaks or writes, and is able to define the whole of a thing, and when he has defined it again knows how to divide it into species until he comes to the indivisible; and in like manner, having distinguished the nature of the soul, and having found out what kind of speech is adapted to the nature of each, he so disposes and adorns his speech, applying to a soul of varied powers speeches that are various and all-harmonious, and simple ones to a simple soul, before this is done, he will not be able to manage speech with art, as far as it might be done, either for the purpose of teaching or persuading, as the whole of our former argument has proved.

Phæ. This is exactly how it appeared.

142. Socr. But what as to its being honourable or disgraceful to speak and write speeches, and under what circumstances it may be called a reproach or not, has not what we have said a little before sufficed to prove?

Phæ. What was that?

Socr. That if either Lysias, or any one else, has ever written, or shall hereafter write, privately or publicly, writing a state document in proposing a law, and thinks that there is in it great stability and clearness, this is a reproach to the writer, whether any one says so or not. For to be utterly ignorant of what is just and unjust, evil and good, cannot be otherwise than truly disgraceful, though the whole mass of mankind should unite in its praise.

143. Phæ. Certainly not.

Socr. But he who thinks that in a written discourse, on whatever subject, there must necessarily be much that is sportive, and that no discourse, in prose or verse, deserving of much study, has ever been written or spoken, as those declamations used to be spoken without discrimination and instructive method, for the sake of persuasion, but that in truth the best of them were for the purpose of reminding those who already know, but that only in discourses taught and spoken for the sake of instruction, and really written in the soul about things just, and beautiful, and good, there is found what is clear and perfect and worthy of study; and that such discourses ought to be called as it were their author’s legitimate offspring; first of all that which is in himself, if it is there by his own invention, then any children or brothers of the former that have at the same time worthily sprung up in the souls of others; whoever thinks thus and dismisses all others, that man, Phædrus, appears to be such a one as you and I should pray that we might become.

144. Phæ. I, for my part, entirely wish and pray for what you mention.

Socr. Be we then content with having thus far amused ourselves with the subject of speeches; and do you go and tell Lysias that we, having descended to the fountain of the nymphs, have heard words which charged us to tell Lysias and any one else who composes speeches, and Homer and any one else who is in the habit of composing poetrypoetry, epic or lyric[133], and thirdly, Solon and whosoever commits political discourses to writing under the name of laws, if they composed their works knowing how the truth stands, and able to defend them when brought to account for what they have written, and being themselves capable by speaking to shew that their writings are poor, then they ought not to be named from these works, but from those to which they have seriously applied themselves.

145. Phæ. What name, then, do you assign them?

Socr. To call them wise, Phædrus, appears to me to be a great matter, and proper for God alone; but lovers of wisdom, or some such name, would suit them better, and be in better taste.

Phæ. And it would be nothing out of the way.

Socr. Him, therefore, who has nothing more valuable than what he has written, by turning it upwards and downwards for a long time, patching and clipping it bit by bit, may you not justly designate a poet, or a compiler of speeches, or a writer of laws?

Phæ. How not?

Socr. Tell this, then, to your friend.

Phæ. But you? what will you do? For we must not pass over your friend.

Socr. Whom do you mean?

146. Phæ. The beautiful Isocrates. What news will you take him, Socrates? what shall we say he is?

Socr. Isocrates is still young, Phædrus; but what I prophesy of him I am willing to say.

Phæ. What?

Socr. He appears to me to have better natural endowments than to be compared with the speeches of Lysias, and moreover to be endued with a nobler disposition, so that it would not be at all wonderful if, as he advances in age, he should in this very pursuit of speech-making, to which he is now applying himself, surpass all who have ever attempted speeches, as if they were boys, and besides, if he should not be content with this, that a more divine impulse may lead him to greater things; for, my friend, there is a natural love of wisdom in the mind of the man. This message, then, I will take from the gods of this spot to Isocrates my favourite, and do you take the other to Lysias as yours.

147. Phæ. This shall be done. But let us depart, since the heat has become less oppressive.

Socr. Ought we not to go after we have prayed to these gods?

Phæ. How not?

Socr. O beloved Pan, and all ye other gods of this place, grant me to become beautiful in the inner man, and that whatever outward things I have may be at peace with those within. May I deem the wise man rich, and may I have such a portion of gold as none but a prudent man can either bear or employ.

Do we need any thing else, Phædrus? for myself I have prayed enough.

Phæ. Make the same prayer for me, too; for the possessions of friends are common.

Socr. Let us depart.

INTRODUCTION TO THE THEÆTETUS.

Theodorus, a famous geometrician of Cyrene and a follower of Protagoras, is represented to have met Socrates at Athens, and to have been asked by him whether among his pupils there were any who promised to become eminent. Theodorus particularizes one above all the rest, who, while he is speaking, is seen approaching. His name is Theætetus. Socrates, having heard him so highly spoken of by Theodorus, at once opens upon the subject which he wishes to discuss, and asks What science is. Theætetus, in answer, enumerates several particular sciences, but is soon led to understand that the question is not, how many sciences there are, but what science itself is; and by an instance in point shews that he does so. Still he doubts his own ability to answer the question proposed, but is at length induced to make the attempt by Socrates pleasantly describing himself as inheriting his own mother’s skill in midwifery, by which he is able to bring to the birth and deliver the mental conceptions of those whose souls are pregnant with ideas[134].

Theætetus, then, first of all says that science is nothing else than perception. This, Socrates observes, is the opinion of Protagoras, differently expressed; for he said, that man is the measure of all things, in other words that all things are such as they appear to each person. In order to examine the truth of this doctrine Socrates begins by stating it more fully. Protagoras asserts that nothing exists of itself, nor can any thing be designated by any quality, for what we call great will, in reference to something else, be also small, and what we call heavy, light, and so on, so that nothing ever exists but is always becoming. Consequently all things spring from motion, and the relation that they bear to each other. Thus, with respect to colour, it does not actually exist, it is neither in the object seen nor in the eye itself, but results from the application of the eye to the object, and so is the intermediate production of both. Again if you compare six with four they appear to be half as many again, but if with twelve, only the half, whence it appears that the same number is at one time great, at another small, which would not be the case if numbers had a fixed and determined magnitude. The principle then on which all things depend is this, That the universe is nothing but motion, of which there are two species, the one active, the other passive, by the union of which that which is perceivable and perception itself consist. Thus when the eye and a corresponding object, meeting together, produce whiteness and its connate perception, the eye sees, and becomes not vision, but a seeing eye, and the object itself becomes not whiteness but white: so that nothing is essentially one, but is always being produced by something else, and therefore the word “being” must be entirely done away with. But here it may be objected that the perceptions produced in persons who dream, or are diseased or mad, are utterly false, and so far are the things that appear to them from existing, that none of them have any real existence at all; how then can it be said that perception is science, and that things which appear to every one are to that person what they appear to be? The answer is, that the things which appear are most certainly true to the percipient; just as if wine appears bitter to a sick person, to him it is certainly bitter; and again with regard to dreams, there is no certain way of distinguishing a state of being awake from dreaming; and as the object perceived and the percipient exist or are produced by relation to each other, neither exists or is produced of itself, but the object perceived does exist in relation to the percipient and to him is true, so that he has a scientific knowledge of what he perceives[135].

Socrates then proposes to examine the correctness of Protagoras’s theory. If what he says is true, a pig or any other creature that possesses perception will be the measure of all things, as well as a man, and man himself will be equal in wisdom to the gods. To which Protagoras is supposed to answer, that the gods are not to be brought into the question at all, for that it does not appear whether they exist or not; and as to brute creatures, it would be strange if every man did not excel them in wisdom, and besides no argument deduced from them can be conclusive but rests only on probability, which cannot be allowed in a discussion respecting science. Well then, when we hear barbarians speak, whose language we have not learnt, are we to say that we both hear and know what they say? to which the answer is, that we both hear and know the sounds, but not the meaning of the words. Again it is objected, if perception is science, a person may remember a thing and not know it, for instance he may obtain a knowledge of a thing by seeing it, and then shut his eyes, in that case he remembers it, but does not see it, but inasmuch as sight is perception and perception knowledge, he cannot know it, because he does not see it, and yet he remembers it; which is absurd. But Protagoras will not admit this conclusion, but will say that memory is very different from perception, and that the things which we appear to remember are not the same as those that we formerly perceived. Still, though all things are as they appear to each person, it must be admitted that there is such a thing as wisdom and a wise man, and he is wise who changes the aspect of objects to another, and causes things that appear and are evil to any one, to appear and be good; just as a physician by means of medicine changes the habit of the body from bad to good[136].

Thus far Socrates had carried on the discussion with Theætetus, adducing the answers which Protagoras himself would have given to the objections brought against his theory, but expressing no opinion of his own. He now persuades Theodorus to advocate the cause of Protagoras, and himself undertakes to refute it. Protagoras, then, maintains that what appears to each person exists to him to whom it appears; now all men think themselves in some respects wiser than others, and others wiser than themselves, so that all admit that there is wisdom and ignorance among themselves. Now is not wisdom true opinion, and ignorance false opinion? If so, some men form false opinions, and yet that could not be if man is the measure of all things. Again, according to his doctrine, the same thing will be both true and false; for instance, Protagoras’s own theory will be true to himself, but false to all who do not agree with him, and by how many more they are to whom it does not appear to be true than those to whom it does so appear, by so much the more it is not than it is: and so in admitting that the opinion of those who differ from him is true he admits that his own opinion is false. Moreover, in political matters Protagoras will admit that things honourable and base, just and unjust, are such to each city as each city considers them; but he will allow that one counsellor excels another, and that all laws are not equally expedient, though the city that enacts them thinks them so[137].

The mention of political matters leads Socrates to interrupt the course of the argument, and to contrast the life of a politician with that of a philosopher, in which he shews how far more exalted are the views of the latter than of the former. The digression, however, has this connexion with the subject in hand, that it exposes the utter worthlessness of political expediency, which depends on appearances only, and vindicates the aspirations of philosophers, who devote themselves to the contemplation of wisdom and true virtue[138].

To return, then, to the original subject. Those who maintain that whatever appears to each person exists to him to whom it appears, persist that what a city enacts as appearing just to itself is just to that city as long as it continues in force; but in enacting laws the real object is to make them as advantageous to itself as possible, but what is advantageous regards also the future, for laws are enacted that they may be advantageous for the future. But if man is the measure of all things, he must also contain within himself the criterion of things about to happen; yet it will be admitted, in a variety of instances that are adduced, that a person who is skilled is better able to judge of the future than one who is unskilled: and Protagoras himself can judge beforehand better than any private person what arguments are likely to be available in a court of justice, so that not every man, but the wise man only, is the true measure of things[139].

This part of the argument being brought to a close, Socrates next proposes to consider the essence that is said to consist in motion, a doctrine which the followers of Heraclitus were then advocating very strenuously. Now there are two species of motion, removal and change; the former is when a thing passes from one place to another, the latter a change of quality, as when a thing becomes black from white, or hard from soft; and all things must undergo both kinds of motion, otherwise the same thing would be both in motion and at rest at the same time, and in that case it would not be more correct to say that all things are in motion than that they are at rest. Since then every thing must be continually undergoing a process of change at the same time that it is in motion, there can be nothing fixed and certain, so that perception cannot be science, for, as all things are in motion; perception itself, which results from the relation between the object and the percipient, must be in a constant state of motion and change[140].

Theætetus now resumes the argument, and though it would seem that Protagoras’s doctrine had been already sufficiently refuted, yet Socrates resolves to try it by one more test. Each sense has its peculiar perception, and such things as are perceived by one faculty cannot be perceived by another; for instance, what is perceived by hearing cannot be perceived by sight, and what is perceived by sight cannot be perceived by hearing; yet we can form a notion of them both together, and observe what properties they have in common, and how they differ: this, however, is not done by the senses, but by the soul itself, for children as soon as they are born are able to perceive by the bodily organs, but only arrive, with much labour and difficulty, at the power of comparing things with each other, and so obtain a knowledge of them, whence again it follows that perception and science are not the same[141].

The first definition of science attempted by Theætetus being thus overthrown, Socrates again asks him, What science is. To which he answers that it appears to be true judgment. Socrates however thinks proper first to enquire whether there is such a thing as false judgment. People, he says, must either know or not know things about which they form judgments. Now false judgments are formed, when a person thinks that things which he does not know are certain other things that he does not know, or when he thinks that things which he does know are other things that he does know, or that things which he does not know are things that he does know. But none of these things can happen, therefore it is not possible to form false judgments. Again if existence is put for knowledge a similar train of reasoning leads to the same conclusion. A third method of forming false judgments may be when any one says that any real object is another real object, changing one for the other in his thoughts. But in that case he must think of both of them or one only; if the former he would contradict himself; if the latter he cannot judge that the one is the other, for he thinks of one only, so that neither in this way can false judgment be formed. There still remains another mode in which false judgments may be formed. Suppose that we have in our souls a waxen tablet of various qualities in different persons: on this tablet are impressed the images of our perceptions and thoughts, and whatever is so impressed we remember and know so long as the image remains. But by examining every possible mode by which perception in the senses and impressions in the mind can be varied and inter-changed, it will be found that false judgment takes place where either the perception or the impression is imperfect and indistinct[142].

Socrates, however, is not satisfied with this conclusion, that false judgment proceeds from the conjunction of perception with thought, and shews that the mind alone by itself may err, for instance a man may think that seven and five make eleven, though he knows they make twelve; so that there must be either no false judgment at all, or it is possible for a person not to know what he knows. Theætetus is unable to choose between these alternatives. Socrates therefore proposes to abandon their present course of argument and at once to enquire what it is to know. Some people say it is to have science, Socrates prefers saying it is to possess science; for having differs from possessing in that what we have, we use, but what we possess, we use or not as we please. Suppose the soul then to be a kind of aviary containing all sorts of birds, and let the birds stand for sciences; now all the sciences that are shut up in this aviary a man may be said to possess, but when he has occasion to use any particular science, he may by mistake take one instead of another, thus when he thinks that eleven is twelve he takes the science of eleven instead of that of twelve, and so judges falsely; but when he takes that which he endeavours to take, he judges truly. Still another even worse inconvenience appears to Socrates to follow from this; for it is absurd to suppose that a person who has the science of any thing should at the same time be ignorant of that thing; and if that can be, nothing hinders but that ignorance when present should make us know something. So that after all they have only come round again to the point from whence they started and have still to enquire what science is. Theætetus persists in answering that it is true judgment. But Socrates shews that this cannot be the case; for that judges, who listen to the arguments of lawyers, form true judgments without science, whence it follows that true judgment and science are not the same[143].

Theætetus, pressed by this objection, attempts a third definition of science, and says it is true judgment in conjunction with reason. But then, observes Socrates, how are we to distinguish the things that can be known from those that cannot? For instance, elements cannot be defined, but things composed of them can be defined. Again, elements can be perceived but not known, for he who cannot give an explanation of a thing cannot know it, but things compounded of them, because they can be defined, can also be known. Theætetus agrees to this; but Socrates is not satisfied with the statement, that the elements are unknown, but the nature of things compounded of them known. He illustrates his objection by an examination of the component parts of a syllable, and shews that if a whole is known its parts must also be known; if, then, letters are the elements of a syllable, being also the parts of it, they must also be known as well as the syllable[144].

But in order to ascertain the accuracy of Theætetus’s last definition of science, it is necessary to determine the meaning of the word logos. First of all, then, it may mean the expressing one’s thoughts by means of words, but in that case there will be no difference between true judgment and science. Secondly, it may mean the being able to describe a thing by its elements; but this has been already answered in considering the elements of syllables. Lastly, it may mean definition; but it is absurd to say that science is true judgment joined to definition, for definition can only be of that which a person already knows, so that this would be to say that science is true judgment joined to science[145].

At this point the argument is broken off, without having been brought to any satisfactory conclusion. But Socrates requests that they may meet again the following day and continue the discussion.

THEÆTETUS,

OR

ON SCIENCE.

First Euclides, and Terpsion,

Then Socrates, Theodorus, and Theætetus.

Euc. Are you just now, Terpsion, or long since come from the country?

Ter. A considerable time since, and I have been seeking for you in the forum, and wondered that I could not find you.

Euc. I was not in the city.

Ter. Where then?

Euc. As I was going down to the port, I met with Theætetus, who was being carried from the camp at Corinth to Athens.

Ter. Alive or dead?

Euc. Alive, though scarcely so; for he is in a bad state from several wounds, though he suffers more from the disease that is prevalent in the army.

Ter. Is it dysentery?

Euc. Yes.

Ter. What a man you speak of as being in danger!

Euc. An honourable and good man, Terpsion, and I just now heard some persons highly extolling his conduct in the battle.

Ter. Nor is that surprising, but it would be much more wonderful if he had not behaved so. But why did he not stop here at Megara?

Euc. He was hastening home; although I begged and advised him, yet he would not. And after I had attended him on his journey, on my return hither I recollected, and was filled with admiration of Socrates, who often spoke prophetically about other things, and especially about him. 2. For if I remember rightly, a little before his death, he met with Theætetus who was then a youth, and being in company and discoursing with him, he very much admired his natural disposition. And when I went to Athens, he related to me the conversation he had had with him, which was very well worth hearing, and he said that he must necessarily distinguish himself, if he lived to a mature age.

Ter. And he spoke truly as it seems. But what was the conversation? are you able to relate it?

Euc. No, by Jupiter, not by heart; but as soon as I returned home, I made notes of it, and afterwards at my leisure calling it to mind I wrote it down, and as often as I came to Athens, I asked Socrates to repeat what I did not remember, and, on my return hither, corrected it; so that I have nearly the whole conversation written out.

3. Ter. True: I have heard you say so before, and though I always meant to beg you to shew it me, I have hitherto delayed doing so. But what should hinder us from now going through it? For I am in great need of rest, having just come from the country.

Euc. I too accompanied Theætetus as far as Erinion, so that I should not be at all sorry to rest myself. Let us go, then, and while we rest the boy shall read to us.

Ter. You say well.

Euc. This then is the book, Terpsion. But I wrote the conversation thus, not as if Socrates related it to me, as he did, but as if he was conversing with the persons with whom he said he did converse. But these, he said, were Theodorus the geometrician, and Theætetus. 4. In order, then, that phrases interposed in the discourse might not give us trouble in the writing, when Socrates spoke of himself, as “I said,” or “Thereupon I replied,” and again when he spoke of the person who gave the answer, “He assented,” or “He denied,” for this reason I have introduced Socrates himself as conversing with them, and have done away with all such expressions.

Ter. And that is not at all improper, Euclides.

Euc. Here then, boy, take the book and read.

Socr. If I took more interest in the people at Cyrene, Theodorus, I should enquire of you what is going on there, and of the people, whether there are any young men there who devote their attention to geometry, or any other liberal study. But now, for I love them less than these, I am more anxious to know who of our young men promise to become eminent. For I myself examine into this as far as I am able, and enquire of others, with whom I see the young men willingly associating. But no small number attach themselves to you, and justly; for you deserve it, both in other respects, and on account of your geometry. If, therefore, you have met with any one worth mentioning, I should be glad to be informed of it.

5. Theo. And indeed, Socrates, it is very well worth while both for me to tell and you to hear, what a youth I have met with among your fellow-citizens. And if he were beautiful, I should be very much afraid to mention him, lest I should appear to any one to be enamoured with him; but now, and don’t be angry with me, he is not handsome, for he resembles you in the flatness of his nose and the prominence of his eyes: but he has these in a less degree than you. You see I speak without reserve. Be assured then, that of all I ever met with, and I have been in company with very many, I never yet knew one of such an admirable disposition. For a man to be apt to learn, as it is at all times difficult, and at the same time remarkably mild, and added to this brave beyond compare, I, for my part, thought could never happen, nor do I see any who are so. But those who are acute, as this one, sagacious, and of a good memory, are for the most part easily roused to anger, and are hurried violently along like ships without ballast, and are naturally rather furious than brave; on the other hand those who are more sedate commonly set about their studies more sluggishly and are forgetful. 6. But he so calmly, steadily, and effectually applies himself to his studies and investigations, with so much gentleness, like oil flowing noiselessly, that one wonders how one at his age can manage to do this.

Socr. You bring good news. But whose son is he of our citizens?

Theo. I have heard the name, but do not remember it. However he is the middle one of those who are now approaching. For both he and these who are some of his companions were just now anointing themselves in the outer course; and now they appear to me to be coming here after having anointed themselves. Observe, however, if you know him.

Socr. I do know him. He is the son of Euphronius of Sunium, who, my friend, was just such a man as you describe the son to be, and who was otherwise a person of consideration, and besides left behind him a very large fortune.

7. Theo. Theætetus is his name, Socrates. But I think his guardians have squandered his fortune. However notwithstanding this, he is wonderfully liberal with his money, Socrates.

Socr. You describe a noble man. Bid him come here, and sit down by us.

Theo. I will. Theætetus, come hither to Socrates.

Socr. By all means come, Theætetus, that I may look at myself, and see what sort of a face I have. For Theodorus says I am like you. But if we had each of us a lyre, and he should say that they were modulated alike, should we believe him at once, or consider first whether he speaks as a musician?

Theæ. We should consider that first.

Socr. Should we not, then, on finding that he was so, believe him, but, if he was ignorant of music, disbelieve him?

Theæ. True.

Socr. Now, then, I think, if we care at all about the resemblance of our faces, we should consider whether he speaks as a painter, or not.

Theæ. It appears so to me.

Socr. Is Theodorus a painter then?

Theæ. Not that I know of.

Socr. And is he not a geometrician either?

Theæ. Most assuredly he is, Socrates.

8. Socr. Is he also an astronomer, a reasoner, and a musician, and acquainted with all such things as are requisite for a good education?

Theæ. He appears so to me.

Socr. If, then, he says that we resemble each other in some part of our body, praising or blaming it, it is not very well worth while to pay any attention to him.

Theæ. Perhaps not.

Socr. But what if he should praise the soul of either of us for virtue or wisdom? would it not be worth while for the one who heard him to take pains to examine him that was praised, and for the latter to discover himself willingly?

Theæ. Certainly, Socrates.

Socr. It is time then, my dear Theætetus, for you to discover yourself, and for me to examine you; for be assured that Theodorus, though he has ere now praised many both strangers and citizens to me, has never praised any one so much as he praised you just now.

Theæ. May it be well, Socrates; but beware that he did not speak in jest.

Socr. That is not Theodorus’s habit. But do not retract what you have granted, under the pretence that he spoke in jest, lest he should be compelled to bear witness. For no one assuredly will accuse him of giving false evidence. Therefore adhere firmly to your agreement.

Theæ. It is proper to do so, if you think fit.

9. Socr. Tell me, then; Do you learn geometry from Theodorus?

Theæ. I do.

Socr. And, likewise, astronomy, and harmony, and reasoning?reasoning?

Theæ. I endeavour to do so.

Socr. I too, my boy, endeavour to learn both from him and from others who I think understand any thing of these matters. However, though I am tolerably well informed in other subjects, yet I am in doubt about a trifle which I wish to consider with you, and these here present. Tell me, then, is not to learn to become wiser in that which one learns?

Theæ. How otherwise?

Socr. And by wisdom, I think, the wise are wise.

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But does this differ at all from science?

Theæ. What?

Socr. Wisdom. Are not men wise in things of which they have a scientific knowledge?

Theæ. How not?

Socr. Then are wisdom and science the same?

Theæ. Yes.

10. Socr. This, then, is the thing that I doubt about, and I am not able to determine satisfactorily by myself what science is. Can we then explain it? What do you say? Which of us shall speak first? But he that mistakes, and as often as any one mistakes, shall sit as an ass, as the boys say when they play at ball; but whoever shall get the better without making a mistake shall be our king, and shall order any question he pleases to be answered. Why are you silent? Am I rude at all, Theodorus, from my love of talking, and in my anxiety to bring about a conversation amongst us, and of making us all friends, and sociable with one another?

Theo. Such a thing, Socrates, cannot by any means be rude, but bid one of these young men answer you. For I am unaccustomed to this kind of conversation, and am not of an age to accustom myself to it; whereas it is suitable to them, and they will benefit by it much more; for, in truth, youth can derive benefit from every thing. As you begun, therefore, do not let Theætetus off, but question him.

11. Socr. You hear, Theætetus, what Theodorus says, whom, I think, you will neither be willing to disobey, nor is it right for a young man not to submit to a wise man, when he commands him in matters of this kind. Tell me, therefore, frankly and ingenuously, what does science appear to you to be?

Theæ. I must then, Socrates, since you bid me. And if I make any mistake you will assuredly correct me.

Socr. Certainly, if we are able.

Theæ. It appears to me, then, that sciences are such things as one may learn from Theodorus, geometry, and the others which you just now enumerated; and again, the shoemaker’s art, and those of other artizans, all and each of these are nothing else but science.

Socr. Nobly and munificently, my friend, when asked for one thing you give many, and various things instead of the single one.

Theæ. What mean you by this, Socrates?

Socr. Perhaps nothing: but I will tell you what I think. When you speak of the shoemaker’s art, do you mean any thing else than the science of making shoes?

Theæ. Nothing.

12. Socr. But what of the carpenter’s art? Do you mean any thing else than the science of making implements in wood?

Theæ. Still nothing else.

Socr. In both, then, do you not define that of which each is the science?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But the question asked, Theætetus, was not this, of what things there is science, nor how many sciences there are; for we did not enquire, with a view to enumerate them, but to know what science itself is. Do I say nothing to the purpose?

Theæ. You speak very correctly.

Socr. Consider this too. If any one should ask us about any mean and obvious thing, as, for instance, clay, what it is, if we were to answer him, there is the potters’ clay, the oven-builders’ clay, and the brick-makers’ clay, should we not be ridiculous?

Theæ. Probably.

Socr. In the first place, we should be ridiculous for thinking that he who asks the question can understand from our answer, when we say Clay, adding, image-makers, or any other artizans whatever. Do you think that any one can understand the name of a thing when he does not know what that thing is?

Theæ. By no means.

13. Socr. Neither does he understand the science of shoes who does not know what science is?

Theæ. He does not.

Socr. He then does not understand what is the art of shoe-making, or any other art, who is ignorant of what science is?

Theæ. It is so.

Socr. It is, therefore, a ridiculous answer for one to give who is asked what science is, when he answers the name of some art. For he answers, of what there is a science, though this is not what he was asked.

Theæ. It seems so.

Socr. In the next place, when he might have answered plainly and briefly he goes round an endless way. As for instance to the question about clay, it is a plain and simple answer to give, that clay is earth mixed with moisture, without mentioning what use is made of it.

Theæ. It appears easy now, in this way, Socrates; for you appear to ask just such a question as lately occurred to me when we were conversing together, I and your namesake here, Socrates.

Socr. What was that, Theætetus?

14. Theæ. Theodorus here was describing to us something about powers, with respect to magnitudes of three and five feet, shewing that they are not commensurate in length to a magnitude of one foot, and thus proceeding through every number as far as to a magnitude of seventeen feet; at this he stopped. Since then powers appeared to be infinite in multitude, something of the following kind occurred to us, to endeavour to comprehend them in one name, by which we might denominate all these powers.

Socr. And did you discover any thing of the kind?

Theæ. I think we did. But do you also consider.

Socr. Say on.

Theæ. We divided all number into two classes; then comparing that in which the factors[146] are the same to a square figure, we called it square and equilateral.

Socr. Very well.

Theæ. But the intermediate numbers, such as three and five, and every one in which the factors are not the same, but a greater number is multiplied by a less, or a less by a greater, so that a greater and a lesser side always enclose them, we compared to an oblong figure, and called them oblong numbers.

Socr. Admirable. But what next?

Theæ. Such lines as square an equilateral and plane number, we defined to be length, and such as square an oblong number, powers, as not being commensurate with them in length, but with the planes which they produce. And the case is the same with solids.

15. Socr. Excellently done, my boys; so that Theodorus appears to me not liable to the charge of having given false testimony.

Theæ. However, Socrates, I shall not be able to answer your question about science, as I did that about length and power; though you appear to me to seek something of the same kind. So that Theodorus again appears to be a false witness.

Socr. How so? If, praising you for running, he should say that he never met with any youth who ran so swift, and afterwards you should be defeated in running by a man who is full grown and very swift, do you think he would have praised you with less truth?

Theæ. I do not.

Socr. But with respect to science, as I just now spoke of it,it, do you think it is a trifling matter to find out what it is, and not in every way difficult?

Theæ. By Jupiter, I think it difficult in the extreme.

16. Socr. Have confidence, then, in yourself, and think that Theodorus spoke to the purpose, and endeavour by all possible means to comprehend the notion both of other things, and also of science, what it is.

Theæ. As far as endeavour goes, Socrates, it shall be found out.

Socr. Come then: for you began very well just now; endeavour, in imitation of your answer about powers, as you comprised those, which are many, under one general idea, so likewise to designate many sciences by one notion.

Theæ. Be assured, Socrates, I have often attempted to examine this, on hearing the questions that are propounded by you; but I can neither persuade myself that I can say any thing satisfactory, nor can I hear any one else answering in the manner you require, though still I do not desist from the attempt.

17. Socr. You are in labour, my dear Theætetus, not because you are empty, but pregnant.

Theæ. I know not, Socrates; however I tell you how the case stands with me.

Socr. What, absurd youth, have you not heard that I am son of the very noble and awful midwife Phænarete?

Theæ. I have heard so.

Socr. And have you also heard that I study the same art?

Theæ. By no means.

Socr. Be assured, however, that it is so: but do not betray me to others. For they are not aware, my friend, that I possess this art? but they, since they are ignorant of it, do not say this of me, but that I am a most absurd man, and make men doubt. Have you not heard this?

Theæ. I have.

Socr. Shall I tell you the reason of it?

Theæ. By all means.

Socr. Consider, then, every thing that relates to midwives, and you will more easily understand what I mean. For you doubtless know, that not one of them delivers others, while she herself can conceive and bring forth, but those who can no longer bring forth.

Theæ. Certainly.

18. Socr. But they say that Diana is the cause of this, because being herself a virgin she has the charge of child-births. Now to barren women she has not given the power of becoming midwives, because human nature is too weak to undertake an art in things of which it has had no experience, but she has imposed that office on those who from their age are incapable of bearing children, doing honour to the resemblance of herself.

Theæ. That is reasonable.

Socr. And is not this also reasonable and necessary, that who are pregnant and who are not should be better known by midwives than by others?

Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. Moreover, midwives by applying drugs and using enchantments, are able both to excite and, if they please, to alleviate the pangs, and to deliver those that bring forth with difficulty, and if the child appears to be abortive, they produce a miscarriage.

Theæ. It is so.

Socr. Have you not also heard this of them, that they are most skilful match-makers, as being perfectly competent to distinguish what kind of woman ought to be united to what kind of man, in order to produce the finest children?

Theæ. I did not altogether know that.

19. Socr. Be assured, then, that they pride themselves more in this than in cutting the navel-string. For consider; do you think it belongs to the same or a different art to cultivate and gather in the fruits of the earth, and again to know in what soil what plant or seed ought to be sown?

Theæ. No, but to the same art.

Socr. But with respect to women, my friend, do you think that there is one art of that kind[147], and another of gathering in the fruit?

Theæ. It is not reasonable to suppose so.

Socr. It is not. But by reason of the illegitimate and ill-assorted unions of men and women, to which the name of pandering has been given, midwives out of regard to their own dignity avoid match-making also, fearing lest by this they should incur the other imputation, since it doubtless belongs to real midwives only to make marriages properly.

Theæ. It appears so.

Socr. Such then is the office of midwives, but less important than my task. For it does not happen to women, sometimes to bring forth images, and sometimes realities, which cannot be easily discriminated; for, if it did happen, it would be the greatest and noblest work for midwives to distinguish that which is true and that which is not; do you not think so?

Theæ. I do.

20. Socr. But in my art of midwifery all other things are the same as in theirs; but it differs in this, that it delivers men and not women, and that it attends to their souls bringing forth and not their bodies. But the most important thing in my art is, that it is able to test in every possible way whether the mind of a young man is bringing forth an image and a cheat, or what is genuine and true: for the case is the same with me as with midwives; I am barren of wisdom, and as to what many have reproached me with, that I question others, but give no answer myself on any subject, because I have no wisdom, they reproach me truly. But the cause of this is as follows: the deity compels me to act the part of a midwife, but forbids me to bring forth myself. I am not, therefore, myself at all wise, and I have no such discovery as is the offspring of my own mind; but those who associate with me at first appear, some of them, exceedingly ignorant, but all, as our intimacy continues, to whom the deity grants that privilege, make a wonderful proficiency, as is evident both to themselves and others; and this is clear, that they make this proficiency without ever learning any thing from me, but from their own resources finding and becoming possessed of many beautiful things; of the midwife’s office, however, the deity and I are the cause. 21. But it is evident from this: many, from not knowing this, and deeming themselves to be the cause, but despising me, either of themselves or through the persuasion of others, have left me sooner than was proper, and after they have left me have miscarried for the future, in consequence of their depraved associations, and badly nurturing what they have been delivered of through me, they have destroyed it, setting a higher value on cheats and images than on that which is true, they have at last appeared to be ignorant both to themselves andand others. One of these was Aristides son of Lysimachus, and many others, with some of whom, when they again come to me, begging to renew their intercourse with me, and doing every thing in their power to obtain it, the demon that attends me prevents me from associating, but with others it allows me, and these again make considerable proficiency. And they that associate with me are in this respect affected in the same way as women who bring forth; they suffer pangs, and are filled with anxieties, to a far greater degree than the women are. But their pangs my art is able both to excite and appease. And these are affected in this way. 22. But sometimes, Theætetus, there are some who do not appear to me to be at all pregnant, and I, knowing that they do not need my assistance, very kindly sue others for them, and with the aid of the deity, conjecture well enough, from associating with whom they will derive benefit. Of these I have handed many over to Prodicus, and many to other wise and divine men. I have dwelt long on this, my excellent friend, for this reason, because I suspect, as you also think yourself, that you are in pain from being pregnant with something inwardly. Deal with me, then, as son of a midwife, and as myself skilled in midwifery, and endeavour to answer the questions I put to you to the best of your ability. And if, on examining any thing that you say, I shall consider it to be an image and not true, and should thereupon remove it and throw it away, do not be angry with me, like women who are delivered for the first time are for their children: for many, my admirable friend, have ere this been so affected towards me as to be actually ready to bite me, when I take away any trifle from them, and they do not think that I do this with a good design, in that they are very far from knowing that no deity designs ill to men, and that neither do I do any thing of this kind through ill-will, but because it is by no means allowable for me to give way to falsehood and conceal the truth. 23. Again, therefore, from the beginning, Theætetus, endeavour to tell me what science is; but never say that you are unable to do so; for if God wills and you strive manfully you will be able.

Theæ. Indeed, Socrates, when you are thus urgent, it would be disgraceful for one not to endeavour to the utmost of one’s power to say what one is able. He, then, that knows any thing appears to me to perceive what he knows, and, as it now seems, science is nothing else than perception.

Socr. Well and nobly said, my boy; for it is right thus to declare one’s opinion. But come, let us consider this together, whether it is solid or empty. Science, you say, is perception?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. You appear, indeed, to have given no mean definition of science, but that which Protagoras has given; but he said the same thing in a different manner. For he says that man is the measure of all things, of the existence of those that exist, and of the non-existence of those that do not exist. You have doubtless read this?

Theæ. I have read it, and that often.

24. Socr. Does he not say pretty much, that such as every thing appears to me, such it is to me, and as it appears to you, such it is to you, but you and I are men?

Theæ. He does indeed say so.

Socr. It is probable however that a wise man does not trifle; let us, therefore, follow him. Does it not sometimes happen that when the same wind blows, one of us is cold, and another not, and one slightly, but another exceedingly?

Theæ. Assuredly.

Socr. Whether, then, shall we say, that the wind at that time is in itself cold or not cold? or shall we believe Protagoras, that it is cold to him that is cold, but not to him that is not?

Theæ. It seems so.

Socr. Does it not, then, appear so to both of them?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But to appear is the same as to be perceived?

Theæ. It is.

Socr. Appearance then and perception are the same in things hot, and every thing of that kind; for such as every one perceives things to be, such also they seem to be to every one.

Theæ. It seems so.

Socr. Perception, therefore, has always reference to that which really is, and is free from falsehood, as being science.

Theæ. It appears so.

25. Socr. By the graces, then, was not Protagoras a very wise man, and did he express himself thus enigmatically to us, the general rabble, but speak the truth to his disciples in secret?

Theæ. What mean you by this, Socrates?

Socr. I will tell you, and that no mean account; he asserts, that no one thing exists of itself, nor can you correctly designate any thing by any quality, but if you call it great, it will appear small, and if heavy, light, and so with every thing else; as if nothing was one thing, or any thing, or possessed of any quality: but as if all things which we say exist, become so from impulse, motion, and admixture with each other, thereby designating them incorrectly; for nothing ever is, but is always becoming. And in this all the wise men in succession, except Parmenides, agreed, namely, Protagoras, Heraclitus, and Empedocles, and of the poets, those who rank highest in each kind of poetry, in comedy Epicharmus, and in tragedy Homer; for in saying that[148] “Oceanus is father of the gods, and Tethys mother,” he asserts that all things are produced by flux and motion. Does he not seem to say so?

Theæ. To me he does.

26. Socr. Who then can contend with such an army, with Homer for its leader, and not be ridiculous?

Theæ. It is not easy, Socrates.

Socr. It is not, indeed, Theætetus. For this is a strong proof in favour of their argument, that motion gives the appearance of existence and of generation, but repose of non-existence and decay; for heat and fire, which engenders and supports other things, is itself engendered by impulse and friction, but this is motion. Are not these the origin of fire?

Theæ. Surely they are.

Socr. And moreover the race of animals springs from the same causes.

Theæ. How not?

Socr. But what? Does not the habit of the body perish by rest and inaction, but is it not for the most part preserved by exercise and motion?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But does not the habit of the soul acquire and retain learning and become better by study and practice, which are motions, but by rest, which is want of practice and ignorance, it neither learns any thing, and forgets what it has learnt?

Theæ. Assuredly.

27. Socr. Motion, therefore, is good both for the soul and the body; but rest, the contrary.

Theæ. It seems so.

Socr. Shall I add further, with respect to stillness of the air, and calms and things of that kind, that rest corrupts and destroys, but the contrary preserves. And besides this shall I put the finishing stroke to my argument by compelling you to admit, that by the golden chain Homer meant nothing else than the sun, and intimated that as long as the universe and the sun are moved, all things exist, and are preserved, both amongst gods and amongst men; but if they were to stand still, as it were bound, all things would be destroyed, and, as the saying is, turned upside down.

Theæ. He appears to me too, Socrates, to intimate what you say.

Socr. Then put the argument thus, my excellent friend: first with respect to the eyes, suppose that what you call white colour is not any thing different, external to your eyes, nor in your eyes; nor can you assign it any place; for then it would have a fixed position, and would continue, and not be liable to production.

28. Theæ. But how?

Socr. Let us follow our late principle, and lay it down that there is nothing which is of itself one thing; and thus black and white, and every other colour, will appear to us to be produced by the application of the eyes to a corresponding movement, and each thing that we say is colour, will neither be that which is applied, nor that to which it is applied, but some intermediate production peculiar to each. Would you positively maintain, that what each colour appears to you, such it also appears to a dog, and every other animal?

Theæ. Not I, by Jupiter.

Socr. But what? Does any thing appear similar to another man and to you? are you positive about this, or rather that it does not appear the same even to you, because you are never identical with yourself?

Theæ. The latter seems to me to be the case rather than the former.

Socr. If, therefore, that which we measure by comparison, or which we touch, were great, or white, or warm, it would never, by coming in contact with any thing else, become different, for it would not be in any respect changed. But if that which measures or touches were some one of these things, it could not, in consequence of something else approaching it or being affected in any way, become any thing else, because it would not itself be in any respect affected. 29. For now, my friend, we are in a manner compelled to assert things altogether wonderful and ridiculous, as Protagoras would acknowledge, and every one who supports his opinions.

Theæ. How and what do you mean?

Socr. Take a trifling example, and you will understand all that I wish. Six dice for instance, if you should put four by them, we say are more than the four and half as many again, but if twelve we say they are fewer, and the half; nor would it be allowable to say otherwise. Would you allow it?

Theæ. Not I, indeed.

Socr. What then? If Protagoras or any one else should ask, “Theætetus, is it possible for any thing to become greater or more otherwise than by being increased? What would you answer?

Theæ. If, Socrates, I should answer what appears to me to be the case with reference to the present question, I should say that it is not possible; but if with reference to the former question, to avoid contradicting myself, I should say that it is possible.

Socr. By Juno, well and divinely said, my friend. But, as it seems, if you should answer that it is possible, something like that saying of Euripides will happen; for the tongue will be blameless, but the mind not blameless[149].

Theæ. True.

30. Socr. If, therefore, you and I were skilful and wise, after we had thoroughly examined our minds, we should then, out of mere wantonness, make trial of each other’s strength, and engaging in such a contest after the manner of the sophists, should mutually parry argument with argument: but now, as being novices, we shall desire first of all, to examine what the things themselves are which we have in our minds, whether they accord with each other, or not at all.

Theæ. I should certainly desire this.

Socr. And so do I. But since this is the case, shall we not quietly, seeing we have abundance of leisure, again consider, not feeling any annoyance, but really examining ourselves, in order to see what those appearances in us are. And on considering them, we shall say in the first place, I think, that nothing ever becomes greater or less, either in bulk, or number, as long as it continues equal to itself. Is it not so?

Theæ. Yes.

31. Socr. And, in the second place, that a thing to which nothing is either added and from which nothing is taken away, will neither be ever increased or diminished, but always be equal.

Theæ. Just so.

Socr. And shall we not say, in the third place, that it is impossible for a thing which did not before exist, to exist afterwards, without it has been produced and is produced.

Theæ. It seems so, indeed.

Socr. These three admissions, I think, contend with each other in our soul, when we speak about dice, or when we say that I, being of the size I am, having neither increased, nor suffered diminution in the space of a year, am now larger than you, who are a young man, but afterwards less, though my bulk has not been diminished, but yours has been increased. For I am afterwards, what I was not before, without having been made so. 32. For it is impossible for a thing to have been made, without being made, and having lost nothing of my bulk, I cannot have been made less. And the case is the same with ten thousand other things with reference to ten thousand others, if we admit this. You doubtless follow me, Theætetus; for you appear to me not to be a novice in things of this kind.

Theæ. By the gods, Socrates, I wonder extremely what these things can be, and, truly, sometimes when I look at them, I become dizzy.

Socr. Theodorus, my friend, appears not to have formed an erroneous estimate of your disposition; for wonder is very much the affection of a philosopher; for there is no other beginning of philosophy than this, and he who said that Iris was the daughter of Thaumas[150], seems not to have described her genealogy badly. But do you understand now, why these things are so, from what we say Protagoras maintains, or not yet?

Theæ. I don’t think I do yet.

33. Socr. Shall you not, then, be obliged to me, if I assist you in searching out the true, but concealed opinion of a man, or rather of men of celebrity?

Theæ. How should I not be, and indeed exceedingly obliged to you?

Socr. Look round, then, and see that no profane person hears us. But they are so who think that nothing else exists except what they can grasp with their hands, but do not admit that actions, and productions, and whatever is invisible, are to be reckoned in the number of things that exist.

Theæ. Indeed, Socrates, you speak of hard and obstinate men.

Socr. For they are very ignorant[151], my boy. But there are others far more refined than these, whose mysteries I am about to reveal to you. Their principle, on which all the things, that we have just now mentioned, depend, is this: That the universe is motion, and nothing else besides, but that there are two species of motion, each infinite in amount, and that one has an active, the other a passive power. 34. That from the intercourse and friction of these with one another are formed productions infinite in number, but of two kinds, one that is perceivable, the other perception, which always coincides and is engendered together with that which is perceivable. Now to the perceptions we give the following names, seeing, hearing, smelling, cold and heat, and moreover pleasures, pains, desires, and fears are so called, and there are innumerable others which have no name, and vast multitudes that have been named: again there is a class of perceivable things akin to each of these, all kinds of colours to all kinds of vision, and in like manner voices to hearing, and other perceivable things are produced corresponding to the other perceptions. What then is the meaning of this discourse, Theætetus, in reference to the former? Do you understand what it is?

Theæ. Not very well, Socrates.

Socr. But observe if by any means it can be brought to a conclusion. For it means to say that all these things are, as we said, moved, and that there is swiftness and slowness in their motion. 35. Whatever then is slow is moved in the same place and towards things near it, and so produces, and the things which are produced are accordingly slower; and on the contrary, whatever is swift moves towards things at a distance, and so produces, and the things which are produced are accordingly swifter, for they are impelled, and their motion consists in impulse. When, therefore, the eye and any of the things that correspond to it meet together and produce whiteness, and the perception connate to this, which would never have been produced had each of them approached something else, then they being in the meanwhile impelled, that is to say, sight from the eyes, and whiteness from that which together with it generates colour, the eye becomes filled with vision, and then sees, and becomes not vision, but a seeing eye; but that which together with it generates colour is filled with whiteness, and becomes not whiteness, but white, whether it is wood or stone, or whatever may happen to be tinted with a colour of this kind. 36. And so with the rest, hard and warm, and every thing, we must in the same manner conceive that none of these is any thing of itself, as we have observed before that all things and of all kinds are produced by their intercourse with each other, from motion, for, as they say, we cannot determine positively with regard to any one thing, that that which is active really exists, nor again that which is passive; for neither is the active any thing before it meets with the passive, nor the passive before it meets with the active; and that which, meeting with any thing, is active, when it falls upon something else, is found to be passive. 37. So that it results from all this, as we said at the beginning, that nothing is essentially one, but is always being produced by something, and the word “being” must be entirely done away with, although we have already been compelled by custom and ignorance to use it frequently; but, as the sages say, we ought not to allow any thing, either of any other, or of me, or this, or that, or any other name which designates permanency, but that according to nature, things ought to be said to be produced and made, to perish and be changed: so, if any one asserts permanency of any thing, he who does so may easily be confuted. Thus then we ought to speak of things individually, and of many collectively, to which collection are given the names of man, stone, animal, and each several species. Do not these things, Theætetus, appear pleasant to you, and have you not found them agreeable to your taste?

Theæ. I don’t know, Socrates; for I can’t make you out; whether you are giving your own opinions or are trying me.

38. Socr. You do not remember, my friend, that I neither know nor claim as my own any of these things, but that I am barren of them, but I act the midwife towards you, and for this purpose I enchant you, and put before you the opinions of the several wise men, that you may taste them, until I bring your own opinion to light: but when it is brought forth, I will then examine whether it shall prove to be empty or productive. Be therefore confident and bold, and answer in an honest and manly way, what you think of the questions I put to you.

Theæ. Ask then.

Socr. Tell me then again, whether it is your opinion that the good, and the beautiful, and every thing that we just now mentioned, have an actual existence or are constantly being produced?

Theæ. To me indeed, when I hear you thus explaining the matter, it is wonderful how far you appear to have reason on your side, and I think that your statements must be admitted.

39. Socr. Let us not, then, omit what remains of it. But it remains that we should speak of dreams, diseases, and, besides other things, of madness; and whatever else is called error of hearing or seeing, or of any other perception. For you know, without doubt, that in all these cases the doctrine which we have just now described, is considered to be completely confuted, since the sensations produced in these instances are utterly false, and so far are the things that appear to each person from existing, that quite contrariwise none of the things that appear have any real existence.

Theæ. You speak most truly, Socrates.

Socr. What argument, then, remains for him, who asserts that perception is science, and that things which appear to every one are to that person what they appear to be?

Theæ. I am afraid to say, Socrates, that I have no answer to give, because you just now blamed me for having said so: but in truth I cannot controvert the fact, that those who are mad or dreaming, form false opinions, since some of the former think they are gods, and the latter that they are winged and fancy that they are flying in their sleep.

40. Socr. Do you not know, then, the controversy that is raised on these points, especially about dreaming and being awake?

Theæ. What is that?

Socr. That which I think you have often heard, when people ask, what proof one could give, if any one should ask us now at the present moment, whether we are asleep, and all our thoughts are dreams, or whether we are awake, and really conversing with each other.

Theæ. And indeed, Socrates, it is difficult to say what proof one ought to give: for in both states all things in a manner correspond with each other. For, with respect to our present conversation, nothing hinders our fancying that we converse with each other in a dream: and when in sleep we fancy we are telling our dreams, the similarity of one with the other is surprising[152].

Socr. You see, then, that it is not difficult to raise a controversy, since it is even controverted whether a state is that of being awake or dreaming; moreover since the time during which we sleep is equal to that when we are awake, in each of these states our soul persists that the opinions that are present for the time are most certainly true, so that for an equal space of time we say that these are real, and for an equal space that those are, and we are equally positive for each of them.

Theæ. Most assuredly.

41. Socr. May not, then, the same argument be used with respect to diseases and madness, except with regard to time, that it is not equal.

Theæ. Right.

Socr. What then? Shall truth be defined by length and brevity of time?

Theæ. That, indeed, would be ridiculous in many ways.

Socr. Have you, then, any other clear mark by which you can shew which of these opinions is true?

Theæ. I think not.

Socr. Hear, therefore, from me, what will be said about these things by those who maintain that appearances are always real to the person to whom they appear. They will question you thus, I think: “Theætetus, can a thing which is totally different from another, have the same power as that other?” And we are not to suppose that the thing we ask about is partly the same, and partly different, but altogether different.

Theæ. It is impossible that it should possess any thing the same, either in power, or in any other respect, since it is entirely different.

42. Socr. Must we not, then, necessarily confess, that a thing of this kind is dissimilar?

Theæ. It seems so to me.

Socr. If, therefore, any thing happens to become similar or dissimilar to any thing, whether to itself or to another, so far as it becomes similar we shall say it is the same, but, so far as dissimilar, different.

Theæ. Necessarily so.

Socr. Have we not said before, that there are many, and indeed innumerable things, which are active, and likewise passive?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. And moreover, that one thing commingled first with one thing and then with another, will produce not the same, but different things.

Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. Let us speak, then, of you and me and other things in the same manner, of Socrates in health, and again of Socrates ill. Whether shall we say that the latter is similar to the former or dissimilar?

Theæ. By Socrates ill, do you mean the whole of the latter opposed to the whole of the former, Socrates in health?

Socr. You understand me perfectly; that is the very thing I mean.

Theæ. Dissimilar, surely.

43. Socr. And is it not different inasmuch as it is dissimilar?

Theæ. Necessarily so.

Socr. And should you not speak in the same way of Socrates asleep, and in the several states we just now described?

Theæ. I should.

Socr. But will not each of those things whose nature it is to make any thing something else, when it lights upon Socrates in health, treat me as one thing, and when ill, as a different thing?

Theæ. How should it not?

Socr. And shall we not produce different things in each case, both I the patient, and that the agent?

Theæ. How not?

Socr. Now when I drink wine, being in health, it appears to me pleasant and sweet.

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. For, from what has been already granted, the agent and the patient produce sweetness and perception, both being put in motion together; and the perception proceeding from the patient causes the tongue to perceive, but the sweetness proceeding from the wine and set in motion about it, causes the wine both to be and to appear sweet to a healthy tongue.

44. Theæ. Certainly, what was granted before comes to this.

Socr. But when it lights on me, being ill, first of all does not a different thing in reality light on one who is not the same person? for it approaches one who is dissimilar.

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But Socrates in this state, and the wine drunk, again generate different things, with regard to the tongue a perception of bitterness, and with regard to the wine bitterness produced and set in motion, and that, indeed, not bitterness, but bitter, and me not perception, but perceiving.

Theæ. Exactly so.

Socr. Therefore I shall never become any thing else while I perceive thus; for a different perception of a different thing causes the percipient to be changed and different: nor will that, which thus affects me, by coming in contact with another, though it produces the same effect, ever become such as it was to me; for by generating a different thing from a different thing it will become changed.

Theæ. Such is the case.

Socr. Neither, then, shall I become such by myself, nor will it become such by itself[153].

Theæ. Certainly not.

Socr. But it is necessary that I, when I become percipient, should become so in relation to something: for it is impossible to become percipient, and yet percipient of nothing: and it is likewise necessary, when any thing becomes sweet or bitter, or any thing of the kind, that it should become so in relation to some one; for it is impossible for a thing to become sweet, and yet sweet to no one.

Theæ. Assuredly.

45. Socr. It remains, I think, that we[154], if we are, should be, or if we are produced, should be produced, by relation to each other; since necessity unites our existence together, and unites it to no other thing, nor even to ourselves. It remains, therefore, that we are united to each other. So that, if any one says that any thing exists, he must say that it exists for something, or of something, or in relation to something, and in like manner of any thing said to be produced: but he must not say, nor must he allow any one else to say, that any thing exists or is produced of itself, as the argument we have deduced clearly proves.

Theæ. Assuredly, Socrates.

Socr. Since, then, that which affects me is relative to me and not to another, do not I perceive it, and another not perceive it?

Theæ. How not?

Socr. My perception, therefore, is true to me; for it always belongs to my existence. And I, according to Protagoras, am a judge of things that exist in relation to me, that they do exist, and of things that do not so exist, that they do not exist.

Theæ. It seems so.

46. Socr. How then, since I am not deceived and do not falter in my mind about things that exist or are produced, can I fail to have a scientific knowledge of things which I perceive?

Theæ. It cannot fail to be so.

Socr. It was, therefore, very finely said by you, that science is nothing else than perception; and all come to the same result, the doctrine of Homer and Heraclitus and all that tribe, that all things are in motion like streams, and that of the very wise Protagoras, that man is the measure of all things, and that of Theætetus, that, if this is the case, perception must be science. Is it not so, Theætetus? Shall we say that this is your new-born infant as it were, delivered by my midwifery? How say you?

Theæ. It is necessary to say so, Socrates.

47. Socr. This, then, as it appears, we have with much difficulty produced, whatever it may turn out to be. But after the birth, we must, in truth, perform the ceremony of running[155] round in argument, and consider whether, without our perceiving it, that which is produced is not unworthy of being reared, but empty and false. Do you think that we ought by all means to rear your offspring, and not expose it? and will you endure to see it refuted, and not be very much offended if any one should take it away from you, as having been delivered for the first time?

Theo. Theætetus will endure this, Socrates, for he is not at all morose. But, by the gods, say whether it is not so.

Socr. You are really very fond of discussion, Theodorus, and pleasant, in thinking that I am a sack full of arguments, and that I can easily pick one out and prove that these things are not so. But you do not observe how the case stands, that no argument proceeds from me, but always from the person who is conversing with me, and that I know nothing but a very little, just enough to apprehend and examine moderately well an argument advanced by another who is wise. And now I will endeavour to do this from him, without saying any thing of myself.

48. Theo. You say well, Socrates; then do so.

Socr. Do you know, Theodorus, what I wonder at in your friend Protagoras?

Theo. What?

Socr. In other respects I thought what he said was very acceptable, that what appears to each person, really exists, but I wondered at the beginning of his essay, that he did not say at the commencement of his book on Truth that a pig or a cynocephalus or some other more monstrous creature that possesses perception, is the measure of all things, in order that he might begin by speaking grandly and very contemptuously to us, shewing that we indeed admire him as if he were a god, for his wisdom, whereas with respect to understanding, he is no better than a tadpole, let alone any other man. What are we to say, Theodorus? 49. For if that opinion which is formed from perception will be true to each person, and no one will be able to decide better on the way in which another is affected, nor one more competent to examine the opinion of another, whether it is true or false, but, as we have often said, each person by himself alone will form opinions for himself, and all these are right and true, why in the world, my friend, should Protagoras be so wise as to be thought justly worthy to teach others for high pay, while we are more ignorant and must have recourse to him, though each person is to himself the measure of his own wisdom? How can we avoid saying that Protagoras speaks thus out of joke? As to myself and my art of midwifery, I say nothing of the ridicule we should be exposed to, and I think, so would the whole study of reasoning; for will it not be great and signal vanity to examine and endeavour to confute the fancies and opinions of others, each person’s being true, if the Truth of Protagoras is true, and he has not uttered his oracles in sport from the sanctuary of his book?

50. Theo. Socrates, he is my friend, as you just now said; I cannot, therefore, allow Protagoras to be confuted by my concessions, nor yet can I oppose you contrary to my own opinion. Again, therefore, take Theætetus; for he certainly appears to have listened to you just now very attentively.

Socr. If you went to Lacedæmon, Theodorus, to the wrestling grounds, and were to see others naked, some of them mean, should you hesitate to strip yourself and shew your own form in turn?

Theo. Why do you think I should not, at least if they would permit me and be persuaded by me? as I think I shall now persuade you to allow me to be a spectator, and not drag me to the gymnasium, now that my limbs are stiff, but for you to wrestle with one who is younger and more supple.

51. Socr. But if this is agreeable to you, Theodorus, it is not disagreeable to me, as the vulgar saying goes. I must have recourse again, therefore, to the wise Theætetus. Tell me, then, Theætetus, first of all as to what we just now discussed, do you not wonder with me, that you have so suddenly discovered yourself to be not inferior in wisdom to any man or god? or do you think that the measure of Protagoras has less to do with gods than men?

Theæ. Not I, by Jupiter: and I very much wonder at your question. For when we discussed in what manner they said, that what appears to each person is true to him to whom it appears, it seemed to me to be well said, but now the very contrary has speedily occurred to me.

Socr. For you are young, my dear boy, and quickly give ear to and are persuaded by plausible speeches. For to these things Protagoras or some one on his behalf would say: “Noble boys and old men, you here sit and converse together, dragging gods into the question, of whom, whether they exist or not, I do not think proper either to speak or write, and what the multitude hear and admit, this you assert, as if it were strange if every man did not excel any beast whatever in wisdom, but you do not adduce any proof, or conclusive argument, but have recourse to likelihood, which if Theodorus or any other geometrician were to employ in geometry, he would be deemed unworthy of notice.” 52. Do you, therefore, and Theodorus, consider, whether on such matters you will admit of arguments deduced from probability and likelihood.

Theæ. But, Socrates, neither would you nor we say that this is right.

Socr. We must therefore consider it in another way, as it appears, according to what you and Theodorus says.

Theæ. In another way, certainly.

Socr. Let us, then, consider it thus, whether science and perception are the same or different: for to this surely our whole discourse tends, and for the sake of this we have mooted these many absurd points; have we not?

Theæ. Assuredly.

Socr. Shall we allow then that whatever we perceive by sight or hearing, this we at the same time know? for instance, before we have learnt the language of barbarians, whether shall we deny that we hear them when they speak, or that we both hear and know what they say? And again, when unacquainted with letters, on looking at them, whether shall we insist that we do not see, or know them, though we do see them?

53. Theæ. Whichever of them, Socrates, we see and hear, we shall say that we know, for that of the latter we see and know the form and colour, and of the former, that we both hear and know the sharpness and flatness of the sounds; but that what grammarians and interpreters teach about them, we neither perceive by sight or hearing, nor know.

Socr. Admirable, Theætetus, and it is not worth while to dispute with you about these things, in order that you may make a greater proficiency. But observe also this other difficulty that stands in our way, and consider how we can repel it.

Theæ. What is that?

Socr. This: if any one should ask, whether it is possible for a person who still possesses and retains the memory of a thing which he once knew, at the very time when he remembers it, not to know the very thing that he remembers. But I am becoming prolix, as it seems, through a wish to ask whether a person who has learnt any thing and remembers it, does not know it.

Theæ. How should he not, Socrates? for, otherwise, what you say would be a prodigy.

Socr. Am I then trifling? Consider. 54. Do you not then say that to see is to perceive, and that sight is perception?

Theæ. I do.

Socr. Has not he, then, who sees any thing, obtained a scientific knowledge of that which he sees, according to our late argument?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. What then? do you not say that memory is something?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. Whether of nothing or something?

Theæ. Of something, surely.

Socr. Is it not, then, of the things which he learns and perceives, of some such things as these?

Theæ. What else?

Socr. And what a person sees, does he not sometimes remember?

Theæ. He does remember.

Socr. When he shuts his eyes too? or, when he does this, does he forget?

Theæ. It would be strange to say that, Socrates.

Socr. We must say it though, if we would keep to our former argument, otherwise it is gone.

Theæ. And I suspect so, by Jupiter, though I do not clearly understand it; but tell me how.

55. Socr. Thus. We say that a person who sees has obtained a scientific knowledge of that which he sees; for sight and perception and science are allowed to be the same.

Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. But he who sees, and has obtained a scientific knowledge of that which he sees, if he shuts his eyes, remembers it indeed, but does not see it. Is it not so?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But to say that he does not see is as much as to say he does not know, since to see is the same thing as to know.

Theæ. True.

Socr. It follows, therefore, that a person who still remembers a thing of which he had a scientific knowledge, does not know it, because he does not see it; which we have said would be a prodigy, if it happened.

Theæ. You say most truly.

Socr. An impossibility, then, appears to result, if any one should say that science and perception are the same.

Theæ. It seems so.

Socr. Each, then, must be confessed to be different.

Theæ. So it seems.

56. Socr. What then is science? must again, as it appears, be enquired from the beginning. What however shall we do, Theætetus?

Theæ. About what?

Socr. We appear to me, like a dunghill cock, to have jumped from our argument and begun to crow, before we have gained the victory.

Theæ. How so?

Socr. Like disputants we seem to have come to an agreement about the allowed meaning of words, and, having got the better thus far in the discussion, to be content, and though we say we are not wranglers but lovers of wisdom, we do the same as those shrewd men.

Theæ. I do not yet understand what you mean.

Socr. But I will endeavour to explain what I mean on this point. We enquired whether a person who has learnt and remembers any thing, does not know it, and having shewn that a person who has seen a thing and then shut his eyes, remembers it, but does not see it, we proved that he does not know it and remembers it at the same time; but that this is impossible. And so the Protagorean fable is destroyed, and yours at the same time of science and perception, that they are the same.

57. Theæ. It appears so.

Socr. It would not be so, my friend, I think, if the father of the other fable were alive, but he would defend it stoutly: but now, as it is an orphan, we have insulted it. For not even the guardians, whom Protagoras left, are willing to assist it, in the number of whom is Theodorus here. We ourselves, however, for justice sake, will venture to assist it.

Theo. It is not I, Socrates, but rather Callias son of Hipponicus who is guardian of his doctrine; for I very quickly turn aside from mere disputations to geometry. Nevertheless, I shall be obliged to you if you will assist him.

Socr. You say well, Theodorus. Observe, then, what assistance I give. For any one would make more strange admissions than those just now, if he did not attend carefully to the meaning of words, in what way we are generally accustomed to employ them in affirming and denying. Shall I tell you or Theætetus, in what way?

Theo. Tell us both together, but let the younger answer. For if he makes a mistake, it will be less disgraceful.

58. Socr. I am going to propose then a very strange question; it is, I think, something of this kind: Is it possible that he who knows any thing should not know the thing that he knows?

Theo. What shall we answer, Theætetus?

Theæ. Impossible without doubt, I think.

Socr. Not so, if you maintain that to see is to know. For how will you deal with this inexplicable question, as the saying is, you will be caught in a well, if an imperturbable opponent should ask you, closing one of your eyes with his hand, whether you see his dress with the closed eye?

Theæ. I should say, I think, Not with this, but I do with the other.

Socr. Would you not, therefore, see, and not see the same thing at the same time?

Theæ. In some respects.

Socr. I do not require this, he will say, nor did I ask in what respect, but whether, what you know, this you also do not know. But now what you do not see, you are found to see: and you have already admitted, that to see is to know, and not to see, not to know. Infer then, what conclusion follows from this.

Theæ. I infer the very contrary to what I supposed.

59. Socr. But perhaps, my admirable youth, many things of this kind would happen to you, if any one should further ask you whether it is possible to know sharply and dully, and near, but not at a distance, intensely and slightly as well, and ten thousand other questions, which a cunning mercenary light-armed combatant would put to you in discussion, when you asserted science and perception to be the same, attacking the hearing, smelling, and such other channels of perception, and he would confute you, keeping you to it and not letting you off, until through admiration of his exquisite wisdom you are completely caught in his toils, from whence, after he had conquered and bound you, he would at length set you free on payment of such a ransom as you and he could agree on. What argument, should you probably say, would Protagoras adduce in support of his own opinions? Shall we endeavour to say?

Theæ. By all means.

60. Socr. He will, then, both say all that we have said in his defence, and besides, I think, he will come to the encounter, despising us and saying; “This fine fellow Socrates, because a boy, when asked by him, whether it were possible for the same person to remember the same thing, and at the same time not to know it, was frightened, and being frightened, answered in the negative, through being unable to look on to results, has made me appear ridiculous by his arguments. But, most stupid Socrates, the case is thus, when you examine any of my opinions by questioning, if he to whom the questions are put gives the same answers that I should give and is proved wrong, I am confuted, but if he gives different answers, then he that is questioned is confuted. For, to the point, do you think that any one would grant you, that memory is present to any one, of the things by which he has been affected, as if memory were such an affection as he then experienced, though now he experiences it no longer? Far from it. Do you think, again, that he would hesitate to allow, that it is possible for the same person to know and not to know the same thing? or if he should be afraid to say this, do you think he would ever grant that a person who has become changed is the same as he was before he was changed? but rather that he is one person, and not several, and those infinite in number, since change is constantly going on, for we must beware of catching at one another’s words. 61. But my good sir,” he will say, “attack my system in a more generous spirit, confute what I say, if you can, and shew that we have not perceptions peculiar to each of us, or that, if they are peculiar, it does not follow that what appears to any one becomes, or if we must use the word existence, exists to him alone to whom it appears. But when you speak of pigs and cynocephali, you not only act like a pig yourself, but you persuade those that hear you to treat my writings in the same way, herein not doing well. For I affirm that the truth is, as I have written; for that each of us is the measure both of things that do and do not exist; though there is an infinite difference between one man and another, in this very circumstance, that they are and appear different to one person from what they are and do to another. And I am far from denying that there is such a thing as wisdom and a wise man, but I call that man wise, who, changing the aspect of objects to any of us, to whom they appear and are evil, causes them to appear and to be good. 62. But do not, again, follow out my arguments, attending to the words only, but thus in a still clearer manner understand what I mean. For call to mind what was said in a former part of the discussion, that to a sick man what he eats appears and is bitter, but to a man in health it is and appears the contrary. But there is no need to make either of them wiser than the other; for that is not possible; nor must we allege that the sick man is ignorant, because he is of a different opinion, and that he who is in health is wise, because he thinks differently; but we must endeavour to make him change over to the other side; for the other habit is better. In like manner, in education, we should endeavour to make a man change from one habit to a better. But the physician effects a change by medicines, and the sophist by arguments. 63. For no one ever makes one who entertains false opinions, afterwards entertain true ones; for it is not possible for a man to have an opinion on things that do not exist, or on any others than those by which he is affected, and these are always true. And I think that a man, who from a depraved habit of soul forms opinions corresponding to it, a good habit causes to form different opinions of the same character, but these appearances some people, through ignorance, call true, but I say that some things are better than others, but not at all more true. Moreover, my dear Socrates, I am far from calling the wise, frogs, but as regards bodies, I call them physicians, and as regards plants, husbandmen. For I say that these last produce in plants, when they are at all diseased, instead of depraved perceptions, good and wholesome perceptions and truths, and that wise and good orators cause good instead of depraved things to appear to be just to states. For whatever things appear just and honourable to each city, these are so to that city, so long as it thinks them so; but a wise man, instead of the several depraved things that they have, makes good things to be and to appear. 64. By the same reason a sophist, who is thus able to instruct his pupils, is wise, and deserves large pay from those whom he instructs. And thus some are wiser than others, and yet no one entertains false opinions, and you must admit, whether you will or not, that you are the measure of things; for this principle is maintained throughout, if then you are able to controvert this from the beginning, do so, by answering it in a consecutive speech, or if you had rather by questioning, do it by questioning; for neither is this to be avoided, but most of all pursued by a man of sense. However do it thus; don’t act unfairly in your questions. For it is a great inconsistency for one who pretends to be a lover of virtue, to persevere in doing nothing else but act unfairly in argument. But it is to act unfairly in a matter of this kind, when a man does not make a difference between disputation and discussion, and in the former jests and leads into error as far as he can, but in the latter speaks seriously, and sets the person with whom he is conversing right, pointing out to him those errors only into which he has been led by himself and his former conversations. 65. If, then, you act thus, those who converse with you will have to blame themselves for their own confusion and perplexity, but not you, and they will follow and love you, but hate themselves, and fly from themselves to philosophy, that, becoming different, they may be changed from what they formerly were: but if you act the contrary to this, as most men do, the very contrary will befal you, and you will make those who associate with you, instead of being philosophers, hate this pursuit, when they are more advanced in life. If, then, you will be persuaded by me, as I said before, applying yourself to it not hostilely or pugnaciously, but in a favourable spirit, you will truly consider what I have said, in maintaining that all things are moved, and that whatever appears to every one, also exists, both to an individual and a city; and from hence you will further consider, whether science and perception are the same or different, and you will not, as just now, depart from the usual meaning of words and names, which most men forcing wherever it suits them, occasion one another all kinds of perplexity.” 66. These things, Theodorus, I have advanced by way of assistance to your friend, according to my ability, trifling from trifling means; but, if he were alive, he would defend his own opinions in a more noble manner.

Theo. You are joking, Socrates: for you have defended the man very vigorously.

Socr. You say well, my friend. But tell me: did you observe that Protagoras said just now and reproached us, that in arguing with a boy, we took advantage of the boy’s fear to oppose his principles, and giving it the contemptuous name of cavilling, and vaunting his measure of all things, he exhorted us to be serious in examining his doctrine?

Theo. How should I not have observed it, Socrates?

Socr. What then? Do you require us to obey him?

Theo. By all means.

Socr. Do you see, then, that all these, except you, are boys? If then we are to obey him, it is requisite that you and I, questioning and answering each other, should be serious in examining his doctrine, that he may not have this to object to us that we have discussed this question again jesting with youths.

67. Theo. But what? Would not Theætetus follow this investigation much better than many who have long beards?

Socr. But not better than you, Theodorus. Do not, therefore, think that I ought in every way to defend your deceased friend, but you not at all. But come, my good sir, follow me a little, just so far as to enable us to see whether it is right that you should be the measure of diagrams, or whether all men equally with you are sufficient for themselves in astronomy, and the other things in which you have the reputation of excelling.

Theo. It is not easy, Socrates, for one who is sitting by you, to refuse to answer you. But I was just now trifling when I said that you would permit me not to strip myself, and that you would not compel me like the Lacedæmonians. But you appear to me to resemble Sciron[156] rather. For the Lacedæmonians bid us either depart or strip; but you seem to me to act rather like Antæus[157], for you do not let any one go who approaches you until you have compelled him to strip and wrestle with you in argument.

68. Socr. You have found out an admirable comparison for my disease, Theodorus, though I am stronger than they were; for an innumerable multitude of Herculeses and Theseuses, who were powerful in argument, have met with me and beaten me heartily, but I do not desist any the more, such a strange passion for this kind of exercise has got possession of me. Do not you, therefore, refuse to have a fall with me, and to benefit yourself and me at the same time.

Theo. I hold out no longer, but lead me wherever you please: I must needs submit to the destiny that you weave for me, and be confuted. However I shall not be able to give myself up to you further than you proposed.

Socr. So far will be sufficient. And I beg of you observe this very closely, that we do not, unawares, get into a puerile mode of talking, and so let any one reproach us again for that.

Theo. I will endeavour, as far as I can.

69. Socr. First of all, then, let us impugn the argument which we did before, and see whether we correctly or incorrectly find fault with and reprobate the assertion, that every one is sufficient to himself with respect to wisdom. Now Protagoras has conceded to us that some men excel others with respect to better or worse, and those too who are wise: has he not?

Theo. Yes.

Socr. If he then being present in person had agreed to this, and we in assisting him had not made this concession in his behalf, there would be no need to recur to it in order to confirm it; but now, perhaps, some one may consider us incompetent to assent on his behalf, wherefore it will be better to come to a more clear understanding on this point; for it makes no small difference whether it is so or otherwise.

Theo. You say truly.

Socr. Not from others, then, but from his own statements, we may in very few words get his assent.

70. Theo. How so?

Socr. Thus. Does he not say that what appears to each person exists to him to whom it appears?

Theo. He does say so.

Socr. Now, Protagoras, we speak the opinions of a man, or rather of all men, and say that there is no one who does not think himself in some respects wiser than others, and in other respects others wiser than himself, and in the greatest dangers, when men are in peril, in wars, or diseases, or storms at sea, they behave towards those who have power in each several case as towards gods, looking up to them as their saviours, though they excel them in nothing else than in knowledge; and the whole world is almost full of men seeking for masters and governors of themselves and other animals and works, and again of men who think themselves competent to teach and competent to rule. And in all these cases what else shall we say, than that men themselves think that there is wisdom and ignorance among themselves?

Theo. Nothing else.

Socr. Do they not, then, think that wisdom is true opinion, and ignorance false opinion?

Theo. How should they not?

71. Socr. How then, Protagoras, shall we deal with the assertion? Whether shall we say that men always form true opinions, or sometimes true and sometimes false? For in either way the result is that they do not always form true opinions, but both true and false. For consider, Theodorus, whether any one of the followers of Protagoras, or you yourself, would contend that no one thinks that there is another who is ignorant, and forms false opinions.

Theo. That is incredible, Socrates.

Socr. Yet the assertion, that man is the measure of all things, of necessity comes to this?

Theo. How so?

Socr. When you have determined any thing within yourself, and make known your opinion to me on any point, then, according to his statement, your opinion must be true to you; but may not the rest become judges of your judgment, or must we determine that you always form true opinions? Will not myriads, who form contrary opinions to yours, continually oppose you, deeming that you judge and think falsely?

Theo. By Jupiter, Socrates, there are myriads, as Homer says, who give me a vast deal of trouble.

72. Socr. What then? Will you allow us to say that you then form opinions that are true to yourself, but false to innumerable others?

Theo. This seems to me necessary, from the assertion.

Socr. But what with respect to Protagoras himself? If neither he thought that man is the measure of all things, nor the multitude, as indeed they do not, does it not necessarily follow that this truth which he has described exists to no one? But if he himself thought so, but the multitude do not agree with him, you must be aware that, in the first place, by how many more they are to whom it does not appear so, than those to whom it does so appear, by so much the more it is not than it is?

Theo. Necessarily so, since, according to each several opinion, it will be or will not be.

Socr. In the next place, this is very pleasant; for he, with respect to his own opinion, admits, that the opinion of those who differ from him, in that they think he is in error, is true, since he allows that all men form opinions of things that exist.

Theo. Certainly.

Socr. Must he not, therefore, admit that his own opinion is false, if he allows that the opinion of those who think he is in error is true?

Theo. Necessarily so.

Socr. The others however do not admit that they are in error?

Theo. Surely not.

73. Socr. He however, from what he has written, allows that this opinion also is true.

Theo. It appears so.

Socr. It will therefore be controverted by all men, Protagoras not excepted, or rather will be allowed by him, that when he admits to one who differs from him, that he forms a true opinion, then even Protagoras himself will admit that neither a dog, nor any man whatever, is the measure of a thing that he has not learnt. Is it not so?

Theo. It is.

Socr. Therefore, since this is controverted by all men, Protagoras’s truth will not be true to any one, neither to any one else, nor to himself.

Theo. We run down my friend too severely, Socrates.

Socr. But, moreover, my friend, it is uncertain whether we have not also exceeded the bounds of propriety. For it is probable that he being older is wiser than we are: and if he should suddenly rise up as far as his neck, having reproved me much for trifling, as is probable, and you for assenting, he would sink down again and hurry away. 74. But it is necessary for us, I think, to make use of our own abilities such as they are, and to say whatever appears to us to be true. Well then, shall we now say that any one will grant this, that one man is wiser than another, and another also more ignorant?

Theo. It appears so to me.

Socr. Shall we say too that our argument holds good as we have laid it down in our endeavours to assist Protagoras, that most things are as they appear to every one, warm, dry, sweet, and all other things of this kind; but that if in some things he shall admit that one man excels another, he would say with regard to things wholesome and unwholesome, that not every silly woman, boy and brute, is competent to cure itself by knowing what is wholesome for itself, but that here, if any where, one excels another?

Theo. So it appears to me.

75. Socr. And with respect to political matters, he will admit that things honourable and base, just and unjust, holy and unholy, as each city thinks right to enact laws for itself, are in truth such to each city, and yet that in these things one individual is not at all wiser than another, nor one city than another; but in enacting what is expedient for itself or not expedient, here again, if any where, he will allow that one counsellor excels another, and the opinion of one city that of another with regard to truth; nor will he by any means venture to affirm, that the laws which a city enacts, thinking them to be expedient for itself, must certainly be so. But here in the matter I am speaking about, with respect to what is just and unjust, holy and unholy, men will persist that none of these have by nature an essence of their own, but that what appears to the community to be true, that becomes true at the time when it so appears, and so long as it appears. And those who do not altogether hold the doctrine of Protagoras, deal with philosophy in some such manner as this. But one topic of conversation, Theodorus, springs from another, a greater from a less.

76. Theo. Have we not leisure, Socrates?

Socr. We appear to have. And I have often at other times observed, my excellent friend, and especially now, with what good reason those who have spent much time in philosophical studies, are found to be ridiculous orators when they enter courts of justice.

Theo. What mean you by this?

Socr. They that have been from their youth in courts of justice, and places of that kind, when compared with those who have been nurtured in philosophy and such-like studies, appear to have been educated like slaves compared with freemen.

Theo. In what respect?

Socr. In this, that these, as you said, have always leisure, and converse in peace at their leisure, just as we now are taking up our third topic in succession, so they too, if any question occurs to them that pleases them better than the one in hand, as is the case with us, are not at all concerned whether they speak at length or briefly, if they can but arrive at the truth. But the others always speak in a hurry, for the running water presses them on, nor are they allowed to speak on whatever subject they wish, but their opponent stands by them with this instrument of compulsion[158], and the record (which they call the pleadings) read aloud, out of which they must not travel; and their speeches are always about a fellow slave before the master who is seated holding the scales of justice in his hand, their contests too, are never unrestrained, but are always to the point before them, and oftentimes it is a race for life. 77. So that, from all these causes they become vehement and keen, knowing how to flatter the master by words, and to conciliate him by actions, being mean and not upright in soul. For slavery from childhood has taken away their growth, and rectitude, and freedom, compelling them to do crooked actions, by exposing their yet tender souls to great dangers and fears, which not being able to bear up against with justice and truth, they immediately have recourse to lying and injuring one another, and become so bent and distorted, that they pass from youth to manhood without having any solidity in their minds, but have become clever and wise, as they think. Such then are these, Theodorus. But are you willing that I should describe the men of our band, or that, passing them by, we should return again to our subject, lest we abuse too much our liberty and powers of digression, which we just now spoke of.

78. Theo. By no means, Socrates, but describe them. For you observed very well, that we who are members of this band, are not the servants of topics of discussion, but they are our servants as it were, and each of them must wait for its completion until we think proper. For neither does a judge nor a spectator preside over us, to rebuke and keep us in order, as is the case with the poets.

Socr. Let us speak then, as we ought, since it is agreeable to you, about the chiefs; for why should any one speak of those who spend their time in philosophy to but little purpose? These then from early youth do not know the way to the forum, nor where the law-court, or senate house, or any other public place of assemblage in the city is situated; and they neither see nor hear laws or decrees, proclaimed or written. And canvassing of partisans for magistracies, and meetings, and banquets, and revelry with flute-players, they never think of even in a dream. Whether any one in a city is well or ill born, or what evil has befallen any one from his ancestors, whether men or women, is as little known to him as how many measures of water there are in the sea, as the saying is. 79. And he does not know that he is ignorant of all this; for he does not keep aloof from them for vanity’s sake, but in reality his body only is situated and dwells in the city, but his mind, considering all these things as trifling and of no consequence, holds them in contempt, and is borne every where, according to the expression of Pindar, measuring things beneath the earth and upon its surface, contemplating the stars in heaven above, and searching thoroughly into the entire nature of every thing in the universe, and not stooping to any thing that is near.

Theo. What mean you by this, Socrates?

Socr. Just, Theodorus, as a smart and witty Thracian servant-girl is related to have joked Thales, when, contemplating the stars and looking upwards, he fell into a well, that he was anxious to know what was going on in heaven, but forgot to notice what was before him, and at his feet. 80. The same joke is applicable to all who devote themselves to philosophy; for, in reality, such a one is ignorant about his near neighbour, not only what he is doing but almost whether he is a man or some other animal. But what man is, and what such a nature ought to do or suffer beyond others, he enquires and takes pains to investigate. You understand me surely, Theodorus; do you not?

Theo. I do: and you say truly.

Socr. Therefore, my friend, a man of this kind dealing privately with each person, or publicly, as I said at the outset, when he is compelled, in a court of justice or any where else, to speak about things at his feet and before his view, affords laughter not only to Thracian damsels, but to the rest of the crowd, by falling into wells and all kinds of perplexities through inexperience, and his strange awkwardness gives him a character of stupidity. 81. For when he is reviled he has nothing personal to retort against any one, as he does not know any evil of any one from not having troubled himself about such matters therefore, not having any thing to say, he appears to be ridiculous: and when he hears others praise and boast of themselves, being seen to laugh not feignedly but really he is considered to be a simpleton. For when encomiums are passed on a tyrant or king, he thinks that he hears a herdsman, a swineherd for instance, or a shepherd, or a cowkeeper pronounced happy for milking abundantly: but he thinks that they feed and milk an animal that is more hard to manage and more cunning than the others do; and that such a one must necessarily, from their occupations, be not at all less rustic and uneducated than herdsmen, being shut up within walls as in a mountain pen. But when he hears that any one who possesses ten thousand acres of land or even more, is possessed of vast property, it appears to him very trifling, as he has been accustomed to survey the whole earth. 82. And when they extol nobility of birth, accounting any one noble from being able to shew seven rich ancestors, he thinks that this praise proceeds from men of dull minds, and who look at trifles, being unable through want of education to look at the succession of ages and compute that every man has had innumerable myriads of grandsires and ancestors, amongst whom there must have been an innumerable multitude of rich and poor, kings and slaves, barbarians and Greeks; but when they pride themselves in a catalogue of five-and-twenty ancestors, and refer their origin to Hercules son of Amphitryon, it appears to him absurd from its littleness; and he laughs at their being unable to compute and so rid themselves of the vaunting of a silly mind, that the five-and-twentieth ancestor from Amphitryon and the fiftieth from him was such as fortune happened to make him. In all these things, therefore, such a man is ridiculed by the multitude, partly from bearing himself haughtily, as it seems, and partly from not knowing what is at his feet, and being on all occasions embarrassed.

Theo. You say exactly what takes place, Socrates.

83. Socr. But when he is able, my friend, to draw any one upwards, and any one is willing to leave those questions, of “What injury do I do you?” or “What injury do you do me?” for the consideration of justice and injustice themselves, what each of them is, and in what respect they differ from all other things, or from each other, or the inquiry, Whether a king is happy, and again, he who possesses abundance of gold, for the consideration of royalty and human happiness and misery in general; what they both are, and in what way it is proper for the nature of man to seek the one and shun the other,—when, therefore, it is requisite for that little-minded, sharp, and pettifogging fellow to give an account of all these things, he then shews the opposite side of the picture; becoming dizzy through being suspended aloft and looking so high up, from want of use, and becoming stupified, and perplexed, and stammering, he does not, indeed, afford laughter to the Thracian damsels or any other uneducated person, (for they do not perceive any thing,) but to all who have been brought up otherwise than as slaves. 84. This, then, is the character of each of them, Theodorus, the one, that of him who is truly brought up in liberty and leisure, whom you call a philosopher, to whom it is no disgrace to be thought simple and to be good for nothing, when he has to attend to servile offices, for instance, that he does not know how to pack and tie up luggage, or season viands or make flattering speeches; the other, that of him who is able to perform all such offices dexterously and quickly, but knows not how to gather up his cloak with his right hand like a well-bred person, nor perceiving harmony of language to celebrate the life of gods and happy men such as it really is.

Theo. If, Socrates, you could persuade all men of what you say, as you have me, there would be more peace and less evil among men.

Socr. But it is not possible, Theodorus, that evil should be destroyed; for it is necessary that there should be always something contrary to good; nor can it be seated among the gods, but of necessity moves round this mortal nature and this region. Wherefore we ought to endeavour to fly hence thither as quickly as possible. But this flight consists in resembling God as much as possible, and this resemblance is the becoming just and holy with wisdom. 85. But, my excellent friend, it is not very easy to persuade men, that not for the reasons for which most men say we ought to flee from vice and pursue virtue, ought we to study the one and not the other, namely, that a man may not seem to be vicious, but may seem to be good; for these are, as the saying is, the drivellings of old women, as it appears to me. But let us describe the truth as follows. God is never in any respect unjust, but as just as possible, and there is not any thing that resembles him more than the man amongst us who has likewise become as just as possible. And on this depends the true excellence of a man, and his nothingness and worthlessness. For the knowledge of this is wisdom and true virtue, but the not knowing it is manifest ignorance and vice, but all other seeming excellencies and wisdoms, when they are found in political government, are abject, but in arts sordid. It is therefore by far the best not to allow him who acts unjustly, and who speaks or acts impiously, to excel by reason of his wickedness; for they delight in this reproach, and think they hear that they are not valueless, mere burdens on the earth, but men such as they ought to be who will be safe in a city. The truth, therefore, must be spoken, that they are so much the more what they think they are not, from not thinking that they are such. For they are ignorant of the punishment of injustice, of which they ought to be least of all ignorant: for it does not consist in what they imagine, stripes and death, which they sometimes suffer who do not commit injustice, but in that which it is impossible to avoid.

86. Theo. What do you mean?

Socr. Since, my friend, there are two models in the nature of things, one divine and most happy, the other ungodly and most miserable, they, not perceiving that this is the case, through stupidity and extreme folly, unknown to themselves become similar to the one by unjust actions, and dissimilar to the other. Wherefore they are punished, by leading a life suited to that to which they are assimilated. But if we should tell them, that unless they abandon this excellence, that place which is free from all evil will not receive them when dead, but here they will always lead a life resembling themselves, and there will associate with evil, these things, as being altogether shrewd and crafty, they will listen to as the extravagances of foolish men.

87. Theo. Assuredly, Socrates.

Socr. I know it, my friend. One thing, however, happens to them; it is, that if they have to give and listen to reasons privately respecting the things that they blame, and if they are willing to persevere manfully for a length of time, and not fly like cowards, then at length, my excellent friend, they are very absurdly displeased with themselves for what they have said, and that rhetoric of theirs becomes somehow so weak that they appear to be no better than boys. However, let us quit this subject, since what we have been saying was only a digression; if we do not, more topics constantly flowing in will shut out the subject with which we began. Let us, then, return to our former subject, if it is agreeable to you.

Theo. Such things, Socrates, are not at all unpleasing to me to hear; for it is easier for one of my age to follow them; if you please, however, let us return to our subject.

Socr. If I mistake not, then, we were at that part of our discussion in which we said that those who maintain motion to be essence, and that whatever appears to each person exists also to him to whom it appears, would in other things persist, and especially with regard to justice, that on every account what a city enacts as appearing just to itself, this also is just to the city that enacts it, so long as it continues in force: but that with respect to what is good, no one is so hardy as to venture to contend that whatever things a city has enacted, thinking that they are advantageous to itself, are also advantageous so long as they continue in force, except one should speak only of the name: but this would be a mere mockery on such a subject as we are speaking on; would it not?

Theo. Certainly.

88. Socr. Let him not, then, speak of the name, but of the thing designated by it.

Theo. Just so.

Socr. But the thing that the name designates is doubtless that which the city aims at in enacting laws, and enacts all laws, as far as it thinks and is able, to be as advantageous to itself as possible. Does it look to any thing else in enacting laws?

Theo. By no means.

Socr. Does it, then, always accomplish its purpose, or is every city often mistaken?

Theo. I think it is often mistaken.

Socr. Still more then would every one allow this very thing, if the question should be asked with reference to the whole genus, to which the advantageous belongs: but surely it regards also the future; for, when we enact laws, we enact them that they may be advantageous for the time to come; and this we should correctly call the future.

Theo. Certainly.

89. Socr. Come then, let us thus question Protagoras, or some one else who holds the same opinions with him, Man, as you say, Protagoras, is the measure of all things, white, heavy, light, and every thing of that kind: for, as he contains the criterion of them within himself, in thinking they are such as he feels them to be, he thinks what is true to himself, and really is? Is it not so?

Theo. It is.

Socr. Shall we also say, Protagoras, that he contains within himself the criterion of things about to happen, and that such things as he thinks will happen, do become such to him who thinks so? For instance, with regard to heat, when any particular person thinks that he shall catch a fever, and that this kind of heat will happen to him, and another, a physician, thinks differently, according to the opinion of which of the two shall we say will the result prove? or will it be according to the opinion of both of them, and to the physician will he be neither hot nor feverish, but to himself both?

Theo. That, indeed, would be ridiculous.

Socr. And I think the opinion of the husbandman, and not that of the harper, respecting the future sweetness or roughness of wine, would prevail.

Theo. How not?

Socr. Nor again would a teacher of gymnastics form a better opinion than a musician respecting what will be inharmonious and harmonious, and what will afterwards appear to the teacher of gymnastics himself to be harmonious.

Theo. By no means.

90. Socr. Therefore also, when a banquet is prepared, the judgment of one who, not being skilled in cookery is about to feast on it, is less sound than that of the cook, respecting the pleasure that will ensue. For we are not arguing at all about that which now is or has been pleasant to each person, but about that which will hereafter both appear and be so, whether every one is the best judge for himself? Could not you, Protagoras, judge beforehand better than any private person what arguments are likely to be available for us in a court of justice?

Theo. Indeed, Socrates, in this he himself professes to excel all men by far.

Socr. By Jupiter, he does, my friend; otherwise no one would pay him large sums for his instructions, if he had not persuaded his pupils that no prophet or other person would be able to judge better than he could for himself, as to what in future would both be and appear to be.

Theo. Most true.

Socr. But do not legislation and the useful regard the future, and would not every one acknowledge, that a city, in enacting laws, of necessity often misses that which is most useful?

Theo. Assuredly.

91. Socr. We have, therefore, rightly urged against your master, that he must needs confess, that one man is wiser than another, and that such a one is the true measure, but that there is no necessity at all for me who am ignorant, to become a measure, as the argument advanced on his behalf just now compelled me to be, whether I would or not.

Theo. In that way, Socrates, his argument appears to me to be effectually refuted, and it was also refuted by this, that he makes the opinions of others sound; and these were found to consider his arguments as by no means to be true.

Socr. In many other ways, too, Theodorus, this may be demonstrated, that not every opinion of every man is true. But, with respect to the manner in which each person is affected, whence perceptions and corresponding opinions are produced, it is more difficult to demonstrate that they are not true. But perhaps I should say, it is quite impossible: for probably they cannot be refuted, and those who say that they are certain and sciences, may possibly say the truth, and in that case Theætetus here did not speak amiss in asserting that perception and science are the same. 92. Let us, then, approach nearer to it, as the argument advanced in behalf of Protagoras enjoined us, and examine this essence, that is said to consist in motion[159], by knocking it, and see whether it sounds whole or cracked. For the contest about it is neither mean nor among a few.

Theo. It is very far from being mean, but is spreading very much throughout Ionia. For the partisans of Heraclitus advocate this doctrine very strenuously.

Socr. Therefore, my dear Theodorus, we should the rather examine it from the beginning, as they propound it.

Theo. Assuredly. For, Socrates, with respect to these Heraclitian, or, as you say, Homeric, and even older doctrines, it is no more possible to converse about them with the people of Ephesus who pretend to be acquainted with them, than with persons who are raving mad. For, just as their written doctrines, they are truly in constant motion, but to keep to an argument and a question, and quietly to answer and ask in turn, is less in their power than any thing; or rather the power of rest in these men is infinitely less than nothing. But if you ask any one of them a question, they draw out, as from a quiver, certain dark enigmatical words, and shoot them off, and if you wish to get from him a reason for what he has said, you will be forthwith stricken with another newly coined word, but will never come to any conclusion with any one of them; nor do they with one another, but they take very good care not to allow any thing to be fixed, either in their discourse, or in their souls, thinking, as it appears to me, that this very thing is stationary[160]; and they make constant war upon it, and as far as they are able, expel it from every where.

93. Socr. Perhaps, Theodorus, you have seen these men contending, but have never been in their company when peaceable, for they are no friends of yours. But I think they say such things when at leisure, to their disciples, whom they wish to render like themselves.

Theo. What disciples, my good friend? Amongst such men, one is not the disciple of another, but they spring up spontaneously, from whatever place each of them happens to be seized with a frenzy, and each thinks that the other knows nothing. From these, therefore, as I was just now saying, you will never get a reason either willingly or unwillingly: but we must take the matter up as if it were a problem and examine it ourselves.

Socr. You say right. But have we not received this problem from the ancients, who by the aid of poetry concealed it from the multitude, that Ocean and Tethys, the origin of all things, are streams, and that nothing is at rest, and from the moderns, as being wise, who have declared openly, so that even cobblers on hearing them learn wisdom, and give up their foolish opinion, that some things are at rest and others in motion, and learning that all things are in motion, they pay great respect to their teachers. 94. But I had almost forgotten, Theodorus, that others have declared the very contrary to this, that “that which is called the universe is Immoveable,” and every thing else that the followers of Melissus and Parmenides maintain in opposition to all this, as, that all things are one, and that this is at rest in itself, and has no place in which it can be moved. What then shall we do with all these people, my friend? For advancing by little and little, we have unawares fallen between both of them, and if we do not defend ourselves and escape, we shall be punished like those who in the wrestling grounds play on the line, who, when they are caught by both parties, are dragged in contrary directions. It appears therefore to me, that we should first of all consider those with whom we set out, the advocates of perpetual motion, and, if they shall prove to speak to the purpose, we will join with them, and endeavour to escape from the others; but if those who say that the universe is at rest appear to speak more truly, we will on the other hand fly to them from those who move even things immoveable. 95. And if both shall be found to speak nothing right, we shall be ridiculous for thinking that we, mean as we are, can say any thing to the purpose, after we have condemned men of great antiquity and wisdom. Consider therefore, Theodorus, whether it is for our interest to venture on so great a danger.

Theo. It would be unpardonable, Socrates, not thoroughly to examine what each of these men say.

Socr. We must examine it, since you are so anxious to do so. It appears to me then, that the first thing to be done in an enquiry about motion, is to find out what they mean by saying that all things are in motion. I mean this: whether they say that there is one species of motion, or, as it appears to me, two. Nor should it appear to me only, but do you also join with me, that we may both fall into the same error, if we must err. Tell me, therefore, do you call it being in motion, when a thing passes from one place to another, or is turned round in the same place?

Theo. I do.

96. Socr. Let this, therefore, be one species. But when it remains in the same place, and grows old, and either becomes black from white or hard from soft, or undergoes any other change, is it not right to say that this is another species of motion?

Theo. It appears so to me.

Socr. It must be so: I say, then, that there are these two species of motion, change and removal.

Theo. You say right.

Socr. Having, therefore, made this distinction, let us now address ourselves to those who say that all things are in motion, and ask them: Whether do you say that every thing undergoes both kinds of motion, and is both removed and changed, or that one thing is moved both ways, and another only in one way?

Theo. By Jupiter, I know not what to answer; but I think they would say, both ways.

Socr. Otherwise, my friend, the same things would appear to them to be both in motion and at rest, and it would not be at all more correct to say that all things are in motion, than that they are at rest.

Theo. You speak most truly.

Socr. Since, therefore, it is necessary that every thing should be in motion, and that the absence of motion should be in nothing, all things must always be moved with every kind of motion.

97. Theo. Necessarily so.

Socr. Consider this, then, I beg: did we not say that they explain the generation of heat, or whiteness, or any thing else pretty much in this manner, that each of them is impelled, together with perception, between the agent and the patient, and that the patient becomes affected by perception, but is not yet perception itself, and that the agent becomes affected by a certain quality, but is not quality itself? Perhaps, however, quality may appear to you to be a strange word, and you may not understand it when used in this collective sense. Hear me, then, explain it in detail. For the agent becomes neither heat nor whiteness, but hot and white, and so with respect to other things. For you surely remember that we said before[161], that no one thing exists of itself, neither that which is an agent nor that which is a patient, but that, from the meeting together of each with the other, perceptions and objects of perception being produced cause the one to be of a certain quality, and the other percipient.

98. Theo. I recollect. How should I not.

Socr. Let us then dismiss the rest of their system, whether they speak this way or that way; and let us keep to that point alone which concerns our discussion and ask, Are all things in motion and in a state of flux, as you say? Is it not so?

Theo. Yes.

Socr. And by both those kinds of motion which we have distinguished, removal and change?

Theo. Undoubtedly; if they are to be perfectly moved.

Socr. If, therefore, they were only removed, but not changed, we should surely be able to say what kind of things are removed. Must we not say so?

Theo. Just so.

Socr. But since not even this continues in the same state, namely that that which flows continues to flow white, but it changes so that there is also a flux of this very thing, whiteness, and a transition into another colour, in order that it may not be found continuing in the same state, will it ever be possible to call any thing a colour, so as to designate it correctly?

Theo. How is it possible, Socrates? or any thing else of the kind, since, while we are speaking about it, it is constantly escaping, as being in a state of flux?

Socr. But what shall we say of any kind of perception, for instance of seeing or hearing? Does it ever continue in the state of seeing or hearing?

Theo. It ought not, since all things are in motion.

99. Socr. We must not affirm then, that any one sees rather than not sees, or has any other perception rather than not, since all things are in constant motion.

Theo. Surely not.

Socr. Yet perception is science, as Theætetus and I said.

Theo. That is the case.

Socr. On being asked, therefore, what science is, we answered, that it is not at all science rather than not science.

Theo. You appear to have done so.

Socr. A fine correction of our answer it would be, if we endeavour to prove that all things are in motion, in order that our former answer may appear correct. But this, as it seems, is the result, if all things are in motion, every answer on whatever subject it may be given, will be equally correct, whether we say that a thing is so or is not so, or, if you will, becomes so, that we may not fix them by a definite expression.

Theo. You say rightly.

Socr. Except, Theodorus, that I said “so and not so.” But we ought not to use this word “so,” for in this way it will no longer be in motion; nor again must we use the expression “not so,” for neither does this express motion; but they who maintain this doctrine must find out some other term, since at present they have not words suited to their hypothesis, except perhaps, this, “not in any manner.” This would suit them best, as having an indefinite meaning.

Theo. This manner of speaking would indeed be most proper for them.

100. Socr. We have done then with your friend, Theodorus, nor can we by any means concede to him, that any man is the measure of all things, except he is wise: nor can we concede to him that science is perception, at least according to the doctrine that all things are in motion; unless Theætetus here says otherwise.

Theo. You say admirably well, Socrates; for since these things are brought to a conclusion, it is right that I too should have done with answering according to our agreement, now that our discussion about the doctrine of Protagoras has come to end.

Theæ. Not so, Theodorus, until you and Socrates have discussed the doctrine of those who say that the universe is at rest, as you just now proposed to do.

Theo. Do you who are so young, Theætetus, teach old men to act unjustly, by violating their compacts. But prepare to give account to Socrates of what remains to be discussed.

Theæ. If he wishes it, though I should be very glad to hear you on the subject I mentioned.

Theo. You are challenging riders to a race in challenging Socrates to a discussion. Ask therefore and you will hear.

Socr. But I think, Theodorus, I shall not comply with the request of Theætetus.

Theo. Why not comply?

101. Socr. Though I am ashamed of examining with too much freedom Melissus and others, who say that the universe is one and immoveable, yet I am less ashamed to do so with respect to them than Parmenides alone. For Parmenides appears to me, that I may use the words of Homer[162], “both venerable and formidable.” For I was acquainted with him when I was very young and he was very old, and he appeared to me to possess a depth of wisdom altogether extraordinary. I am afraid, therefore, that we should not understand his words, and that we should be much less able to discover the meaning of what he said, and above all, I fear lest with respect to the main subject of our discussion, science, what it is, should be left unconsidered by reason of the digressions that will rush across us, if we listen to them. Besides, the question which we have now raised is of immense extent, and if one should consider it only by the way, it would be treated unworthily, but if as it deserves, the discussion, being extended to too great length, will put out of sight the subject of science. But neither of these things ought to happen; but we ought to endeavour, by the midwife’s art, to deliver Theætetus of his conceptions respecting science.

Theæ. It is proper to do so, if you think well.

102. Socr. Again, therefore, Theætetus, consider this with respect to what has been said. You answered that perception is science; did you not.

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. If then any one should ask you, with what a man sees things white and black, and with what he hears sounds sharp and flat, you would say, I think, with the eyes and ears.

Theæ. I should.

Socr. The free use of names and words and without excessive precision, is for the most part not unbecoming a person of education, but rather the contrary to this is illiberal, though sometimes it is necessary; as in the present case it is necessary to find fault with your answer, so far as it is not correct. For consider, which answer is more correct, that it is the eyes with which we see or by which we see, and the ears with which we hear, or by which we hear?

Theæ. By which we receive each perception, it seems to me, Socrates, rather than with which.

Socr. For surely it would be strange, my boy, if many senses were seated in us, as in wooden horses, and they did not all tend to one certain form, whether it is soul, or whatever it is proper to call it, with which, by means of these as instruments, we perceive all objects of perception.

Theæ. The case appears to me to be rather in this way than in that.

103. Socr. But why do I require so much accuracy from you on this point? For this reason, that we may discover whether by some one and the same part in us we, by means of the eyes, attain to things white and black, and again other things by means of the other senses, and whether, when questioned, you will be able to refer all such things to the bodily organs. But perhaps it will be better that you should say this by answering my questions, than that I should take all this trouble for you. Tell me, then; the things by which you perceive things hot and dry, and light and sweet, do you refer each of them to the body, or to any thing else?

Theæ. To nothing else.

Socr. Are you also willing to allow, that such things as you perceive by means of one faculty it is impossible for you to perceive by means of another, for instance, that what you perceive by means of hearing you cannot perceive by means of sight, and what you perceive by means of sight, you cannot perceive by means of hearing?

Theæ. How should I not be willing to allow it?

Socr. If, then, you form a notion of them both together, you cannot receive this perception of both together by means of one organ or the other.

Theæ. Surely not.

104. Socr. Now with respect to sound and colour, is not this the very first notion that you have of them both, that they both exist.

Theæ. It is.

Socr. Is it not also, that each is different from the other, and the same with itself?

Theæ. How not?

Socr. And that both are two, but each one?

Theæ. And this also.

Socr. Are you not also able to consider whether they are like or unlike each other?

Theæ. Probably.

Socr. By means of what, then, do you acquire all these notions about them? For it is not possible by means either of hearing or sight to apprehend that which is common between them. Moreover, this too is a proof of what we say. For, if it were possible to examine respecting them both, whether they are salt or not, you know you would be able to say with what you would make this examination, and this proves to be neither sight nor hearing, but something else.

Theæ. How not, and that the faculty of taste by means of the tongue?

Socr. You say well. But in what does the faculty consist which shews you that which is common to all things, and to these two, to which you give the name of existence and non-existence, and those other names about which we were just now asking? what organs will you attribute to all these, by means of which our perceptive faculty perceives these several things?

105. Theæ. You speak of existence and non-existence, similitude and dissimilitude, identity and difference, and moreover of unity and other numbers: and it is evident that you ask about the even and odd and whatever else depends on them, by which of the organs of the body we perceive these things in our soul.

Socr. You follow me exceedingly well, and these, Theætetus, are the very things about which I ask.

Theæ. But by Jupiter, Socrates, I know not what to say, except that it seems to me that there is no organ at all peculiar to these things as there is to the others, but the soul of itself appears to me to examine that which is common in all things.

Socr. You are beautiful, Theætetus, and not ugly, as Theodorus said; for he who speaks beautifully is beautiful and good. But, besides being beautiful, you have done well in having released me from a very long discussion, if it appears to you that the soul beholds some things by itself, and others by the faculties of the body. For this was the very thing that seemed to me, and I wished it might likewise seem so to you.

Theæ. And indeed it does appear so to me.

106. Socr. To which of the two classes, then, do you refer existence? For this especially attaches to all things.

Theæ. I refer it to those things which the soul of itself reaches after.

Socr. Is it the same with similarity and dissimilarity, identity and difference?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. What then? with the beautiful and the ugly, good and evil?

Theæ. It appears to me that the soul especially considers the essence of these in reference to each other, comparing within itself things past and present with the future.

Socr. Stay: will it not perceive the hardness of that which is hard by the touch, and the softness of that which is soft in like manner?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But their essence, both what they are, and their opposition to each other, and the nature of this opposition, the soul itself, examining them repeatedly and comparing them with each other, endeavours to determine for us.

Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. Are not, then, both men and beasts by nature able to perceive as soon as they are born those things that pass by means of the bodily organs to the soul, but comparisons of these with reference to their essence and use they arrive at with difficulty, and after a long time, by means of much labour and study, if ever they do arrive at it?

Theæ. Most assuredly.

Socr. For is it possible to apprehend the truth of that of which we cannot apprehend the existence?

Theæ. Impossible.

107. Socr. But can any one possess a scientific knowledge of a thing, of which he cannot apprehend the truth?

Theæ. How can he, Socrates?

Socr. There is, therefore, no science in sensations, but in reasoning on them; for in this way, as it seems, it is possible to touch upon essence and truth, but in that way impossible.

Theæ. It appears so.

Socr. Can you, therefore, call that and this the same, when there is so great a difference between them?

Theæ. It would not be right to do so.

Socr. What name, then, do you give to that, to sight, hearing, smelling, tasting, being hot, and being cold?

Theæ. Perceiving; for what other name can be given?

Socr. Do you, therefore, call the whole of this perception?

Theæ. Necessarily so.

Socr. To which, as we said, it does not appertain to touch upon truth, for it does not ever touch upon essence.

Theæ. Certainly not.

Socr. Nor, therefore, upon science?

Theæ. No.

Socr. Perception, therefore, and science, Theætetus, can never be the same?

Theæ. It appears not, Socrates.

108. Socr. And now it has been made perfectly clear that science is something different from perception. But we did not commence this conversation with this view, that we might find out what science is not, but what it is. However, we have advanced so far as not to seek it at all in perception, but in that name, whatever it is, which the soul possesses when it employs itself about things that exist.

Theæ. But this, I think, Socrates, is called, to judge.

Socr. You think rightly, my friend. And now consider again from the beginning, having obliterated all that has been said before, if you see at all more clearly, now that you have come to this point. And tell me again what science is.

Theæ. It is impossible, Socrates, to say that it is every judgment, because there is also false judgment. But it appears that true judgment is science, and let this be my answer. For if, as we proceed, it shall not appear to be so, as it does at present, we will endeavour to say something else.

109. Socr. Thus, then, Theætetus, you must speak more promptly, and not, as at first, hesitate to answer. For if we do so, one of two things will happen; we shall either find that which we are in search of, or we shall in a less degree think that we know what we do not know at all; though this would be no despicable reward. Now, then, what do you say? Since there are two species of judgment, one true, and the other false, do you define science to be true judgment?

Theæ. I do; for this at present appears to me to be the case.

Socr. Is it, then, worth while again to resume the discussion respecting judgment?

Theæ. What do you mean?

Socr. Somehow this matter troubles me just now, and has often done so at other times, so that I have had great doubt with respect to myself and others, from not being able to say what this affection in us is, and in what way it is produced.

Theæ. What affection?

Socr. This, that any one forms false judgments; and I even now still consider and am in doubt whether we shall let this alone, or examine it in a different manner than we did just now.

Theæ. How not, Socrates? at least if it appears necessary to be done in some way or other? For you and Theodorus just now remarked, not badly, respecting leisure, that there is no urgency in matters of this kind.

110. Socr. You have reminded me very properly. For perhaps it will not be foreign to our purpose in a manner to retrace our steps. For it is better to finish a little well than much insufficiently.

Theæ. Why not?

Socr. How then? what do we say? do we not affirm that sometimes judgments are false? or that one of us forms false judgments and another true ones, as if this was naturally the case?

Theæ. We doubtless do affirm this.

Socr. Does not this happen to us with regard to things in general and each particular, that we either know it or do not know it? For learning and forgetting, as being between these, I pass by for the present, for now they have nothing to do with our discussion.

Theæ. However, Socrates, there is no other alternative with respect to each particular, except knowing or not knowing it.

Socr. Then, is it not necessary, that he who judges should judge either what he does know, or does not know?

Theæ. It is necessary.

Socr. But that a person who knows should not know the same thing, or that he who does not know it should know it, is impossible.

Theæ. How not?

Socr. Does not he, then, who forms a false judgment about what he knows, think that these are not the same, but different from what he knows, and thus while he knows both, he is at the same time ignorant of both?

Theæ. But this is impossible, Socrates.

111. Socr. Does he, then, think that things which he does not know are certain other things that he does not know, and is it possible for one who knows neither Theætetus nor Socrates, to imagine that Socrates is Theætetus, or Theætetus Socrates?

Theæ. How could that be?

Socr. Neither, surely, does any one think that the things which he knows are the same as those that he does not know, nor again that the things which he does not know, are the same as those that he does know.

Theæ. For that would be monstrous.

Socr. How then can any one form false judgments? For it is impossible to form judgments in any other way than this, since we either know or do not know all things, and in these it appears to be by no means possible to form false judgments.

Theæ. Most true.

Socr. Ought we, then, to consider the object of our enquiry, not by proceeding according to knowing and not knowing, but according to being and not being?

Theæ. How do you mean?

Socr. Whether it is not universally true, that he who thinks things that are not, with respect to any thing whatever, must unavoidably form a false judgment, however intelligent he may be in other respects.

Theæ. That is reasonable, Socrates.

Socr. How then? what shall we say, Theætetus, if any one should ask us, “Is it possible for any one to do what you say, and can any man think that which is not, whether respecting any real object or abstract essence?” And we, it seems, shall say to this, “When he who thinks does not think what is true.” What else can we say?

Theæ. Nothing else.

112. Socr. Does a thing of this kind happen also in other cases?

Theæ. Of what kind?

Socr. If a person sees something, and yet sees nothing.

Theæ. But how can that be?

Socr. But if he sees some one thing, he sees something that exists; and do you think that one thing is ever among things that do not exist?

Theæ. I do not.

Socr. He, therefore, who sees some one thing sees that which exists.

Theæ. It appears so.

Socr. And, therefore, he who hears something, both hears some one thing, and hears that which exists.

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. And doubtless he who touches both touches some one thing, and that which exists, since it is one thing?

Theæ. And this too.

Socr. Does not he then who judges, judge some one thing?

Theæ. Of necessity.

Socr. And does not he who judges some one thing, judge something that exists?

Theæ. I grant it.

Socr. He therefore who judges what does not exist, judges nothing.

Theæ. It appears not.

Socr. But he who judges nothing, does not judge at all.

Theæ. That is evident, as it seems.

Socr. It is impossible, therefore, to judge that which is not, either with respect to real objects or abstract essences.

Theæ. It appears not.

Socr. To form false judgments, therefore, is different from judging things that do not exist.

Theæ. It seems to be different.

Socr. Neither then in this way nor in the way we considered a little before, is false judgment formed in us.

Theæ. On no account.

113. Socr. Do we then give that name to what takes place as follows.

Theæ. How?

Socr. We say that a mistaken judgment is a false judgment, when any one says that any real object is another real object, changing one for the other in his thoughts. For thus he always judges that which exists, but one thing instead of another, and erring in that which he was considering, he may be justly said to form a false judgment.

Theæ. You now appear to me to have spoken most correctly: for, when any one forms a judgment that a thing is ugly instead of beautiful, or beautiful instead of ugly, then he truly forms a false judgment.

Socr. It is evident, Theætetus, that you esteem me lightly and have no fear of me.

Theæ. How so?

Socr. I do not seem to you, I imagine, likely to lay hold of your “truly false,” by asking whether it is possible for swift to take place slowly or light heavily, or any other contrary, not according to its own nature, but according to the nature of its contrary, contrariwise to itself. This, however, I dismiss, that your confidence may not be in vain. But are you satisfied, as you say, that to form false judgments is to form mistaken judgments?

Theæ. I am.

114. Socr. It is possible, then, according to your opinion, for one thing to be comprehended in the mind as another, and not as it is.

Theæ. It is possible.

Socr. When, therefore, any one’s mind does this, is it not necessary that it should think about both objectsboth objects, or one of them?

Theæ. Quite necessary.

Socr. Either together or in turns?

Theæ. Very well.

Socr. But by thinking do you mean the same that I do?

Theæ. What do you mean by it?

Socr. The discourse which the soul holds with itself about the objects that it considers. I explain this to you as a person who does not know what he says. For the soul, when it thinks, appears to me to do nothing else than discourse with itself, asking itself questions and answering them, affirming and denying; but when it has decided, whether it has come to its decision more slowly or more rapidly, and now asserts and does not doubt, this we call judgment. So that to form a judgment I call to speak, and judgment a sentence spoken, not indeed to another person nor with the voice but in silence to itself. But what do you call it?

Theæ. The same.

Socr. When any one, therefore, forms a judgment that one thing is another, he says to himself, as it seems, that one thing is another.

115. Theæ. How not?

Socr. Recollect, then, whether you have ever said to yourself, that the beautiful is certainly ugly, or the unjust, just, or even, chief of all, consider whether you have ever attempted to persuade yourself, that one thing is certainly another, or, quite contrariwise, whether you have ever ventured even in sleep to say to yourself, that undoubtedly odd is even, or any thing else of the kind.

Theæ. You say truly.

Socr. But do you think that any one else in his senses or even mad would venture to say seriously to himself, being himself persuaded, that an ox must needs be a horse, or two one?

Theæ. Not I, by Jupiter.

Socr. If, therefore, to speak to one’s-self is to form judgments, no one, who speaks and forms judgments of both objects, and touches upon both with his soul, would say and judge that one is another. You must therefore give up what you said about the other. For I assert this, that no one thinks that the ugly is beautiful, or any thing else of the kind.

Theæ. I give it up then, Socrates, and it appears to me as you say.

Socr. It is impossible, then, for one who forms judgments about both, to think that the one is the other.

Theæ. It seems so.

116. Socr. He, however, who judges one thing only, but the other in no respect, will never judge that the one is the other.

Theæ. You say truly: for he would be compelled to touch upon that also of which he does not judge.

Socr. It is not possible then for a person who judges either both or one of the two, to judge that one is the other: so that if any one should define false judgment to be the judgment of one thing instead of another, he would say nothing to the purpose; for neither in this way, nor in those before mentioned, does it appear that false judgment pertains to us.

Theæ. It seems not.

Socr. However, Theætetus, if this should appear not to be so, we shall be compelled to admit many absurdities.

Theæ. What are they?

Socr. I will not tell you, until I have endeavoured to consider the matter in every point of view; for I should be ashamed for both of us, if, while we are in the difficulty we are, we should be compelled to admit what I now say. But if we discover the object of our search and become free, then we will speak of others, as subject to this, being ourselves placed beyond the reach of ridicule: but if we shall continue still involved in difficulties, we must humble ourselves, I imagine, and give ourselves up to discussion, like those who are sea-sick, to be trampled on and treated as it pleases. Hear, then, how I still find a way out of our enquiry.

117. Theæ. Only speak.

Socr. I shall deny that we made a correct admission, when we admitted that it is impossible for a person to judge that what he knows is what he does not know and be thus deceived; but in some respect it is possible.

Theæ. Do you mean that which I suspected at the time when we said this, might be the case, that sometimes I knowing Socrates, and seeing another person at a distance whom I do not know, have thought it was Socrates, whom I do know? For what you mention happens in a case of this kind.

Socr. Are we not, then, driven from that position, because it made us, while we know, not know the things that we do know?

Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. Let us not, then, make our assumption in this way but as follows; and perhaps it will in some respect succeed for us, and perhaps it will oppose us. For we are in a condition in which it is necessary to examine out whole argument in every point of view. Consider, therefore, whether I say any thing to the purpose. Is it possible for a person who did not know something before, afterwards to learn it?

Theæ. It is indeed.

Socr. And can he not also learn another thing after another?

118. Theæ. Why not?

Socr. Suppose, then, I beg, for the sake of argument, that we have in our souls a waxen tablet, in one larger, in another smaller, in one of purer wax, in another of impurer, in some of harder, and in others again of softer, but in some of a moderate quality.

Theæ. I do suppose it.

Socr. Let us say, then, that this is a gift of Mnemosyne the mother of the Muses; and that, whatever we wish to remember of things that we have seen, or heard, or have ourselves thought of, we impress in this, by placing it under our perceptions and thoughts, as if we were taking off the impressions from rings: and that whatever is imprinted, this we remember and know, as long as its image remains; but when it is effaced, or can be no longer imprinted, we forget and do not know it.

Theæ. Be it so.

Socr. When, therefore, a person knows these things and considers any of the things that he sees or hears, consider whether in this way he can judge falsely?

Theæ. In what way?

Socr. By thinking with respect to what he knows, that they are at one time the things that he knows, and at another the things that he does not know. For in a former part of our discussion we made an improper admission in admitting that this was impossible.

119. Theæ. But how do you mean now?

Socr. We must speak thus on this subject, defining it from the beginning: It is impossible that he who knows any thing, and has a remembrance of it in his soul, but does not actually perceive it, can think that it is some other thing that he knows, of which he has the impression, though he does not perceive it: and again, it is impossible that any one can think that what he knows is that which he does not know, and of which he has not the seal: or that what he does not know is that which he does not know: or that what he does not know is that which he does know: or think that what he perceives is some other thing that he perceives: or that what he perceives is something that he does not perceive: or that what he does not perceive is some other thing that he does not perceive: or that what he does not perceive is something that he does perceive. And again it is still more impossible, if that can be, that a person should think that what he knows and perceives, and of which he has an impression by means of perception, is something else that he knows and perceives, and of which in like manner he has an impression by means of perception. And it is impossible that what he knows and perceives, and of which he has a correct remembrance, he can think is something else that he knows: or that what he knows and perceives, and in like manner retains in his remembrance, is something else that he perceives: or again, that what he neither knows nor perceives is something else that he neither knows nor perceives: or that what he neither knows nor perceives is something else that he does not know; or that what he neither knows nor perceives is something else that he does not perceive. In all these cases it is utterly impossible for any one to judge falsely. It remains, therefore, that it must take place, if anywhere, in the following cases.

120. Theæ. In what cases? perhaps I shall understand you better from them; for at present I do not follow you.

Socr. In things which a person knows, he may think that they are different from the things that he knows and perceives; or from those which he does not know, but perceives; or that the things which he knows and perceives are some of the things which he likewise knows and perceives.

Theæ. Now I am left much further behind than I was.

Socr. Listen again, then, as follows: I, knowing Theodorus, and remembering within myself what kind of a person he is, and in like manner, Theætetus, do I not sometimes see them, and sometimes not, and sometimes touch them, and sometimes not, and hear or perceive them by some other sense, but sometimes have I no perception of you at all, yet nevertheless do I remember you, and know you within myself?

Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. Understand this, then, the first of the things that I wish to prove, that it is possible for a man not to perceive what he knows, and that it is possible for him to perceive it.

Theæ. True.

Socr. And does it not often happen that a man does not perceive what he does not know, and often that he perceives it only?

Theæ. This also is true.

121. Consider then, whether you can now follow me better. Socrates knows Theodorus and Theætetus, but he sees neither of them, nor has he any other perception respecting them, now he can never form this judgment within himself, that Theætetus is Theodorus? Do I say any thing to the purpose or not?

Theæ. Yes, quite true.

Socr. This then was the first of the cases that I mentioned.

Theæ. It was.

Socr. But the second was this, that I knowing one of you, but not knowing the other, and perceiving neither, should never think that he whom I know is the person whom I do not know.

Theæ. Right.

Socr. The third was this, that I neither knowing nor perceiving either of them, should not think that he whom I do not know is some other person of those whom I do not know: and consider that you again hear in succession all the instances before put, in which I shall never form a false judgment respecting you and Theodorus, neither while knowing nor ignorant of you both, nor while knowing one, and not the other; and in the same way with regard to perceptions, if you follow me.

Theæ. I do follow you.

122. Socr. It remains, therefore, that I may form a false judgment in this case, when knowing you and Theodorus, and having the impression of both of you in that waxen tablet made by a seal ring as it were, seeing you both from a distance and not sufficiently distinguishing you, I endeavour, by attributing the peculiar impression of each to his peculiar aspect, applying it so as to adapt it to its own form in order that I may recognise it, then failing in this, and changing them like those that put their shoes on the wrong feet, I fit the aspect of each to the impression of the other, as happens in looking into mirrors, where the sight passes from the right to the left, so I fall into the same error; then mistaken opinion and false judgment take place.

Theæ. What happens with regard to judgment, Socrates, seems wonderfully like what you describe.

Socr. Still further, when, knowing both of you, in addition to knowing I perceive one, but not the other, I have a knowledge of the other not according to perception, which I thus described before, but you did not then understand me.

Theæ. I did not.

123. Socr. I said this however, that a person who knows and perceives one and has a knowledge of him according to perception, will never think that he is some other person whom he knows and perceives, and of whom he has a knowledge according to perception. Was not this what I said?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. There remained then the case that was just now mentioned, in which we said that false judgment takes place, when a person knowing you both and seeing you both, or having some other perception of you both, has not the impression of each according to the perception of each, but, like an unskilful archer, shoots beside the mark and misses, this then is called a falsehood.

Theæ. And very properly so.

Socr. When, therefore, perception is present to one of the impressions, and not to the other, and the one applies the impression of the absent perception to that which is present, in this case the mind is altogether deceived: and, in a word, with respect to things that a person has neither known nor ever perceived, it is not possible, as it seems, either to be deceived, or to form a false judgment, if there is any soundness in what we now say: but with respect to things that we know and perceive, in these very things judgment is conversant and turns round, becoming both false and true, by collecting together in a direct and straight line the copies and marks proper to each, it is true, but sideways and obliquely, false.

124. Theæ. Is it not well described, Socrates?

Socr. You will say so still more, when you hear what follows. For to judge truly is beautiful, but to be deceived is base.

Theæ. How not?

Socr. They say, then, that these things proceed from hence. When the wax in any one’s soul is deep, abundant, smooth, and properly moulded, objects entering by means of the perceptions and impressing themselves on this heart[163] of the soul, as Homer calls it, obscurely intimating its resemblance to wax, then pure and sufficiently deep impressions being made in these, become lasting, and such men are first of all easily taught, next have retentive memories, and lastly do not change the impressions of the perceptions, but form true judgments; for, as these impressions are clear, and in a wide space, they quickly distribute to their proper images each of the things that are called beings; and such men are called wise. Does it not appear so to you?

Theæ. Entirely so.

125. Socr. When, therefore, any one’s heart is covered with hair, which the very wise poet has celebrated, or when it is muddy, and not of pure wax, or very soft, or hard, those in whom it is soft are easily taught, but are forgetful, and those in when it is hard, the contrary; but those who have it hairy and rough, and stony or full of earth or mixed mud, have indistinct impressions; they are also indistinct in those that are hard, for there is no depth in them; they are likewise indistinct in those that are soft, for by being confused they soon become obscure; but if, in addition to all this, they fall one upon another by reason of narrowness of space, if any one’s soul is little, they are still more indistinct than the others. All these, therefore, are such as form false judgments. For when they see, or hear, or think about any thing, not being able at once to attribute each object to its impression, they are slow, and attributing different objects to different impressions, they for the most part see wrongly, and hear wrongly, and think wrongly; and these are said to be deceived in objects and ignorant.

Theæ. You speak as correctly as man can do, Socrates.

126. Socr. Shall we say, then, that there are false judgments in us?

Theæ. By all means.

Socr. And true judgments also?

Theæ. And true.

Socr. Do we, then, consider it to have been sufficiently established that these two judgments do without doubt exist?

Theæ. Most assuredly.

Socr. A talkative man, Theætetus, appears to be really troublesome and disagreeable.

Theæ. How so? Why do you say this?

Socr. Because I am angry at my own ignorance, and, in truth, talkativeness. For what other name can any one give it when a man drags the conversation upwards and downwards, and cannot be persuaded through his dulness, and is with difficulty torn from each several topic?

Theæ. But why are you angry?

Socr. I am not only angry, but I am afraid that I should not know what to answer, if any one should ask me, “Socrates, have you found that false judgment is neither in the perceptions compared with each other, nor in the thoughts, but in the conjunction of perception with thought?” I think I shall say, I have, priding myself as if we had made a very fine discovery.

127. Theæ. What has just now been proved appears to me, Socrates, to be by no means despicable.

Socr. Do you therefore assert, he will say, that we can never suppose that a man whom we think of only, but do not see, is a horse, which we neither see nor touch, but think of only, and do not perceive in any other way? I believe I should say, that I do assert this.

Theæ. And rightly.

Socr. What then? he will say, according to this mode of reasoning, can the number eleven, which one thinks of only, ever be supposed to be twelve, which also one thinks of only? Come then, do you answer?

Theæ. I should answer, that a person seeing or touching might suppose that eleven are twelve, but that he would never think thus respecting numbers which he embraces only in thought.

Socr. What then? do you suppose that any one has ever proposed to consider within himself of five and seven, I do not mean seven and five men, or any thing else of the kind, but the numbers five and seven themselves, which we said were in his soul like impressions in wax, and that it is impossible to judge falsely respecting them,—has any man at any time considered these very things, speaking to himself and asking how many they are, and answered, one that he supposes they are eleven, and another that they are twelve, or do all men say and suppose that they are twelve?

128. Theæ. No, by Jupiter, but many suppose that they are eleven. And if a person considers about a greater number, he is still more mistaken; for I suppose that you rather speak about every number.

Socr. You suppose rightly, but consider whether any thing else ever happens than this, that he supposes that the number twelve impressed in his soul is eleven?

Theæ. It seems so.

Socr. Does it not then come back to our former statements? For he who is in this condition supposes that what he knows is something else that he also knows, which we said was impossible, and from which very circumstance we demonstrated that there is no such thing as false judgment, in order that the same person might not be compelled to know and not to know the same thing at the same time.

Theæ. Most true.

Socr. Therefore we must show that false judgment is something else than an interchange of mind with perception. For, if this were so, we could never be deceived in the thoughts themselves: but now there is either no such thing as false judgment, or it is possible for a person not to know what he knows: and which of these two do you choose?

Theæ. You offer me a difficult choice, Socrates.

Socr. Our argument however appears as if it would not allow both these to take place: though (for we must venture on every thing), what if we should determine to lay aside all shame?

Theæ. How?

Socr. By taking upon ourselves to declare what it is to know.

Theæ. But why would this be shameless?

129. Socr. You do not seem to consider that the whole of our discussion from the beginning has been an investigation respecting science, as if we did not know what it is.

Theæ. I do consider it.

Socr. Does it not, then, appear to be a shameless thing, to explain what it is to know, when we are ignorant of what science is? But, Theætetus, our conversation has been all along full of defects. For we have over and over again used the expressions, We know, and We do not know, We have a scientific knowledge, and We have not a scientific knowledge, as if we both of us understood something about it, whereas we are still ignorant of what science is. But if you please, we will still at the present moment use the terms, to be ignorant, and to understand, as if we could properly use them, though we are destitute of science.

Theæ. But how will you converse, Socrates, if you abstain from the use of these expressions?

Socr. Not at all, while I am what I am. If however I were contentious, or if a person of that kind were now present, he would say that I must abstain from them, and would strongly object to what I say. But as we are poor creatures, do you wish I should venture to say what it is to know? For it appears to me that it would be worth while to do so.

Theæ. Venture then, by Jupiter; for you will be readily pardoned for not abstaining from these expressions.

130. Socr. Have you heard, then, what they now say it is to know?

Theæ. Perhaps so; but at present I do not remember.

Socr. They say, I believe, that it is to have science.

Theæ. True.

Socr. Let us, then, change it a little, and say that it is to possess science.

Theæ. But in what will you say this differs from that?

Socr. Perhaps in nothing: but whether it seems to differ or not, listen and examine with me.

Theæ. I will, if I am able.

Socr. To possess, therefore, does not appear to me to be the same as to have: for instance, if any one having bought a garment, and having it in his power, should not wear it, we should not say that he has it, but that he possesses it.

Theæ. And very properly.

Socr. See then whether it is possible thus to possess science without having it: just as if any one having caught some wild birds, as doves or any others, and having constructed a dove-cote at home, should feed them; we should probably say that in some respects he always has them, because he possesses them: should we not?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But in another respect we should say that he has none of them, but that he has acquired a power over them, since he has brought them under his control, in an enclosure of his own, so as to take and have them when he pleases, by catching whichever he wishes, and again of letting them go: and this he is at liberty to do as often as he thinks fit.

Theæ. Such is the case.

131. Socr. Again, therefore, as in a former part of our discussion we constructed I know not what kind of waxen figment in the soul, so now let us make in each soul a kind of aviary of all sorts of birds, some being in flocks, apart from others, and others few together, and others alone, flying amongst all the rest wherever it may chance.

Theæ. Suppose it to be made: but what next?

Socr. While we are children, we must say, that this receptacle is empty, and instead of birds we must understand sciences; whatever science, then, one has become possessed of and shut up in this enclosure, one must say that he has learnt or discovered the thing of which this is the science, and that this is to know.

Theæ. Be it so.

Socr. Again, therefore, when any one wishes to catch any one of these sciences, and, when he has taken it, to have it, and again to let it go, consider what words he requires, whether the same as before, when he possessed them, or different ones. But from what follows you will more clearly understand what I mean. Do you call arithmetic an art?

Theæ. Yes.

132. Socr. Suppose this to be a catching of the sciences of every even and odd number.

Theæ. I do suppose it.

Socr. By this art, then, I think, he has the sciences of numbers under his control, and, if he pleases, transfers them to others.

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. And we say that he who transfers them teaches, and that he who receives them learns, but that having them, by possessing them in that aviary, he knows them.

Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. Attend now to what follows. Does not he who is a perfect arithmetician know all numbers? for the sciences of all numbers are in his soul.

Theæ. How not?

Socr. Does not then such a person sometimes calculate either something within himself, or something else that is external, that is capable of being calculated.

Theæ. Undoubtedly.

Socr. But to calculate we shall say is nothing else than to examine what is the quantity of any number.

Theæ. Just so.

Socr. What therefore he knows, he appears to examine, as if he did not know, though we admitted that he knows all number. You surely hear such questions as these.

Theæ. I do.

133. Socr. We, therefore, carrying on our comparison with the possession and catching of doves, will say that this catching is of two kinds, one before possessing for the sake of possessing, the other when one has already obtained possession, for the purpose of taking and having in the hands what was already possessed. So with respect to the things of which a person has already acquired the science by learning, and which he knew, he may learn these same things again, and recover and retain the science of each, which he formerly possessed, but had not ready in his mind.

Theæ. True.

Socr. On this account, I just now asked, what words it is proper to use in speaking of these things, when an arithmetician sets about calculating, or a grammarian reading any thing. Shall we say that knowing such a subject he again applies himself to learn from himself what he knows?

Theæ. This would be absurd, Socrates.

Socr. Shall we say, then, that he is going to read or calculate what he does not know, though we have granted him that he knows all letters and all numbers?

Theæ. This too would be unreasonable.

134. Socr. Will you, then, that we say, that we care nothing at all about words, in what way any one chooses to employ the words knowing and learning, but, since we have settled that it is one thing to possess a science, and another to have it, we maintain that it is impossible for a person not to possess what he does possess, so that it never happens that any one does not know what he knows, though it is possible for him to form a false judgment respecting it? For it is possible for him not to have the science of this particular thing, but another instead of it, when hunting after some one of the sciences that he possesses as they are flying about, he may by mistake take one instead of another; accordingly when he thinks that eleven is twelve, he takes the science of eleven instead of that of twelve, as it were taking a pigeon that he possessed instead of a dove.

Theæ. It is reasonable to suppose so.

Socr. But when he takes that which he endeavours to take, then he is not deceived, and judges truly: and thus we will say that false and true judgment subsist, and none of the things which occasioned difficulty before will any longer stand in our way. Perhaps you agree with me, or what will you do?

Theæ. Agree with you.

135. Socr. We are freed then, from the dilemma of a man’s not knowing what he knows: for it never happens that we do not possess what we do possess, whether we are deceived respecting any thing or not. However, another much worse inconvenience appears to me to present itself.

Theæ. What is that?

Socr. If the interchange of sciences can ever become false judgment.

Theæ. But how?

Socr. In the first place, that having the science of any thing one should be ignorant of that thing, not through ignorance, but through the science of the thing itself, and in the next place, that one should judge this thing to be another thing and another thing this, how is it not a great piece of absurdity, that when science is present the soul should know nothing, but be ignorant of all things? For, from this mode of reasoning, nothing hinders but that ignorance when present should make us know something, and blindness should make us see, if science will ever make a man ignorant.

Theæ. Perhaps, Socrates, we have done wrong in making sciences only take the place of the birds, and we ought to have supposed that various kinds of ignorance were flying about in the soul with them, and that the sportsman at one time taking science, and at another time ignorance, with respect to the same thing, judges falsely through ignorance, but truly through science.

136. Socr. It is not by any means easy, Theætetus, to forbear praising you: however, examine again what you have just said. For suppose it to be as you say. He who takes ignorance, will judge falsely you say; is it not so?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. Yet surely he will not think that he judges falsely.

Theæ. How should he?

Socr. But truly, and he will fancy that he knows the things about which he is deceived.

Theæ. Assuredly.

Socr. He will therefore judge that by sporting he has taken science, and not ignorance.

Theæ. Clearly.

Socr. Having therefore made a long circuit, we have come back again to our first doubt. For that critic will laugh at us and say, “Can any one, my excellent friends, who knows both, science as well as ignorance, think that what he knows is some other thing that he knows? or, knowing neither of them, can judge that what he does not know, is some other thing that he does not know? or, knowing one, and not the other, can he suppose that what he knows is what he does not knew, or what he does not know is what he does know? Will you tell me again, that there are sciences of sciences and ignorances, which their possessor having enclosed in some other ridiculous aviaries, or waxen figments, knows as long as he possesses them, though he has them not ready in his soul? And will you be thus compelled to revolve perpetually round the same circle, without making any progress?” What answer shall we give to this, Theætetus?

137. Theæ. By Jupiter, Socrates, I have no notion what ought to be said.

Socr. Does not the argument, then, my boy, reprove us very properly, and shew that we did wrong in searching for false judgment before science, and neglecting that? But it is impossible to know this until we have sufficiently discovered what science is.

Theæ. It is necessary, Socrates, at present to think as you say.

Socr. Again therefore, what shall one say from the beginning about science? For we surely must not give it up yet.

Theæ. By no means, unless you refuse to persevere.

Socr. Tell me, then, how can we best speak concerning science so as not to contradict ourselves.

Theæ. As we attempted to do before, Socrates, for I know of no other plan.

Socr. What is that?

Theæ. That true judgment is science. For to judge truly is surely free from error, and whatever results from it is beautiful and good.

Socr. He who acted as guide in fording a river, Theætetus, said that it would shew its own depth; so if we go on in our enquiries, perhaps the impediment that we meet with will shew us what we are in search of, but if we stop nothing will be clear.

Theæ. You say well; let us go on then and examine it.

138. Socr. This then requires but a brief examination, for one whole art shews that it is not science.

Theæ. How so? and what art is it?

Socr. That which belongs to those who are most renowned for wisdom, whom they call orators and lawyers. For they, in fact, persuade, not by teaching, but by making men form such judgments as they please. Do you think that there are any teachers so clever as, when persons have not been present while others were robbed of their money, or treated with some other violence, to be able, while a little water is running, to teach those persons sufficiently of the truth of what took place?

Theæ. I by no means think so, but that they can persuade.

Socr. But do you not say that to persuade is to make a person form a judgment?

Theæ. How otherwise?

Socr. When, therefore, judges are justly persuaded about things which can only be known by seeing and in no other way, then judging these things from hearsay, do they not, when they form a true opinion, judge without science, being persuaded properly, since they decide correctly?

Theæ. Assuredly.

139. Socr. But, my friend, if true judgment and science are the same, a perfect judge could never form a correct judgment without science; but now each appears to be different from the other.

Theæ. I had forgotten, Socrates, what I heard some one say, but now I remember it: he said that true judgment in conjunction with reason is science, but that without reason it is out of the pale of science, and that things for which a reason cannot be given cannot be known; these were his very words; and that things for which a reason can be given are known.

Socr. You speak admirably well. But how do you distinguish the things that can be known from those that cannot? tell me, for perhaps you and I have heard the same thing.

Theæ. I know not whether I can explain it; but I could follow another person describing it, I think.

Socr. Hear, then, a dream for a dream. For I too seem to myself to have heard some people say, that the first elements, as it were, from which we and all other things are composed, cannot be explained by reason; for that each several element by itself can only be named, but that nothing else can be predicated of it, neither that it exists nor does not exist; for that this would be to attribute to it existence or non-existence, whereas nothing ought to be added to it, if one means to speak of the thing itself only; neither must we add to it the term the, or that, or each, or only, or this, or many others of the same kind; for these are constantly varying and are applied to all things, and are different from the things to which they are added. 140. But we ought, if it were possible, to speak of the thing itself, and, if it has a definition peculiar to itself, to speak of it without the addition of any thing else. Now, however, it is impossible for any of the first elements to be explained by a definition, for it does not admit of any thing else than being named, for it has only a name; but the things that have been composed from these, as they are complex, so their names, when connected together, constitute a definition; for a connection of names is the essence of definition. Thus the elements themselves cannot be defined or known, but only perceived, but things compounded of them can be both known and defined, and apprehended by true judgment. When, therefore, any one forms a true judgment of any thing, without explanation, his soul indeed perceives the truth respecting it, but does not know it, for he who is not able to give and receive an explanation of a thing must be ignorant of that thing, but when he adds an explanation to it then he is capable of knowing all these things, and may be perfect in science. Is it thus that you have heard the dream, or in some other way?

Theæ. In this way precisely.

141. Socr. Are you willing then that we should settle it thus, that science is true judgment in conjunction with reason?

Theæ. Exactly so.

Socr. Have we, then, Theætetus, thus on this very day discovered what of old so many sages sought for and grew old before they found it?

Theæ. For my part, Socrates, it appears to me that what has been now stated is well said.

Socr. And it is reasonable that this very thing should be the case; for what science could there be without reason and right judgment? However one of the things that were stated displeases me.

Theæ. Which is that?

Socr. That which seems to be very forcibly said, that the elements are unknown, but that the natures of things compounded of them are known.

Theæ. Is not that right?

Socr. We must see. For we have as sureties for this doctrine the examples which he used who said all these things.

Theæ. What are they?

Socr. The elements of letters and syllables: do you think that he who said what we have mentioned had any thing else in view when he said it?

Theæ. No, but these.

142. Socr. Let us, then, apply ourselves to these and examine them, or rather ourselves, whether we learnt letters in this way, or not. First of all then do syllables admit of a definition, but are the elements undefinable?

Theæ. Probably.

Socr. It certainly appears so to me, too. If, then, any one should ask thus respecting the first syllable of the word Socrates, “Theætetus, tell me, what is So?” what would you answer?

Theæ. That it is S and o.

Socr. Have you not, then, this definition of the syllable?

Theæ. I have.

Socr. Come then, in the same way give me the definition of the letter S.

Theæ. But how can any one speak of the elements of an element? For S, Socrates, is a consonant, only a sound, as of the tongue hissing; again the letter B has neither voice nor sound, nor have most of the elements. So that it is very right to say that they are undefinable, since the most distinct among them, to the number of seven, have only a sound, but do not admit of any definition.

Socr. Thus far, then, my friend, we have determined rightly with respect to science.

Theæ. We appear to have done so.

143. Socr. What then? have we shewn rightly that the element cannot be known, but that the syllable can?

Theæ. It is probable.

Socr. Come then, do we say that a syllable is both the elements, and, if there are more than two, all of them, or some one form resulting from their conjunction?

Theæ. All, we appear to me to say.

Socr. Observe, then, with respect to the two letters S and o; both of them together form the first syllable of my name, does not then he who knows this syllable know both of them?

Theæ. How should he not?

Socr. He knows, therefore, S and o.

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But what? is he ignorant of each of them, and knowing neither, does he know both?

Theæ. That would be strange and absurd, Socrates.

Socr. However, if it is necessary to know each, in order that he may know both, it is quite necessary for a person who is ever to know a syllable to know the elements first, and thus our former statement will escape us and be off.

Theæ. And very suddenly too.

Socr. For we did not guard it well. For, perhaps, we ought to suppose that a syllable does not consist of the elements, but of some one species resulting from them, which has a form peculiar to itself, different from the elements.

Theæ. Certainly; and perhaps the case is rather in this way than in the other.

144. Socr. We must examine it, and not so unmanfully abandon a weighty and venerable statement.

Theæ. We ought not, indeed.

Socr. Let it be then as we just now said; let the syllable be one form resulting from the several elements, connected together, as well in letters as in all other things.

Theæ. Just so.

Socr. It must, therefore, have no parts.

Theæ. Why not?

Socr. Because where there are parts, the whole must necessarily be the same as all the parts: or do you say that a whole resulting from parts is one certain species different from all the parts?

Theæ. I do.

Socr. Whether do you call all and the whole the same, or each different from the other?

Theæ. I cannot say any thing for certain, but since you bid me answer boldly, I venture to say that they are different.

Socr. Your boldness, Theætetus, is right; but whether your answer is so, must be considered.

Theæ. It must indeed.

Socr. Does not the whole, then, differ from all, according to your present statement?

Theæ. Yes.

145. Socr. But what, is there any difference between all the parts, and the all? for instance when we say one, two, three, four, five, six, or twice three, or thrice two, or four and two, or three and two and one, or five and one, whether in all these cases do we say the same thing, or that which is different?

Theæ. The same thing.

Socr. Do we say any thing else than six?

Theæ. Nothing.

Socr. And in each mode of speaking did we not mention all the parts of six?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. Again, therefore, when we say all the parts do we say nothing?

Theæ. We necessarily do say something.

Socr. Do we say any thing else than six?

Theæ. Nothing.

Socr. In all things, then, that consist of number, do we not call the all and all the parts the same thing?

Theæ. It appears so.

Socr. Thus then let us speak of them; the number of an acre and an acre are the same; is it not so?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. And the number of a stadium in like manner?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. And moreover the number of an army, and an army, and in like manner with respect to all other things of the kind? For all number is all that which each of them is.

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But is the number of each of them any thing else than its parts?

Theæ. Nothing.

Socr. Such things, then, as have parts must consist of parts?

Theæ. It appears so.

Socr. But it is admitted that all the parts are the all, since all number is the all.

Theæ. Just so.

Socr. The whole, therefore, does not consist of parts; for it would be all, if it were all the parts.

Theæ. It seems not.

Socr. But is a part a part of any thing else than a whole?

Theæ. Yes, of the all.

146. Socr. You fight manfully, Theætetus. But is not this very all, the all when nothing is wanting to it?

Theæ. Necessarily so.

Socr. And will not the whole be this very same thing when nothing is wanting to it? but when any thing is wanting, it is neither the whole, nor all, each becoming the same thing from the same cause?

Theæ. It appears to me now, that the whole and the all in no respect differ from each other.

Socr. Did we not say, that where there are parts, the whole and the all will be all the parts?

Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. Again, therefore, to return to what I just now attempted to prove, if a syllable is not the elements, does it not necessarily follow that it has not elements as parts of itself, or that, if it is the same with them, it must be equally known with them?

Theæ. Just so.

Socr. In order that this might not follow, did we not suppose it to be different from them?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. What then? if the elements are not parts of a syllable, can you mention any other things that are parts of a syllable, and yet not its elements?

147. Theæ. By no means; for if, Socrates, I should admit that it has parts, it would surely be ridiculous to reject the elements and search for other things.

Socr. From what you now say, therefore, Theætetus, a syllable must certainly be some one indivisible form.

Theæ. So it seems.

Socr. Do you remember then, my friend, that we admitted a little before, and thought it was well said, that there cannot be a definition of first elements, of which other things are composed, because each considered by itself is uncompounded, and neither can the term “being” be correctly attributed to it nor the term “this,” because these things would be said as different and foreign to it; and indeed this very cause makes it undefinable and unknown.

Theæ. I do remember.

Socr. Is there any other cause, then, than this of its being simple and indivisible? I for my part see no other.

Theæ. There does not appear to be any.

Socr. Does not the syllable, then, fall under the same class as the elements, since it has not parts, and is one form?

Theæ. Assuredly.

148. Socr. If, therefore, a syllable is many elements, and a whole, and these are its parts, syllables and elements may be equally known and defined, since all the parts have been found to be the same as the whole.

Theæ. By all means.

Socr. But if it is one and indivisible, a syllable equally as an element must be undefinable and unknown; for the same cause will make them alike.

Theæ. I cannot say otherwise.

Socr. We must not, therefore, allow this, if any one should say, that a syllable is known and definable, but an element the contrary.

Theæ. We must not, if we admit this reasoning.

Socr. What then? should you pay any more attention to one who should assert the contrary of what you are conscious happened to yourself in learning your letters?

Theæ. What is that?

Socr. That in learning you did nothing else than endeavour to distinguish the elements both by sight and hearing, each separated by itself, in order that their position when pronounced or written, might not confuse you.

Theæ. You say most truly.

Socr. And at your music-master’s was learning perfectly any thing else than the being able to follow each note, and distinguish to what chord it belonged, which every one would allow is called the elements of music.

Theæ. Nothing else.

149. Socr. If, therefore, we may conjecture from the elements and syllables in which we are skilled, to others, we shall say that the class of elements are capable of a much more clear and distinct knowledge than that of syllables, in order to our acquiring each study in perfection; and if any one should say that a syllable is known, but that an element is by nature unknown, we shall think that he is jesting either intentionally or unintentionally.

Theæ. Most assuredly.

Socr. Moreover, other proofs of this might still be found, as it appears to me; but let us not lose sight of the question before us by considering them, that is to say, what is meant by the statement, that reason united to true judgment is the most perfect science.

Theæ. This, then, we must consider.

Socr. Come then, what is the signification of the word logos[164]: for it appears to me to mean one of three things.

Theæ. What are they?

Socr. The first would be to make one’s thought clear by the voice, through the means of verbs and nouns, impressing one’s judgment on what flows from the mouth, as it were on a mirror, or water; does not logos appear to you to be something of this kind?

Theæ. It does: and we say that he who does this speaks.

150. Socr. Every one, therefore, is able to do this more quickly or slowly, that is, can shew what he thinks about every thing, unless he is altogether dumb or deaf, and thus all who form right judgments on any matter, will be found to do so in conjunction with logos, and right judgment will never subsist without science.

Theæ. True.

Socr. We must not, therefore, too readily condemn him as having spoken nothing to the purpose, who asserted that science is that which we are now examining. For perhaps he who said it did not mean that, but that a person, when asked what each thing is, should be able to give an answer to the questioner by means of each thing’s element.

Theæ. For instance, how do you mean, Socrates?

Socr. As Hesiod for instance says of a chariot, that it is made of a hundred pieces of wood, which I, for my part, could not enumerate, neither do I think could you, but we should be contented, if when asked what a chariot is, we could say wheels, axle, frame, rails, and yoke.

151. Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. But he probably would think us ridiculous, just as if we, when asked concerning your name and having answered syllable by syllable, thereby judging and saying correctly what we do say, should think ourselves grammarians, and that we know and speak grammatically the definition of the name of Theætetus; whereas it is not possible to say any thing scientifically, before one has given a complete account of each thing by means of its elements, together with true judgment, as was observed before, if I mistake not.

Theæ. It was observed.

Socr. So, too, we have a correct judgment respecting a chariot, but he who is able to describe its nature by means of those hundred pieces, by adding this, both adds logos to true judgment, and instead of forming a mere judgment becomes an artist and knowing in the nature of a chariot, in that he gives a complete account of the whole, by means of its elements.

Theæ. Does not this appear to you, Socrates, to be well said?

Socr. If it appears to you, my friend, and you allow that the description of each thing by its element is logos, and that that made by syllables, or even larger parts is devoid of logos, tell me, that we may examine it.

Theæ. I certainly do allow it.

Socr. Whether do you think that any one has a scientific knowledge of any thing, when the same thing appears to him at one time to belong to the same thing and at another to a different thing, or when he forms at one time one judgment and at another a different judgment about the same thing?

Theæ. By Jupiter, not I.

152. Socr. Have you forgotten then, that in learning your letters at first both you and others did this?

Theæ. Do you mean that we thought that at one time one letter, and at another time another, belonged to the same syllable, and that we placed the same letter at one time to its proper syllable, and at another time to another?

Socr. I do mean that.

Theæ. By Jupiter, I do not forget, nor do I think that they have knowledge who are in this condition.

Socr. What then? when a person at that time of life writing the name Theætetus, thinks that he ought to write and does write Th and e, and again attempting to write Theodorus, thinks that he ought to write and does write T and e, shall we say that he knows the first syllable of your names?

Theæ. We have just now admitted, that a person in this condition does not yet know.

Socr. Does any thing, then, hinder the same person from being in this condition with respect to the second, third, and fourth syllable?

Theæ. Nothing.

153. Socr. Will he not then have the description by means of the elements, and write Theætetus with correct judgment, when he writes it in its proper order?

Theæ. Clearly.

Socr. Will he not still be void of science, though he judges correctly, as we said?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. And yet he has logos together with correct judgment; for he wrote it knowing the order of the elements, which we allowed to be logos.

Theæ. True.

Socr. There is, therefore, my friend, correct judgment accompanied with logos which must not yet be called science.

Theæ. It seems so.

Socr. We have been enriched then, as it appears, in a dream, in thinking that we possess the truest definition of science: or shall we not condemn it yet? For perhaps some one may not define logos in this manner, but may consider it to be the remaining species of the three, one of which we said would be adopted by him who defined science to be correct judgment accompanied with logos.

Theæ. You have rightly reminded me; for there is still one left. For the first was an image of the thought as it were expressed by the voice: and that just now mentioned was a proceeding to the whole by means of the elements: but what do you say the third is?

Socr. That which most men would say it is, the being able to mention some mark by which the object of enquiry differs from all other things.

Theæ. Can you give me a logos of any thing by way of example?

154. Socr. For instance, if you please, with respect to the sun, I think it would be sufficient for you to admit, that it is the most luminous of the heavenly bodies that move round the earth.

Theæ. Certainly.

Socr. Observe then why this was said. It is that which we just now mentioned, that when you find the difference of each thing, by which it differs from all others, you will find, as some say, the logos; but as long as you lay hold of some common quality, you will have the logos of those things to which this common quality belongs.

Theæ. I understand; and it appears to me very proper to call such a thing logos.

Socr. He, therefore, who together with correct judgment respecting any thing whatever can find out its difference from all other things, will have arrived at the knowledge of that of which he before only formed a judgment.

Theæ. We say it certainly is so.

Socr. Now, however, Theætetus, since I have come near what has been said, as if it were a picture in perspective, I find that I do not understand it in the least, but while I stood at a distance it appeared to me to have some meaning.

155. Theæ. How is this?

Socr. I will tell you, if I can. If, when I have a correct judgment respecting you, I likewise find your logos, then I know you, but if not, I only form a judgment.

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. But logos was the explanation of your difference.

Theæ. It was.

Socr. When, therefore, I formed a judgment only, is it not true that I reached by my thought none of those things by which you differ from others?

Theæ. It seems that you did not.

Socr. I, therefore, thought of some common qualities, none of which belong to you more than to any one else.

Theæ. Necessarily so.

Socr. Come, then, by Jupiter, how in such a case did I form a judgment of you rather than of any one else? For suppose me to be thinking that this is Theætetus, who is a man, and has nose, eyes, a mouth, and so on with each several member. Will this thought cause me to think of Theætetus rather than of Theodorus, or, as the saying is, the last of the Mysians?

Theæ. How should it?

156. Socr. But if I not only think of one who has nose and eyes, but also of one who has a snub nose and prominent eyes, shall I in that case think of you rather than of myself, or any other persons of that description?

Theæ. Not at all.

Socr. But I think I shall not form the image of Theætetus in my mind, until his snubbiness shall have impressed on me and left with me some mark different from all other instances of snubbiness that I have seen, and so with respect to the other parts of which you are made up; which, if I should meet you to-morrow, would recal you to my mind, and make me form a correct judgment respecting you.

Theæ. Most true.

Socr. Right judgment, therefore, respecting each object has to do with difference.

Theæ. It appears so.

Socr. What then will become of adding logos to correct judgment? For if it means that we should moreover form a judgment of the manner in which any thing differs from others, the injunction will be very ridiculous.

Theæ. How so?

Socr. It bids us add a right judgment of the manner in which things differ from others, when we have a right judgment of the manner in which they differ from others. And thus the turning round of a scytala, or a pestle, or any other proverb of the kind, would be nothing compared with this injunction, though it might more properly be called the advice of a blind man; for to bid us add those things that we already have, in order that we may learn what we already have formed judgments about, seems remarkably suited to one who is utterly blind.

Theæ. Tell me, then, what did you mean by asking me just now?

157. Socr. If, O boy, in bidding us add logos it bids us know, but not form a judgment of the difference, this most beautiful of all the definitions of science would be a delightful thing: for to know, surely, is to acquire science. Is it not?

Theæ. Yes.

Socr. When asked, therefore, as it appears, what science is,is, he will answer, that it is correct judgment with the science of difference. For, according to him, this will be the addition of logos.

Theæ. It seems so.

Socr. But it is altogether foolish, when we are searching for science, to say that it is correct judgment with science, either of difference or any thing else. Neither perception, therefore, Theætetus, nor true judgment, nor logos united with true judgment, can be science.

Theæ. It seems not.

Socr. Are we, then, still pregnant and in labour, my friend, with reference to science, or have we brought forth every thing?

Theæ. And by Jupiter, with your help, I have said more than I had in myself.

Socr. Does not, then, our midwife’s art pronounce that all these things are empty, and not worth rearing?

Theæ. Assuredly.

158. Socr. If, therefore, after this you should wish to become pregnant with other things, Theætetus, and if you do become so, you will be full of better things by means of the present discussion; but if you should be empty, you will be less troublesome to your companions, and more meek through modesty, in not thinking that you know what you do not know. For thus much only my art is able to accomplish, but nothing more, nor do I know any of the things which others do who are and have been great and wonderful men. But this midwife’s art I and my mother received from the deity; she about women, and I for young and noble men and such as are beautiful. Now, however, I must go to the king’s porch, to answer the indictment which Melitus has preferred against me: to-morrow, Theodorus, let us meet here again.

INTRODUCTION TO THE EUTHYPHRON.

Euthyphron, a person who professes to be thoroughly conversant in the knowledge of divine things, is represented as meeting Socrates at the king’s porch, that is, the entrance of the court in which trials for murder and impiety were carried on. He is surprised at seeing Socrates at such a spot, for he cannot believe that he has a cause pending there. Socrates tells him that he is indicted by one Melitus, a person of no note at Athens, but one who knows how to govern the city rightly, for that he charges Socrates with impiety in introducing new gods and corrupting the youth. Socrates then asks Euthyphron whether he too has a cause in the same court, and is informed that he has indicted his own father for murder, because he had occasioned the death of one of their hired servants, who had himself first slain a slave of Euthyphron’s father, and then been cast bound into a ditch, where he died from hunger and cold. On hearing this, Socrates asks whether he has such a perfect knowledge of holiness and impiety that he is sure he is right in bringing his father to trial; and on Euthyphron’s asserting that he has, Socrates begs that he will accept him for his disciple, in order that he may learn how to clear himself in his own approaching trial, and first of all desires to know what holiness and impiety are. Euthyphron confidently answers that what he is now doing is holy, namely, to prosecute any one who acts unjustly, whoever he may be, but that not to prosecute such an one is impious. Socrates, however, is not satisfied with this answer, for that he did not ask about particular actions, but about holiness in the abstract. “That, then, which is pleasing to the gods is holy,” says Euthyphron. But Socrates shews that different things are pleasing to different gods, so that the same things are both loved and hated by divers of them, whence it follows that the same things are both holy and unholy.

Euthyphron, feeling the force of this objection, next says that the holy is that which all the gods love, and the impious that which they all hate: but here again Socrates shews that this cannot be a correct definition of holiness, for that it is not holy because they love it, but they love it because it is holy. To help him out of his difficulty, Socrates suggests that holiness is a part of justice; to which Euthyphron assents, and adds that it is that part of it which is concerned about our care for the gods. But, asks Socrates, what care for the gods will holiness be? A kind of service paid to them, is the answer. But to what end do our services of the gods avail? Euthyphron evades the question by saying they are many and beautiful; but when further pressed, he says that holiness consists in sacrificing and praying to the gods, wherein, he is led to admit, men beg those things that they need, and sacrifice such things as the gods need, from whence Socrates concludes that holiness is a kind of traffic between gods and men. But it is clear that the gods cannot be benefited by men; therefore, as Euthyphron says, it must be that which is most dear. But this definition of holiness had been already rejected. Socrates, therefore, proposes to renew the enquiry, but Euthyphron, finding himself defeated at all points, suddenly breaks off the discussion, on pretence of business elsewhere.

EUTHYPHRON,

OR

ON HOLINESS.

EUTHYPHRON. SOCRATES.

Euth. What new thing has happened, Socrates, that you have left your haunts in the Lyceum, and are now waiting about the king’s porch! You surely have not a trial before the king as I have.

Socr. The Athenians, Euthyphron, do not call it a trial, but an indictment.

Euth. What say you! Some one, it seems, has preferred an indictment against you, for I cannot believe that you have indicted any one else.

Socr. Surely not.

Euth. Has some one else, then, indicted you?

Socr. Certainly.

Euth. Who is he?

Socr. I do not myself very well know the man, Euthyphron; for he appears to me to be young and unknown; however they call him Melitus, I think; and he is of the borough of Pithos, if you know any Melitus of Pithos, who has lank hair, a thin beard, and a hook nose.

Euth. I don’t know him, Socrates, but what indictment has he preferred against you?

Socr. What? One not unworthy of a high-minded man, as it appears to me; for it is no contemptible matter for one who is so young, to be versed in so weighty a business. For he knows, as he says, how the youth are corrupted, and who they are that corrupt them. And he appears to be a shrewd man, and, observing my ignorance, he comes before the city, as before a mother, to accuse me of corrupting those of the same age with himself. And he appears to me to be the only one of our statesmen who knows how to govern rightly; for it is right first of all to pay attention to the young, that they may become as virtuous as possible, just as it is proper for a good husbandman first of all to pay attention to the young plants, and afterwards the others: so Melitus probably first purges us who corrupt the blossoms of youth, as he says; then after this it is clear that by paying attention to the older men, he will be the cause of very many and great blessings to the city, as may be expected to happen from one who makes such a beginning.

2. Euth. I wish it were so, Socrates; but I dread lest the contrary should happen. For, in reality, he appears to me, in attempting to injure you, to begin by assailing the city from the hearth. But tell me, by doing what does he say that you corrupt the youth?

Socr. Absurd even to hear mentioned, my admirable friend: for he says that I am a maker of gods, and, as if I made new gods and did not believe in the ancient ones, he has indicted me on their account, as he says.

Euth. I understand, Socrates, it is because you say that a demon constantly attends you. As if, then, you introduced innovations in religion he has preferred this indictment against you, and he comes to accuse you before the court, knowing that such charges are readily entertained by the multitude. And me too, when I say any thing in the public assembly concerning divine things, and predict to them what is going to happen, they ridicule as mad; and although nothing that I have predicted has not turned out to be true, yet they envy all such men as we are. However we ought not to heed them, but pursue our own course.

3. Socr. But, my dear Euthyphron, to be laughed at is perhaps of no consequence. For the Athenians, as it appears to me, do not care very much whether they think a man is clever, so long as he does not communicate his wisdom; but when they think a man makes others so, they are angry, either through envy, as you say, or from some other cause.

Euth. With respect to that matter, how they are affected towards me I am not very anxious to try.

Socr. For perhaps you seem to shew yourself but rarely, and to be unwilling to impart your wisdom; but I am afraid that, from my love of mankind, I appear to them to tell every man too freely whatever I know, not only without pay, but even gladly offering myself, if any one is willing to listen to me. If then, as I just now said, they were going to laugh at me, as you say they do at you, there would be nothing unpleasant in passing some time in a court of justice, jesting and laughing; but if they are in earnest, how this affair may terminate is unknown, except to you prophets.

Euth. Perhaps, however, it will be of no consequence, Socrates, but you will conduct your cause to your mind, as I think I shall mine.

4. Socr. Have you too a cause, Euthyphron? Do you defend it, or prosecute?

Euth. I prosecute.

Socr. Whom?

Euth. One, in prosecuting whom, I seem to be mad.

Socr. What then? do you prosecute some one that can fly?

Euth. He is very far from being able to fly, for he happens to be very old.

Socr. Who is he?

Euth. My father.

Socr. Your father, my excellent friend?

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. But what is the charge, and what is the trial about?

Euth. Murder, Socrates.

Socr. By Hercules! Surely, Euthyphron, the generality of men are ignorant how this can ever be right. For I do not think any common person could do this properly, but he must be very far advanced in wisdom.

Euth. Far indeed, by Jupiter, Socrates.

Socr. Is it any one of your relations who has been killed by your father? It must be so; for surely you would not prosecute him for the murder of a stranger.

Euth. Ridiculous, Socrates, to think that it makes any difference whether the person killed is a stranger or a relation, and that we ought not to consider this only, whether he killed him justly or not, and, if justly, let him go, but if not, prosecute him, even though the murderer should live at the same hearth and the same table with you. For the pollution is equal, if you knowingly associate with such a one, and do not purify both yourself and him by bringing him to justice. However, the deceased was a dependant of our’s, and when we were farming at Naxos, he worked there for us, for hire. This man, then, having drunk too much wine and being in a passion with one of our slaves, slew him. My father, therefore, having bound his hands and feet, and thrown him into a pit, sends a man here to enquire of the interpreter of religious matters, what he ought to do with him; and in the mean time he neglected the prisoner, and took no care of him as being a murderer, and as if it was of no consequence if he died; which did happen. For he died from hunger, cold, and the chains, before the messenger returned from the interpreter. For this reason my father and all my relatives are angry with me, because I, for the sake of a murderer, accuse my father of murder, who, as they say, did not kill him, and even if he had killed him, as the deceased was a murderer, they say that I ought not to concern myself about such a man; for that it is impious for a son to prosecute his father for murder; little knowing, Socrates, what the divine rule is with respect to holiness and impiety.

Socr. But, by Jupiter, Euthyphron, do you think you have such an accurate knowledge of divine things, how they are circumstanced, with respect both to things holy and impious, that those things having been done as you say, you are not afraid, in bringing your father to trial, lest you should commit an impious action?

Euth. I should be a sorry person, Socrates, nor would Euthyphron in any respect excel the generality of men, if I did not know all such things accurately.

5. Socr. Admirable Euthyphron, it will be a most excellent thing for me to become your disciple, and, before Melitus’s indictment comes on for hearing, to object this very thing to him, saying, that I hitherto deemed it of the utmost consequence to be acquainted with divine things, and that now, since he says I am guilty of acting rashly, and introducing innovations with respect to divine things, I have become your disciple. If then, I should say, Melitus, you admit that Euthyphron is wise in such matters and thinks rightly, suppose that I do so too, and do not bring me to trial; but if otherwise, call him, the teacher, to account before you do me, as one who corrupts the elders, both me and his father, me by teaching me, and him by admonishing and punishing him: and if he is not persuaded by me and does not let me off the trial, or indict you instead of me, it will be necessary to say these very things in the court, which I have already objected to him.

Euth. By Jupiter, Socrates, if he should attempt to indict me, I should find, I think, his weak side, and we should much sooner have a discussion in the court about him than about me.

Socr. And I, my dear friend, knowing this, am anxious to become your disciple, being persuaded that some others and this Melitus do not appear even to see you, though he has so very keenly and easily seen through me, as to indict me for impiety. 6. Now therefore, by Jupiter, tell me what you just now asserted you know so well; what do you say is piety and impiety, both with respect to murder and other things? Is not holiness itself the same with itself in every action, and again, is not impiety, which is contrary to all holiness, in every case similar to itself, and has not every thing that is impious some one character with respect to impiety?

Euth. Most assuredly, Socrates.

Socr. Tell me, then, what you say holiness is, and what impiety?

Euth. I say, then, that that is holy which I am now doing, to prosecute any one who acts unjustly either with respect to murder or sacrilege, or who commits any similar offence, whether he be one’s father or mother, or whoever else he may be, but not to prosecute him is impious. For observe, Socrates, what a great proof I will give you that the law is so, as I have also said to others, shewing that it is rightly done, when one does not spare one who acts impiously, whoever he may be. For all men believe that Jupiter is the best and most just of the gods, and yet they admit that he put his own father in chains, because he unjustly swallowed his children, and again, that he mutilated his father for other similar reasons, but they are indignant with me, because I prosecute my father for having acted unjustly, and thus these men contradict themselves with respect to the gods and me.

Socr. Is this the reason then, Euthyphron, for which I am defendant in this indictment, because when any one says things of this kind respecting the gods, I admit them with difficulty? on which account, as it seems, some one will say that I am guilty. Now, therefore, if these things appear so to you likewise, who are well versed in such matters, we must of necessity, as it seems, agree with you. For what else can we say, who acknowledge that we know nothing about these things? But tell me, by Jupiter, who presides over friendship, do you think that these things did really happen so?

Euth. And things still more wonderful than these, Socrates, which the multitude are unacquainted with.

Socr. Do you then think that there is in reality war among the gods one with another, and fierce enmities and battles, and many other things of the kind such as are related by the poets, and with representations of which by good painters both other sacred places have been decorated, and moreover in the great Panathenaic festival a veil full of such representations is carried into the Acropolis. Must we say that these things are true, Euthyphron?

Euth. Not these only, Socrates; but, as I just now said, I can, if you please, relate to you many other things respecting divine affairs, which I am sure you will be astonished to hear.

7. Socr. I should not wonder; but you shall relate these things to me hereafter, at our leisure. Now, however, endeavour to explain to me more clearly what I just now asked you. For you have not yet, my friend, sufficiently answered my question as to holiness what it is, but you have told me that what you are now doing is holy, prosecuting your father for murder.

Euth. And I said the truth, Socrates.

Socr. Perhaps so. But, Euthyphron, you may also say that many other things are holy.

Euth. For such is the case.

Socr. Do you remember, then, that I did not beg this of you, to teach me some one or two from among many holy things, but the particular character itself by which all holy things are holy? For you surely said that unholy things are unholy, and holy things holy, from one character: do you not remember?

Euth. I do.

Socr. Teach me, then, this very character, what it is, in order that looking to it, and using it as a model, I may say that such a thing of all that you or any one else does is holy, and that what is not such is not holy.

Euth. But if you wish it, Socrates, I will also tell you this.

Socr. I do indeed wish it.

Euth. That, then, which is pleasing to the gods is holy, and that which is not pleasing to them is impious?

Socr. Admirably, Euthyphron, you have answered just as I begged you to answer. Whether truly, however, I do not yet know, but you will doubtless convince me that what you say is true.

Euth. Certainly.

8. Socr. Come then, let us consider what we say. A thing that is pleasing to the gods, and a man who is pleasing to the gods, are holy; but a thing that is hateful to the gods, and a man that is hateful to the gods, are impious; but the holy is not the same with the unholy, but most contrary to it: is it not so?

Euth. Assuredly.

Socr. And this appears to have been well said.

Euth. I think so, Socrates; for it has been said.

Socr. And that the gods quarrel, Euthyphron, and are at variance with each other, and that there are enmities amongst them one towards another: has not this also been said?

Euth. It has.

Socr. But, my excellent friend, variance about what occasions enmity and anger? Let us consider it thus. If you and I differed about numbers, which of two was the greater, would a difference on this point make us enemies and angry with each other, or having recourse to computation, should we soon be freed from such dissension?

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. And if we differed about the greater and the less, by having recourse to measuring should we not soon put an end to our difference?

Euth. Such is the case.

Socr. And by having recourse to weighing, as I think, we should be able to decide respecting the heavier and the lighter?

Euth. How not?

Socr. About what then disagreeing and in what being unable to come to a decision, do we become enemies to, and angry with, each other? Perhaps you cannot readily answer, but consider when I say whether they are these, the just and the unjust, the beautiful and the base, the good and the evil. Are not these the things about which disagreeing, and not being able to arrive at a satisfactory decision respecting them, we become enemies to each other when we do become so, both you and I, and all other men?

Euth. This, indeed, is difference itself, Socrates, and it is about these things.

Socr. But what? If the gods, Euthyphron, differ at all, must they not differ about these very things?

Euth. Most necessarily.

Socr. According to your account, then, noble Euthyphron, different gods think different things just, and beautiful and base, and good and evil. For surely they could not quarrel with each other if they did not differ about these things; is it not so?

Euth. You say rightly.

Socr. Do they not severally, then, love the things which they consider beautiful and good and just, and hate their contraries?

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. And these same things, as you admit, some consider to be just, and others unjust; disputing about which they quarrel and make war on each other; is it not so?

Euth. Just so.

Socr. The same things, therefore, as it seems, are both hated and loved by the gods, and these are both hateful to the gods and pleasing to the gods.

Euth. It seems so.

Socr. From this reasoning also the same things must be holy and unholy, Euthyphron?

Euth. It appears so.

9. Socr. You have not, therefore, answered my question, my admirable friend: for I did not ask you this, what is at the same time both holy and impious; but what is pleasing to the gods is also hateful to the gods, as it seems. So that, Euthyphron, in punishing your father, as you are now doing, it is not at all wonderful if in doing this you do what is pleasing to Jupiter, but odious to Saturn and Heaven, and what is pleasing to Vulcan, but odious to Juno; and if any other of the gods differs from another on this point, to them also in like manner.

Euth. But I think, Socrates, that no one of the gods will differ from another about this, and say that he ought not to be punished who has slain any one unjustly.

Socr. But what? Have you ever heard any man doubting, Euthyphron, whether he who has slain another unjustly, or has committed any other injustice, ought to be punished?

Euth. They never cease doubting about these things, both elsewhere and in courts of justice. For they who commit very many acts of injustice say and do every thing in their power to escape punishment.

Socr. Do they also confess, Euthyphron, that they have acted unjustly, and confessing, do they nevertheless say that they ought not to be punished?

Euth. They by no means say this.

Socr. They do not, therefore, do and say every thing in their power. For I think they dare not say nor doubt this, that if they act unjustly they ought to suffer punishment; but, I think, they deny that they have acted unjustly: is it not so?

Euth. You say truly.

Socr. They do not, therefore, doubt this, whether he who acts unjustly ought to be punished; but this, perhaps, they doubt, who has acted unjustly, and by doing what, and when.

Euth. You say truly.

Socr. Do not, then, the very same things happen to the gods if they quarrel about things just and unjust, according to your statement, and do not some say that they act unjustly towards each other, and others again deny it? For surely, my admirable friend, no one, either of gods or men, dare maintain this, that he who acts unjustly ought not to suffer punishment.

Euth. Yes, and what you say is true, Socrates, at least in general.

Socr. But they who doubt, Euthyphron, doubt, I think, about each particular that has been done, both men and gods, if the gods do doubt: and when they differ about any action, some say that it has been done justly, and others unjustly: is it not so?

Euth. Certainly.

10. Socr. Come then, my dear Euthyphron, teach me too, that I may become wiser, what proof you have that all the gods think he died unjustly, who serving for wages and having committed homicide, and being put in chains by the master of the deceased, died in his fetters before he that put him in chains received an answer respecting him from the interpreters, as to what he ought to do; and that for such a cause it is right for a son to prosecute and demand judgment against his father. Come, endeavour to make it clear to me, with respect to this, that all the gods without exception consider this action to be right. And if you make this sufficiently clear, I will never cease extolling you for your wisdom.

Euth. But perhaps this is no trifling matter, Socrates; though I could prove it to you very plainly.

Socr. I understand you; I appear to you to be more dull of apprehension than the judges; for it is evident that you will prove to them that it was unjust, and that all the gods hate such actions.

Euth. Very plainly, Socrates, if only they will hear what I have to say.

11. Socr. But they will hear you, if only you shall appear to speak well. However, while you were speaking, I made this reflexion, and considered within myself: if Euthyphron should certainly convince me that all the gods think such a death to be unjust, what more shall I have learnt from Euthyphron as to what is holy, and what impious? For this action, as it seems, would be hateful to the gods. Yet what was lately defined has not appeared from this, namely what is holy, and what not: for that which is hateful to some gods appeared also to be pleasing to others. So that I grant you this, Euthyphron, and if you please let all the gods think it unjust, and let them all hate it. Shall we, then, make this correction in the definition, and say, that what all the gods hate is impious, and what they love is holy; but that what some love, and others hate, is neither, or both? Are you willing that we should give this definition of the holy and the impious?

Euth. What hinders, Socrates?

Socr. Nothing hinders me, Euthyphron; but do you, for your part, consider whether, assuming this, you can thus easily teach me what you promised?

Euth. But I should say that the holy is that which all the gods love, and the contrary, the impious, that which all the gods hate.

Socr. Shall we examine this, then, Euthyphron, whether it is well said? or shall we let it pass, and thus concede both to ourselves and others, that if any one only says that any thing is so, we shall allow that it is? or must we examine what the speaker says?

Euth. We must examine it: for my part, however, I think that this is now well said.

12. Socr. We shall soon, my good friend, know this more clearly. For consider it in this way: Is the holy loved by the gods because it is holy; or is it holy, because it is loved?

Euth. I don’t understand what you mean, Socrates.

Socr. I will endeavour, then, to express myself more clearly. We say that a thing is carried, and carries; that it is led, and leads; that it is seen, and sees: and you understand that all things of this kind are different from each other, and in what they differ?

Euth. For my part, I seem to understand it.

Socr. Is not, then, that which is beloved one thing, and that which loves different from it?

Euth. How not?

Socr. Tell me, then, is that which is carried, carried because one carries it, or for some other reason?

Euth. No, but for this.

Socr. And that which is led, because one leads it, and that which is seen, because one sees it?

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. One does not therefore see a thing because it is seen, but on the contrary it is seen because one sees it: nor does one lead a thing because it is led, but it is led because one leads it: nor does one carry a thing because it is carried, but it is carried because one carries it. Is my meaning clear, then, Euthyphron? I mean this, that if one does any thing, or suffers any thing, one does it not because it is done; but it is done because one does it; nor does one suffer any thing because it is suffered, but it is suffered because one suffers: do you not admit this to be the case?

Euth. I do.

Socr. Is not, then, the being loved, something either done or suffered by some one?

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. And is not the case the same with this as with all the former instances; those who love it do not love it because it is loved, but it is loved, because they love it?

Euth. Necessarily so.

Socr. What then do we say respecting holiness, Euthyphron? Do not all the gods love it according to your statement?

Euth. Yes.

Socr. Is it for this reason, because it is holy, or for some other reason?

Euth. No, but for this.

Socr. They love it then because it is holy, but it is not holy because they love it.

Euth. It seems so.

Socr. Therefore because the gods love it it is beloved, and that which is pleasing to the gods is pleasing to them.

Euth. How not?

Socr. That which is pleasing to the gods, therefore, is not holy, Euthyphron, nor is that holy which is pleasing to the gods, as you say, but one is different from the other.

Euth. How so, Socrates?

Socr. Because we agree that what is holy is therefore loved because it is holy, and that it is not holy because they love it; is it not so?

Euth. Yes.

Socr. But that which is pleasing to the gods because the gods love it, is from the very circumstance of their loving it pleasing to them; but they do not love it because it is pleasing to them.

Euth. You say truly.

Socr. But, my dear Euthyphron, if the being pleasing to the gods and being holy were the same thing, since that which is holy is loved because it is holy, that which is pleasing to the gods would also be loved because it is pleasing to them; and if that which is pleasing to the gods were pleasing to them because they love it, that which is holy would also be holy because they love it. Now, however, you see that they are contrary, as being altogether different from each other. For the one is such as is loved because they love it, but the other is loved because it is of such a character that it ought to be loved. And you appear, Euthyphron, when asked what holiness is, not to have been willing to make known to me its essence, but to have mentioned an affection to which this same holiness is subject, namely the being loved by all the gods; but what it is, you have not yet told me. If therefore it is agreeable to you, do not conceal it from me, but again say from the beginning what holiness is, whether it is loved by the gods, or is subject to any other affection: for we shall not differ about this. But tell me frankly what the holy is and what the impious.

Euth. But, Socrates, I know not how to tell you what I think. For whatever we put forward some how constantly moves from its position, and will not remain where we have placed it.

Socr. What you have advanced, Euthyphron, appears to resemble the statues of my ancestor Dædalus. And if I had said and laid down these things, you would probably have joked me, for that owing to my relationship to him, my works, by way of discussion, escape, and will not remain where one places them. But now, for the hypotheses are yours, there is need of some other raillery. For they will not remain with you, as you too perceive yourself.

Euth. But it appears to me, Socrates, that what has been said needs pretty much the same raillery. For I am not the person who causes them to shift about in this way and not remain in the same place, but you appear to me to be the Dædalus. For as far as I am concerned, they would have remained as they were.

Socr. I appear, then, my friend, to have become much more skilful than him in my art, in that he only made his own works moveable, but I besides my own, as it seems, make those of others so. And this, moreover, is the most wonderful thing in my art, that I am skilful against any will. For I should wish that my reasonings should remain and be immovably fixed, rather than have the riches of Tantalus, in addition to the skill of Dædalus. But enough of this. 13. Since, however, you appear to be too nice, I will assist you to shew how you may teach me respecting holiness, and not be tired before you have done. For see, whether it does not appear to you to be necessary that every thing that is holy should be just.

Euth. To me it does.

Socr. Is, then, every thing that is just also holy, or is every thing that is holy just, but not every thing that is just holy, but partly holy, and partly something else?

Euth. I do not follow your questions, Socrates.

Socr. And yet you are younger no less than wiser than I am; but, as I said, you are too delicate through abundance of wisdom. However, my blessed friend, exert yourself; for it is not difficult to understand what I mean. For I mean the contrary to what the poet said, who wrote, “You are unwilling to mention Jove the creator who made this universe: for where fear is there is also shame.” I, however, differ from this poet. Shall I tell you in what respect?

Euth. By all means.

Socr. It does not appear to me, that where fear is there is also shame. For there appear to me to be many who fearing diseases, poverty, and many other things of the kind, fear indeed but are by no means ashamed of what they fear. Does it not appear so to you?

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. But wherever shame is, there is also fear: for is there any one who is ashamed of and blushes at any thing, that is not afraid of and does not fear the reputation of baseness?

Euth. Assuredly he does fear it.

Socr. It is not right, therefore, to say, that where fear is, there also is shame, but where shame is, there also is fear; not however, wherever there is fear, there is also shame. For I think that fear is more extensive than shame; for shame is a part of fear, as the odd is a part of number, so that it does not follow that wherever number is, there also is the odd, but wherever the odd is, there also is number. Do you follow me now?

Euth. Perfectly.

Socr. I asked you, then, about a thing of this kind above, whether where the just is, there also is the holy, or where the holy is, there also is the just, but wherever the just is, here is not always the holy: for the holy is a part of the just. Shall we say thus, or does it seem to you otherwise?

Euth. No, but thus. For you appear to me to speak correctly.

14. Socr. Observe then what follows. If the holy is a part of the just, it is necessary, as it seems, that we should find out what part of the just the holy is. If then you were to ask me about some of the things before mentioned, for instance, what part of number the even is, and what number it is, I should say that it is not scalene, but isosceles[165]. Does it not appear so to you?

Euth. It does.

Socr. Do you, then, also endeavour in like manner to teach me what part of the just the holy is, that I may tell Melitus no longer to treat me unjustly nor indict me for impiety, since I have now sufficiently learnt from you what things are pious and holy, and what not.

Euth. That part of justice then, Socrates, appears to me to be pious and holy, which is concerned about our care for the gods; but that which is concerned about our care for mankind is the remaining part of justice.

15. Socr. You appear to me, Euthyphron, to speak well; but I still require a trifle further. For I do not yet understand what care you mean. For you surely do not mean such care is to be had for the gods as is employed about other things. For we say, for instance, not every one knows how to take care of horses, but a groom; do we not?

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. For surely the groom’s business is the taking care of horses.

Euth. Yes.

Socr. Nor does every one know how to take care of dogs, but a huntsman.

Euth. Just so.

Socr. For the huntsman’s business is the taking care of dogs.

Euth. Yes.

Socr. And the herdsman’s of cattle.

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. But holiness and piety of the gods, Euthyphron; do you say so?

Euth. I do.

Socr. All care, therefore, aims at the same thing, that is to say, it is for some good and advantage of that which is taken care of, as you see that horses, taken care of by one skilled in the groom’s business, are benefited and become better: do they not seem so to you?

Euth. They do.

Socr. Dogs also are benefited by one skilled in the huntsman’s business, and oxen by that of the herdsman, and all other things in like manner: do you think that the care is employed for the injury of that which is taken care of?

Euth. Not I, by Jupiter.

Socr. But for its advantage?

Euth. How should it not?

Socr. Is holiness, therefore, since it is a care for the gods, an advantage to the gods, and does it make the gods better? And would you admit this, that when you do any thing holy, you make some one of the gods better?

Euth. Not I, by Jupiter.

Socr. Nor do I think, Euthyphron, that you mean this; I am far from doing so: but for this reason I asked you what care for the gods you mean, not thinking that you mean such as this.

Euth. And rightly, Socrates; for I do not mean such as this.

Socr. Be it so: but what care for the gods will holiness be?

Euth. That, Socrates, which slaves take of their masters.

Socr. I understand: it will be a kind of service, as it seems, paid to the gods.

Euth. Certainly.

16. Socr. Can you then tell me, to the performance of what the service of physicians is subservient? Do you not think it is to health?

Euth. I do.

Socr. But what? to the performance of what work is the service of shipwrights subservient?

Euth. Clearly, Socrates, to that of a ship.

Socr. And that of architects, to houses?

Euth. Yes.

Socr. Tell me, then, my excellent friend; to the performance of what work will the service of the gods be subservient? For it is clear that you know, since you say that you have a knowledge of divine things beyond that of other men.

Euth. And I say truly, Socrates.

Socr. Tell me then, by Jupiter, what is that very beautiful work which the gods effect, by employing us as servants.

Euth. They are many and beautiful, Socrates.

Socr. So do generals, my friend; though you could easily tell the principal of them, that they effect victory in war; is it not so?

Euth. How should I not?

Socr. Husbandmen too, I think, effect many and beautiful things; but the principal thing they effect is the production of food from the earth.

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. What then? of the many and beautiful things which the gods effect, what is the principal?

Euth. I told you just now, Socrates, that it is a difficult matter to learn all these things accurately; this however I tell you simply, that if any one knows how to speak and do things grateful to the gods, by praying and sacrificing, these things are holy, and such things preserve both private houses and the general weal of cities; but the contraries to things acceptable to them are impious, which also subvert and ruin all things.

17. Socr. You might, if you had pleased, Euthyphron, have told me the principal of what I asked in fewer words. But it is clear that you are not willing to teach me. For now when you were just upon the point of doing so, you turned aside; whereas if you had answered, I should by this time have sufficiently learnt from you what holiness is. But now (for it is necessary that he who asks questions should follow the person questioned wherever he may lead) what again do you say is the holy, and holiness? Do you not say it is a knowledge of sacrificing and praying?

Euth. I do.

Socr. Is not to sacrifice to offer gifts to the gods, and to pray to beg something of the gods?

Euth. Assuredly, Socrates.

Socr. From this statement it follows that holiness must be a knowledge of begging from and giving to the gods.

Euth. You quite understand what I mean, Socrates.

Socr. For I am very anxious, my friend, to obtain your wisdom, and I apply my mind to it: so that what you say will not fall to the ground. But tell me what this service of the gods is? Do you say it is to beg of them and to give to them?

Euth. I do.

18. Socr. Must we not then, therefore, to beg rightly, beg those things of them which we need from them?

Euth. What else?

Socr. And again to give rightly must we give them in return such things as they stand in need of from us? For surely it would not be suitable to offer those gifts to any one which he does not need.

Euth. You say truly, Socrates.

Socr. Holiness, therefore, Euthyphron, will be a kind of traffic between gods and men.

Euth. A kind of traffic, if it pleases you to call it so.

Socr. But it is not at all pleasing to me, unless it happens to be true. Tell me therefore, what advantage the gods derive from the gifts which they receive from us? For the advantage arising from what they give is clear to every one; for we have no good at all which they do not impart? but how are they benefited by what they receive from us? Do we get so much the advantage over them in this traffic, that we receive all good things from them, but they nothing from us?

Euth. But do you think, Socrates, that the gods are benefited by what they receive from us?

Socr. What is the use then, Euthyphron, of all our gifts to the gods?

Euth. What else do you think except honour and reverence, and, as I just now mentioned, gratitude?

Socr. Holiness then, Euthyphron, is that which is grateful, but not profitable or dear to the gods.

Euth. I for my part think it is of all things most dear to them.

Socr. This then again is, as it seems, holiness, that which is dear to the gods.

Euth. Most certainly.

19. Socr. Can you wonder then, when you say this, that your statements do not remain fixed, but move about, and can you accuse me as being the Dædalus that makes them move about, when you yourself are far more skilful than Dædalus, and make them go round in a circle? Do you not perceive that our discussion, turning round, comes to the same point? For you surely remember that in a former part of our discussion that which is holy and that which is acceptable to the gods appeared to us not to be the same, but different from each other: do you not remember?

Euth. I do.

Socr. Now, then, do you not perceive that you say that holiness is that which is dear to the gods? But is this any thing else than that which is acceptable to the gods? is it not so?

Euth. Certainly.

Socr. Either, therefore, we did not then admit that properly, or, if we did, our present statement is not correct?

Euth. It seems so.

Socr. From the beginning, therefore, we must consider again what holiness is; for I shall not willingly run away like a coward, until I have learnt it. Do not then despise me, but by all means apply your mind earnestly to it and tell me the truth. For you know it, if any man does; and I cannot let you go like Proteus, until you have told me. For if you had not known clearly both what is holy and what is impious, it is not possible that you could ever have attempted, for the sake of a hireling, to prosecute your aged father for murder; but you would have feared both to incur the anger of the gods, in case you should not act rightly in this matter, and would have been ashamed in the sight of men. But now I am sure that you think you clearly know both what is holy and what is not. Tell me, therefore, most excellent Euthyphron, and do not conceal from me what you believe it to be?

Euth. At some other opportunity then, Socrates: for now I am in haste to go somewhere, and it is time for me to depart.

Socr. What are you about, my friend? By going away you deprive me of the great hope I entertained that by learning from you what things are holy and what not, I might get rid of Melitus’s indictment, by shewing him that I had now become skilled in divine things by the aid of Euthyphron, and that I no longer through ignorance speak rashly, or introduce innovations respecting them, and that therefore I should lead a better life for the future.

INTRODUCTION TO THE LYSIS.

As Socrates was one day going from the Academy to the Lyceum he met with Hippothales, Ctesippus, and other youths, who were on that day celebrating the Hermæan festival in a newly-erected palæstra hard by. They invite him to come in and join their conversation; he promises to do so on condition that they will first tell him who is the beauty among them. Hippothales, to whom he first puts the question, shews, by his embarrassment, that he is himself far gone in love; and on being taxed with it by Socrates blushes still more, whereupon Ctesippus says that he is constantly overwhelming them with his poems and speeches on his favourite Lysis. Socrates, on hearing this, begs Hippothales to inform him how a lover ought to speak of or address his favourite. Hippothales, though he does not deny his being in love, does deny that he makes verses or speeches; but Ctesippus shews that he is constantly giving utterance to the most extravagant praises of his favourite and his family; on which Socrates remarks that he should not celebrate his victory before it is won; for that it is not wise to praise the object of one’s affection before a return of affection on his part is secured, and moreover such as are beautiful when highly praised are apt to become arrogant, and so are more difficult to be won. Hippothales takes these suggestions in good part, and begs Socrates to advise him how to address his favourite so as to win his affection, which Socrates readily promises to do if they will give him an opportunity of conversing with Lysis. To this end they all enter the palæstra, and almost as soon as Socrates, Ctesippus, Menexenus and others had seated themselves down in a quiet corner, Lysis, who is very fond of listening to conversations, comes and takes his seat next his friend Menexenus, while Hippothales is concealed in the back-ground out of sight of his favourite[166].

Socrates begins by addressing a few words to the latter, but on Menexenus being called out by the master of the palæstra, he turns to Lysis, and asks him whether his parents do not love him very much. On Lysis replying that they certainly do, Socrates shews him that though, since they love him, they must needs wish to make him as happy as possible, yet they are so far from letting him do whatever he pleases, that they put him under the government of others, even of slaves, and this not on account of his youth, but because he has not yet acquired sufficient experience and knowledge to be entrusted with the government of himself; but that whenever he is wise enough, not only his father, but all others, will entrust him with the management of themselves and their affairs[167].

At this point of the conversation Menexenus returned and resumed his seat near Lysis, who begs of Socrates to say over again to Menexenus what he had been saying to him; but Socrates desires him to tell it himself on some future occasion, and for the present engages to converse on some other subject with Menexenus. Having observed, therefore, the friendship that subsisted between Lysis and Menexenus, he asks the latter, when any one loves another, which of the two becomes a friend of the other, the lover or the beloved? Menexenus replies that there is no difference. But Socrates shews that it frequently happens that a lover is not only not loved in turn, but is even hated. In that case, then, which is the friend? Menexenus is forced to admit that unless both love neither can be a friend to the other. But here Socrates interposes this difficulty; he remarks that men often love horses, dogs, and other things which cannot love in turn; and the poet, as Menexenus admits, speaks truly who says, “Happy the man who has boys for his friends and horses and dogs,” so that the beloved now appears to be a friend of the lover, and not the lover of the beloved; and by the same reasoning he who is hated is an enemy, and not he who hates, whence the absurd conclusion follows that people are beloved by their enemies and hated by their friends. This, however, is impossible; therefore the reverse must be the case, and the lover must be a friend of the beloved. “If, then, neither those who love are to be friends, nor those who are loved, nor yet those who both love and are loved,” who are to be called friends? Lysis interposes with the remark that they do not appear to him to have conducted their enquiries aright; so Socrates avails himself of the opportunity thus offered him, and directs his discourse to Lysis[168].

“The poets say,” he observes, that “God ever conducts like to like,” and the wisest among men say the same, “that like must ever needs be friendly to like.” Lysis agrees to this. But, objects Socrates, only half of this appears to be true, for the more wicked men are the more hostile are they to each other; so that it appears that the good man only is a friend to the good man only, but that the bad man never arrives at true friendship. But here again a new doubt is started.

The like can derive no benefit from the like; how, therefore, can they be held in regard by each other? and how can that which is not held in regard be a friend? In like manner, the good man is sufficient for himself; but he who is sufficient needs nothing, and so will not regard any thing, and therefore not love. So that from this it appears, that not even the good will be friends to each other[169].

Socrates then remarks, that he once heard some one say that like is most hostile to like, and the good to the good; and generally that things most like each other are most full of envy, strife and hatred, but such as are most unlike are most disposed to friendship, just as the dry desires the moist, the cold heat, and so on. Menexenus admits the truth of this, and of its consequence, that the contrary is most friendly to its contrary. But again Socrates drives him to this absurd conclusion, that since enmity is most contrary to friendship, therefore an enemy must be a friend to a friend, or a friend a friend to an enemy[170].

Since it appears, then, that neither is the like friendly to the like, nor the contrary to the contrary, Socrates next proposes to enquire whether that which is neither good nor evil can be the friend of the good. According to an ancient proverb, the beautiful is friendly, and the good is beautiful, whence he would conclude that that which is neither good nor evil is friendly to the beautiful and the good. There are three several classes of things, he says, the good, the evil, and that which is neither good nor evil. It has already been proved that the good is not friendly to the good, nor the evil to the evil, nor yet the good to the evil, nor the evil to the good; it remains, therefore, that that which is neither good nor evil must be friendly to the good. But a little further discussion leads to the more narrow conclusion, that that which is neither evil nor good is friendly to the good, on account of the presence of evil[171].

Both Lysis and Menexenus agree to this conclusion; but Socrates soon raises new difficulties, and shews the fallaciousness of their former reasoning. A friend, he says, is a friend to some one, and for the sake of something, and on account of something; for a rich man is a friend to a physician on account of disease, which is an evil, and for the sake of health, which is a good, so that that which is friendly is a friend for the sake of a friend, on account of an enemy. By proceeding in this way, he argues, we shall at length arrive at some principle, which will not have to be referred to another friend, but will arrive at the first friend, for the sake of which all other things are friends, and which is friendly for its own sake. Now it has already appeared that we are friendly to that which is good, and that we love the good on account of evil; if, therefore, evil were to be done away with the good would be of no use to us, and we should not love it. In this, too, his young friends are willing to acquiesce, but Socrates dispels this delusion also, and shews that evil cannot be the cause of love, since if evil were done away with the desires would still remain, which in reality are the causes of friendship; for that which desires desires what it stands in need of, and that which stands in need is friendly to that of which it stands in need: and so love, desire, and friendship respect that which, in a manner, belongs to a man; but then evil belongs to evil and good to good, consequently they will each severally be friendly to their fellow, and the evil will be no less a friend to the evil than the good to the good; but both these positions have already been shewn to be erroneous, and so no positive solution of the question proposed is arrived at[172].

LYSIS,

OR

ON FRIENDSHIP.

Socrates, Hippothales, Ctesippus, Menexenus, and Lysis.

I was going from the Academy straight to the Lyceum on the road outside the wall close to the wall itself, but when I reached the little gate, where is the fountain of the Panops, I there met with Hippothales son of Hieronymus, Ctesippus the Pæanian, and other young men with them standing together in a group. And Hippothales seeing me approach said, “Socrates, whither are you going, and whence come you?”

“From the Academy,” I replied, “and am going straight to the Lyceum.”

“Hither, then,” said he, “straight to us. Won’t you come here? it is worth while.”

“Where do you mean,” said I, “and whom do you mean by ‘you’?”

“Hither,” he replied, shewing me an enclosure opposite the wall and an open gate, “there we are passing away our time, we and a good many other fine fellows.”

“And what is this, and what your occupation?”

“A palæstra,” he said, “lately built; our occupation consists chiefly in conversation, which we would gladly share with you.”

“You do well,” said I. “But who teaches there?”

“Your friend and encomiast,” said he, “Miccus.”

“By Jupiter,” said I, “he is no mean person, but an apt sophist.”

“Will you follow us then,” said he, “that you may see those that are there?”

2. “I should be glad to hear this first, and on that condition I enter, who is the beauty?”

“To some of us,” said he, “Socrates, one appears so, to some, another.”

“But who appears so to you, Hippothales? Tell me this.”this.” Then he blushed at the question. And I said, “Hippothales, son of Hieronymus, you need no longer tell me this, whether you are in love with any one or not: for I know that you are not only in love, but are already pretty far gone in love. I, for my part, am in other matters poor and useless, but this somehow has been given me by the deity, to be able quickly to discern both a lover, and one that is beloved.”

On hearing this, he blushed still more. Whereupon Ctesippus said, “It is a fine thing in you to blush, Hippothales, and hesitate to tell Socrates the name, though if he were to stay here with you even for a short time he would be tired to death with hearing you frequently telling it. 3. He has certainly deafened our ears, Socrates, and filled them with the name of Lysis: and if he is somewhat tipsy, it is easy for us, even when we awake out of sleep, to fancy that we hear the name of Lysis. And what he tells of him in his ordinary talk, though wearisome, is not so very much so; but when he attempts to overwhelm us with his poems and set-speeches! and what is still more wearisome than these, is that he sings about his favourite with a wonderful voice, which we must endure to listen to. But now when questioned by you, he blushes.”

“This Lysis, then,” said I, “is a youth, as it seems. I conjecture this, because on hearing the name I did not know it.”

“They don’t often call him by his own name,” said he, “but he still goes by his father’s name, because his father is so very well known. For I am very sure, that you are far from being unacquainted with the form of the youth; for he may be sufficiently known from this only.”

4. “Tell me then,” said I, “whose son he is.”

“The eldest son of Democrates, of Æxone,” he replied.

“Well done, Hippothales,” said I, “what a noble and in every way admirable love is this you have met with! Come then, display to me what you display to these also, that I may discover whether you know what a lover ought to say about his favourite, either to himself or to others.”

“Do you really put any weight, Socrates,” said he, “on any thing that he says?”

“Do you deny,” said I, “that you are in love with the person whom he speaks of?”

“I do not,” said he, “but I do deny that I make verses on my favourite or compose speeches.”

“He is not in his right senses,” said Ctesippus, “but is delirious and mad.”

Upon this I said, “Hippothales, I do not wish to hear your verses, nor any song that you may have made on the youth, but their meaning, that I may know in what way you behave towards your favourite.”

“He doubtless will tell you,” said he, “for he knows and remembers it well, since, as he says, he has been stunned by constantly hearing it from me.”

5. “By the gods,” said Ctesippus, “assuredly I do; and ridiculous it is too, Socrates. For that being a lover, and devoting himself to the youth beyond all others, he should have nothing of his own to say, that even a boy might not say, how can it be otherwise than ridiculous? For what the whole city resounds with about Democrates and Lysis the boy’s grandfather, and all his ancestors, their wealth, their breed of horses, and their victories in the Pythian, Isthmian, and Nemean games, with four horses and with one, these things he puts into poems and speeches, and besides these, things still more absurd: for he lately described to us in a poem, the entertainment of Hercules, how an ancestor of theirs received Hercules on account of his relationship to him, being himself sprung from Jupiter and the daughter of the founder of his borough, such things as old women sing, and many others of the same kind, Socrates. 6. These are the things that he speaks of and sings and compels us to listen to.”

Upon hearing this, I said, “O ridiculous Hippothales, before you have gained the victory do you compose and sing an encomium on yourself?”

“But I neither compose nor sing on myself, Socrates.”

“You do not think so,” I replied.

“How is that?” said he.

“These songs,” said I, “most of all relate to you. For if you gain your favourite being such as you describe, what you have said and sung will be an honour to you, and in reality an encomium on yourself as victorious in having won such a favourite. But if he should escape you, by how much greater the encomiums are which you uttered on your favourite, by so much the more ridiculous will you appear in being deprived of greater blessings. Whoever therefore, my friend, is skilled in matters of love, does not praise his beloved before he has caught him, fearing how the event will turn out. Moreover such as are beautiful when any one praises and extols them, are filled with pride and arrogance. Do you not think so?”

“I do,” he replied.

7. “And by how much the more arrogant they are, are they not more difficult to be caught?”

“That is probable at least.”

“What sort of huntsman, then, would he appear to you to be, who in hunting should scare away his prey, and make it more difficult to be caught?”

“Without doubt, a bad one.”

“And by speeches and songs not to soothe but exasperate, shews a great want of skill; does it not?”

“It appears so to me.”

“Consider then, Hippothales, whether you will not expose yourself to all these charges by your poetry. Though I think you would not be willing to allow that a man who harms himself by his poetry can be a good poet, in that he harms himself.”

“No, by Jupiter,” said he, “for that would be a great piece of folly. But on this very account, Socrates, I communicate the matter to you, and if you have any thing else to suggest, advise me, by saying what or by doing what one may win the affections of one’s favourite.”

“It is not easy to say,” I replied: “but if you will make Lysis himself converse with me, I could perhaps shew you what you ought to say to him, instead of the things which your friends allege that you say and sing.”

8. “There is no difficulty in that,” he replied. “For if you will enter with Ctesippus here, and sit down and converse, I think that he will join you of his own accord, for he is exceedingly fond of listening, Socrates, and moreover, as they are celebrating the Hermæa, young men and boys are all mixed up together. He will therefore join you: but if not, he is intimate with Ctesippus, through his cousin Menexenus; for Menexenus is his most particular friend. Let him call him, therefore, if he does not join you of his own accord.”

“This,” said I, “we must do.” And at the same time, laying hold of Ctesippus, I entered the palæstra, and the others came after us.

On entering there, we found that the boys had finished their sacrifices, and, the ceremonies being now nearly ended, playing at dice, and all full dressed. 9. Many of them were playing in the court outside, but some in a corner of the dressing-room were playing at odd and even with a great number of dice which they drew out of certain little baskets. Others stood round these, looking on; and among them was Lysis, and he stood in the midst of the boys and youths, crowned, and surpassing them in form, so as not only to deserve to be called beautiful, but beautiful and noble. Then we withdrawing to the opposite side sat down, (for it was quiet there,) and entered into conversation with each other. Lysis, thereupon, turning round, frequently looked at us, and was evidently anxious to come to us; but for some time he hesitated, and was averse to approach alone. Then, Menexenus comes in, in the midst of his game from the court, and as soon as he saw me and Ctesippus, came and seated himself by us. 10. Lysis, therefore, seeing him, followed, and sat down by the side of Menexenus. Others likewise came up, and moreover Hippothales, when he saw a good many standing round, concealing himself behind them, took up a position where he thought Lysis could not see him, fearing lest he should give him offence, and in this position he listened to our discourse. And I, looking towards Menexenus, said, “Son of Demophon, which of you is the elder?”

“We are in doubt,” he replied.

“Should you not also contend which of you is the more noble?” said I.

“Certainly,” said he.

“And in like manner, which of you is the more beautiful?”

Hereupon they both laughed. “However,” said I, “I will not ask which of you is the more rich, for you are friends; are you not?”

“Certainly,” they replied.

“Now the property of friends is said to be common, so that in this respect there will be no difference between you if what you say about friendship is true.”

They assented.

After this, I was purposing to ask, which of them was the more just and the more wise; but in the meanwhile some one came and made Menexenus get up, saying that the master of the palæstra called him; for he appeared to me to be one concerned in the sacrifices. He therefore left us; and I questioned Lysis: 11. “Doubtless,” said I, “Lysis, your father and mother love you very much?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

“Would they not, then, wish you to be as happy as possible?”

“How not?”

“Does a man appear to you to be happy who is a slave, and who is not permitted to do any thing he desires?”

“By Jupiter, no,” said he.

“If, therefore, your father and mother love you and wish that you may be happy, this is quite evident, that they endeavour to make you happy?”

“How should they not?” said he.

“Do they, therefore, permit you to do what you please, and in no respect find fault with you or hinder you from doing whatever you desire?”

“By Jupiter, Socrates,” said he, “they do indeed hinder me in very many things.”

“How say you?” I asked, “wishing you to be happy do they hinder you from doing whatever you please? Answer me thus; If you should desire to mount on one of your father’s chariots, and to take the reins when a race is to be run, would he not allow you, but hinder you?”

“By Jupiter,” said he, “he would not allow me.”

“Whom would he then?”

“There is a charioteer who receives pay from my father.”

12. “How say you? Do they suffer a hired servant rather than you to do what he pleases with the horses, and moreover pay him money for so doing?”

“Why not?” said he.

“But I suppose they suffer you to drive the pair of mules and, if you wish to take the whip and beat them, they would allow you.”

“Why allow me?” said he.

“But what?” said I, “is no one allowed to beat them?”

“Certainly,” said he, “the mule-driver.”

“Is he a slave, or free?”.

“A slave,” he replied.

“They think more of a slave then, as it seems, than of you, their son, and commit their property to him rather than to you, and allow him to do what he pleases, but you they hinder. Tell me this too. Do they allow you to govern yourself; or do they not even suffer this?”

“How should they suffer it?” he said.

“Who then governs you?”

“My pædagogue here,” said he.

“Is he a slave?”

“How should he be otherwise? ours though,” said he.

“It is shameful, surely,” said I, “that a freeman should be governed by a slave. And by doing what does this pædagogue govern you?”

“Of course,” said he, “he conducts me to my masters.”

“And do they too govern you, the masters?

“Assuredly.”

13. “Your father, then, voluntarily sets over you many rulers and governors. But when you return home to your mother, does she allow you to do whatever you please, that you may be happy as far as she is concerned, either with her wool or her loom when she is spinning? She surely does not hinder you from touching the comb or the shuttle, or any other of her spinning instruments.”

Whereupon, he laughing replied, “By Jupiter, Socrates, she not only hinders me, but I should be beaten too if I touched them.”

“By Hercules,” said I, “have you in any way injured your father or your mother?”

“By Jupiter, not I,” he said.

“For what reason, then, do they so shamefully hinder you from being happy and doing what you please, and bring you up throughout the whole day in subjection to some one, and in a word let you do scarcely any thing that you wish? So that, as it seems, neither have you any advantage from such great riches, but any one manages them rather than you, nor from your person, which is so noble, but this too another tends and takes care of: but you, Lysis, neither govern any thing, nor do any thing that you wish.”

14, “For I am not yet old enough, Socrates,” said he.

“That should not hinder you, son of Democrates: since thus far, I think, both your father and mother permit you and do not wait till you are old enough: for when they wish any thing to be read to or written for them, they appoint you, I think, first of all in the house to this office; do they not?”

“Certainly,” said he.

“Are you allowed then, in this case, to write whichever letter you please first, and which second, and are you allowed to read in like manner? And when you take the lyre, I think, neither your father nor your mother hinder you from tightening and loosening any string you please, and from twanging and striking them with the quill; do they hinder you?”

“By no means.”

“What then can be the cause, Lysis, that in these cases they do not hinder you, but do hinder you in those that we just now mentioned?”

“Because, I think,” said he, “I know the one, but not the other.”

15. “Be it so,” said I, “my excellent youth; your father, then, is not waiting for your being old enough to entrust every thing to you, but on the very day that he shall think you are wiser than he is, he will entrust to you both himself and his property?”

“I think he will,” said he.

“Be it so,” said I, “what then? Will not your neighbour follow the same rule as your father respecting you? Do you think he will entrust you with the management of his household when he thinks you are wiser than himself with respect to household-management, or will he preside over it himself?”

“I think he will entrust it to me.”

“But what? do you think the Athenians will entrust their affairs to you, when they perceive that you are wise enough?”

“I do.”

“By Jupiter,” said I, “what then as to the great king? Would he suffer his eldest son, who will succeed to the government of Asia, when his meat is being cooked, to throw into the sauce whatever he pleases, rather than us, if we should go to him and shew that we are more skilled in the preparation of dishes than his son?”

“Us, clearly,” he replied.

16. “And he would not allow him to throw any thing in, however trifling, but us he would allow, even if we wished to throw in salt by the handful.”

“How not?”

“But what if his son should be diseased in his eyes, would he allow him to touch his own eyes, not considering him a physician, or would he hinder him?”

“He would hinder him.”

“But if he supposed we were good physicians, even if we wished to open his eyes and sprinkle them with ashes, I think he would not hinder us, considering we judged rightly.”

“You say true.”

“Would he not entrust every thing else to us rather than to himself or his son, with respect to which we appeared to him to be wiser than either of them?”

“Necessarily so, Socrates,” he replied.

“This, then, is the case,” said I, “my dear Lysis, all persons, both Greeks and barbarians, men and women, will entrust us with those things with respect to which we are found to be wise, and we shall do in them whatever we please, nor will any one purposely hinder us, but we shall both be free ourselves in these matters, and governors over others, and these things will be our own, for we shall derive benefit from them. 17. But those things about which we have no knowledge no one will suffer us to do as we think proper, but all men will hinder us as much as they are able, not only strangers, but even our own father and mother, and any one else who is more nearly related to us than them, and in these matters we ourselves shall be subject to others, and they will be strange to us, for we shall derive no benefit from them. Do you admit that this is the case?”

“I do.”

“Shall we, then, be friends to any one, and will any one love us in those things in which we are of no use?”

“No, surely,” said he.

“Now, then, neither does your father love you, nor does any one else love another person, in so far as he is useless?”

“It appears not,” he said.

“If, then, you become wise, my boy, all men will be your friends, and all men will be attached to you, for you will be useful and good. But if not, neither will any one else, nor your father be a friend to you, nor your mother, nor any of your kindred. Is it possible, then, Lysis, that any one can deem himself wise in those things of which as yet he has no knowledge at all?”

“How can he?” said he.

“If, then, you require a teacher, you are not yet wise?”

18. “True.”

“Neither, then, are you very wise, if you are still unwise?”

“By Jupiter,” said he, “Socrates, I do not think that I can be.”

Then I, upon hearing this, looked at Hippothales, and almost committed a blunder, for it occurred to me to say, “Thus, Hippothales, we ought to converse with favourites, humbling and checking them, and not, as you do, puffing them up and filling them with vanity.” However, perceiving him anxious and disturbed at what was said, I recollected that, although he was standing near, he wished to escape the observation of Lysis; I therefore recovered myself, and restrained my speech.

At this moment Menexenus came again, and sat down by Lysis, whence he had risen before. Lysis, then, in a very boyish and affectionate manner, unobserved by Menexenus, talking to me a little while, said, “Socrates, say over again to Menexenus what you have been saying to me.”

And I replied, “Do you tell it him, Lysis, for you paid very great attention.”

“I certainly did,” he replied.

“Endeavour, then,” said I, “to remember it as well as you can, that you may tell him all clearly; but if you forget any thing, ask me again the first time you meet me.”

19. “I will most certainly do so, Socrates,” said he, “be well assured. But say something else to him, that I too may hear, until it is time for me to go home.”

“I must do so,” said I, “since you bid me; but take care that you assist me, if Menexenus should attempt to confute me. Do you not know that he is fond of disputing?”

“By Jupiter,” said he, “very much so; and for this reason I wish you to converse with him.”

“That I may make myself ridiculous?” said I.

“No, by Jupiter,” said he, “but that you may punish him.”

“How so,” said I, “that’s not an easy matter, for the man is clever, a disciple of Ctesippus. And besides, he is here in person, do not you see Ctesippus?”

“Don’t concern yourself about that, Socrates,” said he, “but come, converse with him.”

“We must converse, then,” I replied.

While we were speaking thus to each other, Ctesippus said, “What are you two feasting on by yourselves, without letting us share in the conversation?”

“But indeed,” said I, “you shall have a share, for Lysis here does not understand something that I have said, but says he thinks Menexenus knows it, and bids me ask him.”

20. “Why then,” said he, “do you not ask him?”

“But I will ask him,” I replied. “Answer me, then, Menexenus, what I shall ask you; for from my childhood I happen to have had a desire for a certain thing, as another person may have of something else: for one desires to possess horses, another dogs, another gold, and another honours; but I, for my part, am indifferent about these things, but have a fond desire for the possession of friends, and I had rather have a good friend than the best quail or cock in the world; and, by Jupiter, than the best horse or dog, and I think, by the dog, that I should much rather prefer the possession of an intimate, than the gold of Darius, or even than Darius himself, so fond am I of intimate friends. Seeing you, therefore, and Lysis, I was amazed, and pronounced you happy, because, young as you are, you have been able so quickly and easily to acquire this possession, and you have so quickly and sincerely acquired him for your friend, and again he you. But I am so far from making this acquisition, that I do not even know in what way one man becomes the friend of another; but I wish to ask this very thing of you, as being an experienced person. 21. Tell me, then, when any one loves another, which of the two becomes a friend, the lover of the beloved, or the beloved of the lover? or is there no difference?”

“It appears to me,” said he, “that there is no difference.”

“How say you?” I replied, “Do both then become friends of each other, if one alone loves the other?”

“To me it appears so,” said he.

“But what? Is it not possible for one who loves not to be loved in turn by the object of his love?”

“It is.”

“But what? is it not possible, then, for one who loves ever to be hated? as lovers surely sometimes seem to be treated by their favourites: for though they love most ardently, some of them think that they are not loved in turn, and some even that they are hated. Does not this appear to you to be true?”

“Quite true,” said he.

“In such a case, then,” said I, “does one love, and is the other loved?”

“Yes.”

“Which then of these is the friend of the other? the lover of the beloved, whether he is loved in turn, or even if he is hated, or the beloved of the lover? or again, in such a case, is neither the friend of neither, unless both love each other?”

“It seems indeed to be so.”

22. “Now, then, it appears to us otherwise than it appeared before. For then if one loved, both appeared to be friends; but now, unless both love neither is a friend.”

“It appears so,” said he.

“Nothing, therefore, is a friend to that which loves unless it loves in turn.”

“It seems not.”

“Neither, then, are they friends of horses, whom horses do not love in turn, nor friends of quails, nor again friends of dogs, and friends of wine, and friends of gymnastics, and of wisdom, unless wisdom loves them in turn: or do they severally love these things although they are not friends, and does the poet speak falsely who says, ‘Happy the man who has boys for his friends, and solid-hoofed horses, and hunting dogs, and a foreign guest?’”

“It does not seem so to me,” he replied.

“But does he appear to you to speak the truth?”

“Yes.”

“The beloved, then, is a friend to that which loves, as it seems, Menexenus, whether it loves or whether it hates; just as children newly born, who partly do not yet love, and partly even hate, when they are punished by their mother or their father, nevertheless, at the very time when they hate, are in the highest degree beloved by their parents.

“It appears to me,” said he, “that this is the case.”

23. “The lover, therefore, from this reasoning, is not the friend, but the beloved.”

“It seems so.”

“And he who is hated, therefore, is an enemy, but not he who hates.”

“So it appears.”

“Many, therefore, are beloved by their enemies and hated by their friends; and are friends to their enemies, but enemies to their friends, if the beloved is a friend, and not the lover. Though it is very absurd, my dear friend, or rather, I think, impossible, to be an enemy to a friend, and a friend to an enemy.”

“You seem to speak truly, Socrates,” said he.

“If, therefore, this is impossible, the lover will be a friend of the beloved.”

“So it appears.”

“Again, therefore, that which hates must be the enemy of that which is hated.”

“Necessarily so.”

“Therefore, the result will be that we must of necessity admit the very things that we did before, that a man is often a friend of that which is not a friend, and often even of that which is an enemy, when either any one loves that which does not love, or even loves that which hates, and is often an enemy of that which is not an enemy, or is even a friend, when either any one loves that which does not hate, or even hates that which loves.”

“It appears so,” said he.

“What shall we do, then,” said I, “if neither those who love are to be friends, nor those who are loved, nor yet those who both love and are loved? Shall we say that some others besides these become friends to each other?”

“By Jupiter, Socrates,” said he, “I don’t well know what answer to make.”

24. “Have we not, then, Menexenus,” said I, “conducted our enquiries altogether right?”

“To me it appears not, Socrates,” said Lysis; and as he said this he blushed: for his remark appeared to me to escape from him involuntarily through his earnest attention to the conversation: and he was plainly most attentive while he was listening.

I then, wishing that Menexenus should cease speaking, and being delighted with the other’s love of wisdom, accordingly turned round and directed my discourse to Lysis, and said, “Lysis, you seem to me to say truly, that if we had conducted our enquiries properly, we should never have wandered in this manner. But let us proceed no longer in this way, (for the investigation appears to me to be difficult as if it were a road,) but it seems to me that we should proceed by the road to which we turned aside, and conduct our enquiries after the poets; for they are to us, as it were, fathers of wisdom and guides. They speak however, I imagine, so as not to give a mean account of such as happen to be friends, but they say that God himself makes them friends, by conducting them to each other. They express themselves as I think somehow as follows: ‘God ever conducts like to like[173],’ and makes them known; have you not met with this verse?”

“I have,” said he.

25. “Have you not met, too, with the writings of the wisest of men that say the very same things, that like must ever needs be friendly to like? But these are they who discourse and write about nature and the universe.”

“You say truly,” he replied.

“Whether, then,” said I, “do they say well?”

“Perhaps so,” said he.

“Perhaps,” said I, “the half is true, and perhaps the whole, but we do not understand it: for the wicked man, by how much nearer he approaches, and is more intimate with a wicked man, seems to us to become so much the more hostile to him; for he injures him; but, surely, it is impossible for those who injure and are injured to be friends: is it not so?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Thus, then, the half of this saying will not be true, since the wicked are like each other?”

“You say true.”

“But they seem to me to say that the good are like each other and friends, but that the bad, as it is said of them, are never alike even to themselves, but are inconstant and unstable. But that which is unlike and at variance with itself, can scarcely be like or friendly to another; does it not seem so to you too?”

“To me it does,” said he.

26. “They intimate this, then, my friend, as it seems to me, when they say that like is friendly to like, that the good man only is a friend to the good man only, but that the bad man never arrives at true friendship, either with a good or a bad man: does it seem so to you also?”

He nodded assent.

“We have now discovered, then, who are friends, for our argument shews that it must be those who are good.”

“It certainly seems so,” said he.

“And I think so too,” said I. “Nevertheless, I find some difficulty in it. Come then, by Jupiter, let us see what it is I suspect. The like, in so far as he is like, is a friend to the like, and such an one is useful to such an one: or rather thus: can any thing that is like confer any benefit on or do any harm to any thing that is like, which it cannot also do to itself; or suffer any thing which it cannot also suffer from itself? But how can such things be held in regard by each other when they are unable to afford any assistance to each other? is it possible?”

“It is not possible.”

“But how can that which is not held in regard be a friend?”

“In no way.”

“The like, then, is not a friend to the like: but will the good be a friend to the good, so far as he is good, and not so far as he is like?”

“Perhaps so.”

27. “But what? Will not the good man, so far as he is good, be sufficient for himself?”

“Yes.”

“But he who is sufficient stands in need of nothing, so far as sufficiency is concerned?”

“How can it be otherwise?”

“And he who stands in need of nothing will not regard any thing?”

“He will not.”

“But he who does not feel a regard cannot love?”

“Surely not.”

“How, then, will the good be in any respect friends to the good, who neither when absent regret each other, for they are sufficient for themselves when apart, nor when present stand in need of each other? By what contrivance can such persons value each other very highly?”

“By none at all,” said he.

“But they will not be friends who do not value each other very highly?”

“True.”

“Observe then, Lysis, how we are deceived. Are we, then, deceived in the whole?”

“How so?” said he.

“I once heard a person say, and I just now call it to mind, that like is most hostile to like, and the good to the good. And moreover, he adduced Hesiod[174] as a witness, saying that ‘potter is angry with potter, bard with bard, and beggar with beggar.’ And so, he said, with regard to all other things, that as a matter of absolute necessity, things most like each other are most full of envy, strife, and hatred; but such as are most unlike, of friendship; 28. for that the poor man is compelled to be a friend to the rich, and the weak to the strong, for the sake of assistance, and the sick man to the physician; and that every one who is ignorant must regard and love him that has knowledge. Moreover, he carried on the subject in a more lofty style, saying that the like is so far from being friendly to the like, that the very contrary to this takes place. For that the most contrary is in the highest degree friendly to the most contrary; for every thing desires its contrary, and not its like. Thus the dry desires the moist, the cold heat, the bitter sweet, the sharp blunt, the empty fulness, and the full emptiness; and all other things in the same way. For the contrary is food to the contrary, but the like can derive no enjoyment from the like. And indeed, my friend, he who said this seemed to be an accomplished man, for he spoke well. But how does he seem to you to speak?” I asked.

29. “Well,” replied Menexenus, “as it seems on first hearing.”

“Shall we say, then, that the contrary is most friendly to the contrary?”

“Certainly.”

“Be it so,” said I, “but is it not monstrous, Menexenus, and will not those perfectly wise men, the disputants, immediately spring upon us exultingly, and ask, if friendship is not most contrary to enmity? What answer shall we give them? Must we not of necessity admit that they say truly?”

“Of necessity.”

“‘Well then,’ they will ask, ‘is an enemy a friend to a friend, or is a friend a friend to an enemy?’”.

“Neither the one nor the other,” he replied.

“But is the just a friend to the unjust, or the temperate to the intemperate, or the good to the bad?”

“I does not appear to me to be so.”

“However,” said I, “if one thing is a friend to another by reason of contrariety, these things must also of necessity be friendly?”

“Of necessity.”

“Neither, therefore, is the like friendly to the like, nor the contrary to the contrary?”

“It appears not.”

“Further, let us consider this, whether it still more escapes our observation, that a friend is in reality none of these, but that what is neither good nor evil may sometimes become the friend of the good.”

“How mean you?” said he.

“By Jupiter,” said I, “I don’t know; for I am in reality myself dizzy with the perplexity of the argument. It appears, however, according to the ancient proverb, that the beautiful is friendly. 30. It certainly resembles something soft, smooth, and plump; on which account perhaps it slips away from us and escapes us, because it is a thing of this kind. For I say that the good is beautiful: do you not think so?”

“I do.”

“I say, therefore, prophetically, that that which is neither good nor evil is friendly to the beautiful and the good. But hear why I thus prophesy. There appear to me to be as it were three several classes, one good, a second evil, a third neither good nor evil. What think you?”

“It seems so to me also,” said he.

“Now that the good is friendly to the good, or the evil to the evil, or the good to the evil, our former argument does not allow us to say. It remains therefore, if any thing is friendly to any thing, that that which is neither good nor evil, must be friendly either to the good, or to that which is such as itself; for nothing surely can become friendly to the evil.”

“True.”

“Neither is like friendly to like, we just now said; did we not?”

“Yes.”

“Therefore to that which is neither good nor evil, that which resembles it will not be friendly?”

“It appears not.”

“The result then is, that that which is neither good nor evil alone becomes friendly to the good alone?”

“Necessarily so, as it seems.”

31. “Well then, my boys,” said I, “does what is now said lead us in the right direction? Surely if we will consider, a healthy body has no need of the medicinal art, or of any assistance; for it is sufficient for itself; so that no healthy person is a friend to a physician on account of health; is it not so?”

“No one.”

“But the sick man I think is, on account of disease?”

“How not?”

“But disease is an evil, and the medicinal art beneficial and good.”

“Yes.”

“But a body surely, so far as it is body, is neither good nor evil.”

“Just so.”

“But a body is compelled, on account of disease, to embrace and love the medicinal art.”

“It seems so to me.”

“That, therefore, which is neither evil nor good, becomes friendly to the good, on account of the presence of evil.”

“So it seems.”

“But it is evident that it becomes so, prior to its becoming evil through the evil which it contains; for when it has once become evil, it will no longer desire the good, and be friendly to it: for we have said that it is impossible for the evil to be friendly to the good.”

“It is impossible.”

“Consider, then, what I say. For I say that some things are themselves such as that which is present with them, and some not. Thus, if any one wishes to dye any thing with any colour, the colour that is dyed in is surely present in the thing that is dyed.”

“Certainly.”

32. “Is then, that which is dyed, afterwards, the same as to colour, as that which is on it?”

“I don’t understand you,” he replied.

“But thus,” said I, “If any one should dye your hairs, which are yellow, with white lead, would they then be white, or appear so?”

“They would appear so,” he replied.

“Though whiteness would be present with them.”

“Yes.”

“And yet your hairs would not be at all the more white, but though whiteness is present, they are neither white nor black.”

“True.”

“But when, my friend, old age has brought this colour on them, then they become such as that which is present with them, white by the presence of white.”

“How can it be otherwise?”

“This then I now ask, if a thing be present in any thing, will that which contains it be such as that which is present with it, or if it be present after a certain manner, will it be such, but otherwise not?”

“Thus, rather,” he replied.

“That then which is neither evil nor good, sometimes when evil is present, is not yet evil, but sometimes it has already become such.”

“Certainly.”

“When, therefore, it is not yet evil, though evil be present, this very presence of evil makes it desirous of good, but this presence which makes it evil, deprives it at the same time of the desire and friendship for the good. 33. For it is now no longer neither evil nor good, but evil; evil however we saw, is not friendly to good.”

“It is not.”

“On this account we must say, that those who are already wise no longer love wisdom, whether they are gods or men; nor again do they love wisdom who have so much ignorance, as to be evil: for no evil and foolish person loves wisdom. They therefore are left, who possess indeed this evil, ignorance, but are not yet thereby stupid or foolish, but still think that they do not know the things that they do not know. Wherefore they who are not yet either good or evil are lovers of wisdom; but such as are evil do not love wisdom, nor do the good: for we have seen in a former part of our discussion, that neither is the contrary friendly to the contrary, nor the like to the like: do you not remember this?”

“Certainly,” they both replied.

“Now then,” said I, “Lysis and Menexenus, we have certainly discovered what it is that is friendly and what not. For we say, that with respect to the soul, and with respect to the body, and every thing else, that which is neither evil nor good, is friendly to the good on account of the presence of evil.”

34. They quite admitted and agreed that such was the case.

And I for my part was rejoicing exceedingly, like any hunter, in having just caught the prey that I was in chase of. And then, I know not from what quarter, a most strange suspicion came into my mind, that what we had assented to was not true. And immediately being distressed, I said, “Alas, Lysis and Menexenus, we seem to have grown rich in a dream.”

“Why so?” said Menexenus.

“I am afraid,” I replied, “that as if with braggart men, we have fallen in with some such false reasonings respecting a friend.”

“How so?” he asked.

“Let us consider it thus,” said I; “whether is he who is a friend, a friend to some one or not?”

“Necessarily so,” said he.

“Whether, therefore, for the sake of nothing, and on account of nothing, or for the sake of something, and on account of something?”

“For the sake of something and on account of something.”

“Whether is that thing friendly for the sake of which a friend is a friend to a friend, or is it neither friendly nor hostile?”

“I do not quite follow you,” said he.

“Probably,” said I. “But thus perhaps you will be able to follow me; and I think that I too shall better understand what I say. The sick man, we just now said, is a friend to the physician; is it not so?”

“Yes.”

“Is he not, then, a friend to the physician on account of disease, for the sake of health?”

“Yes.”

“But disease is an evil?”

“How not?”

“But what is health?” said I; “is it good or evil, or neither?”

“Good,” said he.

35. “We stated, then, as it seems, that the body, which is neither good, nor evil, on account of disease, that is on account of evil, is friendly to the medicinal art: but the medicinal art is a good; and the medicinal art acquires the friendship for the sake of health; and health is good: is it not?”

“Yes.”

“But is health a friend, or not a friend?”

“A friend.”

“And is disease an enemy?”

“Certainly.”

“That then which is neither evil nor good, on account of what is evil and an enemy, is a friend to the good, for the sake of what is good and a friend.”

“It appears so.”

“The friendly therefore is a friend for the sake of the friend, on account of that which is an enemy.”

“So it seems.”

“Well then,” said I, “since we have reached this point, my boys, let us pay every attention that we be not deceived. For that a friend becomes a friend to a friend, and that like becomes a friend to like, which we said is impossible, I give up. However let us consider this, that what is now asserted may not deceive us. The medicinal art, we say, is a friend for the sake of health?”

“Yes.”

“Is not, then, health also a friend?”

“Certainly.”

36. “If, then, it is a friend, it must be so for the sake of something?”

“Yes.”

“And indeed of something friendly, if we will keep to our former admission?”

“Certainly.”

“Will not, therefore, that again be a friend, for the sake of something friendly?”

“Yes.”

“Must we not, then, necessarily be tired out with going on thus, and arrive at some principle, which will not have to be referred to another friend, but will arrive at that which is the first friend, for the sake of which we say that all other things are friendly?”

“Necessarily so.”

“This, then, is what I say, we must take care that all those other things which we said were friendly for the sake of that, do not, as being certain images of it, deceive us, but that that may be the first which is truly a friend. For let us consider it thus. If any one values any thing very highly, as, for instance, sometimes a father prizes a son above all other things, will not such an one, because he esteems his son above every thing, also value something else very highly? For instance, if he were to hear that he had drunk hemlock, would he not value wine very highly, if he thought this would save his son?”

“How should he not?” said he.

37. “And the vessel too that contained the wine?”

“Certainly.”

“Will he then set the same value on an earthenware cup as he does upon his son, or three measures of wine as on his son? or is the case thus? all such anxiety is employed not about those things that are procured for the sake of something else, but about that for the sake of which all such things are procured: for although we often say that we value gold and silver very highly, yet we may observe that the truth is not at all the more thus; but what we value so very highly is that, whatever it may prove to be, for the sake of which gold and all other provisions are procured. Shall we not say so?”

“Certainly.”

“May not the same thing also be said of a friend? for whatever things we say are friendly to us, for the sake of some friendly thing, we appear to describe by a name that belongs to another, but that very thing seems in reality to be friendly in which all those so-called friendships terminate?”

“This seems to be the case,” said he.

“That, then, which is in reality friendly is not friendly for the sake of any other friendly thing?”

“True.”

“This, then, is settled, that what is friendly is not friendly for the sake of any other friendly thing. Is the good, then, friendly?”

“It seems so to me.”

38. “Is the good, then, loved on account of evil, and is the case thus? If of the three things which we just now mentioned, good, evil, and that which is neither good nor evil, two only were to be left, but evil were to depart altogether, and not come in contact with any thing, either with body, or soul, or any other of the things which we say in themselves are neither evil nor good, in that case would not good be of no use to us, but become useless? For if there were nothing to hurt us any more, we should stand in need of no assistance whatever. And thus it would then become evident that we had a regard for and loved the good on account of evil, since good is a medicine for evil, but evil is a disease. But when there is no disease, there is no need of medicine. Is this, then, the nature of good, and is it loved on account of evil, by us who are placed between evil and good, and is it of no use itself, for the sake of itself?”

“Such seems to be the case,” he replied.

“That which is friendly, therefore, to us, is that in which terminate all other things, which we said are friendly for the sake of some other friendly thing, but in no respect resembles them? 39. For these are called friendly for the sake of a friendly thing; but that which is in reality friendly appears to be of a nature quite contrary to this; for we have found it to be friendly for the sake of that which is hostile: but if that which is hostile should depart, it would no longer, as it seems, be friendly to us.”

“It seems to me that it would not,” said he, “according to what is now said.”

“Whether, by Jupiter,” said I, “if evil were to be destroyed, would there no longer be any hunger or thirst, or any thing else of the kind? or would there be hunger, if men and other animals existed, yet not so as to be hurtful? and thirst, and other desires, yet not be evil, since evil is destroyed? or is the question ridiculous, what would then be the case or not be the case? for who knows? This, however, we know, that at present it is possible to be harmed by being hungry, and it is also possible to be benefited; is it not so?”

“Certainly.”

“Therefore it is possible that one who thirsts, or is affected by any other similar desire, may sometimes be affected by it beneficially, and sometimes harmfully, and sometimes neither?”

“Assuredly.”

“If, therefore, evil were destroyed, must things that are not evil be destroyed together with the evil?”

“Not at all.”

“There will be, then, such desires as are neither good nor evil, even if evils were destroyed?”

“It appears so.”

40. “Is it, then, possible, that one who desires and is fond of any thing, should not love that which he desires and is fond of?”

“It does not appear so to me.”

“When evils, then, are destroyed, there will remain, as it seems, certain friendly things?”

“Yes.”

“Not so; at least if evil were the cause of any thing being friendly, for, when that is destroyed, one thing could not be friendly to another: for when the cause is destroyed, it is surely impossible that that of which it was the cause should any longer exist?”

“You say rightly.”

“Did we not admit that the friendly loved something, and on account of something, and did we not then think that, on account of evil, that which is neither good nor evil loved the good?”

“True.”

“But now, as it seems, there appears to be some other cause of loving and being loved?”

“So it seems.”

“Whether, then, in reality, as we just now said, is desire the cause of friendship, and is that which desires friendly to that which it desires, and at the time when it desires, but is what we before said was friendly mere trifling, like a poem[175] heedlessly composed?”

“It seems so,” said he.

“However,” I said, “that which desires desires that which it stands in need of; does it not?”

“Yes.”

“And is that which stands in need friendly to that of which it stands in need?”

“It seems so to me.”

“And it stands in need of that which is taken from it?”

41. “How should it not?”

“As it seems, then, love, friendship, and desire, respect that which belongs to a man; so it appears, Menexenus and Lysis?”

They both assented.

“If, therefore, you two are friends to each other, you must, in a manner, by nature belong to each other?”

“Assuredly,” they both replied.

“If, then,” said I, “any one desires or is fond of another, my boys, he could never desire, or be fond of, or be a friend, unless he, in a manner, belonged to the object of his love, either as to his soul, or as to some habit of the soul, or disposition, or form?”

“Certainly,” said Menexenus, but Lysis was silent.

“Well, then,” said I, “it has proved necessary for us to love that which by nature belongs to us?”

“It seems so,” said he.

“It is necessary, then, for a genuine, and not a pretended lover, to be beloved by his favourite?”

To this Lysis and Menexenus scarcely nodded assent, but Hippothales, through delight, exhibited all sorts of colours. And I, being willing to examine the matter, said, “If there is any difference between that which belongs to us and that which is like, we shall be able to say, as it seems to me, Lysis and Menexenus, respecting a friend, what he is, but if the like and that which belongs are the same, it is not easy to get rid of our former conclusion, that the like is useless to the like, as regards similitude; but to admit that what is useless can be friendly is absurd. 42. Are you willing, then,” I added, “since we are, as it were, intoxicated by the discussion, that we should grant and affirm that that which belongs is different from that which is like?”

“Certainly.”

“Whether, then, shall we admit that good belongs to every thing, but that evil is foreign? or that evil belongs to evil, good to good, and that which is neither good nor evil, to that which is neither good nor evil?”

They both said, that so it appeared to them, that each belongs to each.

“Again, therefore,” said I, “my boys, we have fallen upon those conclusions which we at first rejected respecting friendship. For the unjust will be no less a friend to the unjust, and the evil to the evil, than the good to the good.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“But what? if we should say that the good and that which belongs are the same, will not the good only be a friend to the good?”

“Certainly.”

“But in this too we thought we had confuted ourselves; do you not remember?”

“We do remember.”

“In what way, then, can we still deal with the subject; is it not clear, in no way at all? I require, then, like skilful pleaders in the law courts, to sum up all that has been said; for if neither those that are loved, nor those that love, nor the like, nor the unlike, nor the good, nor those that belong to us, nor any others that we have described, (for I do not remember them any further, on account of their number,) but if no one of these is a friend, I have nothing more to say.”

43. When I had said this, I purposed to stir up some one of the older men; but just then, like evil spirits, the pedagogues of Lysis and Menexenus approaching us, having hold of their brothers by their hand, called to them, and bade them go home, for it was already late. At first, then, both we and the bystanders drove them away; but when they paid no attention to us, but murmured in their barbarous dialect, and desisted not from calling them, and seemed to us, from having drunk too much at the Hermæan festival, to be difficult to manage, we yielded to them, and dissolved the conference. However, as they were just going away, I said, Lysis and Menexenus, we have made ourselves ridiculous, both I, an old man, and you; for those who are now leaving us will say, that we think ourselves to be each other’s friends, (for I reckon myself among you,) but that we have not yet been able to discover what a friend is.

END OF VOL. I.

1. Aristophanes.

2. Iliad, lib. xviii. ver. 94, &c.

3. See the Crito, s. 5.

4. Οὐδὲν λέγει, literally “he says nothing:” on se trompe, ou l’on vous impose, Cousin.

5. But for the authority of Stallbaum, I should have translated δικανικὰ “forensic,” that is, such arguments as an advocate would use in a court of justice.

6. See the Phædo, s. 1.

7. A promontory at the southern extremity of Attica.

8. The Eleven.

9. See Homer’s Iliad, l. ix. v. 363.

10. That is to say, the principle which we had laid down in former discussions, that no regard is to be had to popular opinion, is still found to hold good.

11. The Corybantes, priests of Cybele, who in their solemn festivals made such a noise with flutes that the hearers could hear no other sound.

12. § 21-39.

13. § 39, 40.

14. § 40-46.

15. § 47.

16. § 48-57.

17. § 55-59.

18. § 61-75.

19. § 76-84.

20. § 93-99.

21. § 100-112.

22. § 112-128.

23. § 129-131.

24. § 132-145.

25. Phlius, to which Echecrates belonged, was a town of Sicyonia in Peloponnesus.

26. A Pythagorean of Crotona.

27. Namely, “that it is better to die than live.”

28. Ἴττω Bœotian for ἴστω.

29. Of Pythagoras.

30. Some boyish spirit.

31. That is, at a time of life when the body is in full vigour.

32. In the original there is a play on the words Ἅιδης and ἀείδης, which I can only attempt to retain by departing from the usual rendering of the former word.

33. By this I understand him to mean that the soul alone can perceive the truth, but the senses, as they are different, receive and convey different impressions of the same thing; thus the eye receives one impression of an object, the ear a totally different one.

34. καὶ αὖθις ἕτερος καὶ ἕτερος, that is, “with one argument after another.” Though Cousin translates it et successivement tout différent de lui-mâne, and Ast, et rursus alia atque alia, which may be taken in either sense, yet it appears to me to mean that, when a man repeatedly discovers the fallacy of arguments which he before believed to be true, he distrusts reasoning altogether, just as one who meets with friend after friend who proves unfaithful, becomes a misanthrope.

35. Lib. xx. v. 7.

36. Harmony was the wife of Cadmus, the founder of Thebes; Socrates, therefore, compares his two Theban friends, Simmias and Cebes, with them, and says that having overcome Simmias, the advocate of Harmony, he must now deal with Cebes, who is represented by Cadmus.

37. εἶναί τι, literally, “is something.”

38. That is, to single.

39. See § 113.

40. It is difficult to express the distinction between ὅσια and νόμιμα, the former word seems to have reference to the souls of the dead, the latter to their bodies.

41. Its place of interment.

42. A proverb meaning “a matter of great difficulty.”

43. Iliad, lib. viii. v. 14.

44. A metallic substance of a deep blue colour, frequently mentioned by the earliest Grecian writers, but of which the nature is unknown.

45. § 1-7.

46. § 8-28.

47. § 29-37.

48. § 38-43.

49. § 44-47.

50. § 48-50.

51. § 51-57.

52. § 58-69.

53. § 70-80

54. § 81-103.

55. § 104-117.

56. § 118-119.

57. That is, come too late, and so take no part at all.

58. Or, “you are very obliging.”

59. The expression ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν qualifies the word πᾶσα, “almost the whole,” or “the whole, so to speak.”

60. ἀριθμητική means the theory, λογιστική the practice of arithmetic.

61. I have ventured to read ἢ οὔ for καὶ ποῦ, for which my only excuse is that the usual reading cannot be rendered intelligibly, and that the alteration I have ventured to import is an expression very commonly used by Socrates on similar occasions.

62. The wall which connected the southern extremities of the long walls and the Phaleric wall.

63. Ficinus, I think, correctly translates τελευτῶντες, tandem.

64. Literally “being reviled.”

65. Οὐκοῦν ἀνάγκη [τὸν ῥητορικὸν δίκαιον εἶναι] τὸν [δὲ] δίκαιον βούλεσθαι δίκαια πράττειν. I concur with Ast and others in thinking that the words inserted in brackets have been interpolated, and have therefore omitted them in the translation. Their insertion would break the chain of the argument.

66. Bekker omits the words σοφισταὶ καὶ ῥήτορες, and Ast suggests δικασταὶ for σοφισταὶ, in either of which cases the addition of the words in italics would be unnecessary.

67. That is, “the people of Athens.” It is necessary to retain the original word because of the play on the word Demus, which was the name of the son of Pyrilampes, a person distinguished for his personal beauty. Socrates means to insinuate that while he loves the inward beauty of Alcibiades and philosophy, Callicles loves the external beauty of the people and Demus son of Pyrilampes.

68. From the Antiope of Euripides. See Valckenaer Diatrib. in Eurip. Reliquias, p. 76.

69. Homer, Iliad, ix. 441.

70. οὗτοι φῶσιν, αὐτὰ ταῦτα εἶναι νόμιμα; as if αὐτὰ ταῦτα preceded ἃ ἂναὐτὰ ταῦτα preceded ἃ ἂν φῶσιν. See Stallbaum.

71. I have followed Stallbaum’s reading, οὐδεὶς ὅστις οὐκ ἂν γνοίη, ὅτι οὕτω λέγω . Socrates grants his opponent’s erroneous inference, that so he may be led on to a still greater absurdity.

72. The English language does not enable a translator to preserve the play on the words πιθανὸν and πίθον, nor the equivoque in ἀμυήτους, which means “leaky,” as well as “uninitiated.”

73. Χαραδριὸς, a bird which Aristotle tells us (Hist. Anim., l. ix. c. 11) “appears in the night and runs off in the day.” See note to Cary’s Birds of Aristophanes, act i. sc. 4.

74. See before, § 90.

75. The Pythagoreans, especially Empedocles.

76. Κόσμος, “order,” signifying also “the world.”

77. The negative particle here expressed, is in the original at the beginning of the paragraph, λογίζεται οὖν, ὅτι οὐκ. See Stallbaum’s lucid note.

78. They are said to have lost the use of their eyes and feet.

79. The Spartans; see the Protagoras, § 80.

80. Odyss. vii. 120.

81. See § 46.

82. A name of the utmost contempt.

83. Iliad, xv. 187.

84. Odyss. xi. 575, &c.

85. Odyss. xi. 568.

86. Τὸ γίγνεσθαι καὶ κολαζόμενον διδόναι δίκην, Stallbaum translates “to become just by undergoing the punishment one deserves;” I cannot extract this meaning from the passage.

87. § 1-18.

88. § 19-29.

89. § 30-39.

90. § 40-56

91. § 57-90.

92. § 91-118.

93. Odyss. x. 279.

94. Odyss. xi. 601.

95. Homer Odyss. xi. 582.

96. Two men whose profligacy made their names proverbial.

97. Cousin has well remarked that σωφροσύνη, which Socrates opposes to ἀφροσύνη, means both temperance and prudence. We, as well as the French, have no single word that expresses both ideas at once. I have therefore, in imitation of Cousin, adopted the word temperance throughout this part of the dialogue, for otherwise the dilemma to which Socrates brings his antagonist would be lost sight of, for he now compels him to admit that temperance and wisdom which he before distinguished from each other, are identical. Mr. Wright, in his scholar-like version of this dialogue, has used the word discretion throughout, but it appears to me scarce worthy to be exalted into a virtue that is the twin-sister of wisdom. Further on, as will be noticed, I have also followed Cousin in translating σωφροσύνη prudence.

98. I have followed Stallbaum’s reading, who omits εἰ and ἔπραττον.

99. As was before observed, it is now necessary for the thread of the argument to use the word prudent instead of temperate, but the reader must bear in mind that in the original the two ideas are expressed by one word.

100. It will be observed that Prodicus’s method, of drawing nice distinctions between words nearly resembling each other in meaning, is here ridiculed.

101. Iliad xxi. 308.

102. Opp. et Dier. v. 287 &c.

103. Iliad x. 224.

104. Iliad x. 225.

105. See the Protagoras, § 17.

106. § 1-10.

107. § 11-21.

108. § 22-27.

109. § 28-40.

110. § 40-62.

111. § 68-73.

112. § 73-84.

113. § 85-91.

114. § 92-111.

115. § 112-132.

116. Isthm. i. 2.

117. Youth.

118. See before, § 3 and 4.

119. There is here a play on the words λίγειαι “tuneful,” and Λιγύων “Ligyans,” which cannot be retained in an English version.

120. I have followed Stallbaum in omitting the words ἐῤῥωμένως and νικήσασα, but still fear that I have failed to convey the full meaning of this difficult and corrupt passage.

121. In allusion to a game among children, in which a shell, white on one side and black on the other, was thrown up into the air, and according as either side fell uppermost, one set of playmates ran off and the other pursued, or vice versa.

122. It is impossible, in an English version, to retain Plato’s explanation of the progressive application of kindred words; if the unlearned reader can decypher the following Greek letters he may possibly understand our author’s meaning; μανία is madness, μανική, the mad art, μαντική, the prophetic art.

123. οἰονιστική, prognostication, οἰωνιστική, auguryaugury.

124. That is, “an inevitable law.”

125. παιδεραστήσαντος μετὰ φιλοσοφίας. So in the Gorgias (§ 82) Socrates calls “philosophy his favourite,” τὴν φιλοσοφίαν, τὰ ἐμὰ παιδικά.

126. I must own myself indebted to Mr. Wright’s version of this dialogue for this happy translation of these two lines.

127. “It,” memory.

128. An expression taken from Homer, Iliad, iii. 65.

129. A proverb meaning “a thing of no value.” See Suidas ὄνου σκιά.

130. By Palamedes, as the Scholiast observes, he means Zeno of Elea, the friend of Parmenides.

131. The two methods are “definition” and “division,” afterwards explained.

132. See Homer’s Odyssey, v. 193.

133. Ψιλὴν ἢ ἐν ᾠδῇ, without music or with.

134. § 1-22.

135. § 23-46.

136. § 47-65.

137. § 66-75.

138. § 76-87.

139. § 87-91.

140. § 91-100.

141. § 101-107.

142. § 108-125.

143. § 126-138.

144. § 139-149.

145. § 149-157.

146. The literal translation instead of “in which the factors are the same,” is “which is able to become equally equal,” by which is meant a number multiplied by itself.

147. That is, of choosing the soil.

148. Iliad, xiv. 201.

149. See Eurip. Hippol. l. 612.

150. Hesiod, Theog. l. 780. Thauma signifies “wonder.”

151. Literally “unmusical.”

152. Of conversations when awake, and of fancied conversations in dreams.

153. That is to say, the relation between agent and patient is so close that neither can be what it is, under that particular aspect, without the other.

154. “We,” that is, the agent and patient.

155. On the fifth day after the birth of a child the midwives, having purified their hands, ran with it round the hearth, so Socrates proposes that the bantling of Theætetus should run the gauntlet of discussion.

156. A noted robber between Megara and Corinth, who used to throw all travellers whom he fell in with into the sea. He was slain by Theseus.

157. Antæus dwelt in a cave in Lybia, and compelled all strangers who came by to wrestle with him. He met with his match in Hercules, and was slain.

158. I have followed Stallbaum in giving this meaning to ἀνάγκη. See his note on this passage. I have perhaps taken a liberty in translating ἀντωμοσίαν in the next line “pleadings,” but I know of no other word that will convey our author’s meaning to an English reader, and in the passage before us technicality is unnecessary.

159. See § 87.

160. And so opposed to their doctrine of constant motion.

161. § 28.

162. Iliad, iii. 172.

163. A play on the words κέαρ or κῆρ and κήρος, which cannot be retained in an English version.

164. As no one English word will express the three different meanings contained in the word λόγος, I have thought it better to retain the original word throughout this part of the argument.

165. That is, it can be divided into equal parts, which the odd cannot.

166. § 1-10.

167. § 10-18.

168. § 18-24.

169. § 24-27.

170. § 27-29.

171. § 29-33.

172. § 34-43.

173. Homer, Odyss. xvii. 218.

174. Op. et Di., v. 25.

175. I have adopted Ast’s suggestion of μάτην for μακρόν. Stallbaum would retain both, and read μακρὸν μάτην.

Transcriber’s Note

Each dialogue is footnoted beginning anew with ‘a’, and cycling back to ‘a’ if needed. The footnote sequence has the occasional lapse. However, all have been re-sequenced numerically across the entire volume.

A single erratum, referring to 428.32, was included in the front matter of the volume. The change has been applied.

There were several section numbers referred to in the text which were missing. Where possible, these have been added (delimited by square brackets), based on the Greek edition of Bekker (1826), which the author used as the basis for his translation.

At 288.7, an closing single quotation mark has no obvious opening.

Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.

23.41 | quietly awaits your decision.[”] | Added.
25.41 | Crito[,] Critobulus | Added,
110.40 | “The same as snow and fire?[’/”] | Replaced.
111.19 | must it not?[”] | Added.
111.34 | do you admit this or not?[”] | Added.
112.18 | which is always a contrary?[”] | Added.
121.32 | and it is possi[ /b]le | Replaced.
123.1 | [“]But those who appear | Added.
167.33 | 64. [Pol. ]But this is more difficult | Added.
187.41 | as if αὐτ[α/ὰ] ταῦτα preceded ἃ [ἃ/ἂ]ν | Replaced.
240.32 | given by Protagoras[?/.] | Replaced.
288.37 | [‘]Protagoras and Socrates | Added.
293.1 | what is dreadful, and no[t] dreadful | Added.
320.43 | οἰωνιστική, [augury augury] | Italicize.
326.10 | best of all enthusia[s]ms | Inserted.
352.15 | who take an interest in such matters[./?] | Replaced.
359.8 | of composing poet[r]y | Inserted.
373.19 | and reasoning[./?] | Replaced.
377.2 | as I just now spoke of it[./,] | Replaced.
380.2 | both to themselves a[m/n]d others. | Replaced.
455.8 | what science is[,] | Added.
481.35 | Tell me this.[’/”] | Replaced.

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Table of Contents

- TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE.

- CONTENTS.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES.

- THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE CRITO.

- CRITO; OR THE DUTY OF A CITIZEN.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE PHÆDO.

- PHÆDO, OR THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE GORGIAS.

- GORGIAS, OR, ON RHETORIC.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE PROTAGORAS.

- PROTAGORAS, OR THE SOPHISTS.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE PHÆDRUS.

- PHÆDRUS.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE THEÆTETUS.

- THEÆTETUS, OR ON SCIENCE.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE EUTHYPHRON.

- EUTHYPHRON, OR ON HOLINESS.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE LYSIS.

- LYSIS, OR ON FRIENDSHIP.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE