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 http://www.archive.org/cletails/cu31924092280043 
 
THE 
 
 DIALOGUES OF PLATO 
 
 Translated into English 
 
 WITH ANALYSES AND INTRODUCTIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 B. JOWETT, M.A. 
 
 MASTER OF -BALLIOL COLLEGE 
 REGIUS PROFESSOR OP GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I 
 
 
 
 AT THE CLARENDON PRESS, lilU''^^*^ -^M 
 
 
 M DCCC LXXI 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
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TO MY FORMER PUPILS 
 
 IN BALLIOL COLLEGE 
 
 AND IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 
 
 WHO DURING THIRTY YEARS 
 
 HAVE BEEN THE BEST OF FRIENDS TO ME, 
 
 THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED, 
 
 IN GRATEFUL RECOGNITION 
 
 OF THEIR NEVER FAILING ATTACHMENT. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The Text which has been mostly followed in this 
 Translation of Plato is the latest 8vo. edition of 
 Stallbaum ; the principal deviations are noted at the 
 bottom of the page. 
 
 I have to acknowledge many obligations to old friends 
 and pupils. These are : — Mr. John Purves, Fellow 
 of Balliol College, with whom I have revised about 
 half of the entire Translation ; the Rev. Professor 
 Campbell, of St. Andrew's, who has helped me in the 
 revision of several parts of the work, especially of the 
 Theaetetus, Sophist, and Politicus ; Mr. Robinson Ellis, 
 Fellow of Trinity College, and Mr. Alfred Robinson, 
 Fellow of New College, who read with me the 
 Cratylus and the Gorgias ; Mr. Paravicini, Student of 
 Christ Church, who assisted me in the Symposium ; 
 Mr. Raper, Fellow of Queen's College, Mr. Monro, 
 Fellow of Oriel College, and Mr. Shadwell, Student 
 of Christ Church, who gave me similar assistance in 
 the Laws. Dr. Greenhill, of Hastings, has also kindly 
 sent me remarks on the physiological part of the Ti- 
 maeus, which I have inserted as corrections under the 
 head of errata at the end of the Introduction. The 
 degree of accuracy which I have been enabled to attain 
 is in great measure due to these gentlemen, and I 
 
 b2 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 heartily thank them for the pains and time which they 
 have bestowed on my work. 
 
 I have further to explain how far I have received help 
 from other labourers in the same field. The books 
 which I have found of most use are Steinhart and 
 Miiller's German Translation of Plato with Introduc- 
 tions ; Zeller's ' Philosophie der Griechen,' and ' Pla- 
 tonische Studien ; ' Susemihl's ' Genetische Entwickelung 
 der Platonischen Philosophie;' Hermann's ' Geschichte 
 der Platonischen Philosophie ; ' Bonitz, ' Platonischt 
 Studien;' Stallbaum's Notes and Introductions; Pro- 
 fessor Campbell's editions of the ' Theaetetus,' the 
 ' Sophist,' and the ' Politicus ; ' Professor Thompson's 
 'Phaedrus;' Th. Martin's 'Etudes sur le Tim6e^' 
 Mr. Poste's edition and translation of the ' Philebus^; ' 
 the Translation of the ' Republic,' by Messrs. Davigs 
 and Vaughan, and the Translation of the ' Gorgias,' 
 by Mr. Cope. jj 
 
 I have also derived much assistance from the great 
 work of Mr. Grote, which contains excellent analysesi 
 of the Dialogues, and is rich in original thoughts 
 and observations. I agree with him in rejecting as 
 futile the attempt of Schleiermacher and others to 
 arrange the Dialogues of Plato into a harmonious 
 whole. Any such arrangement appears to me not only 
 to be unsupported by evidence, but to involve an ana- 
 chronism in the history of philosophy. There is a com- 
 mon spirit in the writings of Plato, but not a unity of 
 design in the whole, nor perhaps a perfect unity in any 
 single Dialogue. The hypcrthesis of a general plan 
 which is worked out in the successive Dialogues is 
 an after-thought of the critics who have attributed a 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 system to writings belonging to an age when system 
 had not as yet taken possession o^ philosophy. 
 
 If Mr. Grote should do me the honour to read any 
 portion of this work he will probably remark that I have 
 endeavoured to approach Plato from a point of view 
 which is opposed to his own. The aim of the Introduc- 
 tions in these volumes has been to represent Plato as the 
 father of idealism, who is not to be measured by the 
 standard of utilitarianism or any other modern philo- 
 sophical system. He is the poet or maker of ideas, 
 satisfying the wants of his own age, providing the 
 instruments of thought for future generations. He is 
 no dreamer, but a great philosophical genius struggling 
 with the unequal conditions of light and knowledge 
 under which he is living. He may be illustrated by 
 the writings of moderns, but he must be interpreted 
 by his own, and by his place in the history of philosophy. 
 We are not concerned to determine what is the re- 
 siduum of truth which remains for ourselves. His 
 truth may not be our truth, and nevertheless may 
 . have an extraordinary value and interest for us. 
 
 I cannot agree with Mr. Grote in admitting as gen- 
 uine all the writings commonly attributed to Plato in 
 antiquity, any more than with Schaarschmidt and some 
 other German critics who reject nearly half of them. 
 The German critics, to whom I refer, proceed chiefly on 
 grounds of internal evidence ; they appear to me to lay 
 too much stress on the variety of doctrine and style, 
 which must be equally acknowledged as a fact, even in 
 the Dialogues regarded, by Schaarschmidt as genuine, 
 e.g. in the Phaedrus, or Symposium, when compared with 
 the Laws. He who admits works so different in style and 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 matter to have been the composition of the same author, 
 need have no difficulty (see vol. iv, Appendix) in admit- 
 ting the Sophist or the Politicus. On the other hand, 
 Mr. Grote trusts mainly to the Alexandrian Canon. But 
 I hardly think that we are justified in attributing much 
 weight to the authority of the Alexandrian librarians in 
 an age when there was no regular publication of books,^ 
 and every temptation to forge them ; and in which the 
 writings of a school were naturally attributed to the 
 founder of the school. And even without intentional* 
 fraud, there was an inclination to believe rather than 
 to enquire. Would Mr. Grote accept as genuine all the 
 writings which he finds in the lists of learned ancients 
 attributed to Hippocrates, to Xenophon, to Aristotle ? 
 The Alexandrian Canon of the Platonic writings is 
 deprived of credit by the admission of the Epistles, 
 which are not only unworthy of Plato, and in several 
 passages plagiarized from him, but flagrantly at variance 
 with historical fact. It will be seen also that I do not 
 agree with Mr. Grote's views about the Sophists; nor 
 with the low estimate which he has formed of Plato's 
 Laws; nor with his opinion respecting Plato's doctrine 
 of the rotation of the earth. But I ' am not going to lay^ 
 hands on my father Parmenides' [Soph. 241 D], who 
 wiM, I hope, forgive me for differing from him on these 
 points. I cannot close this Preface without expressil^ 
 my deep respect for his noble and gentle character^ and. 
 the great services which he has rendered to Greek 
 Literature. 
 
 Balliol College, 
 January, 18 71. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHARMIDES 
 
 LYSIS . 
 
 LACHES 
 4 PROTAGORAS 
 
 EUTHYDEMUS 
 
 ION_ . ' . 
 
 MENO . 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 • APOLOGY . 
 
 CRITO . 
 - PHAEDO 
 
 SYMPOSIUM • 
 
 EHAEDRUS ' 
 
 ■f 
 
 CRATYLUS 
 
 t 
 
 FAGE 
 I 
 
 37 
 
 69 
 
 103 
 
 173 
 
 227 
 
 247 , 
 293 
 
 'ft. 319 
 
 357 
 34.7 
 469 
 
 541 
 617 
 
CHARMIDES. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The subject of the Channides is Temperance or a-axppoa-vvrj, a 
 peculiarly Greek notion, which may also be rendered Moderation \ 
 Modesty, Discretion, Wisdom, without completely exhausting by all 
 these terms the various associations o.f the word. It may be described 
 as ' mens sana in corpore sano,' the harmony or due proportion of the 
 higher and lower elements of human nature which ' makes a man his 
 own master,' acpording to the definition of the Republic. In the 
 accompanying translation the word has been rendered in different 
 places either Temperance or Wisdom, as the connexion seemed to 
 require : for in the philosophy of Plato a-a<j)poavvri still retains an intel- 
 lectual element (as Socrates also is said to have identified a-ax^poirvvri with 
 0-0010 : Xen. Mem. iii. 9, 4), and is not yet relegated to the sphere of 
 moral virtue, as in the Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle (iii. 10). 
 
 The beautiful youth, Charmides, who is also the most temperate of 
 human beings, is asked by Socrates, 'What is Temperance?' He 
 answers characteristically, (i) ' Quietness.' ' But temperance is a fine 
 and noble thing ; and quietness in many or most cases is not so fine a 
 thing as quickness.' He tries again and says (2) that temperance is 
 modesty. But this again is set aside by a sophistical application of 
 Homer; for temperance is good as well as noble, and Homer has 
 declared that ' modesty is not good for a needy man.' (3) Once more 
 Charmides makes the attempt. This time he gives a definition which 
 he has heard, and of which he insinuates that Critias is the author: 
 ' Temperance is doing one's own business.' But the artisan who makes- 
 another man's shoes may be temperate, and yet he is not doing his own 
 business. How is this riddle to be explained ? 
 
 J Cp. Cic. Tusc. iii. 8, 16 'o-a^poavm), quam soleo equidem tum temperan- 
 tium tum moderationem appellare nonnunquam etiam modestiam :' foil., 
 
 B ? 
 
4 CHARMIDES. i 
 
 Critias, who takes the place of Charmides, distinguishes in his answer 
 between ' making' and ' doing/ and with the help of a misapplied quota- 
 tion from Hesiod assigns to the words 'doing' and ' work' an exclusively 
 good sense : temperance is doing one's own business ; — (4) is doing good. 
 
 Still an element of knowledge is wanting which Critias is readily 
 induced to admit at the suggestion of Socrates; and, in the spirit of 
 Socrates and of Grefek life generally, proposes as a. fifth definition, (5) 
 Temperance is self-knowledge. But all sciences have a subject : number.' 
 is the subject of arithmetic, health of medicine— what is the subject of 
 temperance or wisdom? The answer is that (6) Tempferance is the 
 knowledge of what a man knows and of what he does not know. But - 
 this is contrary to analogy; there is no vision of vision, but only of 
 visible things ; no love of loves, but only of beautiful things ; how then 
 can there be a knowledge of knowledge ? That which is older, heavier, 
 lighter, is older, heavier, and lighter than something else, not than 
 itself, and this seems to be true of all relative notions — ^the object of 
 relation is outside of them ; at any rate they can only have relatiori 
 to themselves in the form of that object. Whether there are any such 
 cases of reflex relation or not, and whether that sort of knowledge whidi 
 we term Temperance is of this reflex nature, has yet to be determined 
 by the great metaphysician. But even if knowledge can know itselfj 
 how does the knowledge of what we know imply the knowledge of what 
 we do not know ? Besides this, knowledge is an abstraction only, and 
 will not inform us of any particular subject, such as medicine, building, 
 and the like. It may tell us that we or other men know something, 
 but can never tell what we know. 
 
 But admitting further that there is such a knowledge of what we 
 know and do not know, which would supply a rule and measure of all 
 things, still there would be no good in this. For temperance is a good,' ' 
 and the knowledge which temperance gives must be of a kind which will 
 do us good. But this universal knowledge does not tend to our happi-;V 
 ness or good : the only kind of knowledge which brings happiness is the 
 knowledge of good and evil. To this Critias replies that the science or 
 knowledge of good and evil, and all the other sciences, are regulated by 
 the higher science or knowledge of knowledge. Socrates replies by 
 again dividing the abstract from the concrete, and asks how this know- 
 ledge conduces to happiness in the same definite way that medicine 
 conduces to health. • j 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 And now, after making all these concessions, which are really inad- 
 ssible, we are still as far as ever from ascertaining the nature of 
 nperance, which Cnarmides has already dis^vered, and had therefore 
 tter rest in the knowledge that the more temperate he is the happier 
 
 will be, and not trouble himself with the speculations of Socrates. 
 In this Dialogue may be noted (i) the Greek ideal of beauty and 
 odness, the vision of the fair soul in the fair body, realized in the beau- ! 
 ilCharmides; (2) The true conception of medicine as a science of' 
 ! whole as well as the parts, and of the mind as well as the body, 
 ich is playfully intimated in the story of the Thracian ; (3) The 
 idency ofthe age to verbal distinctions, which here, as in the ProtaT 
 ras and Cratylus, are ascribed to the ingenuity of Prodicus ; also the 
 erpretations or rather parodies of Homer and Hesiod, which are 
 linendy characteristic of Plato and of his age ; (4) The germ of 
 
 ethical principle contained in the notion that temperance is ' doing 
 e's own business,' which in the Republic (such is the shifting 
 iracter of the Platonic philosophy) is -given as the definition, not of 
 nperance, but of justice; (5) The beginnings of logic andrnetaphysics 
 plied in the two questions, whether there can be a science of science ? 
 d whether the knowledge of what you know is the same as the know-: 
 ge of what you do not know ? also in the distinction between ' what 
 1 know,' and ' that you know,' o olhiv and 5" otSex / here arises the 
 t conception of an absolute self-determined science (the claims of 
 ich, however, are set aside by Socrates) ', as well as the first sugges- 
 1 of the difficulty of the abstract and concrete, and one of the; 
 liest anticipations ofthe relation of subject and object, and ofthe sub- 
 tive element in knowledge ; {6} The conception of a science of good 
 I evil also first occiu-s here, and may be regarded as an anticipation of 
 
 Philebus and Republic, as well as of moral philosophy in later ages. 
 The dramatic interest of the Dialogue chiefly centres in the youth 
 irmides, with whom Socrates talks in the kindly spirit of an elder, 
 ne contrast appears to be intended between his youthful simplicity 
 1 ingenuousness and the dialectical and rhetorical arts of Critias, 
 ) is the grown-up man of the world, not without a tincture of 
 losophy. But neither in this nor in any other of the dialogues of 
 to is that most hated of Athenians displayed in his true character, 
 is simply a cultivated person who, like his kinsman Plato, is ennobled 
 ;he connection of his family with Solon (cp. Tim. 20, 21), and had 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 been the follower, if not the disciple, both of Socrates and of the 
 Sophists. In the argument he is not unfair, if aU^ance is made for 
 a slight rhetorical tendency, and for some desire fo" save his reputatioffl 
 with the company ; in some respects he is nearer the truth than Socratest| 
 Nothing in his language or behaviour is unbecoming the guardian of the 
 beautiful Charmides. His love of reputation, which is characteristically 
 Greek, contrasts with the utter absence of this quality and profession of 
 ignorance on the part of Socrates. 
 
 The definitions of temperance proceed in regular order from the 
 popular to the philosophical. The first two are simple enough and par- 
 tially true, like the first thoughts of an intelligent youth; the third* 
 which is a real contribution to ethical philosophy, is perverted by the 
 ingenuity of Socrates, and hardly rescued by an equal perversion on the 
 part of Critias. The remaining definitions have a higher aim, which is 
 to introduce the element of knowledge, and at last to unite good and 
 truth in a single science. But the time has not yet arrived for the 
 realization of this vision of metaphysical philosophy; and such a science 
 when brought nearer to us in the Philebus and the Republic will not be 
 called by the name of (raxjypoa-ivrj. Hence we see with surprise that | 
 Plato, who in his other writings identifies good and knowledge, here op' ^ 
 poses them, and asks, almost in the spirit of Aristotle, how can there be 
 a knowledge of knowledge, and even if attainable, how can such a 
 knowledge be of any use ? i 
 
 The relations of knowledge and virtue are again brought forward in 
 the companion Dialogues of the Lysis and Laches; and also in the 
 Protagoras and Euthydemus. The opposition of abstract and particular 
 knowledge in this Dialogue may be compared with a similar oppositioii| 
 of ideas and phenomena which occurs in the Introduction to the' 
 Parmenides, but seems rather to belong to a later stage of the 
 philosophy of Plato. j 
 
 M 
 
CHARMIDES, OR TEMPERANCE. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Socrates, ivbo is the narrator. CHARMIDES. 
 
 Chaerephon. Critias. 
 
 ene; — The Palaestra of Taureas, which is near the Porch of the King Archon, 
 
 7'ESTERDAY evening I returned from the army at Potidaeaj 
 
 ■- and having been a good while away, I thought that I would 
 
 ' and look at my old haunts. So I went into the palaestra of 
 
 lureas, which is over against the temple adjoining the porch of 
 
 e King Archon, and there I found a number of persons, most 
 
 whom I knew, but not all. My visit was unexpected, and no 
 
 oner did they see me entering than they saluted me from afar 
 
 I all sides ; and Chaerephon, who is a kind of madman, started 
 
 I and ran to me, seizing my hand, and saying, How did you 
 
 cape, Socrates? — (I should explain that an engagement had 
 
 ken place at Potidaea not long before we came away, the news 
 
 which had only just reached Athens.) 
 
 You see, I replied, that here I am. 
 
 There was a report, he said, that the engagement was very 
 
 /ere, and that many of our acquaintance had fallen. 
 
 That, I replied, was not far from the truth. 
 
 I suppose, he said, that you were present. 
 
 I was. 
 
 Then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we 
 
 ve only heard imperfectly. 
 
 I took the place which he assigned to me, by the side of Critias 
 
8 CHARMIDBS. 
 
 the son of Callaeschrus, and when I had saluted him and the 
 rest of the company, I told them the new^from the army^j 
 and answered their several enquiries. 3? 
 
 Then, when there had been enough of this, I, in my turnj| 
 began to make enquiries about matters at home — about the pre- 
 sent state of philosophy, and about the youth. I asked whether 
 any of them were remarkable for beauty or sense, or both. 
 Critias, glancing at the door, invited my attention to somei 
 youths who were coming in, and talking noisily to one another, 
 followed by a crowd. Of the beauties, Socrates, he said, 1 fancy 
 that you will soon be able to form a judgment. For those who 
 are just entering are the advanced guard of the great beauty of 
 the day, and he is likely to be not far off himself. ^ 
 
 Who is he, I said • and who is his father ? 
 
 Charmides, he replied, is his name j he is my cousin, and the 
 son of my uncle Glaucon: I rather think that you know him, 
 although he was not grown up at the time of your departure. 
 
 Certainly, I know him, I said, for he was remarkable even then 
 when he was still a child, and now I should imagine that he. 
 must be almost a young man. ^ 
 
 You will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made , 
 and what he is like. He had scarcely said the word, when Char-; \ 
 mides entered. ■ ' 
 
 Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything, and 
 of the beautiful, I am simply such a measure as a white line is of 
 chalk ; for almost all young persons are alike beautiful in my eyesi^ 
 But at that moment, when I saw him coming in, I must admit 
 that I was quite astonished at his beauty and stature; all the 
 world seemed to be enamoured of him ; amazement and confus- 
 sion reigned when he entered ; and a troop of lovers followed him* 
 That grown-up men like ourselves should have been aiFected in 
 this way was not surprising, but I observed that there was the 
 same feeling, among the boys; all of them, down to the very least 
 child, turned and looked at him as if he had been a statue. 
 
 Chaerephon called me and said : What do you think of him,f 
 Socrates ? Has he not a beautiful face ? j 
 
 That he has, indeed, I said, 1 
 
 But you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if yoil 
 could see his naked form : he is absolutely perfect. 
 
CHARMIDES. g 
 
 And to this they all agreed. 
 
 By Heracles, I said, there never was sudi a paragon, if he has 
 only one other slight addition. 
 
 What is that ? said Critias. 
 
 If he has a noble soul j and being of your house, Critias, he 
 may be expected to have this. 
 
 . He is as fair and good within, as he is without, replied 
 Critias. 
 
 Shall we ask him then, I said, to show us, not his body, 
 but his soul, naked and undisguised? he is just of an age at 
 which he will like to talk. 
 ; That he will, said Critias, and I can tell you that he is a 
 philosopher already, and also a considerable poet, not in his own 
 opinion only, but in that of others. 
 
 .That, my dear Critias, I replied, is a distinction which has 
 long been, in your family, and is inherited by you from Solon. 
 But why don't you call him, and show him to us ? for even if he 
 were younger than he is, there could be no impropriety in his 
 talking to us in the presence of you, who are his guardian and 
 cousin. 
 
 Very well, he said ; • then I will call him ; and turning to. 
 the attendant, he said. Call Charmides, and tell him that I 
 want him to come and see a physician about the illness of which 
 he spoke to me the day before yesterday. Then again addressing 
 me, he added: He has been complaining lately of having a 
 headache when he rises in the morning : now why should you 
 not make believe to him that you know a cure for the headache ? 
 
 There will be no difficulty about that, I said, if he comes. 
 
 He will be sure to come, he replied. ». 
 
 He came as he was bidden, and sat down between Critias 
 and me. Great amusement was occasioned by every one pushing 
 with might and main at his neighbour in order to make a place 
 for him next to them, until at the two ends of the row one had 
 to get up and the other was rolled over sideways. Now I, my 
 friend, was beginning to feel awkward ; my former bold belief in 
 my powers of conversing with him had vanished. And when 
 Critias told him that I was the person who had the cure, he looked 
 at me in such an indescribable manner, and was about to ask a 
 question ; and then all the people in the palaestra crowded about 
 
10 
 
 CHARMIDES. 
 
 \ 
 
 us, and, O rare ! I caught a sight of the inwards of his garment, 
 and took the flame. Then I could no longer contain myself. 
 I thought how well Cydias understood the nature of love, wheny; 
 in speaking of a fair youth, he warns some one ' not to bring the 
 fawn in the sight of the lion lest he devour him,' for I felt that 
 I had been overcome by a sort of wild-beast appetite. But I con-J 
 trolled myself, and when he asked me if I knew the cure of the 
 headache, 1 answered, but with an effort, that I did know. ^ 
 
 And what is it ? he said. 
 
 I replied that it was a kind of leaf, which required to be 
 
 accompanied by a charm, and if a person would repeat the 
 
 charm at the same time that he used the cure, he would be made 
 
 whole; but that without the charm the leaf would be of no 
 
 avail. J 
 
 Then I will write out the charm from your dictation, he said. <^ 
 
 With my good will ? I said, or without my good will ? "S 
 
 With your good will, Socrates, he said, laughing. 
 
 Very good, I said; and ^re you quite sure that you know 
 
 ■my name ? 
 
 I ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal 
 said about you among my companions; and I remember when I 
 was a child seeing you in company with my cousin Critias. \ 
 
 That is very good of you, I said ; and will make me more at 
 home with you in explaining the nature of the charm; I was 
 thinking that I might have a difficulty about this. For the charm 
 will do more, Charmides, than only cure the headache. I dare 
 say that you may have heard eminent physicians say to a patient 
 who comes to them with bad eyes, that they cannot cure his eyes 
 by themselves, but that if his eyes are to be cured, his head must 
 be treated ; and then again they say that to think of curing the 
 head alone, and not the rest of the body also, is the height of folly; 
 And arguing in this way they apply their methods to the whole 
 body, and try to treat and heal the whole and the part together*^ 
 Did you ever observe that this is what they say ? , 
 
 Yes, he said. " H 
 
 And they are right, and you would agree with them ? | 
 
 Yes, he said, certainly I should. \ 
 
 His approving answers reassured me, and I began by degrees to 
 regain confidence, and the vital heat returned. Such, Charmii 
 
CHARMIDES. n 
 
 I said, is the nature of the charm. Now I learnt it when serving 
 
 with the army, of one of the physicians ^of the Thr^cian king, 
 
 Zamolxis. He was one of those who are said to give immortality. 
 
 This Thracian told me that the Greek physicians are quite right 
 
 in these notions of theirs, which I was mentioning, as far as they 
 
 go; but Zamolxis, he added, our king, who is also a god, says 
 
 further, ' that as you ought not to attempt to cure the eyes without 
 
 the head, or the head without the eyes, so neither ought you to 
 
 attempt to cure the body without the soul j and this,' he said, ' is 
 
 the reason why the cure of many diseases is unknown to the 
 
 physicians of Hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole, which 
 
 ought to be studied also ; for the part can never be well unless 
 
 the whole is well.' For all good and evil, whether in the body or 
 
 in human nature, originates, as he declared, in the soul, and over- 
 
 '' flows from thence, as from the head into the eyes. And therefore . 
 
 if the head and the body are to be well, you must begin by curing 
 
 the soul ; that is the first thing. And the cure, my dear youth, 
 
 I has to be effected by tlie use of certain charms, a.nd these charms ^h 
 
 are fair words ; and by them temperance is impianted in the soul, 
 
 1 and where temperance is, there health is speedily imparted, not 
 
 I only to the head, but to the whole body. And he who taught me 
 
 the cure and the charm added a special direction ; ' Let no one,' 
 
 he said, ' persuade you to cure the head, until he has first given 
 
 I you his soul to be cured by the charm. For this,' he said, ' is the 
 
 I great error of our day in the treatment of the human body, that 
 
 I physicians separate the soul from the body.' And he added with 
 
 1 emphasis, at the same time making me swear to his words, ' let 
 
 no one, however rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him 
 
 I the cure, without the charm.' Now I have sworn, and I must 
 ] keep my oath, and therefore if you will ^llow me to apply the 
 j Thracian charm first to your soul, as the stranger directed, I will 
 I afterwards proceed to apply the cure to your head. But if not, I 
 I do not know what I am to do with you, my dear Charmides. 
 
 Critias, when he heard this, said : The headache will be an 
 unexpected benefit to my young relation, if the pain in his head 
 compels him to improve his mind : and I can tell you, Socrates, 
 that Charmides is not only pre-eminent in beauty among his 
 equals, but also in that quality which is given by the charm j and 
 I this, as you say, is temperance, is it not ? 
 
12 CHARMIDES. 
 
 Yes, I said. 
 
 Then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human 
 beings, and for his age inferior to none in any quality. 
 
 Yes, I said, Charmides ; and indeed I think that you ought to 
 excel others in all good qualities j for if I am not mistaken there 
 is no one present who could easily point out two Athenian 
 Jiouses, the alliance of which was likely to produce a better or 
 nobler son than the two from which you are sprung. There; is 
 your father's house, which is descended from Critias the son of 
 Dropidas, whose family has been commemorated in the pane- 
 gyrical verses of Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets, as 
 famous for beauty and virtue and all other high fortune : and , 
 your mother's house is equally distinguished; for your maternal 
 uncle, Pyrilampes, never met with his equal in Persia at the court 
 of the great king, or on the whole continent in all the places-to 
 which he went as arnbassador, for stature and beauty j that whole 
 family is not a whit inferior to the other. Having such ancestog 
 you ought to be first in all things, and as far as I can see, sweet 
 son of Glaucon, your outward form is no dishonour to them. And 
 if you have temperance as well as beauty, as Critias declares, then 
 blessed art thou, dear Charmides, in being the son of thy mother, 
 And this is the question : if this gift of temperance is already 
 yours, as Critias declares, and you are temperate enough, in that , 
 case you have no need of any charms, whether of Zamolxis,tor 
 of Abaris the Hyperborean, and I may as well give you the cure of 
 the head at once ; but if you are wanting in these qualities, I must 
 use the charm before I give you the medicine. Please, therefore, 
 to inform me whether you admit the truth of what Critias has 
 been saying about your gift of temperance, or are you wanting 
 in this particular ? 
 
 Charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty,, for 
 modesty is becoming in youth ; he then said very ingenuouJ| 
 that he really could not say at once, either yes, or no, in answei 
 to the question which I had asked : For, said he, if I affirm that I 
 am not temperate, that would be a strange thing to say of myself, 
 and also I should have to give the lie to Critias, and many others, 
 ,who think that I am temperate, as he tells you : but, on the other 
 hand, if I say that I am, I shall have to praise myself, which would 
 be ill manners; and therefbre I have no answer to make to you,!jy 
 
CHARMIDES. 13 
 
 I said to him : That is a natural reply, Charmides, and I think 
 that you and I may as well enquire togetj|er whether you have 
 this quality about which I am asking or not j and then you will not 
 be compelled to say what you do not like j neither shall I be a rash 
 practitioner of medicine : therefore, if you please, I will join with 
 you in the enquiry, but I will not press you if you would rather not. 
 
 There is nothinf which I should like better, he said- and as 
 far as I am concerned you may proceed in the way which you 
 think best. 
 
 I think, I said, that 1 had better begin by asking you. What is 
 Temperance ? for you must have an opinion about this : if tempe- 
 ' ranee abides in you, she must give some intimation of her nature 
 ' and qualities, which may enable you to form some notion of her. 
 i Is not that true ? 
 
 i Yes, he said, that I think is true. 
 
 I And as you speak Greek, I said, you can surely describe what 
 I this appears to be, which you have within jou. 
 I Certainly, he said.* 
 I In order, then, that I may form a conjecture whether you have 
 
 I temperance abiding in you or not, tell me, I said, what, in your 
 iopinion, is Temperance ? * 
 
 At first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer : then 
 Ihe said that he thought temperance was doing things orderly 
 and quietly, such things for example as walking in the streets, and 
 talking, or anything else of that nature. In a word, he said, 
 
 I I should answer that, in my opinion, temperance is quietness. 
 
 I Are you right, Charmides ? I said. No doubt the opinion is 
 held that the quiet are the temperate; but let us see whether 
 ithey are right who say thisj and first tell me whether you would 
 not acknowledge temperance to be of the class of the honourable 
 and good ? 
 1 Yes. 
 
 I But which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to 
 write the same letters quickly or quietly? 
 
 Quickly. 
 
 And to read quickly or slowly ? 
 
 Quickly again. 
 
 And in playing the lyre,, or wrestling, quickness or cleverness 
 are far better than quietness and slowness ? 
 
14 CHARMIDES. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And the same holds in boxing and the pancratium ? 
 Certainly. il 
 
 And in leaping and running, and bodily exercises general^ 
 quickness and agility are goodj slowness, and inactivity, and 
 quietness, are bad ? 
 
 That is evident. • 
 
 Then, I said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the 
 greatest agility and quickness, is noblest and best ? 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 And is temperance a good ? y 
 
 Yes. . 1 
 
 Then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but quickn^, 
 will be the higher degree of temperance, if temperance is a 
 good ? , 
 
 True, he said. j 
 
 And which, I said, is better— facility in learning, or difficulty 
 in learning ? 
 
 Facility. I 
 
 Yes, I said ; and facility in learning is learning quickly, anci I 
 difficulty in learning is learning quietly and slowly ? 
 
 True. * 
 
 And is it not better to teach one another quickly and ener- 
 getically, rather than quietly and slowly ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And to call to mind, and to remember, quickly and readily— 
 that is also better than to remember quietly and slowly ? 
 
 Yes. ^ 
 
 And is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul^i 
 and not a quietness ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the 
 writing-master's or the music-master's, or anywhere else, not as 
 quietly as possible, but as quickly as possible ? 
 
 Yes. ^ 
 
 And when the soul enquires, and in deliberations, not the 
 quietest, as I imagine, and he who with difficulty deliberates and 
 discovers, is thought worthy of praise, but he who does this most 
 easily and quickly ? 
 
CHARMIDES. 15 
 
 That is true, he said. 
 
 And in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and 
 activity are clearly better than slowness and quietness ? 
 
 That, he said, is the inference. 
 
 Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life 
 quiet, upon this view ; for the life which is temperate is supposed 
 to be the good. And of two things, one is true, — either never, or 
 very seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better than 
 the quick and energetic ones ; or, granting ever so much that of 
 the nobler sort of actions, there are as many quiet, as quick and 
 vehement ones : still, even if we admit this, temperance will not 
 be acting quietly any more than acting quickly and vehemently, 
 either in walking, talking, or anything else ; nor will the quiet 
 life be more temperate than the unquiet, seeing that temperance 
 is reckoned by us in the class of good and honourable, and the 
 quick have been shown to be as good as the quiet. 
 
 I think, he said, Socrates, that you are right in saying that. 
 
 Then once more, Charmides, I said, fix your attention, and 
 look within ; consider the effect which temperance has upon your- 
 self, and the nature of that which has the effect. Think over 
 that, and, like a brave youth^ tell mfi— What is temperance ? 
 
 After a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort 
 to think, he said : My opinion is, Socrates, that temperance 
 makes a man ashamed or modest, and that temperance is 
 the same as modesty. 
 
 Very good, I said; and did you not admit, just now, that 
 temperance is honourable ? 
 
 Yes, certainly, he said. 
 
 And the temperate are also good ? 
 
 Yes. 
 ^ And can that be good which does not make men good ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 And you would infer ,that temperance is not only honourable, 
 but also good ? 
 
 That is my opinion. 
 
 Well, I said; and surely you would agree with Homer when 
 
 he says, 
 
 ' Modesty is not good for a needy man'? 
 
 Yes, he said j I agree to that. 
 
1 6 CHARMIDES. 
 
 Then I suppose that modesty is and is not good ? 
 - That is plain. 
 
 But temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not 
 bad, is always good ? 
 
 That appears, to me to be as you say. 
 
 Then the inference is, that temperance cannot be modesty — if 
 temperance is a good, and if modesty is as much an evil as a good ? 
 All that, Socrates, appears to me to be true j but I should like 
 to know what you think about another definition of temperance, 
 which I just now remember to have heard from some one, who 
 said, ' That temperance is doing our own business.' Was he right 
 who affirmed that ? 
 
 You young monster! I saidj this is what Critias, or some 
 philosopher has told you. 
 
 Some one else, then, said Critias ; for certainly I have not. 
 
 But what matter, said Charmides, from whom I heard this ? 
 
 No matter at all, I replied • for the point is not who said the 
 words, but whether they are true or not. 
 
 There you are in the right, Socrates, he replied. 
 
 To be sure, I saidj yet I doubt whether we shall ever be 
 able to discover their truth or falsehood; for they are a 
 riddle. 
 
 What makes you think that ? he said. 
 
 Because, I said, he who uttered them seems to me to have 
 meant one thing, and said another. Is the scribe, for example, to 
 be regarded as doing nothing when he reads or writes ? 
 
 I should rather think that he was doing something. 
 
 And does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write 
 or read, your own names only, or did you write your enemies' 
 names as well as your own and your friends' ? 
 
 As much orie as the other. | 
 
 And was there anything meddling or intemperate in this ? ■ 
 
 Certainly not. '\ 
 
 And yet, if reading and writing are the same as doing, you 
 were doing what was not your own business ? 
 
 But they are the same as doing. "^ 
 
 And the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving^ 
 and doing anything whatever which is done by art, all come under . 
 the head of doing ? - j 
 
CHARM IDES. 17 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law 
 
 which compelled every man to weave and wash his own coat, and 
 
 make his own shoes, and his own flask and strigil, and other im- 
 
 ! plements, on this principle of every one doing and performing 
 
 his own, and abstaining from what is not his own ? 
 
 I think not, he said. 
 
 But, I said, a temperate state will be a well-ordered state. 
 
 Of course, he replied. 
 
 Then temperance, I said, will not be doing one's own 
 business; at least not in this way, or not doing these sort of 
 things ? 
 
 Clearly not. 
 
 Then, as I was just now saying, he who declared that tem- 
 perance is a man doing his own business had another and a 
 hidden nieaning; for I don't think that he could have been such 
 a fool as to mean this. Was he a fool who told you, Charmides ? 
 
 Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a very wise man. 
 
 Then I am quite certain that he put forth this as a riddle : he 
 meant to say that there was a difficulty in a man knowing what is 
 his own business. 
 
 I dare say, he replied. 
 
 And what, then, is the meaning of a man doing his own 
 business ? Can you tell me ? 
 
 Indeed, I cannot, he said ; and I shouldn't wonder if he who 
 said this had no notion of his own meaning. And in saying this 
 he laughed slyly, and looked at Critias. 
 
 Critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he 
 had a reputation to maintain with Charmides and the rest of the 
 company. He had, however, hitherto managed to restrain him- 
 self- but now he could no longer forbear, and his eagerness satis- 
 fied me of the truth of my suspicion, that Charmides had heard 
 this answer about temperance from Critias. And Charmides, 
 who did not want to answer himself, but to make Critias 
 answer, tried to stir him up. He went on pointing out that he 
 had been refuted, and at this Critias got angry, and, as I thought, 
 was rather inclined to quarrel with him ; just as a poet might 
 quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in repeating themj 
 so he looked hard at him and said — 
 
1 8 CHARMWES. 
 
 Do you imagine, Charmides, that the author of the definition 
 of temperance did not understand the meaning of his own words, 
 because you don't understand them ? 
 
 Why, at his age, I said, most excellent Critias, he can 
 hardly be expected to understand; but you, who are older, and 
 have studied, may well be assumed to know the meaning of them; 
 and therefore, if you agree with him, and accept his definition of 
 temperance, I would much rather &rgue with you than with him 
 about the truth or falsehood of the definition. 
 
 I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept the definition. 
 
 Very good, I said ; and now let me repeat my question — Do 
 you admit, as I was just now saying, that all craftsmen make or 
 do something? 
 
 I do. 
 
 And do they make or do their own business only, or that of 
 others also ? 
 
 They make that of others also. 
 
 And are they temperate, seeing that they make not for them- 
 selves or their own business only ? 
 
 Why not ? he said. 
 
 No objection on my part, I said, but there may be a 
 difficulty on his who proposes as a definition of temperance,, 
 'doing one's own business,' and then says that there is no 
 reason why those who do the business of others should not be 
 temperate. 
 
 Nay', said he; did I ever acknowledge that those who do 
 the business of others are temperate ? I said, those who make, not 
 those who do. 
 
 i- What! I asked; do you mean to say that doing and making 
 are not the same ? 
 
 No more, he replied, than making or working are the same; 
 that I have learned from Hesiod, who says that 'work is no 
 disgrace.' Now do you imagine that if he had meant by working 
 Such things as you were describing, he would have said that there 
 was no disgrace in them? in making shoes, for example, or in 
 selling pickles, or sitting for hire in a house of ill fame. Thal^ 
 
 > The English reader has to observe that the word ' make' (hokIvX in Greek 
 has also the sense of do ' (TrpdrTtii/). 
 
CHARM IDES. 19 
 
 Socrates, is not to be supposed: .but, as I imagine, he distin- 
 guished making from action and work ; and, while admitting that 
 the making anything might sometimes become a disgrace, when 
 the employment was not, honourable, thought that work was never 
 any disgrace at all. For things nobly- and usefully made he called 
 works ; and such makings he called workings, and doings ; and he 
 must be supposed to have called such things only man's proper 
 business, and what is hurtful, not his business : and in that sense 
 Hesiod, and any other wise man, may be reasonably supposed to 
 call him wise who does his own work. 
 
 Critias, I said, no sooner had you opened your mouth, 
 than I pretty well knew that you would caU that which is proper 
 to a man, and that which is his own, good ; and that the making 
 (a»i^o-6ts) of the good you would call doings (irpa^ets), for I have 
 heard Prodicus drawing endless distinctions about names. Now 
 I have no objection to your giving names any sense that you 
 please, if you will only tell me what you mean by them. Please 
 then to begin again, and be a little plainer. Do you not mean 
 that this doing or making, or whatever is the word which you would 
 use, of good actions, is temperance ? 
 
 1 do, he said. 
 
 Then not he who does evil, but he who does good^. is tem- 
 perate ? 
 
 Yes, he said ^ and you would agree to that. 
 
 Never mind whether I agree or notj as yet we are only con- 
 cerned with your meaning. 
 
 Well, he answered J I mean to say, that he who does evil, 
 and not good, is not temperate j and that he is temperate who 
 does good, and not evil : for temperance I define iii plain words 
 to be the doing of good actions, 
 f And you may be very likely right in that, I said ; but I am 
 curious to know whether you imagine that temperate^ men are 
 ignorant of their own temperance ? 
 
 I do not imagine that, he said. 
 
 And yet were you not saying, not so very long ago, that 
 craftsmen might be temperate in doing another's work, as well 
 as their own ? 
 
 Yes, I was, he replied ; but why do you refer to that ? 
 
 1 have, no particular reason, -but I wish you would tell me 
 
 c 3 
 
20 CHARMIDES. 
 
 whether a physician who cures a patient may do good to himself 
 and good to another also ? 
 I think that he may. 
 
 And he who does this does his duty. And does not he who 
 does his duty act temperately or wisely ? 
 Yes, he acts wisely. 
 
 But must the physician necessarily know when his treatment^ 
 is likely to prove beneficial, and when not ? or must the craftsman 
 necessarily know when he is likely to be benefited, and when 
 not to be benefited, by the work which he is doing ? . 
 
 I suppose not. , 
 
 Then, I said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not 
 know what he is himself doing, and yet, in doing' good, as you 
 say, he has done temperately or wisely. Was not that your 
 statement ? 
 Yes. 
 
 Then, as "would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or 
 temperately, and be wise or temperate, but not know his own 
 wisdom or temperance ? 
 
 But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible j and therefore if 
 that is, as you imply, ihe necessary consequence of any of my 
 previous admissions, I would rather withdraw them, and not be 
 ashamed to confess that I was mistaken, than admit that a man 
 can be temperate or wise, who does not know himself. For self- 
 knowledge would certainly be maintained by me to be the very 
 essence of knowledge, and in this I agree witii him who dedicated 
 the inscription, 'Know thyself!' at Delphi. That word, if I am 
 not mistaken, is put there as a sort of salutation which the god 
 addresses to those who enter the temple ; as much as to say that 
 the ordinary salutation of ' Hail !' is not right, and that the exhor- 
 tation ' Be temperate !' would be a far better way of saluting one 
 another. The notion of him who dedicated the inscription was, 
 as I believe, that the god speaks to those who enter his temple, 
 not as men speak ; but, when a worshipper enters, the %st word 
 which he hears is 'Be temperate!' This, however, like, a prophelj^ 
 he expresses in a sort of riddle, for 'Know thyself!' and 'Be 
 temperate !' are the same, as I maintain, and as the writing implies 
 [o-o)(^poVet, yv&Qi o-eouro'i'], and yet they may be easily mis- 
 understood ; and succeeding sages who added ' Never too much,' i« 
 
CHARMIDES. 21 
 
 or, 'Give a pledge, and evil is nigh at hand,' would appear to 
 have misunderstood them ; for they imagiilfed that ' Know thyself! ' 
 was a piece of advice which the god gave, and not his saluta- 
 tion of the worshippers at their first coming in ; and they wrote 
 their inscription under the idea that they would give equally 
 useful pieces of advice. Shall I tell you, Socrates, why I say all 
 this? My object is to leave the previous discussion (in which 
 I know not whether you or I are more right, but, at any rate, 
 no clear result was attained), and to raise a new one in which 
 I will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is self- 
 knowledge. 
 
 Yes, I said, Critias ; but you come to me as though I professed 
 to know about the questions which I ask, and as though 1 could, 
 if only I would, agree with you 2. Whereas the fact is that I am, 
 as you are, an enquirer into the truth of your proposition ^ and 
 when I have enquired, I will say whether I agree with you or not. 
 Please then to allow me time to reflect. 
 
 Reflect, he said. 
 
 I am reflecting, I replied, and discover that temperance, or 
 wisdom, if implying a knowledge of anything, must be a science, 
 and a science of something. 
 
 Yes, he said j the science of itself. 
 
 And is not medicine, I said, the science of health ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And suppose, I said, that I were asked by you • what is the 
 .use or effect of medicine, which is this science of health, I should 
 answer that medicine is of very great use in producing health, 
 which, as you will admit, is an excellent effect. 
 
 Granted. 
 
 And if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of 
 architecture, which is the science of building, I should say, houses, 
 and so of other arts, which all have their different results. Now 
 1 want you, Critias, to answer a similar question about temper- 
 ance, or wisdom, to which you ought to know the answer, if, as 
 you say, wisdom or temperance is the science of itself. Admit- 
 ting this, I ask, what good work, worthy of the name, does 
 wisdom effect ? Answer me that. 
 
 2 Reading, according to Heusde's conjecture, o/ioXoy^o-oirds aoi. 
 
22 CHARMIDES. 
 
 That is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, Socrates^ he 
 said; for wisdom is not like the other sciences, any more than 
 they are like one another : but you proceed as if they were alike.' 
 For tell me, he said, what result is there of computation or 
 geometry, in the same sense as a house is the result of building,, 
 or a garment of weaving, or any other work of any other art? 
 Can you show me any such result of them ? You cannot. li 
 
 That is true, I said ; but still each of these sciences has ' a 
 subject which is different from the science. I can show you that 
 the art of computation has to do with odd and even numbers in 
 their numerical relations to themselves and to each other. Is not 
 that true ? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art 
 Of computation ? 
 
 They are not. 
 
 The art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and heavier? 
 but the art of weighing is one thing, and the heavy and the light 
 another. Do you admit that ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Now, I want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and 
 of which wisdom is the science ? 
 
 That is precisely the old error, Socrates, he said. You come 
 asking in what wisdom differs from the other sciences ; and then 
 you carry on the enquiry, as if they were alike : but that is not the j 
 case, for all the other sciences are of something else, and not of 
 themselves ; but that alone is a science of other sciences, and of 
 itself. And of this, as I believe, you are very well aware j and 
 that you are only doing what you denied that you were doing just 
 now, leaving the argument and trying to refute me. 
 
 And what if I am refuting you ? How can you think that I 
 have any other motive in this but what I should have in examining] 
 into myself? which motive would be just a fear of my uncon- 
 sciously fancying that I knew something of which I was ignorant. 
 And at this moment I pursue the enquiry chiefly for my own sake, 
 and perhaps in some degree also for the sake of my other 
 friends. For is not the discovery of things as they truly are a 
 common good to all mankind ? 
 
 Yesj certainly, Socrates, he said. ■ i 
 
CHARMFDES. 23 
 
 Then, I said, be of good cheer, sweet sir, and give ypur opinion 
 in answer to the question which Tasked, jf^ithout minding whether 
 Gritias or Socrates is the person refuted ; attend only to the argu- 
 ment, and see what will come of the refutation. 
 
 I think that you are right, he replied j and I will do as you 
 say. 
 
 Tell me, then, I said, what you mean to affirm about wisdom. 
 
 I mean, he said, that wisdom is the only science which is the j 
 science of itself and of the other sciences as well. 
 
 But the science of science, I said, will also be the science of | 
 the absence of science. 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 1 Then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know him- 
 self, and be able to examine what he knows or does not know, 
 and see what others know, and think that they know and do really 
 know ; and what they do not know, and fancy that they know, 
 when they do not. No other person will be able to do this. And 
 this is the state and virtue of wisdom, or temperance, and self- 
 knowledge, which is just knowing what a man knows, and what 
 he does not know. That is your view ? 
 ' Yes, he said. 
 
 Now then, I said, making an offering of the third or last 
 argument to Zeus the Saviour, let us once more begin, and ask, in 
 - the first place, whether this knowledge that you know and do not 
 know what you know and do not know is possible; and in the 
 second place, whether, even if quite possible, such knowledge is of 
 any use. 
 
 That is what we must consider, he said. 
 
 And here, Critias, I said, I hope that you will find a way out 
 of a difficulty into which I have got myself. Shall I tell you the 
 difficulty? 
 
 By all means, he replied. 
 
 Does not what you have been saying, if true, amount to this ; 
 that there must be a science which is wholly a science of itself, 
 and also of other sciences, and that the same is also the science of 
 the absence of science ? 
 
 True. 
 
 But consider how monstrous this is, my friend : in any parallel 
 case, the impossibility will be transparent to you. 
 
24 CHARMIDES. 
 
 How is that ? and in what cases do you mean ? 
 
 In such cases as this r Suppose that there is a kind of vision 
 which is not like ordinary vision, but a vision of itself and of 
 other sorts of vision, and of the defect of them, which in seeing^ 
 sees no colour, but only itself and other sorts of vision. Do you 
 think that there is such a kind of vision ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Or is there a kind of hearing which hears no sound at ^11, but 
 only itself and other sorts of hearing, or the defects of them ? 
 
 There is not. 
 
 Or take all the senses : can you imagine that there is any 
 sense of itself and of other senses, but which is incapable of per- 
 ceiving the objects of the senses ? 
 
 I think not. 
 
 Could there be any desire which is not the desire of any 
 pleasure, but of itself, and of all other desires ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Or can you imagine a wish which wishes for no good, but only 
 for itself and all other wishes ? 
 
 ] should answer. No. 
 
 Or would you say that there is a love which is not the love 
 of beauty, but of itself and of other loves ? 
 
 I should not. 
 
 Or did you ever know of a fear which fears itself ' or other i 
 fears, but has no object of fear ? 
 
 ^^never did, he said. 
 
 Or of an opinion which is an opinion of itself and of other 
 opinions, and which has no opinion on the subjects of opinion in 
 general ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 But surely we are assuming a science of this kind, which,, 
 havihg no subject-matter, is a science of itself and of the other 
 sciences; for that is what is affirmed. Now this is strange, it- 
 true : however, we must not as yet absolutely deny the possibility; 
 of such a science ; let us rather consider the matter. 
 
 You are quite right. 
 
 Well then, this science of which we are speaking is a science 
 of something, and is of a nature to be a science of something? 
 
 Yes. 
 
CHARMIDES. 25 
 
 Just as that which is greater is of a nature to be greater than 
 something ^ ? • 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Which is less, if the other is to be conceived as greater ? 
 
 To be sure. 
 
 And if we could find something which is at once greater than 
 self, and greater than other great things, but not greater than 
 those things in comparison of which the others are greater, 
 then that thing would have the property of being greater and 
 also less than itself? 
 
 That, Socrates, he said, is the inevitable inference. 
 
 Or if there be a double which is double of other doubles and of 
 itself, they will be halves j for the half is relative to the double ? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And that which is greater than itself will also be less, and 
 that which is heavier will also be lighter, and that which is older 
 will also be younger : and the same of other things j that which 
 has a nature relative to self will retain also the nature of its 
 object. I mean to say, for example, that hearing is, as we say, of 
 sound or voice. Is that true ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then if hearing hears itself, it m.ust hear a voice j. for there 
 is no other way of hearing. * 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And sight also, my excellent friend, if it sees itself must see 
 a colour, for sight cannot see that which has no colour. *.-, , 
 
 No. . . . 
 
 Then do you see, Critias, that in several of the examples 
 which have been recited the notion pf a relation to self is alto- 
 gether inadmissible, and in otlier cases hardly credible — inadmis- 
 sible, for example, in the case of magnitudes, numbers, and the like. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But in the case of hearing, and. the power of self-motion, and 
 
 3 Socrates is intending to show that science differs from the object of science, 
 as any other relative differs from the object of relation. A relation to ^If as 
 well as to other things involves in the case of comparison of magnitudes aji 
 absolute contradiction ; and in other cases, as in the case of the senses, is 
 hardly conceivable. The use of the genitive after the comparative in Greek, 
 /ieifoV Tivoi, creates an unavoidable obscurity in the translation. 
 
26 CHARMIDES. 
 
 the power of heat to burn, this relation to self will be regarded: as 
 incredible by some, but perhaps not by others. And some great i 
 man, my friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily determine for 
 us, whether there is nothing which has an inherent property of 
 relation to self, or some things only and not others ; and whether .. 
 in this latter class, if there be such a class, that science which is 
 called wisdom or temperance is included. I altogether distrust my 
 own power of determining this : I am not certain whether there is 
 such a science of science at allj and even if there be, I should not 
 acknowledge this to be wisdom or temperance, until I can also see 
 whether such a knowledge would or would not do us any good; 
 for I have an impression that temperance is a benefit and a good. 
 And therefore, O son of Callaeschrus, as you maintain that tem- 
 perance or wisdom is a science of science, and also of the absence 
 of science, I will request you to show in the first place, as I was 
 saying before, the possibility, and in the second place, the ^- 
 vantage, of such a science ; and then perhaps you may satisfy me 
 that you are right in your view of temperance. 
 
 Critias heard me say this, and saw that I was in a difficulty ; 
 and as one person when another yawns in his presence catches 
 the infection of yawning from him, so did he seem to be driven 
 into a difficulty by my difficulty. But as he had a reputation to 
 maintain, he was ashamed to admit before the company that he 
 could not answer my challenge or decide the question at issue ; 
 and he made an unintelligible attempt to hide his perplexity. In 
 order that the argument might proceed, I said to him, Well then, 
 Critias, if you like, let us assume that there may be this science 
 of science; whether the assumption is right or wrong may be 
 hereafter investigated. But fully admitting this, will you tell me 
 how such a science enables us to distinguish what we know or do 
 not know, which, as we were saying, is self-knowledge or wisdom. 
 That is what we were saying ? 
 
 Yes, Socrates, he said ; and that I think is certainly true : for 
 he who has that science or knowledge which knows itself will 
 become like that knowledge which he has, in the same way that 
 he who has swiftness will be swift, and he who has beauty will be 
 beautiful, and he who has knowledge will know. In the same 
 way he who has that knowledge which is the knowledge of itself, 
 will know himself. 
 
CHARMIDES. 27 
 
 I do not doubt, I said, that a man will know himself, when 
 possesses that which has self-knowledfe: but what necessity is 
 
 ere that, having this, he should know what he knows and what 
 does not know ? 
 
 Because, Socrates, they are the same. 
 Very likely, I said ; but I remain as stupid as ever ; for still I 
 
 II to comprehend how this knowing .what you know and do not 
 low is the same as the knowledge of self.- 
 
 What do you mean ? he said. 
 
 This is what I mean, I replied: I will admit that there is a 
 ience of science, but can this do more than determine that of 
 ^o things one is and the other is not science or knowledge ? 
 No, just that. 
 
 Then is knowledge or want of knowledge of health the same 
 knowledge or want of knowledge of justice ? 
 Certainly not. 
 
 The one is medicine, and the other is politics; but that of 
 lich we are speaking is knowledge pure and simple. 
 Very true. 
 
 And if a man knows only, and has only knowledge of know- 
 dge, and has no further knowledge of health and justice, the pro- 
 ibility is that he will only know that he knows something, and' 
 is a certain knowledge, whether concerning himself or other men. 
 True. 
 
 But how will this knowledge or science teach him to know 
 tiat he knows? Say that he knows health;— not wisdom or 
 mperance, but the art of medicine has taUght him that ;— and 
 ; has learned harmony from the art of music, and building from 
 e art of building,— neither, from wisdom or temperance : and the 
 me of other things. 
 That is evident. 
 
 But how will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of know- 
 dge or science of science, ever teach him that he knows health, 
 that he knows building? 
 That is impossible. 
 
 Then he who is ignorant of this will only know that he knows, 
 it not what he knows ? 
 True. 
 Then wisdom or being wise appears to be not the know- 
 
28 CHARMIDES. 
 
 ledge of the things which we do or do not know, but only the 
 ~ knowledge that we know and do not know? 
 
 That is the inference. 
 
 Then he who has this knowledge will not be able to examine 
 whether a pretender knows or does not know that which he says 
 that he knows: he will only know that he has a knowledge of 
 some kind j but wisdom will not show him of what the know- 
 ledge is? 
 
 Plainly not. 
 
 Neither will he be able to distinguish the pretender in medi- 
 cine from the true physician, nor between any other true and 
 false professor of knowledge. Let us consider the matter in this 
 way : If the wise man or any other man wants to distinguish the. 
 true physician from the false, what is he to do ? He will not talk 
 to him about medicine ; and that, as we were saying, is the only 
 thing which the physician understands. 
 
 True. 
 
 And he certainly knows nothing of science, for this has been 
 assumed to be the province of wisdom. 
 
 True. 
 
 But then again, if medicine is a science, neither will the r 
 physician know anything of medicine. 
 
 Exactly. 
 
 The wise man will indeed know that the physician has some 
 kind of science or knowledge ; but when he wants to discover the 
 nature of this he will ask. What is the subject-matter ? For each 
 science is distinguished, not as science, but by the nature of the 
 subject. Is not that true ? 
 
 Yes J that is quite true. 
 
 And medicine is distinguished from other sciences as having, 
 the subject-matter of health and disease ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And he who would enquire into the nature of medicine must 
 pursue the enquiry into health and disease, and not into what is 
 extraneous ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And he who judges rightly will judge of the physician as a 
 physician in what relates to these ? 
 
 He will. 
 
CHARMIDES. 29 
 
 He will consider whether what he says is true, and whether 
 what he does is right in relation to these ? 
 
 He will. * 
 
 But can any one appreciate either without having a knowledge 
 of medicine ? 
 
 He cannot. 
 
 Nor. any one but the physician, not even the wise man, as 
 appears ; for that would require him to be a physician as well as 
 a wise man ? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 Then, assuredly, wisdom or temperance, if only a science of 
 science, and of the absence of science or knowledge, will not be 
 able to distinguish the physician who knows from one who does 
 not know but pretends or thinks that he knows, or any other 
 professor of anything at all ; like any other artist, he will only 
 know his fellow in art or wisdom, and no one else. 
 
 That is evident, he said. 
 
 But then what profit, Critias, I said, is there any longer in 
 wisdom or temperance which yet remains, if this is wisdom ? If, 
 indeed, as we were supposing at first, the wise man had been able 
 to distinguish what he knew and did not know, and that he knew 
 the one and did not know the other, and to recognise a similar 
 faculty of discernment in others, there would certainly have been 
 a great advantage in being wise j for then we should never have 
 made a mistake, but have passed through life the unerring guides 
 of ourselves and of thdse who were under us j and we should not 
 have attempted to do what we did not know, but we should have 
 found out those who knew, and confided in them ; nor should we 
 have allowed those who were under us to do anything which they 
 were not likely to do well j and they would be likely to do well 
 just that of which they had knowledge ; and the house or state 
 which was ordered or administered under the guidance of wisdom 
 would have been well ordered, and everything else of which 
 wisdom was the lord 3 for truth guiding, and error, having been 
 2 expelled, in all their doings, men would have done well, and would 
 have been happy. Was not this, Critias, what we spoke of as the 
 great advantage of wisdom — to know what is known and what is 
 unknown to us ? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
30 CHARMIDES. 
 
 And now you perceive, I said, that no such science is to be 
 found anywhere. 
 I perceive, he said. 
 
 May we assume then, I said, that wisdom, viewed in this new 
 light merely as a knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has this 
 advantage : — that he who possesses such knowledge will more easily 
 learn anything that he learns j and that everything will be clearer 
 to him, because, in addition to the knowledge of individuals, he 
 sees the science, and this also will better enable him to test the 
 knowledge which others have of what he knows himself j whereas 
 the enquirer who is without this knowledge may be supposed to 
 have a feebler and weaker insight ? Are not these, my friend, the 
 real advantages which are to be gained from wisdom ? And are 
 not we looking and seeking after something more than is to be 
 found in her ? 
 
 That is very likely, he said. 
 
 That is very likely, I said; and very likely, too, we have 
 been enquiring to no purpose. I am led to infer this, because I 
 observe that if this is wisdom, some strange consequences would 
 follow. Let us, if you please, assume the possibility of this 
 science of sciences, and further admit and allow, as was originally 
 suggested, that wisdom is the knowledge of what we know and do 
 not know. Assuming all this, still, upon further considerationi,-! 
 am doubtful, Critias, whether wisdom, if such as this, would do us 
 any good. For I think we were wrong in supposing, as we were 
 saying just now, that such wisdom ordering the government of 
 house or state would be a great benefit. 
 
 How is that ? he said. 
 
 Why, I said we were far too ready to admit ±he great benefits 
 which mankind would obtain from their severally doing the things 
 which they knew, and committing to others who knew the things 
 of which they are ignorant. 
 
 Were we not right, he said, in making that admission? 
 
 I think not, I said. 
 
 That is certainly strange, Socrates. 1 
 
 By the dog of £gypt, I said, I am of your opinion about that: 
 and that was in my mind when I said tliat strange consequence^ 
 would follow, and that I was afraid we were on the wrong track.; ' 
 for however ready we may be to admit that. this is wisdom, 
 
CHARM I DBS. 31 
 
 3 I certainly cannot make out what good this . sort of thing does 
 to us. 
 
 What do you mean ? he said ; I wish* hat you could make me 
 understand what you mean. 
 
 I dare say that what I am saying is nonsense, I replied j and 
 yet if a man has any feeling of what is due to himself, he cannot 
 let the thought which comes into his mind pass away unheeded 
 and unexamined. 
 
 I like that, he said. 
 
 Hear, then, I said, my own dream ; whether coming through 
 the horn or the ivory gate, I cannot tell. The dream is this: 
 Let us suppose that wisdom is such as we are now defining, and 
 that she has absolute sway over us; then each action will be 
 done according to the arts or sciences, and no one professing to 
 be a pilot when he is not,' or any physician or general, or any one 
 else pretending to know matters of which he is ignorant, will 
 deceive or elude us; our health will be improved; our safety 
 at sea, and also in battle, will be assured ; our coats and shoes, 
 and all other instruments and implements will be well made, 
 because the workmen will be good and true. Aye, and if you 
 please, you may suppose that prophecy, which is the knowledge 
 of the fiiture, will be under the control of wisdom, and that she 
 will deter deceivers and set up the true prophet in their place 
 as the revealer of the future. Now I quite agree that mankind, 
 thus provided, would live and act according to knowledge, for 
 wisdom would watch and prevent ignorance from intruding on us. 
 But we have not as yet discovered why, because we act according 
 to knowledge, we act well and are happy, my dear Critias. 
 
 Yet I think, he replied, that you will hardly find any other 
 end of right action, if you reject knowledge. 
 
 And of what is this knowledge ? I said. Just answer me that 
 small question. Do you mean a knowledge of shoe-making ? 
 
 God forbid. 
 
 Or of working in brass ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Or in wool, or wood, or anything of that sort ? 
 
 No, I do not. 
 
 Then, I said, we are giving up the doctrine that he who 
 lives according to knowledge is happy, for these live according to 
 
32 
 
 CHARMIDES. 
 
 knowledge, and yet they are not allowed by you to be happy j but 
 I think that you mean to confine happiness to particular indi- 
 viduals who live according to knowledge, such for example as the 
 prophet, who, as I was saying, knows the future. 
 
 Yes, I mean him, but there are others as well. 
 
 Yes, I said some one who knows the past and present as well 
 as the future, and is ignorant of nothing. Let us suppose that 
 there is such a person, and if there is, you will allow that he is 
 the most knowing of all living men. 
 
 Certainly he is. 
 
 Yet I should like to know one thing more : which of the 
 different kinds of knowledge makes him happy ? or do all equally 
 make him happy ? 
 
 Not all equally, he replied. 
 
 But which most tends to make him happy ? the knowledge of 
 what past, present, or future thing ? May I infer this to be the 
 knowledge of the game of draughts ? 
 
 Nonsense about the game of draughts. 
 
 Or of computation ? 
 
 No. J 
 
 Or of health? 
 
 That is nearer the truth, he said. 
 
 And that knowledge which is nearest of all, I said, is the 
 knowledge of what ? 
 
 The knowledge with which he discerns good and evil. 
 
 Monster ! I said j you have been carrying me round in a 
 circle, and all this time hiding from me the fact that the life 
 according to knowledge is not that which makes men act rightly 
 and be happy, not even if all the sciences be included, but that 
 this has to do with one science only, that of good and evil. For^ ; 
 let me ask you, Critias, whether, if you take away this science.; 
 from all the rest, medicine will not equally give health, and 
 shoemaking equally produce shoes, and the art of the weaver 
 clothes ? — whether the art of the pilot will not equally save our 
 lives at sea, and the art of the general in war ? 
 
 Quite so. 
 
 And yet, my dear Critias, none of these things will be well, 
 or beneficially done, if the science of the good be wanting. 
 
 That is true. ,^ 
 
CHARMIDES. 33 
 
 But that science is not wisdom or temperance, but a science of 
 human advantage j not a science of otl^r sciences, or of igno- 
 rance, but of good and evil : and if this be of use, then wisdom 
 or temperance will not be of use. 
 
 And why, he replied, will not wisdom be of use ? For if we 
 really assume that wisdom is a science of sciences, and has a 
 sway over other sciences, surely she will have this - particular 
 science of the good under her control, and in this way will 
 benefit us. 
 
 And will wisdom give health? I said; is not this rather the 
 effect of medicine ? Or does wisdom do the work of any of the 
 other arts, and do not they do, each of them, their own work ? 
 Have we not long ago asseverated that knowledge is only the 
 knowledge of knowledge and of ignorance, and of nothing else ? 
 
 That is clear. 
 
 Another art is concerned with health. 
 
 Another. 
 
 The art of health is different. 
 
 Yes, different. 
 g Nor does wisdom give advantage, my good friend; for that 
 again we have just now been attributing to another art. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 How then can wisdom be advantageous, giving no advantage ? 
 
 That, Socrates, is certainly inconceivable. 
 
 You see then, Critias, that I was not far wrong in fearing 
 that I could have no sound notion about wisdom; I was quite 
 right in depreciating myself; for that which is admitted to be 
 the best of all things would never have seeined to us useless, if 
 I had been good for anything at an enquiry. But now I have 
 been utterly defeated, and have failed to discover what that is 
 I to which the imposer of names gave this name of temperance or 
 wisdom. And yet many more admissions were made by us than 
 could be really granted ; for we admitted that there was a science 
 ! of science, although the argument said No, and protested against 
 this ; and we admitted fxirther, that this science knew the works 
 of the other sciences (although this too was denied by the argu- 
 I ment), because we wanted to show that the wise man had know- 
 ledge of what he knew and did not know; also we nobly dis- 
 regarded, and never even considered, the impossibility of a man 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 CHARM WES. 
 
 knowing in a sort of way that which he does not know at all' 
 for our assumption was, that he knows that which he does not know; 
 than which nothing, as I think, can be more irrational. And 
 yet, after finding us so easy and good-natured, the enquiry is still 
 unable to discover the truth ; but mocks us to a degree, and has 
 gone out of its way to prove the inutility of that which we ad- 
 mitted only by a sort of supposition and fiction to be the true 
 definition of temperance or wisdom : which result, as far as I am 
 concerned, is not so much to be lamented, I said. But for your 
 sake, Charmides, I am very sorry — that you, having such beauty 
 and such wisdom and temperance of soul, should have no profit or 
 good in life from your wisdom and temperance. And still more 
 am I grieved about the charm which I learned with so much pain, 
 and to so little profit, from the Thracian, for the sake of a thing 
 which is nothing worth. I think indeed that there is a mistake, 
 and that I must be a bad enquirer, for I am persuaded that wisdom ':. 
 or temperance is really a great good ; and happy are you if you 
 possess that good. And therefore examine yourself, and see 17! 
 whether you have this gift and can do without the charm ; for if 
 you can, I would rather advise you to regard me simply as a fool 
 who is never able to reason out anything ; and to rest assured that 
 the more wise and temperate you are, the happier you will be. 
 ' Charmides said : I am sure that I do not know, Socrates, 
 whether I have or have not this gift of wisdom and temperance j 
 for how can I know whether I have that, the very nature of which 
 even you and Critias, as you say, are unable to discover? — (not 
 that I believe you.) And further, I am sure, Socrates, that I do 
 need the charm, and as far as I am concerned, I shall be willii^ 
 to be charmed by you daily, until you say that I have had 
 enough. 
 
 Very good, Charmides, said Critias; if you do this I shall 
 have a proof of your temperance, that is, if you allow yourself to 
 be charmed by Socrates, and never desert him at all. 
 
 You may depend on my following and not deserting him, 
 said Charmides: if you who are my guardian command me, I 
 should be very wrong not to obey you. 
 
 And I do command you, he said. 
 
 Then I will do as you say, and begin this very day. 
 
 You sirs, I said, what are you conspiring about ? 
 
CHARMIDES. 35 
 
 We are not conspiring, said Charmides, we have conspired 
 already. • 
 
 And are you about to use violence, without even going through 
 the forms of justice ? 
 
 Yes, I shall use violence, he replied, since he orders me j 
 and therefore you had better consider well. 
 
 But the time for consideration has passed, I said, when 
 violence is employed j and you, when you are determined on 
 anything, and in the mood of violence, are irresistible. 
 
 Do not you resist me then, he said. 
 
 I will not resist you, I replied. 
 
 D 2 
 
LYSIS. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 No answer is given in the Lysis to the question, 'What is Friendship?' 
 any more than in the Charmides to the question, 'What is Tem- 
 perance ?' There are several resemblances in the two Dialogues : the 
 same youthfulness and sense of beauty pervades both of them ; they are 
 alike rich in the description of Greek life. The question is again 
 raised of the relation of knowledge to virtue and good, which also 
 recurs in the Laches; and Socrates appears again as the elder friend 
 of the two boys Lysis and Menexenus. In the Charmides, as also in 
 the Laches, he is described as middle-aged ; in the Lysis he is advanced 
 in years. 
 
 The Dialogue consists of two scenes or conversations which seem 
 to have no relation to each other. The first is a conversation between 
 Socrates and Lysis, who, like Charmides, is an Athenian youth of noble 
 descent and of great beauty, goodness, and intelligence : this is carried 
 on in the absence of Menexenus, who is called away to take part in a 
 sacrifice. Socrates asks Lysis whether his father and mother do not 
 love him very much ? ' Yes, that they do.' ' Then of course they allow 
 him to do exactly as he likes.' ' Of course not : the very slaves have 
 more liberty than he has.' 'But how is this?' 'The reason is that he 
 is not old enough.' ' No ; the real reason is that he is not wise enough.' 
 ' For are there not some things which he is allowed to do, although he 
 is not allowed to do others?' 'Yes, because he knows them, and does 
 not know the others.' This leads to the conclusion that all men 
 everywhere will trust him in what he knows, but not in what he does 
 not know ; for in such matters he will be unprofitable to them, and do 
 them no good. And no one will love him, if he does them no good ; 
 and he can only do them good by knowledge ; and as he is still with- 
 out knowledge, he has no conceit of knowledge. In this manner 
 
40 LFSIS. 
 
 Socrates reads a lesson to Hippothales, the fooUsh lover of Lysis, 
 respecting the style of conversation which he should address to his- 
 beloved. 
 
 After the return of Menexenus, Socrates, at the request of Lysis, asks 
 him a new question: 'What is friendship? You, Menexenus, who 
 have a friend already, can tell me, who am always longing to find one, 
 what is the secret of this great blessing.' 
 
 When one man loves another, which is the friend — he who loves, or 
 he who is loved? or are both friends? From the first of these sup- 
 positions they are driven to the second; and from the second to the 
 third ; and neither the two boys nor Socrates are satisfied with any of 
 them. Socrates turns to the poets, who affirm that God brings like to like 
 (Homer), and to philosophers (Empedocles), who assert also that like is 
 the friend of like. But the bad are not friends, for they are not even like 
 themselves, and still less are they like one another. And the good have 
 no need of one another, and therefore do not care about one another. 
 Moreover there are others who say that likeness is a cause of aversion, 
 and unlikeness of love and friendship ; and they too adduce the authority 
 of poets and philosophers in support of their doctrines; for Hesiod 
 says that ' potter is jealous of potter, bard of bard;' and subtle doctors 
 tell us that ' moist is the friend of dry, hot of cold,' and the like. But 
 neither can their doctrine be maintained; for then the just would be 
 the friend of the unjust, good of evil. 
 
 Thus we arrive at the conclusion that like is not the friend of like, 
 nor unlike of unlike ; and therefore good is not the friend of good, nor 
 evil of evil, nor good of evil, nor evil of good. What remains but that 
 the indifferent, which is neither good nor evil, should be the friend (not 
 of the indifferent, for that would be ' like the friend of like,' but) of the 
 good'? 
 
 But why should the indifferent have this attachment to the good? 
 There' are circumstances under which such an attachment would be 
 natural. Suppose the indifferent, say the human body, to be desirous of 
 getting rid of some evil, such as disease, which is not essential but only 
 accidental to it (for if the evil were essential the body would cease to be 
 indifferent, and would become evil) — in such a case the indifferent 
 becomes a friend of the good for the sake of getting rid of the evil- 
 In this intermediate 'indifferent' position the philosopher or lover 
 of wisdom stands: he is not wise, and yet not unwise, but he has 
 
INTRODUCTION: 41 
 
 ignorance accidentally clinging to him, and he yearns for wisdom as 
 the cure of the evil. (Cp. Symp. 204.) 
 
 After this explanation has been received with triumphant accord, a 
 fresh dissatisfaction begins to steal over the mind of Socrates : Must 
 not friendship be for the sake of some ulterior end ? and what can that 
 final cause or end of friendship be, other than the good ? But the good 
 is desired by us only as the cure of evil ; and therefore if there were no 
 evil there would be no friendship. Some other explanation then has to 
 be devised. May not desire be the source of friendship ? And desire 
 is of what a man wants and of what is congenial to him. But then 
 again, the congenial cannot be the same as the like; for Uke cannot 
 be the friend of like. Nor can the congenial be explained as the good ; 
 for good is not the friend of good, as has been also shown. The 
 problem is unsolved, and the three friends, Socrates, Lysis, and Me- 
 nexenus, are still unable to find out what a friend is. 
 
 Thus, as in the Charmides and Laches, and several of the other Dialogues 
 of Plato (compare especially the Protagoras and Theaetetus), no con- 
 clusion is arrived at. The dialogue is what would be called in the 
 language of Thrasyllus tentative or inquisitive. The subject is continued 
 in the Phaedrus and Symposium, and treated, with a manifest reference 
 to the Lysis, in the eighth and ninth books of the Nicomachean Ethics 
 of Aristotle. As in other writings of Plato (for example, the Republic), 
 there is a progress from unconscious morality, illustrated by the uncon- 
 scious friendship of the two youths, and also by the sayings of the poets 
 '('who are our fathers in wisdom,' and yet only tell us half the truth, 
 and in this particular instance are not much improved upon by the 
 •philosophers), to a more comprehensive notion of friendship. This, 
 however, is far from being cleared of its perplexity. Two notions 
 appear to be struggling or balancing in the mind of Socrates : — First, 
 the sense that friendship arises out of human needs and wants ; Secondly, 
 that the higher form or ideal of friendship exists only for the sake 
 of the good. That friends are not necessarily either like or unlike, 
 is also a truth confirmed by experience. But the use of the terms 
 'like' or 'good' is too strictly limited; Socrates has allowed himself 
 to be carried away by a sort of eristic or illogical logic against which 
 the truest definition of friendship would be unable to stand. The sense 
 of the interdependence of good and evil, and the allusion to the pos- 
 sibility of the non-existence of evil, are very curious. 
 
42 LFSIS. 
 
 The dialectical interest is fully sustained by the dramatic accompani*! 
 ments. Observe, first, the scene, which is a Greek Palaestra, at a time when 
 a sacrifice is going on, and the tiermaea are in course of celebration;^, 
 secondly, the ' accustomed irony ' of Socrates, who declares, as in the 
 Symposium (177 D), that he is ignorant of all other things, but claims to 
 have a knowledge of the mysteries of love. There are also several con- 
 trasts of character; first of the dry, caustic Ctesippus, of whom Socrates 
 professes a humorous sort of fear, and Hippothales the flighty lover, 
 who murders sleep by bawling out the name of his beloved ; also there 
 is a contrast between the false, exaggerated, sentimental love of Hip- 
 pothales towards Lysisj and the simple and innocent, friendship of the 
 boys with one another. Some difference appears to be intended 
 between the characters of the more talkative Menexenus and the 
 reserved and simple Lysis. Socrates draws out the latter by a new 
 sort of irony, which is sometimes adopted in talking to children, and 
 consists in asking a leading question which can only be answered in 
 a sense contrary to the intention of the question : ' Your father and 
 mother of course allow you to drive the chariot?' 'No they don't.'' 
 When Menexenus returns, the serious dialectic begins. i 
 
LYSIS, OR FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Socrates, itrbo is the narrator. MeNEXENUS. 
 
 HippoTHALES. Lysis. 
 
 CtesippUS. 
 
 Scene : — A newly-erected Palaestra outside the walls of Athens. 
 
 1. T WAS going from the Academy straight to the Lyceum, intend- 
 ' ing to take the outer road, which is close under the wall. When 
 I came to the postern gate of the city, which is by the fountain 
 of Panops, I fell in with Hippothales, the son of Hieronymus, and 
 Ctesippus the Paeanian, and a company of young men who were 
 standing with them. Hippothales, seeing me approach, asked 
 whence I came and whither I was going. 
 
 I am going, I replied, from the Academy straight to the 
 Lyceum. 
 
 Then come straight to us, he said, and put in here ; you may 
 as well. 
 
 Who are you, I said j and where am I to come ? 
 
 He showed me an enclosed space and an open door over 
 against the wall. And there, he said, is the building at which 
 we all meet : and a goodly company we are. 
 
 And what is this building, I asked ; and what sort of enter- 
 tainment have you ? 
 4 The building, he replied, is a newly-erected Palaestra^ and 
 the entertainment is generally conversation, to which you are 
 welcome. 
 
 Thank you, I said ^ and is there any teacher there ? 
 
 Yes, he said, your old friend and admirer, Miccus. 
 
4' LYSIS. 
 
 Indeed, I replied j he is a very eminent professor. 
 Are you disposed, he said, to go with me and see them ? 
 Yes, I said ; but I should like to know first, what is expected 
 of me, and who is the favourite among you. 
 
 Some persons have one favourite, Socrates, and some another, 
 he said. 
 
 And who is yoius ? I asked : tell me that, Hippothales. 
 At this he blushed ; and I said to him, O Hippothales, thou son 
 of Hieronymus! do not say that you are, or that you are not, in 
 love ; the confession is too late ; for I see not only that you are 
 in love, but that you are already far gone in your love. Simple 
 and foolish as I am, the Gods have given me the power of under- 
 standing these sort of aiFections. 
 At this he blushed more and more. 
 
 Ctesippus said: I like to see you blushing, Hippothales, and 
 hesitating to tell Socrates the name ; when, if he were with you 
 but for a very short time, he would be plagued to death by hearing 
 of nothing else. Indeed, Socrates, he has literally deafened us, and 
 stopped our ears with the praises of Lysis; and if he is a little 
 intoxicated, there is every likelihood that we may have our sleep 
 murdered with a cry of Lysis. His performances in prose are bad 
 enough, but, nothing at all in comparison with his verse; and 
 when he drenches us with his poems and other compositions^ that 
 is really too bad; and what is even worse, is his manner of 
 singing them to his love ; this he does in a voice which is truly 
 appalling, and we cannot help hearing him : and now he has a 
 question put to him by you, and lo ! he is blushing. 
 
 Who is Lysis? I said: I suppose that he must be young; for 
 the name does not recall any one to me. 
 
 Why, he said, his fether being a very well-known man, he 
 retains his patronymic, and is not as yet commonly called by his 
 own name ; but, although you do not know his name, I am sure 
 that you must know his face, for that is quite enough to distin- 
 guish him. 
 
 But tell me whose son he is, I said. tA 
 
 He is the eldest son of Democrates, of the deme of Aexon^. ''^ 
 Ah, Hippothales, I said ; what a noble and really perfect love 
 you have found ! I wish that you would fevour me with the ex- 
 hibition which you have been making to the rest of the company,! 
 
LYSIS. 45 
 
 and then I shall be able to judge whether you know what a lover 
 ought to say about his love, either to the yo%th himself, or to others. 
 
 Nay, Socrates, he said ; you surely do not attach any weight 
 to what he is saying. 
 
 Do you mean, I said, that you disown the love of the person 
 whom he says that you love ? 
 
 No ; but I deny that I make verses or address compositions to 
 him. 
 
 He is not in his right mind, said Ctesippus; he is talking 
 nonsense, and is stark mad. 
 
 O Hippothales, I said, if you have ever made any verses or 
 songs in honoiu: of your favourite, I do not want to hear them ; 
 but I want to know the purport of them, that I may be able to 
 judge of your mode of approaching your fair one. 
 
 Ctesippus will be able to tell you, he said ; for if, as he avers, 
 I talk to him of nothing else, he must have a very accurate know- 
 ledge and recollection of that. 
 
 Yes, indeed, said Ctesippus ; I know only too well ; and very 
 ridiculous the tale is : for although he is a lover, and very 
 devotedly in love, he has nothing particular to talk about to his 
 beloved which a child might not say. Now is not that ridiculous ? 
 He can only speak of the wealth of Democrates, which the whole 
 city celebrates, and grandfather Lysis, and the other ancestors of 
 the youth, and their stud of horses, and their victory at the 
 Pythian games, and at the Isthmus, and at Nemea with four 
 horses and single horses j and these he sings and says, and greater 
 twaddle still. For the day before yesterday he made a poem in 
 which he described how Heracles, who was a connexion of the 
 family, was entertained by an ancestor of Lysis as his relation ; 
 this ancestor was himself the son of Zeus and the daughter of the 
 founder of the deme. And these are the sort of old wives' tales 
 which he sings and recites to us, and we are obliged to listen to 
 him. 
 
 When I heard this, I said : O ridiculous Hippothales ! how can 
 you be making and singing hymns in honour of yourself before you 
 have won ? 
 
 But my songs and verses, he said, are not in honour of 
 myself, Socrates. 
 You think not, I said. 
 
46. LYSIS. 
 
 But what are they, then ? he replied. 
 
 Most assuredly, I said, those songs are all in your own 
 honour; for if you win your beautiful love, your discourses and 
 songs will be a glory to you, and may be truly regarded as hymns 
 of praise composed in honour of you who have conquered and 
 won such a love ; but if he slips away from you, the more you have 
 praised him, the more ridiculous you will look at having lost this 
 fairest and best of blessings ; and this is the reason why the wise 2 
 lover does not praise his beloved until he has won him, because he 
 is afraid of accidents. There is also another danger; the fair, 
 when any one praises or magnifies them, are filled with the spirit 
 of pride and vain-glory. Is not that true ? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And the more vain-glorious they are, the more difficult is the 
 capture of them ? ~'"~~~-^^^ 
 
 I believe that. 
 
 What should you say of a hunter who frightened away his prey, 
 and made the capture of the animals which he is hunting more 
 difficult ? 
 
 He would be a bad huiiter, that is clear. ' 
 
 Yes ; and if, instead of soothing them, he were to infuriate them 
 with words and songs, that would show a great want of wit; 
 don't you agree with me ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And now reflect, Hippothales, and see whether you are not 
 guilty of all these errors in writing poetry. For I can hardly 
 suppose that you will affirm a man to be a good poet who injures 
 himself by his poetry. 
 
 Assuredly not, he said: I should be a fool if I said that; and 
 this makes me desirous, Socrates, of taking you into my counsels^ 
 and I shall be glad of any further advice which you may have to 
 offer. Will you tell me by what words or actions I may become 
 endeared to my love ? 
 
 That is not easy to determine, I said ; but if you will bring 
 your love to me, and will let me talk with him, I may perhaps 
 be able to show you how to converse with him, instead of singing 
 and reciting in the fashion of which you are accused. 
 
 There will be no difficulty in bringing him, he replied ; if you • 
 will only go into the house with Ctesippus, and sit down and talk," 
 
LYSIS. 47 
 
 he will come of himself j for he is fond of listening, Socrates. 
 And as this is the festival of the Hermaea^there is no separation 
 of young men and boys, but they are all mixed up together. He 
 will be sure to come : but if he does not come, Ctesippus, with 
 whom he is familiar, and whose relation Menexenus is his great 
 friend, shall call him. 
 
 That will be the way, I said. Thereupon I and Ctesippus went 
 towards the Palaestra, and the rest followed. 
 
 Upon entering we found that the boys had just been sacrificing ; 
 and this part of the festival was nearly come to an end. They were 
 all in white array, and games at dice were going on among them. 
 Most of them were in the outer court amusing themselves j but 
 some were in a corner of the Apodyterium playing at odd and even 
 with a number of dice, which they took out of little wicker 
 baskets. There was also a circle of lookers on, one of whom was 
 Lysis. Hewas standing among the other boys and youths, having 
 a crown upon his head, like, a fair vision, and not less worthy of 
 praise for his goodness than for his beauty. We left them, and 
 went over to the opposite side of the room, where we found a 
 quiet place, and sat downj and then we began to talk. This 
 attracted Lysis, who was constantly turning round to look at us— 
 he was evidently wanting to come to us. For a time he hesitated 
 and had not the courage to come alone ; but first of all, his friend 
 Menexenus came in out of the court in the interval of his play, 
 and when he saw Ctesippus and myself, came and sat by us j and 
 then Lysis, seeing him, followed, and sat down with him ; and 
 the other boys joined. I should observe that Hippothales, when 
 he saw the crowd, got behind them, where he thought that he 
 would be out of sight of Lysis, lest be should anger him; and 
 there he stood and listened. 
 
 I turned to Menexenus, and said : Son of Demophon, which of 
 you two youths is the elder ? 
 
 That is a matter of dispute between us, he said. 
 
 And which is the nobler ? Is that a matter of dispute too ? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 And another disputed point is, which is the fairer ? 
 
 The two boys laughed. 
 
 I shan't ask which is the richer, I said; for you two are 
 friends, are you not ? 
 
48 LYSIS. 
 
 Certainly, they replied. 
 
 And friends liave all things in common, so that one of you 
 can be no richer than the other, if you say truly that you are 
 friends. 
 
 They assented. I was about to ask which was the juster of the 
 twOj and which was the wiser of the twoj but at this moment. 
 Menexenus was called away by some one who came and said 
 that the gymnastic-master wanted him. As I imagine, he had 
 to oflFer sacrifice. So he went away, and I asked Lysis some 
 more questions. I dare say. Lysis, I said, that your father and 
 mother love you very much. 
 
 That they do, he said. 
 
 And they would wish you to be perfectly happy. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 But do you think that any one is happy who is in the con- 
 dition of a slave, and who cannot do what he likes ? 
 
 I should think not indeed, he said. 
 
 And if your father and mother love you, and desire that you 
 should be happy, no one can doubt that they are very ready to 
 promote your happiness. 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 And do they then permit you to do what you like, and never 
 rebuke you or hinder you from doing what you desire ? 
 
 Yes, -indeed, Socrates; there are a great many things which 
 they hinder me from doing. .„ 
 
 What do you mean ? I said. Do they want you to be happy, 
 and yet hinder you from doing what you like ? — ^for example,if you 2d 
 want to mount one of your father's chariots, and take the reins at 
 a race, they -will not allow you to do that ; they will prevent you? : 
 
 Certainly, he said, they will not allow me to do that. ' 
 
 Whom then will they allow ? 
 
 There is a charioteer, whom my father pays for driving. 
 
 And do they trust a hireling more than you ? and may he d( 
 what he likes with the horses ? and do they pay him for this ? 
 
 They do. 
 
 But I dare say that you may take the whip and guidesthi 
 mule-cart if you like ; — they will permit that ? 
 Permit me ! no they won't. 
 Then, I said, may no one use the whip to the mules ? 
 
LYSIS. 49 
 
 Yes, he said, the muleteer. 
 
 And is he a slave or a free man ? • 
 
 A slave, he said. 
 
 And do they esteem a slave of more value than you who are 
 their son? And do they entrust their property to him rather than 
 to you ? and allow him to do what he likes, when you may not ? 
 Answer me now : Are you your own master, or do they not even 
 allow that ? 
 
 Nay, he said j of course they do not allow that. 
 
 Then you have a master ? 
 
 Yes, my tutor ; there he is. 
 
 And is he a slave ? 
 
 To be sure ^ he is our slave, he replied. 
 
 Surely, I said, this is a strange thing, that a free man should 
 be governed by a slave. And what does he do with you ? 
 
 He takes me to my teacherfe. 
 
 You don't mean to say that your teachers also rule over you ? 
 
 Of course they do. 
 
 Then I must say that your father is pleased to inflict many lords 
 and masters on you. But at any rate when you go home to your 
 mother, she will let you have your own way, and will not interfere 
 with your happiness; her wool, or the piece of cloth she is 
 weaving, are at your disposal : I am sure that there is nothing to 
 hinder you from touching her wooden spathe, or her comb, or 
 any other of her spinning implements. 
 
 Nay, Socrates, he replied, laughing ; not only does she hinder 
 me, but I should be beaten, if I were to touch one of them. 
 
 Well, I said, that is amazing. And did you ever behave ill 
 to your father or your mother ? 
 
 No, indeed, he replied. 
 
 But why then are they so terribly anxious to prevent you from 
 being happy, and doing as you like ? — keeping you all day long in 
 subjection to another, and, in a word, doing nothing which you 
 desire ; so that you have no good, as would appear, out of their 
 I great possessions, which are under the control of anybody rather 
 than of you, and have no use of your own fair person, which is 
 committed to the care of a shepherd ; while you. Lysis, are master 
 of nobody, and can do nothing ? 
 
 Why, he said, Socrates, the reason is that I am not of age. 
 
 E 
 
50 LYSIS. 
 
 I doubt whether that is the real reason, I said ; for as fan as 
 that goes, I should imagine that your father Democrates, . and 
 your mother, do permit you to do many things already, and do 
 not wait until you are of age : for example, if they want any- 
 thing read or written, you, I presume, would be the first person 
 in the house who is summoned by them. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And you would be allowed to write or read the letters in any 
 order which you please, or take up the lyre and tune the notesj 
 and play with the fingers, or strike with the plectrum, exactly 
 as you please, and neither father nor mother would interfere 
 witli you. 
 
 That is true, he said. 
 
 Then what can be the reason. Lysis, I said, why they allow 
 you to do the one and not the other ? 
 
 I suppose, he said, that the reason is that I understand the 
 one, and not the other. 
 
 Yes, my dear youth, I said, the reason is not any deficiency 
 of years, but a deficiency of knowledge ; and whenever your father 
 thinks that you are wiser than he is, he will instantly commit 
 himself and his possessions to you. 
 
 That I believe. 
 
 Aye, I said ; and about your neighbour, too, does not the same 
 rule hold as about your father ? If he is satisfied that you know 
 more of housekeeping than he does, will he continue to administer 
 his affairs himself, or will he commit them to you ? 
 
 I think that he will commit them to me. 
 
 And will not the Athenian people, too, entrust their affairs- to 
 you when they see that you have wisdom enough for this ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 NoWj I said, let me put a case. Suppose the great king to 
 have an eldest son, who is the Prince of Asiaj and you and I go 
 to him and establish to his satisfaction that we are better 
 cooks than his son, will he not entrust to us the prerogativ^of 
 making soup, and putting in anything tliat we like • while; the 
 boiling is going on, rather than to the Prince of Asia, who is 
 his son ? ,. 
 
 To us, clearly. 
 
 And we shall be allowed to throw in salt by handftilsj whereas 
 
 \ 
 
LYSIS. 5T 
 
 the son will not be allowed to put in as much as he can take up 
 between his fingers ? • 
 
 Of course. 
 
 Or suppose again that the son has bad eyes, will he allow 
 him, or will he not allow him, to touch his own eyes if he thinks 
 that he has no knowledge of medicine ? 
 ro He will not allow him. 
 
 Whereas, if we are supposed to have a knowledge of medicine, 
 he will allow us to open the eyes wide and sprinkle ashes upon 
 them, because he supposes that we know what is best ? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And everything in which we appear to him to be wiser than 
 himself or his son he will commit to us ? 
 
 That is very true, Socrates, he replied. 
 
 Then now, my dear youth, I said, you perceive that in things 
 whidi we know every one will trust us, — Hellenes and barbarians, 
 men and women, — and we may do as we please, and no one will 
 like to interfere with us ; and we are free, and masters of others ; 
 and these things will be really ours, for we shall turn them to our 
 good. But in things of which we have no understanding, no one 
 will trust us to do as seems good to us — they will hinder us as far 
 as they can ; and not only strangers, but father and mother, and 
 the friend, if there be one, who is dearer still, will also hinder us j 
 and we shall be subject to others ; and these things will not be 
 ours, for we shall turn them to no good. Do you admit that ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And shall we ever be friends to others? and will any others 
 love us, in as far as we are useless to them ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Neither can your father or mother love you, nor can anybody 
 love anybody else, in as far as they are useless to them ? 
 
 Nb. 
 
 And therefore, my boy, if you are wise, all men will be your 
 friends and kindred, for you will be useful and good j but if you 
 are not wise, neither fiither, nor mother, nor kindred, nor any one 
 else, will be your friends. And not having yet attained to wisdom, 
 can you have high thoughts about that of which you have no 
 thoughts ? 
 
 How can I ? he said. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 LYSIS. 
 
 And you have no wisdom, for you require a teacher ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And you are not conceited, having nothing of which to be 
 conceited ? - 
 
 Indeed, Socrates, I think not. 
 
 When I heard him say this, I turned to Hippothales, and was 
 very nearly making a blunder, for I had a mind to say to him : 
 That is the way, Hippothales, in which you should talk to your 
 beloved, humbling and lowering him, and not as you do, pufHng 
 him up and spoiling him. But I saw that he was in great excite- 
 ment and confusion at what had been said; and I remembered 
 that, although he was in the neiglibourhood, he did not want to be 
 seen by Lysis, so I thought better and refrained. 211 
 
 In the meantime Menexenus came back and sat down in his . 
 place by Lysis ; and Lysis, in a childish and affectionate mannerj 
 whispered privately in my ear, so that Menexenus should not hear : 
 Do, Socrates, tell Menexenus what you have been telling me. 
 
 Suppose that you tell him yourself. Lysis, I replied; for I am 
 sure that you were attending. 
 
 That I was, he replied. 
 
 Try, then, to remember the words, and be as exact as you can 
 in repeating them to him, and if you have forgotten anything, ask 
 me again the next time that you see me. 
 
 I will be sure to do that, Socrates; but go on telling him 
 something new, and let me hear, as long as I am allowed to stay. 
 
 I certainly cannot refiise, I said, as you ask me ; but then, 
 as you know, Menexenus is very pugnacious, and therefore you 
 must come to the rescue if he attempts to upset me. 
 
 Yes, indeed, he said; he is very pugnacious, and that is the 
 reason why I want you to argue with him. 
 
 That I may make a fool of myself? 
 
 No, indeed, he said ; but that you may put him down. 
 
 That is no easy matter, I replied ; for he is a terrible fellow—, , 
 a pupil of Ctesippus. And there is Ctesippus : do you see him ? ' 
 
 Never mind, Socrates, you shall argue with him. J 
 
 Well, I suppose I must, I replied, 
 
 Hereupon Ctesippus complained that we were talking in secret, 
 ^nd keeping the feast to ourselves. 
 
 I shall be happy, I said, to let you have a share*. Here is 
 
LYSIS. 53 
 
 Lysis, who does not understand something that I was saying, and 
 wants me to ask Menexenus, who, as he thinks, will be able to 
 answer. 
 
 And why don't you ask him ? he said. 
 
 Very well, I said, I will ask him; and do you, Menexenus, 
 answer. But first I must tell you that I am one who from my 
 childhood upward have set my heart upon a certain thing. All 
 people have their fancies ; some desire horses, and others dogs ; 
 and some are fond of gold, and others of honour. Now, I have no 
 violent desire of any of these things ; but I have a passion for 
 friends'; and I would rather have a good friend than the best cock 
 or quail in the world: I would even go fiirther, and say than a 
 horse or dog. Yea^ by the dog of Egypt, I should greatly prefer a 
 12 real friend to all the gold of Darius, or even to Darius himself: 
 I am such a lover of friends as that. And when I see you and 
 Lysis, at your early age, so easily possessed of this treasure, and so 
 soon, he of you, and you of him, I am amazed and delighted, seeing 
 that I myself, although I am now advanced in years, am so far 
 from having made a similar acquisition, that I do not even know 
 in what way a friend is acquired. But this is the question which I 
 want to ask you, as you have experience: tell me then, when 
 one loves another, is the lover or the beloved the friend; or may 
 either be the friend ? 
 
 Either, he said, may be the friend. 
 
 Do you mean, I said, that if only one of them loves the 
 other, they are mutual friends? 
 
 Yes, he said ; that is my meaning. 
 
 But what if the lover is not loved in return? That is a 
 possible case. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Or is, perhaps, even hated? for that is a fancy which lovers 
 sometimes have. Nothing can exceed their love; and yet they 
 imagi&e either that they are not loved in return, or that they are 
 hated. Is not that true ? 
 
 Yes, he said, quite true. 
 
 In that case, the one loves, and the other is loved ? 
 
 Yes, 
 
 Then which is the friend of which ? Is the lover the friend of 
 the beloved, whether he be loved in return, or hated ; or is the 
 
54 LVS/S. 
 
 beloved the friend ^ or is there no friendship at all on either side, 
 unless they both love one another ? 
 
 There would seem to be none at all. 
 
 Then that is at variance with our former notion. Just now, 
 both were friends, if one only loved ; and now, unless they both 
 love, neither is a friend. 
 
 That appears to be true. 
 
 Then no one is a friend to his friend who does not love in 
 return ? 
 
 I think not. 
 
 Then they are not lovers of horses,, whom the horses do not 
 love in return j nor lovers of quails, nor of dogs, nor of wine, nor 
 of gymnastic exercises, who have no return of lovej no, nor of 
 wisdom, unless wisdom loves them in return. Or perhaps they do 
 love them, but they are not beloved by themj and the poet was 
 wrong who sings : — 
 
 ' Happy the man to whom his children are dear, and steeds having single 
 hoofs, and dogs of chase, and the stranger of another land.' 
 
 I do not think that he was wrong. •?:: 
 
 Then you think that he is right ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then, Menexenus, the conclusion is, that what is beloved may 
 be dear, whether loving or hating : for example, very young chil- 
 dren, too young to love, or even hating their father or mother 21 
 when they are punished by them, are never dearer to them than 
 at the time when they are hating them. 
 
 I think that is true, he said. 
 
 Then on this view, not the lover, but the beloved, is the friead 
 or dear one; and the hated one, and not the hater, is the enemy? 
 
 Thg.t is plain. 
 
 Then many men are loved by their enemies, and hated by their 
 friends, and are the friends of their enemies, and the enemies of 
 their friends — that follows if the beloved is dear, and not the 
 lover : but this, my dear friend, is an absurdity, or, I should rather 
 say, an impossibility. 
 
 That, Socrates, I believe to be true. 
 
 But then, if not the enemy, the lover will be the friend, of 
 that which is loved ? 
 
LYSIS. 55 
 
 True'. 
 
 And the hater will be the enemy of that which is hated ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Yet there is no avoiding the admission in this, as in the pre- 
 ceding instance, that a man may love one who is not his friend, 
 or who may be his enemy. There are cases in which a lover 
 loves, and is not loved, or is perhaps hated ; and a man may be 
 the enemy of one who is not his enemy, and is even his friend : 
 for example, when he loves that which does not hate him, or even 
 hates that which loves him. 
 
 That appears to be true. 
 
 But if the lover is not a friend, nor the beloved a friend, nor 
 both together, what are we to say ? Whom are we to call friends 
 to one another ? Do any remain ? 
 
 Indeed, Socrates, I cannot find any. 
 
 But, O Menexenus ! I said, may we not have been altogether 
 wrong in our conclusions ? 
 
 I am sure that we have been wrong, Socrates, said Lysis. And 
 he blushed at his own words, as if he had not intended to speak, 
 but the words escaped him involuntarily in his eagerness j there 
 was no mistaking his attentive look while he was listening. 
 
 I was pleased at the interest which was shown by Lysis, and I 
 wanted to give Menexenus a rest, so I turned to him, and said, 
 I think. Lysis, that what you say is true, and that we, if we had 
 been right, should never have gone so far wrong j let us proceed 
 no fiirther in this direction (for the road seems to be getting 
 troublesome), but take the other in which the poets will be our 
 guide ; for they are to. us in a manner the fathers and authors of 
 wisdom, and they speakof friends in no light or trivial manner, 
 but God himself, as they say, makes them and' draws them to one 
 another; and this they express, if I am not mistaken, in the 
 following words : — 
 
 ' God is ever drawing like towards like, and making them acquainted.' 
 
 I dare say that you have heard those words. 
 
 Yes, he said ; I have. 
 
 And have you not also met with the treatises of philosophers 
 who say that like must love like ? they are the people who go talk- 
 ing and writing about nature and the universe. 
 
56 LYSIS. 
 
 That is true, he said. 
 And are they right in .saying that ? 
 They may be. 
 
 Perhaps, I said, about half right, or probably altogether right 
 if their meaning were rightly apprehended by us. For the more 
 a bad man has to do with a bad man, and the more nearly he is 
 brought into contact with him, the more he will be likely to hate 
 him, for he injures him, and injurer and injured cannot be friend% 
 Is not that true ? 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 Then one half of the saying is untrue, if the wicked are like 
 one another ? 
 That is true. 
 
 But people really mean, as I suppose, that the good are like one 
 another, and friends to one another j and that the bad, as is often 
 said of them, are never at unity with one another or with them- 
 selves, but are passionate and restless : and that which is at 
 variance and enmity with itself is not likely to be in union or 
 harmony with any other thing. Don't you agree to that ? A 
 
 Yes, I do. \ 
 
 Then, my friend, those who say that the like is friendly to the ' 
 like mean to intimate, if I do not misapprehend, that the good ^ 
 only is the friend of the good, and of him only ; but that the evil 
 never attains to any real friendship, either with good or evil. Do 
 you agree ? 
 He nodded assent. 
 
 Then now we know how to answer the question 'Who are 
 friends?' for the argument supplies the answer, 'That the good 
 are friends.' 
 
 Yes, he said, that is true. 
 
 Yes, I replied i and yet I am ^ot quite satisfied with this. 
 Shall I tell you what I suspect ? I will. Assuming that like, , 
 inasmuch as he is like, is the friend of like, and useful to him-or \ 
 rather let me try another way of putting the matter : Can like do \ 
 any good or harm to like which he could not do to himself, 
 or sufFer anything from his like which he would not suffer from 
 hiro.self ? And if neither can be of any use to the other, how can jij 
 they be loved by one another ? Can they now ? 
 They cannot. 
 
LYSIS. 57 
 
 And can he who is not loved be a friend ? 
 
 Certainly not. « 
 
 But say that the like is not the friend of the like in as far as he 
 is like J still the good may be the friend of the good in as far as 
 he is good. 
 
 True. 
 
 But then again, will not the good, in as far as he is good, be 
 sufficient for himself? And he who is sufficient wants nothing 
 — that is implied in the word sufficient ? 
 
 Of course not. 
 
 And he who wants nothing will desire nothing ? 
 
 He wiU not. 
 
 Neither can he love that which he does not desire ? 
 
 He cannot. 
 
 And he who loves not is not a lover or friend ? 
 
 Clearly ^ot. " 
 
 What place then is there for friendship, if, when absent^ good 
 men have no desire of one another (for when alone they are suffi- 
 cient for themselves), and when present have no use of one another ? 
 How can such persons ever be induced to value one another ? 
 
 They cannot. 
 
 And friends they cannot be, unless they value one another ? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But see now. Lysis, how we are being deceived in all this ; are 
 we not entirely wrong ? 
 
 How is that ? he said. 
 
 Have I not heard some one say, as I just now recollect, that 
 the like is the greatest enemy of the like, the good of the good ? — 
 and in fact he .quoted the authority of Hesiod, who says, ' That 
 potter quarrels with potter, bard with bard, beggar with beggar ;' 
 and of all other things he also says ' That of necessity the most 
 like are most full of envy, strife, and hatred of one another, and 
 the most unlike of friendship. For the poor man is compelled to 
 be the friend of the rich, and the weak requires the aid of the 
 strong, and the sick man of the physician j every one who knows 
 not has to love and court him who knows.' And indeed he went 
 on to say in grandiloquent language, that the idea of friendship 
 existing between similars is not the truth, but the very reverse 
 of the truth, and that the most opposed are the most friendly 5 
 
58 LVS/S. 
 
 for that everything desires not like but unlike: for example, 
 the dry desires the moist, the cold the hot, the bitter the sweel^ 
 the sharp the blunt, the void the full, the full the void, and so of 
 all other things j for the opposite is the food of the opposite, 
 whereas like receives nothing from like. And I thought that he 21 
 was a charming man who said this, and that he spoke well. 
 What do the rest of you say ? 
 
 I should say, at first hearing, that he is right, said Menexenus. 
 
 Then are we to say that the greatest friendship is of opposites ? 
 
 Exactly. 
 
 Yes, Menexenus j but will not that be a monstrous answer ? 
 and will not the all-wise eristics be down upon us in triumph, and 
 ask, fairly enough, whether love is not the very opposite of hate? 
 and what answer shall we make to them? must we not admit 
 that they speak truly ? 
 
 That we must. j 
 
 They will ask whether the enemy is the friend of the friend, ; 
 or the friend the friend of the enemy ? 
 
 Neither, he replied. 
 
 Well, but is a just man the friend of the unjust, or the temper 
 rate of the intemperate, or the good of the bad ? 
 
 I do not see how that is possible. 
 
 And yet, I said, if friendship goes by contraries, the contraria 
 must be friends. 
 
 They must. 
 
 Then neither like and like nor unlike and unlike are friends. 
 
 I suppose not. 
 
 And yet there is a further consideration: may not all these 
 notions of friendship be erroneous ? but still may there not be cases 
 in which that which is neither good nor bad is the friend of the 
 good? 
 
 How do you mean ? he said. 
 
 Why really, I said, the truth is that I don't knowj but my head 
 is dizzy with thinking of the argument, and therefore I hazard the 
 conjecture, that the beautiful is the -friend, as the old proverb says. 
 Beauty is certainly a soft, smooth, slippery thing, and therefore of 
 a nature which easily slips in and permeates our souls. And I 
 further add that the good is the beautiful. You will agree to that? 
 Yes. 
 
LYSIS. 59 
 
 This I say from a sort of notion that what is neither good 
 nor evil is the friend of the beautiful and the good, and I will tell 
 you why I am inclined to think this : I assume that there are 
 three principles — the good, the bad, and that which is neither good 
 nor bad. What do you say to that ? 
 
 I agree. 
 
 And neither is the good the friend of the good, nor the evil of 
 the evil, nor the good of the evil ; — that the preceding argument 
 will not allow ; and therefore the only alternative is — if there be 
 such a thing as friendship or love at all — that what is neither good 
 nor evil must be the friend, either of the good, or of that which 
 is neither good nor evil, for nothing can be the friend of the bad. 
 
 True. 
 
 Nor can like be the, friend of like, as we were just now saying. 
 
 True. 
 
 Then that which is neither good nor evil can have no friend 
 which is neither good nor evil. 
 
 That is evident. 
 
 Then the good alone is the friend of that only which is neither 
 good nor evil. 
 ? That may be assumed to be certain. 
 
 And does not this seem to put us in the right way ? Just 
 remark, that the body which is in health requires neither medical 
 nor any other aid, but is well enough j and the healthy man has 
 no love of the physician, because he is in health. 
 
 He has none. 
 
 But the sick loves him, because he is sick ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And sickness is an evil, and the art of medicine a good and 
 useful thing? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 But the human body, viewed as a body, is neither good nor evil ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And the body is compelled by reason of disease to court and 
 make friends of the art of medicine ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then that which is neither good nor evil becomes the friend of 
 good, by reason of the presence of evil ? 
 
 That is the inference. 
 
6o L YSIS. 
 
 And clearly this must have happened before that which was 
 neither good nor evil had become altogether corrupted with the ele- 
 ment of evil, for then it would not still desire and love the good; 
 for, as we were saying, the evil cannot be the friend of the good. 
 
 That is impossible. 
 
 Further, 1 must observe that some substances are assimilated 
 when others are present with them j and there are some which are 
 not assimilated : take, for example, the case of an ointment Or 
 colour which is put on another substance. 
 
 Very good. 
 
 In such a case, is' the substance which is anointed the same as 
 the colour or ointment ? 
 
 What do you mean ? he said. 
 
 This is what I mean, I said : Suppose that I were to cover your 
 auburn locks with white lead, would they be really white, or would 
 they only appear to be white ? 
 
 They would only appear to be white, he replied. 
 
 And yet whiteness would be present in them. But that would 
 not make them at all the more white, notwithstanding the presence 
 of white in them — they would be neither white nor black. 
 
 True. 1 
 
 But when old age superinduces in them the same colour, then 
 they become assimilated, and are white by the presence of white. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Now I want to know whether in all cases a substance" is 
 assimilated by the presence of another substance j or must the pre- 
 sence be after a peculiar sort ? 
 
 The latter, he said. 
 
 Then that which is neither good nor evil may be in the presence 
 of evil, and not be wholly evil, and that has happened before now ? 
 
 True. 
 
 Then when anything is in the presence of evil, but is not as 
 yet evil, the presence of good arouses the desire of good in that 
 thing ; but the presence of evil, which makes a thing evil, takes iA 
 away the desire and friendship of the good ; for that which was 
 once both good and evil has now become evil only, and the good 
 had no friendship with the evil ? 
 
 None. 
 
 And therefore we say that those who are already wise, 
 
LYSIS. 6i 
 
 whether Gods or men, are no longer lovers of wisdom ; nor can 
 they be lovers of wisdom, who are ignorant to the extent of being 
 evil, for no evil or ignorant person is a lover of wisdom. There 
 remain those who have the misfortune to be ignorant, but are not 
 yet hardened in their ignorance, or void of understanding, and do 
 not as yet fancy that they know what they do not know: and 
 therefore those who are the lovers of wisdom are as yet neither 
 good nor bad. But the bad do not love wisdom any more than 
 the goodj for, as we have already seen, neither unlike is the 
 friend of unlike, nor like of like. You remember that ? 
 Yes, they both said. 
 
 And so, Lysis and Menexenus, we have discovered the nature 
 of friendship : there can be no doubt of that. Friendship is the 
 
 I love which the neither good nor evil has of the good, when the 
 
 J evil is present, either in the soul, or in the body, or anywhere. 
 They both agreed and entirely assented, and for a moment 
 I rejoiced and was satisfied like a huntsman whose prey is within 
 
 ji his grasp. But then a suspicion came across me, and I fancied 
 
 . unaccountably that the conclusion was untrue, and I felt pained, ■ 
 
 ^ and said, Alas ! Lysis and Menexenus, I am afraid that we have 
 been grasping at a shadow. 
 
 J Why do you say that ? said Menexenus. 
 
 jl, I am afraid, I said, that the argument about friendship is false : 
 arguments, like men, are often pretenders. 
 
 u How is that ? he asked. 
 
 ^j Well, I said j look at the matter in this way : a friend is the 
 friend of some one. 
 Certainly he is. 
 
 , And has he a motive and object in being a friend, or has he 
 
 i,no motive and object? 
 
 He has a motive and object. 
 . And is the object which makes him a friend dear to him, or 
 ..neither dear nor hateful to him ? 
 
 ' , I don't quite follow you, he said. 
 
 ^ ! r do not wonder at that, I said. But perhaps, if I put the 
 matter in another way, you will be able to follow me, and my own 
 
 * meaning will be clearer to myself. The sick man, as I was just 
 now saying, is the friend of the physician — is he not ? 
 , Yes. 
 
 m 
 
62 LYSIS. 
 
 And he is the friend of the physician because of disease, and 
 for the sake of health ? 
 Yes. 
 
 And disease is an evil ? '•- 
 
 Certainly. '■' ' 
 
 And what of health? I said. Is that good or evil, or'neither ? 
 Good, he replied. 3i 
 
 And we were saying, I believe, that the body being neither 
 good nor evil, because of disease, that is to say because of evil, 
 is the friend of medicine, and medicine is a good : and medicine 
 has entered into this friendship for the sake of health, and health 
 is a good. I ' 
 
 True. •■#' 
 
 And is health a friend, or not a friend ? • tf 
 
 A friend. ^ 
 
 And disease is an enemy ? "^| 
 
 Yes. : 
 
 Then that which is neither good nor evil is the friend of the i 
 good because of the evil and hatefiil, and for tlie sake of the good \ 
 and the friend ? ,1 
 
 That is clear. 
 
 Then the friend is a friend for the sake of the friend, and 
 because of the enemy? 
 
 That is to be inferred. " 
 
 Then at this point, my boys, let us take Heed, and be on our 
 guard against deceptions. I will no more say tliat the friend is the 
 friend of the friend, and the like of the like, which has been 
 declared by us to be an impossibility ; but, in order Ihat this new 
 statement may not delude us, let us attentively examine another 
 point, which is this: medicine, as we were saying, is a friend, 
 or dear to us for the sake of health ? 
 Yes. 
 
 And health is also dear ? 
 Certainly. 
 
 And if dear, then dear for the sake of something ? ^^ 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And surely this object must also be dear, as is implied^ in our 
 previous admissions ? 
 
 Yes. *fi>! 
 
LYSIS. 63 
 
 And that something dear involves something else dear ? 
 
 Yes. • 
 
 But then, proceeding in this way, we shall at last come to an 
 end, and arrive at some first principle of friendship or dearness 
 which is not capable of being referred to any other, for the sake 
 of which, as we maintain, all other things are dear. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 My fear is that all those other things, which, as we say, are 
 dear for the sake of that other, are illusions and deceptions only, 
 of which that other is the reality or true principle of friendship. 
 Let me put the matter tlius : Suppose the case of a great treasure 
 (this may be a son, who is more precious to his father than all his 
 other treasures) ; would not the father, who values his son above 
 all things, value other things also for the sake of his son ? I mean, 
 for instance, if he knew that his son had drunk hemlock, and the 
 father thought that wine would save him, he would value the wine ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And also the vessel which contains the wine ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 But he does not therefore value tlie three measures of wine, or 
 the earthen vessel which contains tliem, equally with his son? 
 } Is not this rather the true state of the case ? All this anxiety of his 
 has regard not to the means which are provided for the sake 
 of an object, but to the object for the sake of which they are 
 I provided. And although we may often say that gold and silver 
 I are highly valued by us, that is not the truth j for the truth is 
 that there is a further object, whatever that may be, which we 
 jValue most of all, and for the sake of which gold and all our 
 other possessions are acquired by us. Am I not right ? 
 : Yes, certainly. 
 
 And may not the same be said of the friend ? That which is 
 only dear to us for the sake of something else is improperly said 
 to be dear, but the truly dear is that in which all these so-called 
 dear friendships terminate. 
 
 That, he said, appears to be true. 
 
 And the truly dear or ultimate principle of friendship is not 
 "or tlie sake of any other or further dear. 
 * True. 
 
 Then the notion is at an end that friendship has not any 
 
64 LYSIS. 
 
 further object. But are we therefore to infer that the good is the 
 friend ? 
 
 That is my view. 
 
 Then is the good loved for the sake of the evil ? Let me put 
 the case in this way : Suppose that of the three principles, good, 
 evil, and that which is neither good nor evil, there remainesl', 
 only the good and the neutral, and that evil went far away, 
 and in no way affected soul or body, nor ever at all that class 
 of things which, as we say, are neither good nor evil in them- 
 selves j — would the good be of any use, or other than useless 
 to us ? For if there were nothing to hurt us any longer, we should 
 have no need of anything that would do us good. Then would be 
 clearly seen that we did but love and desire the good because of 
 the evil, and as the remedy of the evil, which was the disease; 
 but if there had been no disease, there would have been no need 
 of a remedy. Is not this the nature of the good — to be loved 
 because of the evil, by us who are between the two ? but there is 
 no use in the good for its own sake. 
 
 I suppose that is true. < 
 
 Then the final principle of friendship, in which all other 
 friendships which are relative only were supposed by us to ter- 
 minate, is of another and a different nature from them. For they 
 are called dear because of another dear or friend. But with the 
 true friend or dear, the case is quite the reverse ; for that is proved 
 to be dear because of the hated, and if the hated were away, the 
 loved would no longer f tay. 
 
 That is true, he replied : at least, that is implied in the 
 argument. 
 
 But, oh! will you tell me, I said, whether if evil were to 
 perish, we should hunger any more, or thirst any more, or have 
 any similar affection ? Or may we suppose that hunger will '•. 
 remain while men and animals remain, but not so as to be'i 
 hurtful ? And the same of thirst and the other affections,— ^wj 
 they will remain, but will not be evil because evil has perishedT 
 Or shall I say rather, that to ask what either would be or would 
 not be has no meaning, for who can tell ? This only we know, 
 that in our present condition hunger may injure us, and may also 
 benefit us. Is not that true ? 
 
 Yes. ■ 
 
L YSIS. 65 
 
 And in like manner thirst or any similar desire may some- 
 times be a good and sometimes an evil tft us, and sometimes 
 neither one nor the other ? 
 
 To be sure. 
 
 But is there any reason why, because evil perishes, that which 
 is not evil should also perish ? 
 
 None. 
 
 Then, even if evil -perishes, the desires which are neither good 
 nor evil will remain ? 
 
 That is evident. 
 
 And must not a man love that which he desires and affects ? 
 
 He must. 
 
 Then, even if evil perishes, there may still remain some ele- 
 ments of love or friendship ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 But not, if evil is the cause of friendship: for in that case 
 nothing will be the friend of any other thing after the destruction 
 of evil J for the effict cannot remain when the cause is destroyed. 
 
 True. 
 
 And have we not been saying that the friend loves something 
 for a reason? and the reason was because of the evil which leads 
 the neither good nor evil to love the good ? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But now our view is changed, and there must be some other 
 I cause of friendship ? 
 
 I suppose that there must. 
 
 May not the truth be that, as we were saying, desire is the 
 cause of friendships for that which desires is dear to that which 
 lis desired at the time of desire? and may not the other theory 
 (have been just a long story about nothing? 
 ( That is possibly true. 
 
 \ But surely^ I said, he who desires, desires that of which he is 
 I in want ? 
 f Yes. 
 
 ,, And that of which he is in Want is dear to him ? 
 ,r True. 
 |( And he is in want of that of which he is deprived ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Then love, and desire, and friendship would appear to be of 
 
66 L YSIS. 
 
 the natural or congenial. That, Lysis and Menexenus, is th 
 inference. 
 
 They assented. 
 
 Then if you are friends, you must have natures which ar^ 
 congenial to one another ? 
 
 Certainly, they both said. 
 
 And I say, my boys, that no one who loves or desires anothe 
 would ever have loved or desired or affected him, if he had no 
 been in some way congenial to him, either in his soul, or in hii 
 character, or in his manners, or in his form. 
 
 Yes, yes, said Menexenus, But Lysis was silent. 
 
 Then, I said, the conclusion is, that what is of a congenia 
 nature must be loved. 
 
 That follows, he said. 
 
 Then the true lover, and not the counterfeit, must be loved b) 
 his love. 
 
 Lysis and Menexenus gave a faint assent to this; and HippO: 
 thales changed into all manner of colours witli delight. 
 
 Here, intending to revise the argument, I said : Can we point 
 out any difFerence between the congenial and the like? For if 
 that is possible, then I think, Lysis and Menexenus, there maybe 
 some sense in our argument about friendship. But if the con- 
 genial is only the like, how will you get rid of the other argumtjnt, 
 of the uselessness of like to like in as far as they are like j for to 
 say that what is useless is dear, would be absurd ? Suppose, then, 
 that we agree to distinguish between the congenial and the like-r 
 in the intoxicati(5n of argument, that may perhaps be allowed* 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And shall we further say that the good is congenial, and the 
 evil uncongenial to every one? Or again that the evil is con- 
 genial to the evil, and the, good to the good ; or that which is 
 neither good nor evil to that which is neither good nor evil. 
 
 They agreed to the latter alternative. 
 
 Then, my boys, we have again fallen into the old discarded 
 error ; for the unjust will be the friend of the unjust, and the bad 
 of the bad, as well as the good of the good. 
 
 That appears to be true. 
 
 But again if we say that the congenial is the same as the 
 good, in that case the good will only be the friend of the good. 
 
LYSIS. 67 
 
 True. 
 
 But that too was a position of ours which, as you will re- 
 member, has been ah-eady refuted by ourselves. 
 We remember. 
 
 Then what is to be done ? Or rather is there anything to be 
 done ? I can only, like the wise men who argue in courts, sum 
 up the arguments. If neither the beloved, nor the lover, nor the 
 like, nor the unlike, nor the good, nor the congenial, nor any other 
 of whom we spoke — for there were such a number of them that I 
 can't remember them — if, I say, none of these are friends, I know 
 not what remains to be said. 
 3 Here I was going to invite the opinion of some older person, 
 when suddenly we were interrupted by the tutors of Lysis and 
 Menexenus, who came upon us like an evil apparition with 
 their brothers, and bade them go home, as it was getting late. 
 At first, we and the bystanders drove them off j but afterwards, 
 as they would not mind, and only went on shouting in their bar- 
 barous dialect, and got angry, and kept calling the boys — they 
 appeared to us to have been drinking rather too much at the 
 Hermaea, which made them difficult to manage — we fairly gave 
 way and broke up the company. 
 ' I said, however, a few words to the boys at parting: O 
 ! Menexenus and Lysis, will not the bystanders go away, and say, 
 1 ' Here is a jest ; you two boys, and I, an old boy, who would fain 
 ' be one of you, imagine ourselves to be friends, and we have not as 
 I yet been able to discover what is a friend !' 
 
LACHES. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Ltsimachus, the son of Aristides the Just, and Melesias, the son of 
 the elder Thucydides, two aged men, who live together, are desirous 
 of educating their sons in the best manner. Their own education, 
 as often happens with the sons of great men, has been neglected; 
 and they are resolved that their children shall have more care taken of 
 them, than they received themselves at the hands of their fathers. 
 
 At their request, Nicias and Laches have accompanied them to see 
 a man named Stesilaus fighting in heavy armour. The two fathers ask 
 the two generals what they think of this exhibition, and whether they would 
 advise that their sons should acquire the accomplishment. Nicias and 
 Laches are quite willing to give their opinion; but they suggest that 
 Socrates should be invited to take part in the consultation. He is a 
 stranger to Lysimachus, but is afterwards recognised as the son of his 
 old friend Sophroniscus, with whom ' he never had a difference to the 
 hour of his death.' Socrates is also known to Nicias, to whom he had 
 introduced the excellent Damon, musician and sophist, as a tutor for his 
 son, and to Laches, who had witnessed his heroic behaviour at the battle 
 of Delium (cp. Symp. 22t). 
 
 Socrates, as he is younger than either Nicias or Laches, prefers to 
 wait until they have delivered their opinions, which they give in a 
 characteristic manner. Nicias, the tactician, is very much in favour of 
 the new art, which he describes as the gymnastics of war — useful when 
 the ranks are formed, and still more useful when they are broken; 
 creating a general interest in military studies, and greatly adding to the 
 appearance of the soldier in the field. Laches, the blunt warrior, is of 
 opinion that such an art is not knowledge, and cannot be of any value, 
 
72 
 
 LACHES. 
 
 because the Lacedaemonians, those great masters of arms, neglect.it. 
 His own experience in actual service has taught him that these pre- 
 tenders are useless and ridiculous. This man Stesilaus has been seen 
 by him on board ship making a very sorry exhibition of himself. The 
 possession of the art will make the coward rash, and subject the cou- 
 rageous, if he chance to make a slip, to invidious remarks. And now 
 let Socrates be taken into counsel. As they differ he must decide. 
 
 Socrates would rather not decide the question by a plurality of votes ; 
 in such a serious matter as the education of a friend's chiljiren, he would 
 rather consult the one skilled person who has had masters, and has 
 works to show as evidences of his skill. This is not himself ; for he has 
 never been able to pay the sophists for instructing him, and has never 
 had the wit to do or discover anything. But Nicias and Laches are 
 older and richer than he is : they have had teachers, and perhaps have 
 made discoveries ; and he would have trusted them entirely, if they had 
 not been diametrically opposed. 
 
 Lysimachus here proposes to resign the argument into the hands of 
 the younger part of the company, as he is old, and has a bad memory. 
 He earnestly requests -Socrates to remain ; — in this showing, as Nicias 
 says, how little he knows the man, who will certainly not go away until 
 he has cross-examined the company about their past lives. Nicias has 
 often submitted to this process ; and Laches is quite willing to learn 
 from Socrates, because his actions, in the true Dorian mode, correspond 
 to his words. 
 
 Socrates proceeds : We might ask who are our teachers ? But a 
 better and more thorough waiy of examining the question will be to ask, 
 ' What is Virtue ?' — or rather, to restrict the enquiry to that part of virtue 
 which is concerned with the use of weapons — 'What is Courage ?' Laches 
 thinks that he knows this: (i) 'He is courageous who remains at his 
 post.' But some nations fight flying, after the manner of Aeneas in 
 Homer; or as the heavy-armed Spartans also did at the battle of Plataea. 
 (2) Socrates wants a more general definition, not only of military courage, 
 but of courage of all sorts, both amid pleasures and pains. Laches replies 
 that this universal covu-age is endurance. But courage is a good thing, 
 and mere endurance may be hurtful and injurious. Therefore (3) the 
 element of intelligence must be added. But then again unintelligent 
 endurance may often be more courageous than the intelligent— the bill 
 than the good. How is this contradiction to be solved .? Socrates ansl' 
 
INTRODUCTION. 73 
 
 Laches are not set ' to the Dorian mode' of words and actions; for their 
 words are all confusion, although their actioi^ are courageous. Still 
 they must ' endure' in an argument about endurance. Laches is very 
 willing, and is quite sure that he knows what courage is, if he could 
 only tell. 
 
 Nicias is now appealed to ; and in reply he offers a definition which 
 he has heard from Socrates himself, to the effect that (i) 'Courage is 
 intelligence.' Laches derides this ; and Socrates enquires, ' What sort of 
 intelligence?' to which Nicias replies, 'Intelligence of things terrible.' 
 ' But every man knows the things to be dreaded in his own art.' ' No 
 they do not. They may predict results, but cannot tell whether they 
 are really terrible ; only the courageous man can do that.' Laches draws 
 the inference that the courageous man is either a soothsayer or a god. 
 
 Again, in Nicias' way of speaking, the term 'courageous' must be 
 denied to animals or children, because they do not know the danger. 
 Against this inversion of the ordinary use of language Laches reclaims, 
 but is in some degree mollified by a compliment to his own courage. 
 Still, he does not like to see an Athenian statesman and general de- 
 scending to sophistries of this sort. Socrates resumes the argument. 
 Courage has been defined to be intelligence or knowledge of the terrible; 
 and courage is not all virtue, but only one of the virtues. The terrible 
 is in the future, and therefore the knowledge of the terrible is a know- 
 ledge of the future. But there can be no knowledge of future good 
 or evil separated from a knowledge of the good and evil of the past or 
 present ; that is to say, of all good and evil. Courage, therefore, is the 
 knowledge of good and evil generally. But he who has the knowledge 
 of good and evil generally, must not only have courage, but also tem- 
 perance, justice, and every other virtue. Thus, a single virtue would be 
 the same as all virtues (cp. Protagoras, 350 foil.). And after all the 
 two generals, and Socrates, the hero of Delium, are still in ignorance 
 of the nature of courage. They must go to school again, boys, old 
 men and all. 
 
 Some points of resemblance, and some points of difference, appear in 
 the Laches when compared with the Charmides and Lysis. There is 
 less of poetical and simple beauty, and more of dramatic interest and 
 power. They are richer in the externals of the scene ; the Laches has 
 more play and development of character. In the Lysis and Charmides 
 the youths are the central figures, and frequent allusions are made to the 
 
74 LACHES. 
 
 place of meeting, which is a palaestra. Here the place of meeting, which 
 is also a palaestra, is quite forgotten, and the boys play a subordin^tf 
 part. The seance is of old and elder men, of whom Socrates is the 
 youngest. 
 
 First is the aged Lysimachus, who may be compared with Cephalus in 
 the Republic, and, like him, withdraws from the argument. Melesias, 
 who is only his shadow, also subsides into silence. Both of them have 
 been ill-educated, as is shown in a striking manner by the circumstance 
 that Lysimachus, the friend of Sophroniscus, has never heard of .the fame 
 of Socrates, his sonr they belong to different circles. The characters of 
 the two generals, Nicias and Laches, are first indicated by their opinions 
 on the exhibition of the man fighting in heavy armour. The; more 
 thoughtful Nicias is quite ready to accept the new art, which Laches 
 treats in the spirit of ridicule, and seems to think that this, or any other 
 military question, may be settled by asking, 'What do the Lacedae- 
 monians say to this ? ' The one clearly incUnes to tactics and arts of 
 fence ; the other is an enemy to innovation, and relies on native courage. 
 It is to be noted that one of them is supposed to be a hearer of 
 Socrates ; the other is only acquainted with his actions. Laches is the 
 admirer of the Dorian mode ; and into his mouth the remark is put that 
 there are some persons who, never having been taught, are better than 
 those who have. 
 
 In the discussion of the main thesis of the Dialogfue — 'What is 
 Courage?' the antagonism of the two characters is still more clearly 
 brought out; and in this, as in the preUminary question, the truth is 
 parted between them. Gradually, and not without difficulty. Laches is 
 made to pass on from the more popular to the more philosophical; it 
 has never occurred to him that there was any other courage than that of 
 the soldier ; and only by an effort of the mind can he frame a general 
 notion at all. No sooner has this general notion been formed than it 
 evanesces before the dialectic of Socrates ; and Nicias appears from the 
 other side with the Socratic doctrine, that courage is knowledge. But 
 to this Socrates himself replies, that knowledge is of past, present, and 
 future, and such a definition of virtue would make courage equivalent to 
 all virtue. In this part of the Dialogue the contrast between the mode 
 of cross-examination which is practised by Laches and by Socrates, and 
 the manner in which the definition of Laches is made to approximate 
 to that of Nicias, are well worthy of attention. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 75 
 
 "^ Thus, with some intimation of the connexion and unity of virtue and 
 knowledge, we arrive at no distinct result. Thg two aspects of courage 
 are never harmonized. The knowledge which in the Protagoras is 
 explained as the faculty of estimating pleasures and pains is here lost 
 in an unmeaning and transcendental conception. Yet several true in- 
 timations of the nature of courage are allowed to appear: (i) That 
 courage is moral as well as physical ; (2) That true courage is insepar- 
 able from knowledge, and yet (3) is based on a sort of natural instinct. 
 Laches exhibits one aspect of courage ; Nicias the other. The perfect 
 image and harmony of both is only realized in Socrates himself. 
 
LACHES, OR COURAGE. 
 
 PERSONS OF 1HE DIALOGUE. 
 
 LvsiMACHUS, san of Arhtides. NiCIAS. 
 
 MelesiaS, son oflhucydides. Laches. 
 
 Their Sons. Socrates. 
 
 Lys. You have seen the exhibition of the man fighting in 
 armour, Nicias and Laches, but we did not tell you at the time 
 the reason why my friend Melesias and I asked you to go with us 
 and see him. I think that we may as well confess this, for we 
 certainly ought not to have any reserve with you. The reason 
 was, that we were intending to ask your advice. Some laugh at 
 the very notion of advising others, and when they are asked will 
 not say what they think. They guess at the wishes of the person 
 who asks them, and answer according to his, and not according 
 to their own, opinion. But as we know that you are good judges, 
 and will say exactly what you think, we have taken you into our 
 counsels. And the matter about which I am making all this 
 preface is just this: Melesias and I have two sons; that is his 
 son, and he is named Thucydides, after his grandfather ; and this 
 is mine, who is also called, after, his grandfather, Aristides. Now, 
 we are resolved to take the greatest care of thtf youths, and not to 
 let them run about as .they like, which is too often the way 
 with the young, when they are no longer children, but to begin 
 at once and do the utmost that we can for them. And know- 
 ing that you have sons of your own, we thought that you were 
 most likely to have attended to their training and improvement, 
 and, if you have not, we may remind you that you ought to 
 have attended to them, and wpuld invite you to assist us in 
 
78 LACHES. 
 
 the fulfilment of a common duty. I will tell you, Nicias and 
 Laches, even at the risk of being tedious, how we came to 
 think of this. Melesias and I live together, and our two sons 
 live with usj and now, as I was saying at fifst, we are going 
 to confess to you. Both of us often talk to the lads about the 
 many noble deeds which our fathers did in war and peace — in 
 the management of the allies, and also of the affairs of the cityj 
 but neither of us has any deeds of his own which he can show. 
 Now we are somewhat ashamed of this contrast being seen by 
 them, and we blame our fathers for letting us be spoiled in the 
 days of our youth, while they were occupied with the concerns of 
 others j and this we point out to the lads, and tell them that they 
 will not grow up to honour if they are rebellious and take no 
 pains about themselves j but that if they take pains they may, 
 perhaps, become worthy of the names which they bear. They, on 
 their part, promise to comply with our wishes j and our care is to 
 discover what studies or pursuits are likely to be most improving 
 to them. Some one told us of this art of using weapons, whiph, 
 he said, was an excellent accomplishment for a young man to 
 learn; and he praised the man whose exhibition you have seen, 
 and told us to go and see him. And we determined to go, and to 
 get you to accompany us, and if you did not object, we thought- \ 
 that we would take counsel with you about the education of our 
 sons. That is the matter about which we wanted to talk with 
 you ; and we hope that you will give us your opinion about this, il 
 and about any other studies or pursuits which may or may not be 
 desirable for a young man to learn. Please to say whether you 
 object to our proposal. 
 
 Nic. As far as I am concerned, Lysimachus and Melesias,,! ' 
 applaud your purpose, and will gladly assist you; and I believe 
 that you. Laches, will be equally glad. 
 
 L,a. Certainly, Nicias ; and I quite approve of the remark 
 which Lysimachus made about his own father, and the father of 
 Melesias, and which is applicable, not only to them, but to us, and 
 to every one who is occupied with public affairs. As he says, they 
 are too apt lo be negligent and careless of their own children and 
 their private concerns. There is much truth in that remark of 
 yours, Lysimachus. But why do you not consult our friend 
 Socrates, instead of consulting us, about the education of the 
 
LACHES. 79 
 
 youths ? he is of the same deme with you, and is always passing 
 his time in places in which the youth ha^e any noble study or 
 pursuit, such as you are enquiring after. 
 
 L.ys. Why, Laches, has Socrates ever attended to matters of this 
 sort? 
 
 Lm. Certainly, Lysimachus. 
 
 Kic. That I have the means of knowing as well as Laches ; for 
 quite lately he supplied me with a teacher of music for my sons, — 
 Damon, the disciple of Agathocles, who is a most accomplished 
 man in every way, as well as a musician, and a companion of 
 inestimable value for young men at their age. 
 
 L,yi. Those who have reached my age, Socrates and Nicias 
 and Laches, fall out of acquaintance with the young, because they 
 are generally detained at home by old age ; but I hope that you, 
 O son of Sophroniscus, will let your fellow demesmen have the 
 benefit of any advice which you are able to give them. And I 
 have a claim upon you as an old friend of your father ; for I and 
 he .were always companions and friends, and to the hour of his 
 death there never was a difference between us j and now it comes 
 back to me, at the mention of your name, that I have heard these 
 lads talking to one another at home, and often speaking of 
 I Socrates in terms of the highest praise ; but I have never thought 
 to ask them whether the son of Sophroniscus was the person whom 
 they meant. Tell me, my boy, whether this is the Socrates of 
 whom you have often spoken? 
 
 Son. Certainly, fither, this is he. 
 
 L-js. I am delighted to hear, Socrates, that you maintain the 
 name of your father, who was a most excellent manj and I 
 further rejoice at the prospect of our family ties being renewed. 
 
 !-«. Indeed, Lysimachus, you ought not to give him up ; for I can 
 assure you that I have seen him maintaining, not only his father's, 
 but also his country's name. He was my companion in the 
 retreat from Delium, and I can tell you that if others had only 
 been like him, the honour of our country would have been main- 
 tained, and the great defeat would never have occurred. 
 
 Ijj/s. That is very high praise, which is given you, Socrates, 
 by faithful witnesses and for deserts like these. And let me tell 
 you the pleasure which I feel in hearing of your fame j and I hope 
 that you will regard me as one of your best friends j indeed you 
 
8o LACHES. 
 
 ought to have visited us long ago, and reckoned us among your 
 friends ; but now, from this day forward, as we have at last found 
 one another out, do as I say — come and make acquaintance with 
 me, and with these young men, that I may continue your friend, 
 as I was your father's. I shall expect you to do this, and shall 
 venture to remind you. But what say you of the matter of which 
 I was speaking — the art of fighting in armour ? Is that a practice 
 in which the lads may be advantageously instructed ? 
 
 Soc. I will endeavour to advise you, Lysimachus, as far as I can 
 'in this matter, and also in every way will comply with your 
 wishes ; but as I am younger and not so experienced, I think 
 that I ought to hear what my elders have to say first, and to learn 
 of them, and if I have anything to add, then I may venture to 
 give my opinion to them as well as to you. Suppose, Nicias, that 
 one of you speaks first. 
 
 MV. I have no objection, Socrates ; and my opinion is that the 
 acquirement of this art is in many ways useful to young men. 
 There is an advantage in their being employed during their leisure 
 •hours in a way which tends to improve their bodily constitution, 
 and npt in the way in which young men are too apt to be em- 
 ployed. No sort of gymnastics could be harder exercise ; and this, 
 and the art of riding, are of all arts most befitting to a freemanil 
 for they only who are thus trained in the use of implements of 
 war are trained in the conflict which is set before us, or in that 
 on which the conflict turns. Moreover in actual battle this sort 
 of acquirement will be of some use, when you have to fight in 
 a line with a number of others ; and will be of the greatest use 
 when the ranks are broken and you have to fight singly; either 
 in pursuit, when you are attacking some one who is defending 
 himself, or in flight, when you have to defend yourself against 
 an assailant. Certainly he who possessed the art could not meet 
 with any harm at the hands of a single person, or perhaps..iOf 
 several ; and in any case he would have a great advanb^ 
 Further, this sort of skill inclines a man to other noble lessons; 
 for every man who has learned how to fight in arms will desire 
 to learn the proper arrangement of an army, which is the sequel 
 of the lesson : and when he has learned this, and his ambit^ 
 is once fired, he will go on to learn the complete art of the 
 general. There is no difficulty in seeing that the knowledge, and 
 
LACHES. 8 1 
 
 practice of other military arts will be useful and valuable to 
 a man; and this lesson may be the beginning of them. Let 
 me add a further advantage, which is by no means a slight 
 one, — that this science will make any man a great deal more 
 valiant and self-possessed in the field. And I will not disdain to 
 mention, what to some may appear to be a small matter, that 
 he will make a better appearance at the right time ; that is to say, 
 at the time when his appearance will strike terror into his enemies. 
 My opinion then, Lysimachus, is, as I say, that the youths should 
 be instructed in this art, and for the reasons which I have given. 
 But I shall be very glad to hear Laches, if he has another view. 
 
 L.a, I should not like to say, Nicias, that any kind of know- 
 ledge is not to be learned; for all knowledge appears to be a 
 good : and if, as Nicias and as the teachers of it affirm, this art 
 of fence is really a species of knowledge, then it ought to be 
 learned; but if not, and if those who profess it are deceivers 
 only; or if it be knowledge, .but not of a valuable sort; then what 
 is the use of learning it ? I say this, because I think that if it 
 had been really valuable, the Lacedaemonians, whose whole life is 
 passed in finding out and practising the arts which give them an 
 advantage over other nations in war, would have discovered this 
 one. And even if they had not, still these professors of the art 
 would certainly not have failed to discover that of all the Hellenes 
 the Lacedaemonians have the greatest interest in such matters, 
 and that a master of the art who was honoured among them 
 would have been sure to have made his fortune among other 
 nations, just as a tragic poet would who is honoured among 
 ourselves; which is the reason why he who fancies that he can 
 write a tragedy does not go on a peregrination into the neigh- 
 bouring states, but rushes hither straight, and exhibits at Athens ; 
 and this is natural. Whereas I perceive that these fighters in 
 armour regard Lacedaemon as a sacred inviolable territory, which 
 they do not touch with the point of their foot ; but they make 
 a circuit of the neighbouring states, and would rather exhibit to 
 any others than to the Spartans; and particularly to those who 
 would themselves acknowledge that they are by no means first- 
 rate in the arts of war. Further, Lysimachus, I have encountered 
 a good many of these gentlemen in actual service, and have taken 
 thdr measure, which I can give you at once ; for none of these 
 
 G 
 
82 LACHES. 
 
 masters of fence has ever been distinguished in war,— there 
 "has been a sort of fatality about this: whereas, in all other, 
 arts, the men of note have been always those who have practised 
 the art ; but these appear to be a most unfortunate exception. For 
 example, this veryStesilaus, whom you and I have just witnessed 
 exhibiting in all that crowd and making such great professions of 
 his powers, I have seen at another time making, in sober truthj 
 an involuntary exhibition of himself, which was a far better spec- 
 tacle. He was a marine on board a ship, which struck a transport 
 vessel, and was armed with a weapon, half spear, half scythe, the 
 singularity of which was worthy of the singularity of the man. To 
 make a long story short, I will only tell you what happened to this 
 notable invention of the scythe-spear. He was fighting, and the 
 scythe end caught in the rigging of the other ship, and stuck fast; 
 and he tugged, but was unable to get his weapon free. The two 
 ships were passing one another. He first ran along his own ship 
 holding on to the spear j but as the other ship passed by and drew 
 him after as he was holding on, he let the spear slip through his 
 hand until he retained only the end of the handle. The people in i 
 the transport clapped their hands, and laughed at his ridiculous 
 figure ; and when some one threw a stone, which fell on the deck at 
 his feet, and he quitted his hold of the scythe-spear, the crew of his 
 own trireme also burst out laughing ; they could not refrain when 
 they beheld the weapon waving in the air, suspended from the 
 transport. Now I do not deny that there may be something in 
 such an art, as Nicias asserts : but I tell you my experience, and,.^ 
 as I said at first, my opinion is, that whether this be an art which 
 is of some slight advantage, or not an art at all, but only an 
 imposition; in either case there is no use in such an acquire- 
 ment. For my opinion is, that if the professor of this art be a 
 coward, he will be likely to become rash, and his character will be 
 only more notorious; or if he be brave, and fail ever so little, 
 other men will be on the watch, and he will be greatly traduced: 
 for there is a jealousy of such pretenders; and unless a man be 
 pre-eminent in valour, he cannot help being ridiculous, if he says 
 that he has this skill in weapons. Such is my judgment,, Lysi- 
 machus, of the desirableness of this art ; but, as I said at first, ask 
 Socrates, and do not let him go until he has given you his opinion 
 of the matter. 
 
LACHES. 83 
 
 l.ys. I am going to ask this favour of you, Socrates j as is the 
 more necessary because the two doctors cHfeagree, and some one 
 is needed to decide between them. Had they agreed, this might 
 not have been required. But as Laches has voted one way and 
 Nicias another, I should like to hear with which of our two friends 
 you agree. 
 
 Soc. What, Lysimachus, are you for going by the opinion of the 
 majority ? 
 
 iyy. Why, yes, Socrates ; what other way is there ? 
 
 Soc. And would you agree in that, Melesias? If you were 
 deliberating about the gymnastic training of your son, would you 
 follow the advice of the majority of us, or the opinion of the one 
 who had been trained and exercised under a skilful master ? 
 
 Mel. I should takfe the advice of the latter, Socrates j as would 
 be reasonable. 
 
 Soc. His one vote would be worth more than the vote of all us 
 four? 
 
 Mel. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And for this season, as I imagine, — because a good decision 
 is based on knowledge and not on numbers ? 
 
 Mel. To be sure. 
 
 Soc. Must we not then first of all ask, whether there is any one 
 of us who has knowledge in that about which we are deliberating ? 
 If there is, l^t us take his advice, though he be one only, and 
 not mind the others 5 if there is not, let us seek further counsel. 
 Is this a slight matter about which you and Lysimachus are de- 
 liberating ? Are you not risking the greatest of your possessions ? 
 For children are your j: iches ; and upon their turning out well or 
 ill will depend the whole order of their father's house. 
 
 Mel. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Great care, then, is required in the matter ? 
 
 Mel. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Suppose, as I was just now saying, that we were considering, 
 or wanting to consider, who was the best trainer. Should we not 
 decide in his favour who knew and had practised the art, and had 
 the best teachers ? 
 I Mel. I think that we should. 
 
 I Soc. But would there not arise a prior question about the nature 
 of the art of which we want to find the masters ? 
 
 G 3 
 
84 LACHES. 
 
 Mel. I do not understand. 
 
 Soc. Let me try to make my meaning plainer then. I do not 
 think that we have as yet decided what that is about which we 
 are consulting, when we ask which of us is skilled in that, and 
 which of us has or has not had a teacher of the art. 
 
 Nk. Why, Socrates, is not the question whether young men 
 ought or ought not to learn the art of fighting in armouri 
 
 Soc. Yes, Nicias ; but there is also a prior question, which I 
 may illustrate in this way ; When a person considers about apply- 
 ing a medicine to the eyes, would you say that he is consulting 
 about the medicine or about the eyes ? 
 
 Nic. About the eyes. 
 
 Soc. And when he considers if he shall set a bridle on a horse, 
 he thinks of the horse and not of the bridle ? 
 
 MV. True. 
 
 Soc. And in a word, wheii he considers anything for the sake of 
 another thing, he thinks of the end and not of the means ? 
 
 Kk. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And when you call in an adviser, you should see whether 
 he is skilful in the accomplishment of the end which you have in 
 view, as well as of the means ? 
 
 Nk. Most true. 
 
 Soc. And at present we have in view some kind of knowledge, 
 the end of which is the soul of youth ? 
 
 Nk. Yes. 
 
 Soc. The question is. Which of us is skilful or successful in the 
 treatment of the soul, and which of us has had good teachers? 
 
 L>a. Well but Socrates ; did you never obseof^ that some 
 persons, who have had no teachers, are more skilful than those 
 who have, in some things ? 
 
 Soc. Yes, Laches, I have observed that; but you would not be 
 very willing to trust them if they only professed to be masters of 
 their art, unless they could show some proof of their skill or 
 excellence in one or more works. ' 
 
 L.a. That is true. 
 
 Soc. And therefore, Laches and Nicias, as Lysimachus;(and 
 Melesias, in their anxiety to improve the minds of their sons, 
 have asked our advice about them, we too should inform them who 
 our teachers were, if we say that we have any, and prove .them 
 
LACHES. 85 
 
 to be men of merit and experienced trainers of the minds of youth 
 and really our teachers. Or if any of us sa)^ that he has no teacher, 
 but that he has works to show of his own ; then he should point out 
 to them, what Athenians or strangers, bond or free, he is generally 
 acknowledged to have improved. But if he can show neither 
 teachers nor works, then they should ask him to look out for others ; 
 and not to run the risk of spoiling the children of friends, which is 
 the most formidable accusation that can be brought against any 
 one by his near and dear relations. As for myself, Lysimachus 
 and Melesias, I am the first to confess that I have never had a 
 teacher ; although I have always from my earliest youth desired 
 to have one. But I am too poor to give money to the Sophists, 
 who are the only professors of moral improvement ; and to this 
 day I have never been able to discover the art myselfj though I 
 should not be surprised if Nicias or Laches may have learned or 
 discovered it j for they are far wealthier than I am, and may there- 
 fore have learnt of others.- And they are older too j so that they 
 have had more time to make the discovery. And I really believe 
 that they are able to educate a man ; for unless they had been con- 
 fident in their own knowledge, they would never have spoken thus 
 decidedly of the pursuits which are advantageous or hurtful to a 
 young man. I repose confidence in both of them; but I do not 
 understand why they differ from one another. And therefore, 
 Lysimachus, as Laches suggests that you should detain me, and 
 not let me go until I have answered, I in turn earnestly beseech 
 and advise you to detain Laches and Nicias, and question them. 
 I would have you say to them : Socrates says that he has no know- 
 ledge of the matter, and that he is unable to decide which of you 
 speaks truly j neither discoverer or student is he of anything of 
 the kind. But you. Laches and Nicias, should either of you tell 
 us who is the most skilful educator whom you have ever known ; 
 and whether you invented the art yourselves, or learned Of another j 
 / and if you learned, who were your respective teachers, and who 
 were their brothers in the art j and then, if you are too much occu- 
 pied in politics to teach us yourselves, let us go to them, and pre- 
 sent them with gifts, or make interest with them, or both, in the 
 hope that they may be induced to take charge of £tll our families, 
 in order that they may not grow up inferior, and disgrace their 
 ancestors. But if you are yourselves original discoverers in that 
 
86 LACHES. 
 
 held, give us some proof of your skill. Who are they who, having 
 been inferior persons, have become under your care good and noble? 
 For if this is your first attempt at education, there is a danger that 
 you may be trying the experiment, not on the 'vile corpus' of a 
 Carian slave, but on your own sons, or the sons of your friend j and 
 as the proverb says, ' break the large vessel in learning to make 
 pots.' Tell us then, what qualities you claim or do not claim, 
 Make them tell you this, Lysimachus, and do not let them off. 
 
 I^ys. I very much approve of the words of Socrates, my friends; 
 but you, Nicias and Laches, must determine whether you will be 
 questioned, and give an explanation about matters of this sort. 
 Assuredly, I and Melesias would be greatly pleased to hear you 
 answer the questions which Socrates asks, if you will : for I began 
 by saying that we took you into our counsels because we thought 
 you would be likely to have attended to the subject, especially as 
 you have children who, like our own, are nearly of an age to be 
 educated. Suppose, then, if you have no objection, that you take 
 Socrates into partnership \ and do you and he ask and answer one 
 another's questions : for, as he has well said, we are deliberatiig 
 about the most important of our concerns. I hope that you will 
 see fit to comply with our request. 
 
 Nk. I see very clearly, Lysimachus, that you have only known 
 Socrates' father, and have no acquaintance with Socrates himself: 
 at least, you can only have known him when he was a child, and 
 may have met him among his fellow-tribesmen, in company with 
 his father, at a sacrifice, or at some other gathering. You clearly 
 show that jou have never known him since he arrived at manhoo4 
 
 L.ys. Why do you say that, Nicias ? 
 
 Mf . You don't seem to be aware that any one to whom Socratef- 1 
 has an intellectual affinity is liable to be drawn into an argument 
 with him j and whatever subject may be started by him, he will be 
 continually carried round and round by him, until at last he find? 
 that he has to give an account both of his present and past lifeji! 
 and when he is once entangled, Socrates wiU not let him go until ' 
 he has completely and thoroughly sifted him. Now I am used, to 
 his ways j and I know that he will certainly do this : and also I 
 know that I myself will be the sufferer; for I am fond of iis 
 company, Lysimachus. Neither do I think that there is any harm 
 in being reminded of the evil which we are, or have been, doing: 
 
LACHES. 87 
 
 he who does not fly from reproof will be sure to take more heed 
 of his after life j he will wish and desire to learn as long as he 
 lives, as Solon says, and will not think that old age of itself brings 
 wisdom. To me, to be cross-examined by Socrates is neither 
 unusual nor unpleasant^ indeed, I knew all along that where 
 Socrates was, the argument would soon pass from our sons to 
 ourselves ; and therefore, as I say, as far as I am concerned, I am 
 quite willing to discourse with Socrates in his own manner ; but 
 you had better ask our friend Laches what his feeling may be, 
 
 l.a. I have but one feeling, Nicias, or (shall I say?) two 
 feelings, about discussions. And to some I may seem to be a 
 lover, and to others a hater of discourse ; for when I hear a man 
 discoursing of virtue, or of any sort of wisdom, who is a true man 
 and. worthy of his theme, I am delighted beyond measure : and I 
 compare the man and his words, and note the harmony and corre- 
 spondence of them. And such an one I deem to be the true 
 musician, having in himself a fairer harmony than that of the lyre, 
 or any pleasant instrument of music ; for truly he has in his own 
 life a harmony of words and deeds arranged, not in the Ionian, or in 
 the Phrygian mode, nor yet in the Lydian, but in the true Hellenic 
 mode, which is the Dorian, and no other. Such a one makes me 
 merry with the sound of his voice ; and when I hear him I am 
 thought to be a lover of 'discourse ; so eager am I in drinking in 
 his words. But when I hear a man of opposite character, I am 
 annoyed ; and the better he speaks the more I hate him, and then 
 I seem to be a hater of discourse. As to Socrates, I have no 
 knowledge of his words : but of old, as would seem, \ have had 
 experience of his deeds ; and his deeds show that free and noble 
 (sentiments may be expected from him. And if his words accord, 
 then I am of one mind with him, and shall be delighted to be 
 interrogated by a man such as he is, and shall not be annoyed at 
 having to learn of him : for I agree with Solon, ' that I would fain 
 grow old, learning many things.' But I must be allowed to add 
 of the good only, Socrates must be willing to allow that he is a 
 good teacher, or I shall be a dull and uncongenial pupil : but that 
 the teacher is younger, or not as yet in repute — anything of 
 that sort is of no account with me. And therefore, Socrates, I 
 give you notice that you may teach and confute me as much as 
 ever you like, and also learn of me anything which I know. Such 
 
88 LACHES. 
 
 is the opinion which I have had of you ever since that day on 
 which you were my companion in danger, and gave an unmis- 
 takeable proof of your valour. Therefore, say whatever you like, 
 and do not mind about the difference of our ages. 
 
 Soc. I cannot say that either of you show any reluctance to take 
 counsel and advise with me. 
 
 L.ys. Biit that is our business, in which I regard you as havings a 
 common interest; for I reckon you as one of us. Please then to 
 take my place, and find out from Nicias and Laches what we 
 want to know, for the sake of the youths, and talk and advise 
 with them : for I am old, and my memory is bad ; and I do not 
 remember the questions which I am going to ask, or the answers 
 to them; and if there is any interruption I am quite lost. I 
 will therefore beg of you to carry on the proposed discussion by 
 yourselves ; and I will listen, and Melesias and I will act upon 
 your conclusions. 
 
 Soc. Let us, Nicias and Laches, comply with the request of 
 Lysimachus and Melesias. There would be no harm in asking 
 ourselves the question which was first proposed to us : Who have 
 been our own instructors in this sort of training, and whom we 
 have made better ? But the other mode of carrying on the enquiry 
 will bring us to the same point, and will be more like proceeding 
 from first principles. For if we knew that the addition of some- 
 thing would improve some other thing, and were able to make the 
 addition, then, clearly, we must know how that about which we 
 are advising may be best and most easily attained. Perhaps you 
 do not understand what I mean. Then let me make my meanii^ 
 plainer in this way. Suppose we know that the addition of sight i 
 makes better the eyes which possess this gift, and also were able to 
 impart sight to the eyes, then, clearly, we should know the nature 
 of sight, when asked how this gift of sight may be best and most 
 easily attained ; for if we knew neither what sight is, nor what 
 hearing is, we should not be very good medical advisers about the 
 eyes, or the ears, or about the best mode of giving sight and 
 hearing to them. 
 
 T-,a. That is true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And are not our two friends, Laches, at this very moment 
 inviting us to consider in what way the gift of virtue may be 
 .imparted to their sons for the improvement of their minds ? 
 
LACHES. 89 
 
 l.a. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Then must we not first know the tiature of virtue ? For 
 how, if we are wholly ignorant of this, can we advise any one 
 about the best mode of attaining it ? 
 
 l,a. I do not tliink that we can, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Then, Laches, we may presume that we know the nature of 
 virtue ? 
 
 L,a. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And that which we know we must surely be able to tell ? 
 
 l.a. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. I would not have us begin, my friend, with enquiring about 
 the whole of virtue ; for that may be too much for us : let us first 
 consider whether we have a sufficient knowledge of a partj that 
 will probably be an easier mode of proceeding. 
 
 L,a. Let us do as you say, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Then which of the parts of virtue shall we select ? Must we 
 not select that to which the use of arms is supposed to conduce ? 
 And is not that generally supposed to be courage ? 
 
 ia. Yes, certainly. 
 
 Soc. Then, Laches, suppose that we first set about determining 
 the nature of courage, and in the second place proceed to enquire 
 how the young men may attain this quality of courage, as far as 
 this is to be effected by the help of studies and pursuits. Try, 
 and see whether you can tell me what is courage. 
 
 ia. Indeed, Socrates, that is soon answered: he is a man of 
 courage who remains at his post, and does not run away, but 
 fights against the enemy ; of that you may be very certain. 
 
 Soc. That is good. Laches ; and yet I fear that I did not express 
 myself clearly ; and therefore you have answered not the question 
 which I intended to ask, but another. 
 ' 1m. What do you mean, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. I will endeavour to explain ; you would call a man cour- 
 ageous, who remains at his post, and fights with the enemy ? 
 
 Lm. Certainly I should. 
 
 Soc. And so should I ^ but what would you say of another man, 
 who fights flying, instead of remaining? 
 
 ha. How flying ? 
 
 Soc. Why, as the Scythians are said to fight, flying as well as 
 pursuing J and as Homer says in praise of the horses of Aeneas, 
 
90 
 
 LACHES. 
 
 that they knew how to pursue, and fly quickly hither and thither 
 and he passes an encomium on Aeneas himself, as having a know, 
 ledge of fear or flight, and calls him an author of fear or flight. 
 
 L,a. Yes, Socrates, and there Homer is right ; for he was speak- 
 ing of chariots, as you were speaking of the Scythian cavalry, whc 
 have that way of fighting ; but the heavy-armed Greek fights, as 
 I say, remaining in his rank. 
 
 Soc. And yet. Laches, you must except the Lacedaemonians a1 
 Plataea, who, when they came upon the light shields of the Persizms. 
 are said not to have been willing to stand and fight, and to have 
 fled ; but when the ranks of the Persians were broken, they turned 
 upon them like cavalry, and won the battle. 
 
 L.a. That is true. 
 
 Soc. That was my meaning when I said that I was to blame 
 in having put my question badly, and that this was the reason of 
 your answering badly. For I meant to ask you not only about the 
 courage of heavy-armed soldiers, but about the courage of cavalry, 
 and every other style of soldier ; and not only who are courageous 
 in war, but who are courageous in perils by sea, and who in 
 disease, or poverty, or again in politics, are courageous ; and not 
 only who are courageous against pain or fear, but mighty to 
 contend against desires and pleasures, either fixed in their rank 
 or turning upon their enemy. There is this sort of courage, is 
 there not ? 
 
 l.a. Certainly, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And all these are courageous, but some have courage in 
 pleasures, and some in pains ; some in desires, and some in fears; 
 and some are cowards under the same conditions, as I should 
 imagine. 
 
 i<*. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Now I was asking about courage and cowardice in general. 
 And I will begin with courage, and once more ask. What is that 
 common quality, which is the same in all these cases, and which 
 is called courage ? Do you understand now what I mean ? 
 
 l.a. Not over well. 
 
 Soc. I mean this : As I might ask what is that quality which i^ 
 called quickness, and which is found in running, playing the lyre, 
 speaking, learning, and in many other similar actions, or rather 
 which we possess in nearly every action that can be mentioned 
 
LACHES. 91 
 
 of arms or legs, mouth, voice, mind j — would you not apply the 
 term quickness to all of them ? • 
 
 La. Quite true. 
 
 Soc. And suppose I were to be asked by some one : What is that 
 common quality, Socrates, which, in all these uses of the word, 
 you call quickness? I should say that which accomplishes much 
 in a little time— that I call quickness in running, speaking, and 
 every other sort of action. 
 
 L.a. You would be quite correct. 
 
 Soc. And now. Laches, do you try and tell me. What is that 
 common quality which is called courage, and which includes all 
 the various uses of the term when applied both to pleasure and 
 pain, and in all the cases which I was just now mentioning ? 
 
 l.a. I should say that courage is a sort of endurance of the soul, 
 if I am to speak of the universal nature which pervades them all. 
 
 Soc. But that is what we must do if we are to answer the 
 question. And yet I cannot say that every kind of endurance is, 
 in my opinion, to be deemed courage. Hear my reason: I am 
 sure, Laches, that you would consider courage to be a very noble 
 quality. 
 
 La. Most noble, certainly. 
 
 Soc. And you would say that a wise endurance is also good 
 and noble ? 
 
 La. Very noble. 
 
 Soc. But what would you say of a foolish endurance ? Is not that, 
 on the other hand, to be regarded as evil and hurtful ? 
 
 La. True. 
 
 Soc. And is anything noble which is evil and hurtful ? 
 
 La. I ought not to say that, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Then you would not admit that sort of endurance to be 
 courage — for that is not noble, but courage is noble ? 
 
 La. You are right. 
 
 Soc. Then, according to you, only the wise endurance is courage ? 
 
 La. True. 
 
 Soc. But as to the epithet ' wise,' — wise in what ? In all things 
 small as well as great ? For example, if a man endures in spend- 
 ing his money wisely, knowing that by spending he will acquire 
 more in the end, do you call him courageous ? 
 
 La. Assuredly not. 
 
92 LACHES. 
 
 Soc. Or, for example, if a man is a physician, and his son, o 
 some patient of his, has inflammation of the lungs, and begs tha 
 he may be allowed to eat or drink something, and the othe 
 refuses ; is that courage ? 
 
 La. No; that is not courage at all, any more than the last. 
 
 Soc. Again, take the case of one who endures in war, and ii 
 willing to fight, and wisely calculates and knows that others wil 
 help him, and that there will be fewer and inferior men agains 
 him than there are with him; and suppose that he has als( 
 advantages of position ; — would you say of such a one who endure; 
 with all this wisdom and preparation, that he, or some man in thf 
 opposing army who is in the opposite circumstances to these anc 
 yet endures and remains at his post, is the braver ? 
 
 La. I should say that the latter, Socrates, was the braver. 
 
 Soc. But, surely, this is a foolish endurance in comparison wit! 
 the other ? 
 
 La, That is true. 
 
 Soc. And you would say that he who in an engagement oi 
 cavalry endures, having the knowledge of horsemanship, is no! 
 so courageous as he who endures, having no knowledge of horse- 
 manship ? 
 
 La. That is my view. 
 
 Soc, And he who endures, having a knowledge of the use of the 
 sling, or the bow, or any other art, is not so courageous as he whc 
 endures, not having such a knowledge ? 
 
 La. True. 
 
 Soc. And he who descends into a well, and dives, and holds oul 
 in this or any similar action, having no knowledge of divii^, or 
 the like, is, as you would say, more courageous than those whc 
 have this knowledge ? 
 
 La. Why, Socrates, what else can a man say ? 
 
 Soc. Nothing, if that is what he thinks. 
 
 La, But that is what I do think. 
 
 Soc, And yet men who thus run risks and endure are but foolish. 
 Laches, in comparison of those who do the same things, bavinj 
 the skill to do them. - 
 
 La, That is true. 
 
 Soc, But foolish boldness and endurance appeared before to bf 
 base and hurtful to us. 
 
LACHES. 93 
 
 lua. Quite true. 
 
 Soc. Whereas courage was acknowledgec^to be a noble quality. 
 
 L.a. True. 
 
 Soc. And now on the contrary we are saying that the foolish 
 endurance, which was before held in dishonour, is courage. 
 
 L.a. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And are we right in saying that ? 
 
 1m. Indeed, Socrates, I am sure that we are not right. 
 
 Soc. Then according to your statement, you and I, Laches, 
 are not attuned to the Dorian mode, which is a harmony of 
 words and deeds ; for our deeds are not in accordance, with our 
 words. Any one would say that we had courage who saw us in 
 action, but not, I imagine, he who heard us talking about courage 
 just now. 
 
 !,«. That is most true. 
 
 Soc. And is this condition of ours satisfactory ? 
 
 £.«. Quite the reverse. 
 
 5flf. Suppose, however, that we admit our principle to a certain 
 extent. 
 ^ l.a. What principle ? And what are we to admit ? 
 
 Soc. The principle of endurance. Let us too endure and per- 
 severe in the enquiry, and then courage will not laugh at our 
 faint-heartedness in searching for courage; which after all may, 
 very likely, be endurance. 
 
 L.a. I am ready to go on, Socrates; and yet I am unused to 
 investigations of this sort. But the spirit of controversy has been 
 aroused in me by what has been said ; and I am really grieved at 
 being thus unable to express my meaning. For I fancy that I do 
 know the nature of courage; but, somehow or other, she has 
 slipped away from me, and I cannot get hold of her and tell her 
 nature. 
 
 Soc. But, my dear friend, should not the good sportsman follow 
 the track, and not be lazy ? 
 
 T--a. Certainly, he should. 
 
 Soc. And shall we invite Nicias to join us ? he may be better at 
 the sport than we are. What do you say ? 
 
 L.a. I should like that. 
 
 Soc. Come then, Nicias, and do what you can to help your 
 friends, who are tossing on the waves of argument, and at the last 
 
94 LACHES. 
 
 gasp : you see our extremity, and may save us, and also settle yom 
 own opinion, if you will tell us what you think about courage. 
 
 'Ric. I have been thinking, Socrates, that you and Laches are 
 not defining courage in the right way ; for you have forgotten an 
 excellent saying which I have heard from your own lips. 
 
 Soc. What is that, Nicias ? 
 
 Nk. I have often heard you say that ' Every man is good in that 
 in which he is wise, and bad in that in which he is unwise.' 
 
 Soc. That is certainly true, Nicias. 
 
 Nic. And therefore if the brave man is good, he is also wise's 
 
 Soc. Do you hear him. Laches ? 
 
 lua. Yes, I hear him, but I don't quite understand him. 
 
 Soc. I think that I understand himj and he appears to me to 
 mean that courage is a sort of wisdom. 
 
 "La. What sort of wisdom, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. That is a question which you must ask of Nicias. 
 
 L.a. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Tell him then, Nicias, what you mean by this wisdom j for 
 you surely do not mean the wisdom which plays on the flute ? 
 
 ^;V. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. Nor the wisdom which plays the lyre ? 
 
 Nic. No. 
 
 Soc. But what is this knowledge then, and of what ? 
 
 1m. I think that you put the question to him very well, Socrates; 
 and I would like him to say what is the nature of this knowledge 
 or wisdom. 
 
 Kic. I mean to say, Laches, that courage is the knowledge of 
 that which inspires fear or confidence in war, or in anythingi 
 
 L.a. How strangely he is talking, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. What makes you say that. Laches ? 
 
 Lm. What makes me say that? Why surely courage is one 
 thing, and wisdom another. 
 
 Soc. That is just what Nicias denies. 
 
 L.a. Yes, that is what he denies in his foolishness. 
 
 Soc. Shall we enlighten him instead of abusing him ? 
 Kic. Laches does not want to enlighten me, Socrates; but 
 having been proved to be talking nonsense himself, he wants to 
 prove that I have been doing the same. 
 
 l>a. Very true, Nicias ; and you are talking nonsense, as I shall 
 
LACHES. 95 
 
 II endeavour to show. Let me ask you a question: Do not phy- 
 \ sicians know the dangers of disease ? or db the courageous know 
 B them ? or are the physicians the same as the courageous ? 
 
 Itii , Ntc. Not at all. 
 
 Iitf. No more than the husbandmen who know the dangers of 
 husbandry, or other masters of crafts, who have a knowledge of 
 
 III that which inspires them with fear or confidence in their own 
 i crafts, and yet they are not courageous a whit the more for that. 
 
 Soc. What is Laches saying, Niciasj he appears to be saying 
 IS something. 
 
 Nk. Yes, he is saying something, but something which is not 
 true. 
 1 1 Soc. How is that ? 
 
 Nic. Why, because he does not see that the physician's know- 
 
 le<^e only extends to the nature of health and disease ; he can tell 
 
 the sick man that, and nothing more. Do you imagine. Laches, 
 
 that the physician knows whether health or disease is the more 
 
 jjlf terrible to a man ? Had not many a man better never get up from 
 
 HI a sick bed ? I should like to know whether you think that life is 
 
 always better than death. May not death often be the better 
 
 of the two ? 
 
 T-.a. Yes, I certainly think that. 
 
 'Hie. And do you think that the same things are terrible to 
 ji jj those to whoin to die is better, and to those to whom to live 
 
 sW 
 
 is better ? 
 
 Lm. Certainly not. 
 u Nk. And do you suppose that the physician or any other artist 
 knows this, or any one indeed, except he who is skilled in the 
 grounds of fear and hope ? And him I call the courageous. 
 
 Soc. Do you understand hjs meaning. Laches ? 
 I !.«. Yes ; I suppose that, in his way of speaking, the soothsayers 
 are courageous. For who but one of them can know to whom 
 to die or to live is better? And yet, Nicias, would you allow 
 that you are yourself a soothsayer, or are you neither soothsayer 
 nor courageous ? 
 
 Mf. What! do you mean to say that the soothsayer ought to 
 jknow the grounds of hope or fear ? 
 
 !.«. Indeed I do : who but he ? 
 I Hk. Much rather I should say he of whom I speak; for the 
 
96 LACHES. 
 
 soothsayer ought to know only the signs of things that are aboi 
 to come to pass, whether death or disease, or loss of propert] 
 or victory, or defeat in war, or in any sort of contest; but t 
 whom the suffering or not suflFering of these things will be for th 
 best, can no more be decided by the soothsayer than by one wh 
 is no soothsayer. 
 
 l,a. I cannot understand what Nicias would be at, Socrates; 
 for he represents the courageous man as neither a soothsayer, no 
 a physician, nor in any other character, unless he means to sa^ 
 that he is a god. My opinion is that he does not like honesth 
 to confess that he is talking nonsense, but that he shuffles up am 
 .down in order to conceal the difficulty into which he has got 
 himself. You and I, Socrates, might have practised a similai 
 shuffle just now, if we had only wanted to avoid the appearance 
 of contradiction. And if we had been arguing in a court of law 
 there might have been reason in this ; but why should a man deck 
 himself out with vain words at a meeting of friends such as this ? 
 
 Soc. I quite agree with you. Laches, that he should not. But 
 perhaps Nicias is serious, and not merely talking for the sake of 
 talking. Let us ask him to explain what he means, and if he 
 has reason on his side we will agree with him j if not, we will 
 instruct him. 
 
 I^a. Do you, Socrates, if you like, ask him : I think that I have 
 asked enough. 
 
 Soc. I don't see why I should not ; and my question will do for 
 both of us. » 
 
 L.a. Very good. 
 
 Soc. Then tell me, Nicias, or rather tell us, for Laches and 
 I are partners in the argument: Do you mean to affirm that 
 courage is the knowledge of the grounds of hope and fear ? 
 
 Kk. I do. 
 
 Soc, And that is a very special knowledge which is not possessed 
 by the physician or prophet, who will not be courageous unless 
 they superadd this particular knowledge. That is what you were 
 saying ? 
 
 JNT/V. I was. 
 
 Soc. Then courage is not a thing which every pig would have, 
 any more than he would have knowledge,, as the proverb says ? ...j, 
 
 MV. I think not. M 
 
LACHES. 97 
 
 Soc. Glearly not, Niciasj not even such a big pig as the 
 Crommyonian sow would be called by yd!i courteous. And this 
 I say not as a joke, but because I think that he who assents 
 to your doctrine, that courage is the knowledge of the grounds of 
 fear and hope, cannot allow that any wild beast is courageous, 
 unless he admits, that a lion, or a leopard, or perhaps a boar, 
 or any other animal, has a degree of wisdom which but a few 
 human beings, and these only with difficulty, attain. He who 
 takes" your view of courage must afSrm that a lion, and a stag, 
 and a bull, and a monkey, have equally little pretensions to 
 courage. 
 
 i«. Capital, Socrates j by the gods, that is truly good. And 
 I hope, Nicias, that you will tell us whether the^e animals, which 
 we all admit to be courageous, are really wiser than mankind; 
 or whether you will have the boldness, in the face of universal 
 opinion, to deny their courage. - 
 
 Kk, Why, Laches, 1 don't call animals or any other things 
 courageous, which have no fear of dangers, because they are 
 ignorant of them, but fearless and senseless only. Do you think 
 that I should call little children courageous, which fear no dangers 
 because they know none ? There is a difference, as I should ima- 
 gine, between fearlessness and courage. Now I am of opinion 
 that thoughtful courage is a quality possessed by very few, but 
 that rashness, and boldness, and fearlessness, which has no fore- 
 thought, are very common qualities possessed by many men, many 
 women, many children, many animals. And you, and men in 
 general, call by the term ' courageous ' actions which I call rash, 
 and my courageous actions are wise actions. 
 
 "La. Behold, Socrates, "how admirably, as he thinks, he dresses 
 himself out in words, while seeking to deprive of the honour 
 of courage those whom all the world acknowledges to be 
 courageous. 
 
 Mf. Be of good cheer. Laches; for I am quite willing to say 
 of you and also of Lamachus, and of many other Athenians, that 
 you are courageous and therefore wise. 
 
 •^ L,a. I could answer that ; but I would not have you cast in my 
 teeth that I am a haughty Aexonian. 
 
 Soc. I would not have you answer him, for I fancy. Laches, 
 that you have not discovered whence his wisdom comes; he has 
 
 H 
 
98 LACHES. 
 
 got all this from my friend Damon, and Damon is always witl 
 Prodicus, who, of all the Sophists, is considered to be the bes- 
 taker to pieces of words of this sort. 
 
 T-.a. Yes, Socrates ; and the examination of such niceties is i 
 much more suitable employment for a Sbphist than for a greal 
 statesman whom the city chooses to preside over her. 
 
 Soc. But still, my sweet friend, a great statesman is just the 
 man to have a great mind. And I think that the view which 
 is implied in Nicias' definition of courage is worthy of ex- 
 amination. 
 
 L.a. Then examine for yourself, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. That is what I am going to do, my dear friend. Don't, 
 however, suppose that I shall let you out of the partnership^ foi 
 I shall expect you to apply your mind, and join with me in the 
 consideration of the question. 
 
 L,a. I do not object if you think that I ought. 
 
 Soc. Yes, I do i and I must beg of you, Nicias, to begin again. 
 You remember that we originally considered courage to be a part 
 of virtue. 
 
 Nic. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And you yourself said that this was a part, and that there 
 were many other parts, all of which together are called virtue. 
 
 Kic. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Do you agree with me about the parts ? For I say that 
 justice, temperance, and the like, are all of them parts of virtue 
 as well as courage. Would you not say the same ? 
 
 Nic. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Well then, about that we are agreed. And now let us 
 proceed a step, and see whether we are equally agreed about the 
 fearful and the hopeful. Let me tell you my own opinion, and if 
 I am wrong you shall set me right : my opinion is that the terrible 
 and the hopeful are the things which do or do not create fear, 
 and that fear is not of the present, nor of the past, but is of future 
 and expected evil. Do you not agree to that. Laches ? 
 
 L,a. Yes, Socrates, entirely. 
 
 Soc. That is my view, Nicias ; the terrible things, as I should 
 say, are the evils which are future ; and the hopeful are the good 
 or not evil things which are future. Do you or do you not agree 
 in this ? 
 
LAQHES. 99 
 
 Nic. I agree. 
 
 Soc. And the knowledge of these thing? you call courage? 
 
 Nk. Precisely. 
 
 Soc. And now let me see whether you agree with Laches and 
 myself in a third point. 
 
 Nic. What is that? 
 
 Soc. I will tell you. He and I have a notion that there is not 
 one knowledge or science of the past, another of the present, a 
 third of what will be and will be best in the future j but that of 
 all three there is one science only: for example, there is one 
 science of medicine which is concerned with the inspection of 
 health equally in all times, present, past, and future j and of hus- 
 bandry in like manner, which is concerned'with the productions of 
 the earth. And as to the general's art, you yourselves will be my 
 witnesses, that the general has to think of the future as well as the 
 present ; and he considers that he is not to be the servant of the 
 soothsayer, but his master, because he knows better what is hap- 
 ) pening or is likely to happen in war : and accordingly the law 
 places the soothsayer under the general, and not the gefieral under 
 the soothsayer. Am I not correct. Laches ? 
 
 l.a. Quite correct. 
 ' Soc. And do you, Nicias, also acknowledge that the same 
 science has understanding of the same things, whether future, 
 present, or past ? 
 
 Mf. Yes, indeed, Socrates ; that is my opinion. 
 
 Soc. And^courage, my friend, is, as you say, a knowledge of the 
 fearful and of the hopeful ? 
 
 M<r. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the fearful, and the hopeful, are admitted to be future 
 goods and future evils ? 
 
 Mf. True. 
 
 Soc. And the same •science has to do with the same things in 
 the future or at any time ? 
 
 Mf. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Then courage is not the science which is concerned with 
 the fearful and hopeful, for they are future only ; and courage, like 
 the other sciences, is concerned not only with good and evil of 
 the future, but of the present, and past, and of any time ? 
 
 Mf. That, as I suppose, is true. 
 
 H 2 
 
loo LACHES. 
 
 Soc. Then the answer which you have given, Nicias, includes 
 only a third part of courage j but our question extended to the 
 whole nature of courage: and according to your view, that is, 
 according to your present view, courage is not only the knowledge 
 of the hopeful and the fearful, but seems to include nearly every 
 good and evil without reference to time. What do you say to 
 that alteration in your statement ? 
 Nic. I agree to that, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. But then, my dear friend, if a man knew all good and evil, 
 and how they are, and have been, and will be produced, would he 
 not be perfect, and wanting in no virtue, whether justice, or tem- 
 perance, or holiness ? He would possess them all, and he would 
 know which were dangers and which were not, and guard against 
 them whether they were supernatural or natural^ and he would 
 provide the good, as he would know how to deal with gods 
 or men. 
 
 Nic, I think, Socrates, that there is a great deal of truth in 
 what you say. 
 
 Soc. But then, Nicias, courage, according to this new definition 
 of yours, instead of being a part of virtue only, will be all virtue ? 
 Nic, I suppose that is true. 
 
 Soc. But we were saying that courage is one of the parts of 
 virtue ? 
 
 Nic. Yes, that was what we were saying. 
 Soc. And that is in contradiction with our present view ? 
 Nic. That appears to be the case. 
 
 Soc. Then, Nicias, we have not discovered what courage is. 
 Nic. We have not. 
 
 La. And yet, friend Nicias, I imagined that you would have '• 
 made the discovery, as you were so contemptuous of the answers 
 which I made to Socrates. I had very great hopes that you would 
 have been enlightened by the wisdom of Damon. 
 
 Nic. I perceive, Laches, that you think nothing of having dis- 
 played your ignorance of the nature of courage, but you look only 
 to see whether I have not made a similar display ; and if we are 
 both equally ignorant of .the things which a man who is good fer 
 anything should know, that," I suppose, will be of no consequence. 
 You certainly appear to me very like the rest of the world, looking 
 at your neighbour and not at yourself. I am of opinion that 
 
LACHES. loi 
 
 enough has been said on the subject of discussion ; and if anything 
 has been imperfectly said, that may be Hereafter corrected by the 
 help of Damon, whom you think to deride, although you have 
 never seen him, and with the help of others. And when I am 
 satisfied myself, I will freely impart my satisfaction to you, for 
 I think that you are very much in want of knowledge. 
 
 l,d. You are a philosopher, Nicias; of that I am aware: 
 nevertheless I would recommend Lysimachus and Melesias not 
 to take you and me as 'advisers about the education of their 
 children ; but, as I said at first, they should ask Socrates ; and if 
 my sons were old enough, I would have asked him myself. 
 
 Nic. To that I quite agree, if Socrates is willing to take thein 
 under his charge. I should not wish for any one else to be the 
 tutor of Niceratus. But I observe that when I mention the 
 matter to him he recommends to me some other tutor and re- 
 fuses himself. Perhaps he may be more ready to listen to you, 
 Lysimachus. 
 
 Ijys. He ought, Nicias : for certainly I would do things for him 
 which I would not do for many others. What do you say, 
 Socrates — will you comply ? And are you ready to give assistance 
 in the improvement of the youths ? 
 
 Soc. Indeed, Lysimachus, I should be very wrong in refusing 
 to aid in the improvement of anybody. And if I had shown in 
 this conversation that I had a knowledge which Nicias and Laches 
 have not, then I admit that you would be right in inviting me to 
 perform this duty j but as we are all in the same perplexity, why 
 should one of us be preferred to another ? I certainly think that 
 no one should ; and under these circumstances, let me offer you a 
 piece of advice (and this need not go further than ourselves). I 
 maintain, my friends, that every one of us should seek out the 
 best teacher whom he can find, first for ourselves, and then for 
 the youth, regardless of expense or anything. But I cannot advise 
 that we remain as we are. And if any one laughs at us for 
 going to school at our age, I would quote to them the authority 
 of Homer, who says, that 
 
 ' Modesty is not good for a needy man.' 
 
 Let us then, regardless of the remarks which are made upon us^ 
 make the education of the youths our own education. 
 
I02 LACHES. 
 
 Lys, I like your proposal, Socrates ; and as I am the oldest, I am 
 also the most eager to go to school with the boys. Let me beg a 
 favour of you : come to my house to-morrow at dawn, and we will 
 advise about these matters. For the present, let us make an end 
 of the conversation. 
 
 Soc. I will come to you to-niorrow, Lysimachus, as you propose, 
 God willing. 
 
PROTAGORAS. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Protagoras, like several of the Dialogues of Plato, is put into the 
 mouth of Socrates, who describes a conversation which had taken place 
 between himself and the great Sophist at the house of Callias — ' the man 
 who had spent more upon tte Sophists than all the rest of the world,' 
 and in which the learned Hippias and the grammarian Prodicus had 
 also shared, as well as Alcibiades and Critias, both of whom said a 
 few words— in the presence of a distinguished company consisting of 
 disciples of Protagoras and of leading Athenians belonging to the 
 Socratic circle. The Dialogue commences with a request on the part 
 of Hippocrates that Socrates would introduce him to the celebrated 
 teacher. He has come before the dawn had risen to testify his zeal. 
 Socrates moderates his excitement and advises him to find out 'what 
 Protagoras will make of him,' before he becomes his pupil. 
 
 They go together to the house of Callias; and Socrates, after ex- 
 plaining the purpose of their visit to Protagoras, asks the question 
 'What he will make of Hippocrates?' Protagoras answers, 'That he 
 will make him a better and a wiser man.' 'But in what will he be 
 better?' — Socrates desires to have a more precise answer. Protagoras 
 replies, ' That he wiU teach him prudence in affairs private and public ; 
 in short, the science or knowledge of human life.' 
 
 This, as Socrates admits, is a noble profession : but he is doubtful — 
 or rather would have been, if Protagoras had not assured him of it — 
 whether such knowledge can be taught, And this for two reasons : 
 (i) Because the Athenian people, who recognise in their assemblies the 
 distinction between the skilled and the unskilled, do not recognise any 
 distinction between, the trained politician and the untrained; (z) Because 
 the wisest and best Athenian citizens do not teach their sons political 
 virtue. Will Protagoras explain this anomaly to him ? 
 
io6 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 Protagoras explains his views in the form of an apologue, in which, 
 after Prometheus had given men the arts, Zeus is represented as sending 
 Hermes to them, bearing with him Justice and Reverence. These are 
 not, like the arts, to be imparted to a few only, but all men are to be 
 partakers of them. Therefore the Athenian people are right in dis- 
 tinguishing between the skilled and unskilled in the arts, and not 
 between skilled and unskilled politicians, (i) For all men have the 
 political virtues to a certain degree, and whether they have them or not 
 are obliged to say that they have them. A man would be thought a 
 madman who professed an art which he did not know; and he would 
 be equally thought a madman if he did not profess a virtue which he 
 had not. (2) And that the political virtues can be taught and acquired, 
 in the opinion of the Athenians, is proved by the fact that they punish 
 evil-doers, with a view to prevention, of course —mere retribution is for 
 beasts, and not for men. (3) Another proof of this is the education of 
 youth, which begins almost as soon as they can speak, and is continued' 
 by the state, when they pass out of the control of their parents. (4) Nor 
 is there any inconsistency in wise and good fathers having foolish ^nd 
 worthless sons ; for {a) in the first place the young do not learn of their 
 fathers only, but of all the citizens ; and {b) this is partly a matter of 
 chance and of natural gifts: the sons of a great statesman are not 
 necessarily great statesmen any more than the sons of a good artist 
 are necessarily good artists. (5) The error of Socrates lies in supposing 
 that there are no teachers, when all men are teachers. Only a few, like 
 1 Protagoras himself, are somewhat better than others. 
 
 Socrates is highly delighted, and quite satisfied with this explanation 
 of Protagoras. But he has still a doubt lingering in his mind. Protagoras 
 has spoken of the virtues : are they many, or one ? are they parts of 
 a whole, or different names of the same thing ? Protagoras replies that 
 they are parts, like the parts of a face, which have their several functions, 
 and no one part is like any other part. This admission, which has been 
 somewhat hastily made, is now taken up and cross-examined by Socrates ; 
 
 ' Is justice just, and is holiness holy ? And are justice and holiness 
 opposed to one another?' — ' Then justice is unholy.' Protagoras would 
 rather say that justice is different frqm holiness, and yet in a 'Certain 
 point of view nearly the same. He does not, however, escape in this 
 way from the cunning of Socrates, who entangles him into an admission' 
 that everything has but one opposite. Folly, for example, is opposed 
 
INTRODUCTION. 107 
 
 to wisdom; and folly is also opposed to temperance; and therefore 
 temperance and wisdom are the same. And holness has been already 
 admitted to be nearly the same as justice. Temperance, therefore, has 
 now to be compared with justice. 
 
 Protagoras, whose temper begins to get a little ruffled at the process 
 to which he has been subjected, is aware that he will soon be compelled 
 by the dialectics of Socrates to admit that the temperate is the just. 
 He therefore defends himself with his favourite weapon; that is to say, 
 he makes a long speech not much to the point, which elicits the | 
 applause of the audience. 
 
 Here occurs a sort of interlude, which commences with a declaration 
 on the part of Socrates that he cannot follow a long speech, and there- 
 fore he must beg Protagoras to speak shorter. As Protagoras declines 
 to accommodate him, he rises to depart, but is detained by Callias, who 
 thinks him vinreasonable in not allowing Protagoras the liberty which 
 he takes himself of speaking as he likes. But Alcibiades answers 
 that the two cases are not parallel. For Socrates admits his inability 
 to speak long; will Protagoras in like manner acknowledge his in- 
 ability to speak short ? 
 
 Counsels of moderation are urged first in a few words by Critias, and 
 then by Prodicus in balanced and sententious language: and Hippias 
 proposes an imipire. But who is to be the umpire? rejoins Socrates; 
 he would rather suggest as a compromise that Protagoras shall ask, and 
 he will answer. To this Protagoras yields a reluctant assent. 
 
 Protagoras selects as the thesis of his questions a poem of Simonides 
 of Ceos, in which he professes to find a contradiction. First the 
 I poet says, 
 
 ' Hard is it to become good,' 
 
 ^ and then reproaches Pittacus for having said, 'Hard is it to be good.' 
 
 How is this to be reconciled ? Socrates, who is familiar with the poem, 
 
 is embarrassed at first, and invokes the aid of Prodicus the Cean, who 
 
 must come to the help of his countryman, but apparently only with 
 
 . the intention of flattering him into absurdities. First a distinction is 
 
 .drawn between {uvai) to be, and (yive<r6ai) to become: to become good 
 
 js difficult; to be good is easy. Then the word difficult or hard is ex- 
 
 iplained to mean ' evil' in the Cean dialect. To all this Prodicus assents ; 
 
 .;but when Protagoras reclaims, Socrates slily withdraws Prodicus from the 
 
 fray, under the pretence that his. assent was only intended to test the wits 
 
loS PROTAGORAS. 
 
 of his adversary. He then proceeds to give another and more elaborate 
 explanation of the whole passage. The explanation is as follows:— 
 
 The Lacedaemonians are great philosophers (although this is a fact 
 which is not generally known) ; and the soul of their philosophy is 
 brevity, which was also the style of primitive antiquity and of the seven 
 sages. Now Pittacus had a saying, ' Hard is it to be good :' Simonides 
 was jealous of the fame of this saying, and wrote a poem which was 
 designed to controvert it. No, says he, Pittacus ; not ' hard to be good,' 
 but 'hard to become good.' Socrates proceeds to argue in a highly 
 impressive manner that the whole composition is intended as an attack 
 upon Pittacus. This, though manifestly absurd, is accepted by the 
 company, and meets with the special approval of Hippias, who has 
 howfever a favourite interpretation of his own, which he is requested by 
 Alcibiades to defer. 
 
 The argument is now resumed, not without some disdainful remarks 
 of Socrates on the practice of introducing the poets, who ought not 
 to be allowed, any more than flute-girls, to come into good society. 
 Men's ovm thoughts should supply them with the materials for dis- 
 cussion. A few soothing flatteries are addressed to Protagoras by Callias 
 and Socrates, and then the old question is repeated, 'Whether the 
 virtues are one or many?' To which Protagoras is now disposed to 
 reply, that four out of the five virtues are in some degree similar; but 
 he still contends that the fifth, courage, is wholly dissimilar. Socrates 
 proceeds to undermine the last stronghold of the adversary, first obtain- 
 ing from him the admission that all virtue is in the highest degree good : 
 
 The courageous are the confident ; and the confident are those who 
 know their business or profession : those who have no such knowledge 
 and are still confident are madmen. This is admitted. Then, says 
 Socrates, courage is knowledge — an inference which Protagoras evades 
 by drawing a futile distinction between the courageous and the confident 
 in a fluent speech. 
 
 Socrates renews the attack from another side ! he would like to know 
 whether pleasure is not the only good, and pain the only evil? Pro- 
 tagoras seems to doubt the morality or propriety of assenting to this; 
 he would rather say that ' some pleasures are good, some pains are 
 evil,' which is also the opinion of the generality of mankind. What 
 does he think of knowledge ? does he agree with the common opinion 
 about this also, that knowledge is overpowered by passion? or does 
 
INTRODUCTION. . 109 
 
 he 'hold that knowledge is power? Protagoras agrees that knowledge 
 is certainly a governing power. • 
 
 This, however, is not the doctrine of men in general, who maintain 
 that many who know what is best, act contrary to their knowledge under 
 the influence ofxpleaseure^^But this opposition of good and evil is really 
 the opposition of a greater or lesser amount of pleasure. Pleasures are 
 evils because they end in pain, and pains are good because they end 
 in pleasures. Thus pleasure is seen to be the only good ; and the only 
 evil is the preference of the lesser pleasure to the greater. But then 
 comes in the illusion of distance. Some art of mensuration is required 
 in order to show us pleasures and pains in their true proportion. This 
 art of mensuration is a kind of knowledge, and knowledge is thus proved j 
 once more to be the governing principle of human life, and ignorance ' 
 the origin of all evil : for no one prefers the less pleasure to the greater, 
 or the greater pain to the less, except from ignorance. The argument 
 is drawn out in an imaginary ' dialogue within a dialogue,' conducted by 
 Socrates and Protagoras on the one part, and the rest of the world 
 on the other. Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras, admit the 
 soundness of the conclusion. 
 
 Socrates then applies this new conclusion to the case of courage — the 
 only virtue which still holds but against the assaults of the Socratic 
 dialectic. No one chooses the evil or refuses the good except through 
 ignorance. This explains why cowards refuse to go to war : — because 
 they^arm a wrong estimate of good, and honour, and pleasure. And 
 why are" the ^courageous willing to go to war ? — because they form a 
 right estimate of pleasures and pains, of things terrible and not terribfe; 
 Courage then is knowledge, and cowardice is ignorance. And the 
 five virtues, which were originally maintained to have five different 
 natures, after having been easily reduced to two only, are at last re- 
 solved in one. The assent of Protagoras to this last position is extracted 
 with great difficulty. 
 
 Socrates concludes by professing his disinterested love of the truth, 
 and remarks on the singular manner in which he and his adversary had 
 changed sides. Protagoras began by asserting, and Socrates by deny- 
 ing, the teachableness of virtue, and now the latter ends by affirming 
 that virtue is knowledge, which is the most teachable of all things, while 
 - Protagoras has been striving to show that virtue is not knowledge, and 
 I this is almost equivalent to saying that virtue cannot be taught. He is 
 
no PROTAGORAS. 
 
 not satisfied with the result, and would like to renew the enquiry will 
 the help of Protagoras in a different ordei", asking (x) What virtue is, anc 
 (2) Whether virtue can be taught. Protagoras declines this offer, bui 
 commends Socrates' earnestness and mode of discussion. 
 
 The Protagoras is often supposed to be full of difficulties. These are 
 partly imaginary and partly real. The imaginary ones are : (i) Chrono- 
 logical, — which were pointed out in ancient times by Athenaeus, and are 
 noticed by Schleiermacher and others, and relate to the impossibility of 
 all the persons in the Dialogue meeting at any one time, whether in the 
 year 425 B.C., or in any other. But Plato, like other writers of fiction, 
 aims only at the probable, and has shown in other Dialogues (e.g. the 
 Symposium and ■Republic) an extreme disregard of the historical accuracy 
 which is sometimes demanded of him. (2) The exact place of the 
 Protagoras among the Dialogues, and the date of composition, have also 
 been much disputed. But there are no criteria which afford any real 
 grounds for determining the date of composition ; and the affinities of the 
 Dialogues, when they are not indicated by Plato himself, must always to 
 some extent remain uncertain. (3) There is another class of difficul- 
 ties, which may be ascribed to preconceived notions of commentators, 
 who imagine that Protagoras the Sophist ought always to be in the 
 wrong, and his adversary Socrates in the right ; or that in this or that 
 passage — e. g. in the explanation of good as pleasure — Plato is incon- 
 sistent with himself; or that the Dialogue fails in unity, and has not 
 a proper 'beginning, middle, and ending.' They seem to forget that 
 Plato is a dramatic writer who throws his thoughts into both sides of the 
 argument, and certainly does not aim at any unity which is inconsistent 
 with freedom, and with a natural or even wild manner of treating his sub- 
 ject ; also that his mode of revealing the truth is by lights and shadows, 
 and far off and opposing points of view, and not by dogmatic statements 
 or definite results. 
 
 The real difficulties arise out of the extreme subtlety of the work, 
 which, as Socrates says of the poem of Simonides, is a most perfect 
 piece of art. There are dramatic contrasts and interests, threads of 
 philosophy broken and resumed, satirical reflections on mankind, veils 
 thrown over truths which are lightly suggested, and all woven together 
 in a single design, and moving towards one end. 
 
 In the introductory scene Plato raises the expectation that a ' great 
 personage' is about to appear on the stage (perhaps with a further view 
 
INTRODUCTION. 1 1 1 
 
 of showing that he is destined to be overthrown by a greater still, who 
 makes no pretensions). Before introducing Hippocrates to him, Socrates 
 thinks proper to warn the youth of the dangers of ' influence,' of the 
 invidious mature of which Protagoras is also sensible. Hippocrates readily 
 adopts the suggestion of Socrates that he shall learn the accomplish- 
 flients which befit an Athenian gentleman of Protagoras, and let alone his 
 'gophistry.' There is nothing however in the introduction which leads 
 to the inference that Plato intended to blacken the character of the 
 Sophists ; he only makes a little merry at their expense. 
 
 The ' great personage ' is somewhat ostentatious, but frank and honest. 
 He is introduced on a stage which is worthy of him — at the house of the 
 rich Callias, in which are congregated the noblest and wisest of the 
 Athenians. He considers openness to be the best policy, and parti- 
 cularly mentions his own liberal mode of dealing with his pupils, as if 
 in answer to the favourite accusation of the Sophists that they received 
 pay. He is remarkable for the good temper which he exhibits throughr 
 out the discussion under the trying and often sophistical cross-examina- 
 tion of Socrates. Although once or twice ruffled, and reluctant to 
 continue the discussion, he parts company on perfectly good terms, and 
 appears to be, as he says of himself, the ' least jealous of mankind.' 
 
 Nor is there anything in the sentiments of Protagoras which impairs 
 this pleasing impression of the grave and weighty old man. His real 
 I defect is that he is inferior to Socrates in dialectics. The opposition 
 ' between him and Socrates is not the opposition of good and bad, true 
 and false, but of the old art of rhetoric and the newigi ence of interr gga- 
 tion and argument ; also of the irony of Socrates and the self-assertion 
 ofSe Sophists. There is quite as much truth on the side of Protagoras 
 as of Socrates ; but the truth of Protagoras is based on common sense 
 and common maxims of morality, while that of Socrates is paradoxical 
 or transcendental, and though full of meaning and insight, hardly in- 
 telligible to the rest of mankind. 
 
 \ For example : (i) one of the noblest statements to be found in anti- 
 ) quity about the preventive nature of punishment is put into the mouth 
 I of Protagoras; (2) he is clearly right also in maintaining that virtue can 
 ■be taught (which Socrates himself, at the end of the Dialogue, is disposed 
 to .concede); and also (3) in his explanation of the phenomenon that 
 , good fathers have bad sons ; (4) he is right also in observing that the 
 J virtues are not like the arts, gifts, or attainments of special individuals, 
 
112 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 but the common property of all : this, which in all ages has beer 
 the strength and weakness of ethics and politics, is deeply seated in 
 human nature; (5) there is a sort of half truth in the notion that all 
 civilized men are teachers of virtue ; and (6) the religious allegory should 
 be noticed, in which the arts are said to be given by Prometheus (who 
 stole them), whereas justice and reverence and the political virtues could 
 only be imparted by Zeus. It is observable also (7) in the latter part 
 of the Dialogue, when Socrates is arguing that 'pleasure is the only 
 good,' Protagoras deems it more in accordance with his character to 
 maintain that ' some pleasures only are good.' 
 
 There is no reason to suppose that in all this Plato is depicting an 
 imaginary Protagoras ; at any rate, he is showing us the teaching of the 
 Sophists under the milder aspect under which he once regarded them. 
 Nor is there any reason to doubt that Socrates is equally an historical 
 character, paradoxical, ironical, tiresome, but seeking for the unity of 
 virtue and knowledge as for a precious treasure ; willing to rest this even 
 on a calculation of pleasure, and irresistible here, as everywhere in Plato, 
 in his intellectual superiority. 
 
 The aim of Socrates, and of the Dialogue, is to show the unity of 
 virtue. In the determination of this question the identity of virtue and 
 knowledge is found to be involved. But if virtue and knowledge afe 
 one, then virtue can be taught; the end of the Dialogue returns to the be- 
 ginning. Had Protagoras been allowed by Plato to make the Aristotelian 
 distinction, and say that virtue is not knowledge, but is accompanied 
 with knowledge; or to point out with Aristotle that the same quality 
 may have more than one opposite; or vidth Plato himself in the Phaedo 
 to deny that good is a mere exchange of a greater pleasure for a less— the 
 unity of virtue and the identity of virtue and knowledge would have 
 required to be proved by other arguments. 
 
 The victory of Socrates over Protagoras is in every way complete 
 when their minds are fairly brought together. Protagoras falls before 
 him after two or three blows. Socrates partially gains his object in the 
 first part, and completely in the second. Nor does he appear at any 
 disadvantage when subjected to 'the question' by Protagoras. He 
 succeeds in making his two 'friends,' Prodicus and Hippias, ludicrous 
 by the way ; he also makes a long speech in defence of the poem of i 
 Simonides, after the manner of the Sophists, showing, as Alcibiades says, I 
 that he is only pretending to have a bad memory., 
 
INTRODUCTION. 1 1 3 
 
 Not having the whole of this poem before us, it is inipossible for us 
 to answer certainly the question of Protagoras, how the two passages 
 of Simonides -are to be reconciled. We can only follow the indications 
 given by Plato himself. But it seems likely that the reconcilement 
 offered by Socrates is only a caricature of the methods of interpretation 
 iwhich were practised by the Sophists— for the following reasons : (i) The 
 transparent irony of the previous interpretations given by Socrates. 
 
 (2) The ludicrous opening of the speech in which the Lacedaemonians 
 are described as the true philosophers, and Laconic brevity as the true 
 form of philosophy, evidently with an allusion to Protagoras' long speeches. 
 
 (3) The manifest futility and absurdity of the explanation of liiSsv fTraivrjiu 
 a\a6cas, which is hardly consistent with the rational interpretation of the 
 rest of the poem. The opposition of fhai and ytviaBai seems also 
 intended to express the rival doctrines of Socrates and Protagoras, and 
 is a sort of facetious commentary on their diiferences. (4) The general 
 treatment in Plato both of the Poets and the Sophists, who are their 
 interpreters, and whom he delights to identify with them. (5) The 
 depreciating spirit in which Socrates speaks of the introduction of the 
 poets as a substitute for original conversation, which is intended to 
 contrast with Protagoras' exaltation of the study of them — this again is 
 hardly consistent with the serious defence of Simonides. (6) The marked 
 approval of Hippias, who is supposed at once to catch the familiar 
 sound, just as in the previous conversation Prodicus is represented as 
 ready to accept any distinctions of language however absiurd. At the 
 same time Hippias is desirous of substituting a new interpretation of 
 his own ; as if the words might really be made to mean anything, and 
 were only to be regarded as affording a field for the ingenuity of the 
 interpreter. s 
 
 This curious passage is, therefore, to be regarded as Plato's satire 
 on the tedious and hypercritical arts of interpretation which prevailed 
 in his own day, and may be compared with his condemnation of the 
 same arts when apphed to mythology in the Phaedrus, and with his 
 other parodies, e. g. with the second speech in the Phaedrus and with 
 the Menexenus. Several lesser touches of satire appear in it, e.g. the 
 claim of philosophy advanced for the Lacedaemonians, which is a parody 
 of the claims advanced for the Poets by Protagoras ; the mistake of the 
 Laconizing set in supposing that the Lacedaemonians are a great nation 
 because they bruise their ears ; the far-fetched notion, which is ' really too 
 
114 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 bad/ that Simonides uses the Lesbian (?) word, imilvrnu, because he is 
 addressing a Lesbian. The whole may also be considered as a satire 
 on those who spin pompous theories out of nothing. 
 
 All the interests and contrasts of character in a great dramatic Work 
 like the Protagoras are not easily exhausted. The impressiveness of 
 the scene should not be lost upon us, or the gradual substitution of 
 Socrates in the second part for Protagoras in the first. There is 
 Alcibiades, who is compelled by the necessity of his nature to be a 
 partisan, lending effectual aid to Socrates; there is Critias assuming 
 the tone of impartiality ; Callias there as always inclining to the Sophist, 
 but eager for any intellectual repast ; Prodicus, who finds an opportunity 
 for displaying his distinctions of language ; Hippias, for exhibiting his 
 vanity and superficial knowledge of natural philosophy. Both of these 
 have been previously a good deal damaged by the mock sublime descripr 
 tion of them in the introduction. It may be remarked that Protagoras 
 is consistently presented to us throughout as the teacher of moral and 
 political virtue ; there is no allusion to the theories of sensation which 
 are attributed to him in the Theaetetus and elsewhere, or to his denial of 
 the existence of the gods ; he is the religious rather than the irreligious 
 teacher in this Dialogue. Also it may be observed that Socrates shows 
 him as much respect as is consistent with his own ironical character. 
 
 It remains to be considered in what relation the Protagoras stands 
 to the other Dialogues of Plato. That it is one of the earlier or purely 
 Socratic works — perhaps the last, as it is certainly the greatest of them — 
 is indicated by the absence of all allusion to the doctrine of reminiscence ; 
 and also probably by the different attitude assumed towards the teaching 
 and persons of the Sophists in some of the later Dialogues. The 
 Charmides, Laches, Lysis, all touch on the question of the relation of 
 knowledge to virtue, and may be regarded, if not as preliminary studies 
 or sketches of the more important work, at any rate as closely connected 
 with it. The lo and Hippias contain discussions of the Poets, which 
 offer a parallel to the ironical criticism of the verses of Simonides, and 
 are conceived in a similar spirit. The affinity of the Protagoras tO- the 
 Meno is more doubtful. For there, although the same question is 
 discussed, 'whether virtue can be taught,' and the relation of Meno 
 to the Sophists is much the same as that of Hippocrates, the answer to 
 the question is supplied out of the doctrine of ideas ; the real Socrates 
 is already passing into the Platonic one. At a later stage of the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 115 
 
 Platonic philosophy we shall find that both the paradox and the solution 
 of it appear to have been retracted. The jPhaedo, the Gorgias, and 
 the Philebus offer further corrections of the teaching of the Protagoras ; 
 in all of them the doctrine that virtue is pleasure, or that pleasure is 
 the chief or only good, is distinctly renounced. 
 
 Thus after many preparations and oppositions, both of the characters 
 of men and aspects of the truth, especially of the 'popular and philo- 
 sophical aspect; and after many interruptions and detentions by the way, 
 which, as Theodoras says in the Theaetetus, are quite as agreeable as 
 the argument, we arrive at the great Socratic thesis that virtue is 
 knowledge. This is an aspect of the truth which was lost almost as 
 soon as it was found ; and yet has to be recovered by every one for 
 himself who would pass the limits of proverbial and popular philosophy. 
 It is not to be regarded only as a passing stage in the history of the 
 human mind, but as an anticipation of the reconcilement of the moral 
 and intellectual elements of human nature. 
 
PROTAGORAS. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Socrates, <who is the narrator of Protagoras, "] 
 
 the Dialogue to his Companion. HiPPIAS, > Sophists. 
 
 Hippocrates. Prodicus, J 
 
 AlCIBIADES. Callias, a luealtky Atheniani 
 Critias. 
 
 Scene: — The House of Callias. 
 
 Steph. Cvm. Where do you come from, Socrates? And yet 1 need 
 309 hardly ask the question, as I know that you have been in chase 
 of the fair Alcibiades. I saw him the day before yesterday ; and 
 he had got a beard like a man, — and he is a man, as I may tellj 
 you in your ear. But I thought that he was still very charming, j 
 Soc. What of his beard ? Are you not of Homer's opinion, who 
 says that^ 
 
 / Youth is most charming when the beard first appears '? 
 
 And that is now the charm of Alcibiades. 
 
 Com. Wellj and how do matters proceed? Have you been 
 visiting him, and was he gracious to you ? 
 
 Soc. Yes, I thought that he was very gracious ; and especially 
 to-day, for I have just come from him, and he has been helping 
 me in an argument. But shall I tell you a strange thing? 
 Although he was present, I never attended to him, and several 
 times he quite passed out of my mind. 
 
 Com. What is the meaning of this? Has anything happen© 
 between you and him? For surely you cannot have discoverei 
 a fairer love than he is ; certainly not in this city of Athens. 
 
 Soc. Yes, much fairer. 
 
 Com. What do you mean — a citizen or a foreigner ? 
 
 Soc. A foreigner. 
 
 ' II. xxiv. 348. 
 
118 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 ' Com. Of what country ? 
 
 Soc. Of Abdera. 
 
 Com. And is this stranger really in your opinion fairer than 
 the son of Cleinias ? 
 
 Soc. And is not the wiser always the fairer, sweet friend ? 
 
 Com. But have you really met, Socrates, with some wise one ? 
 
 Soc. Yes ; I would say rather, with the wisest of all living men, 
 if you are willing to accord that title to Protagoras. 
 
 Com. What ! Do you mean to say that Protagoras is in Athens ? 
 
 Soc. Yes ; he has been here two days. 
 
 Com. And do you just come from an interview with him ? 
 
 Soc. Yes J and I have heard and said many things. 3 
 
 Com. Then, if you have no engagement, suppose that you sit 
 down and tell me what passed, and my attendant shall give up 
 his place to you. 
 
 Soc. To be sure ; and I shall be grateful to you for listening. 
 
 Com. Thank yoUj too, for telling us. \ 
 
 Soc. That is thank you twice over. Listen then : — 
 , Last night, or rather very early this morning, Hippocrates, the 
 son of Apollodorus and the brother of Phason, gave a tremendous ' 
 thump with his staff at my doorj some one opened to him, and 
 he came rushing in and bawled out: Socrates, are you awake or 
 asleep ? 
 
 I knew his voice, and said : Hippocrates, is that you ^ and do 
 you bring any news ? 
 
 Good news, he said ; nothing bat good. 
 
 Very good, I said j but what, news ? and why have you come 
 here at this unearthly hour ? 
 
 He drew nearer to me and said : Protagoras is come. 
 
 Yes, I said j he came two days ago : have you only just heard 
 of his arrival ? 
 
 Yes, indeed, he said j I heard yesterday evening. 
 
 At the same time he felt for the truckle.ibed, and sat down' 
 at my feet, and then he said: I heard yesterday, quite late in 
 the evening, on my return from Oenoe whither I had gone in 
 pursuit of my runaway slave Satyrus— as I was going to have 
 told you if some other matter had not come in the way;— on my 
 
 1 return, when we had done supper and were about to retire to rest, 
 y my brother said to me : Protagoras is come. And I was goi:^ 
 
PR0TAmRAS. 119 
 
 to you at oncCj if I had not considered that the night was far 
 spent. But when sleep relaxed her hol4| on me after my toil, 
 I got up and came hither direct. 
 
 \, who knew the very courageous madness of the man^ said : 
 What is the matter ? has Protagoras robbed you pf ainything ? 
 
 He replied, laughing: Yes, indeed he has, Socrates, of the 
 wisdom which he keeps to himself. 
 
 But, surely, I said, if you give him money, and make friends 
 with him, he will make you as wise as he is himself. 
 
 Would to heaven, he replied, that he would ! He might take 
 all that 1 have, and all that my friends have, if he would. And 
 that is why I have come to you now, in order that you may speak 
 to him on my behalf; for I am young, and also I have never seen 
 nor heard him j (when he visited Athens before I was but a child j) 
 I and all men praise him, Socrates, as being the most accomplished 
 of speakers. There is no reason why we should not go to him 
 at once, and then we shall find him at home. He lodges, as 1 hear, 
 with Callias the son of Hipponicus. Let us start. 
 
 I replied : Not yet, my good friend j the hour is too early. But 
 let us rise and take a turn in the court and wait there until day- 
 break, and when the day breaks, then we will go j for Protagoras 
 is generally at home, and we shall be sure to find him j never fear. 
 
 Upon this we got up and walked about in the court, and 
 I thought that I would make trial of the strength of his reso- 
 lution. So I examined him and put questions to him. Tell me, 
 Hippocrates, I said, as you are agoing to Protagoras, and will be 
 paying your money to him, what is he to whom you are going ? 
 and what will he make of you ? If you were going to Hippocrates, 
 the Coan, the Asclepiad, and were about to give him your money, 
 and some one said to you : As being what, do you give money 
 to your namesake Hippocrates, O Hippocrates ? what would you 
 answer ? 
 
 I should say, he replied, that I give money to him as a physician. 
 
 And what will he make of you ? 
 
 A physician, he said. 
 
 And if you went to Polycleitus the Argive, or Pheidias the 
 Athenian, and intended to give them money, and some one were 
 to ask you : As being what, do you give this money to Polycleitus 
 and Pheidias? what would vou answer? 
 
II 
 
 I20 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 I should answer, as being statuaries. 
 
 And what will they make of you ? 
 
 A statuary, of course. 
 
 Well now, I said, you and I are going to Protagoras, and we 
 are ready to pay him money for you. If our own means are 
 sufficient, and we can gain him with these, we shall be too glad^ 
 but if not, then we are to spend your friends' money as well, 
 Now suppose, that while we are in this intense state of excite- : 
 ment, some one were to say to us : Tell me, Socrates, and you 
 Hippocrates, as being what, are you going to pay money to 
 Protagoras? how should we answer him? I know that Pheidias 
 is a sculptor, and Homer is a poet j but what appellation is given 
 to Protagoras ? how is he designated ? 
 
 They call him a Sophist, Socrates, he replied. 
 
 Then we are going to pay our money to him in the character of 
 a Sophist ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 But suppose a person were to ask this further question : And how 
 about yourself? what will Protagoras make you, if you go to see a 
 him? 
 
 He answeredj with a blush upon his face (for the day was just 
 beginning to dawn, so that I could see him) : Unless this differs 
 in some way from the former instanceSj, I suppose that he will 
 make a Sophist of me* 
 
 And are you not, in sober earnest ashamed, I said, at having to 
 appear before the Hellenes in the character of a Sophist ? 
 
 Indeed, Socrates, if I am to confess the truth, 1 am. 
 
 But why do you assume, Hippocrates, that the instruction of 
 Protagoras is of this nature ? and why may you not learn of him 
 in the same way that you learned the arts of the grammarian, or 
 musician, or trainer, not with the view of making any of thetn 
 a profession, but only as a part of education, and because a private 
 gentleman and freeman ought to know them? 
 
 Just so, he said ; and that, in my opinion, is a far truer account 
 of the teaching of Protagoras. 
 
 I said : I wonder whether you know what you are doing ? 
 
 And what am I doing ? 
 
 You are going to commit your soul to the care of a man whom 
 you call a Sophist. And yet I hardly think that you know what a 
 
PROTAGORAS. 121 
 
 Sophist is J and if not, then you do not even know whether you 
 are committing your soul to good or evil. « 
 
 I certainly think that I do know, he replied. 
 
 Then tell me, what do you imagine that he is ? 
 
 I take him to be one who is wise and knowing, he replied, as 
 his name implies. 
 
 :; And might you not, I said, affirm this of the painter and the 
 carpenter also ; are not they, too, wise and knowing ? But suppose 
 a person were to ask us: In what are the painters wise? We 
 should answer : In what relates to the making of likenesses, and 
 similarly of other things. And if he were further to ask : What is 
 the wisdom of the Sophfst, and what is the manufacture over which 
 he presides ? how should we answer him ? 
 
 How should we answer him, Socrates ? What other answer 
 could there be but that he presides over the art which makes men 
 eloquent ? 
 
 Yes, I replied, that is very likely a true, but not a sufficient 
 answer; for a further question is involved: About what does 
 the Sophist make a man eloquent ? The player on the lyre 
 may be supposed to make a man eloquent about that which he 
 makes him understand, that is about playing the lyre. Is not 
 that true ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then about what does the Sophist make him eloquent? must 
 not he make him eloquent in that which he understands ? 
 
 Yes, that may be assumed. 
 
 And what is that which the Sophist knows and makes his dis- 
 ciple know ? 
 
 Indeed, he said, that I cannot tell. 
 [ Then I proceeded to say : Well, but are you aware of the danger 
 which you are incurring ? If you were going to commit the body 
 to some one, and there was a risk of your getting good or harm 
 from him, would you not carefully consider and ask the opinion of 
 your friends and kindred, and deliberate many days as to whether 
 you should give him the care of your body ? But when the soul is 
 in question, which you hold to be of far more value than the body, 
 and upon the well or ill-being of which depends your all, — about 
 this you never consulted either with your father or with your 
 brother or with any one of us who are your companions. But 
 
122 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 no sooner does this foreigner appear, than you instantly commit 
 your soul to his keeping. In the evening, as you say, you hear 
 of him, and in the morning you go to him, never deliberating, or 
 taking the opinion of any one as to whether you ought to intmst 
 yourself to him or not ; — you have quite made up your mind that 
 you will be a pupil of Protagoras, and are prepared to expend all 
 the property of yourself and of your friends in carrying out at any 
 price this determination, although, as you admit, you do not know 
 him, and have never spoken with him : and you call him a Sophist, 
 but are manifestly ignorant of what a Sophist is j and yet you are 
 going to commit yourself to his keeping. / 
 
 When he heard me say this he replied : That I suppose, Socrates, 
 is the conclusion which I must draw from your words. 
 
 I proceeded : Is not a Sophist, Hippocrates, one who deals whole- 
 sale or. retail in the food of the soul ? To me that appears to be 
 the sort of man. 
 
 And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul ? 
 
 Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul j and we must 
 take care, my friend, that the Sophist does not deceive us when he 
 praises what he sells, like the . dealers wholesale or retail who sell 
 the food of the body j for they praise indiscriminately all their 
 goods, without knowing what are really beneficial or hurtful: 
 neither do their customers know, with the exception of any trainer 
 or physician who may happen to buy of them. In like manner 
 those who carry about the wares of knowledge, and make the round 
 of the cities, and sell or retail them to any customer who is in 
 want of them, praise them all alike ; and I should not wonder, 
 O my friend, if many of them were really ignorant of their effect 
 upon the soul j and their customers equally ignorant, unless he who 
 buys of them happens to be a physician of the soul. If, there- 
 fore, you have understanding of what is good and evil, you may 
 safely buy knowledge of Protagoras or of any one ; but if not then, 
 O my friend, pause, and do not hazard your dearest interestssat 31 
 a game of chance. For there is far greater peril in buying know*;'' 
 ledge than in buying meat and drink: the one you purdiase of 
 the wholesale or retail dealer, and carry.them away in other vessels, 
 and before you receive them into the body as food, you may de- 
 posit them 'at home and call in any experienced friend who knows 
 what is good to be eaten or drunken, and what not, and,,how much, 
 
PROTAGORAS. 125 
 
 Do you wish, he said, to speak with me alone, or in the presence 
 of others ? ■* * 
 
 That is as you please, I said : you shall determine when you 
 have heard the object of our visit. 
 And what is that ? he said. 
 
 I must explain, I said, that my friend Hippocrates is a native 
 Athenian ; he is the son of Apollodorus, and of a great and pros- 
 perous house, and he is himself in natural ability quite a match for 
 those of his own age. I believe that he aspires to political emi- 
 nence • and this he thinks that conversation with you is most likely 
 to procure for him : now it is for you to decide whether you would 
 wish to speak to him of these matters alone or in company. 
 
 Thank you, Socrates, for your consideration of me. For cer- 
 tainly a stranger finding his way into great cities, and persuading 
 : the flower of the youth in them to leave the company of their other 
 kinsmen or acquaintance, and live with him, under the idea that 
 they will be improved by his conversation, ought to be very 
 I cautious ; great jealousies are occasioned by his proceedings, and 
 i he is the subject of many enmities and conspiracies, 'i I maintain 
 i the art of the Sophist to be of ancient date j but that in ancient 
 1: times the professors of the art, fearing this odium, veiled and dis- 
 I guised themselves under various names, some under that of poets, 
 \ as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, some as hierophants and pro- 
 ! phets, as Orpheus and Musaeus, and some, as I observe, even under 
 ki the name of gymnastic-masters, like Iccus of Tarentum, or the 
 iii more recently celebrated Herodicus, now of Selymbria and for- 
 I merly of Megara, who is a first-rate Sophist. Your own Agathocles 
 ji pretended to 8e a musician, but was really an eminent Sophist ; 
 jj also Pythocleides the Cean ; and there were many others ; and all 
 |i of them, as I was saying, adopted these arts as veils or disguises 
 |(, because they were afraid of the envy of the multitude. But that 'is 
 ^not my way, for 1 do not believe that they effected their purpose, 
 (ji which was to deceive the government, who were not blinded by 
 i«| them ; and as to the people, they have no understanding, and only 
 j( repeat what their rulers are pleased to tell them. Now to run 
 4 away, and to be caught, in running away, is the very height 
 I J of folly, and also greatly increases the exasperation of mankind; 
 ij,j for they regard him, \^ runs away as a rogue, in addition to any 
 ^( other objections ^hich they have to him ; and therefoire I take ah 
 
126 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 entirely opposite course, and acknowledge myself to be a Sophist 
 and instructor of mankind j such an open acknowledgment appears 
 to me to be a better sort of caution than concealment. Nor do 
 I neglect other precautions, and therefore I hope, as I may say, by 
 the favour of heaven that no harm will come of the acknowledg- 
 ment that I am a Sophist. And I have been now many years in 
 the profession — for all my years when added up are many — and 
 there is no one here present of whom I might not be the father. 
 Wherefore I should much prefer conversing with you, if you do 
 not object, in the presence of the company. 
 
 As I suspected that he would like to have a little display and 
 glory in the presence of Prodicus and Hippias, and would gladly 
 show us to them in the light of his admirers, I said : But why 
 should we not summon Prodicus and Hippias and their friends 
 to hear us ? 
 
 Very good, he said. 
 
 Suppose, said Callias, that we hold a council in which you may 
 sit and discuss. This was determined, and great delight was felt 
 at the prospect of hearing wise men talk; we ourselves all 
 took the chairs and benches, and arranged them by Hippias, where 
 the other benches had been already placed. Meanwhile Callias 
 and Alcibiades got up Prodicus and brought in him and his 
 companions. 
 
 When we were all seated, Protagoras said: Now that the 
 company are assembled, Socrates, tell me about the young man 
 of whom you were just now speaking. 3 
 
 I replied: I will begin again at the same point, Protagoras, 
 and tell you once more the purport of my visit :'*this is my friend 
 Hippocrates, who is desirous of making your acquaintance; he 
 wants to know what will happen to him if he associates with 
 you. That is all I have to say. 
 
 Protagoras answered: Youjig man, if you associate with me, 
 on the very first day you will -return home a better man than you 
 came, and better on the second day than on the first, and better 
 every day than you were on the day before. 
 
 When I heard this, I said : Protagoras, I do not at all wonder 
 at hearing you say this; even at your age, and with all your 
 wisdom, if any one were to teach you what you did not know 
 before, you would become better no doubt : but please to answer 
 
PROTAGORAS. 127 
 
 in a different way; I will explain how by an example. Let me 
 suppose that Hippocrates, instead of desiriftg your acquaintance, 
 wished to become acquainted with the young man Zeuxippus of 
 Heraclea, who has newly come to Athens, and he were to go 
 to him as he has gone to you, and were to hear him say, as 
 he has heard you say, that every day he would grow and become 
 better if he associated with him : and then suppose that he were 
 to ask him, ' In what would he be better, and in what would he 
 grow ?' Zeuxippus would answer, ' In painting.' And suppose that 
 he went to Orthagoras the Theban, and heard him say the same, 
 and asked him 'In what would he become better day by day?' 
 he would reply, ' In flute-playing.' Now I want you to make the 
 same sort of answer to this young man and to me, who am 
 asking questions on his account. When you say that on the first 
 day on which he associates with you he will return home a better 
 man, and on every day will grow in like manner — in what, 
 Protagoras, will he be better ? and about what ? 
 
 When Protagoras heard me say this, he replied : You ask 
 questions fairly, and I like to answer a question which is fairly 
 put. If Hippocrates comes to me he will not experience the sort 
 of drudgery with which other Sophists are in the habit of insulting 
 their pupils ; who, when they have just escaped from the arts, are 
 taken and driven back into them by these teachers, and made to 
 learn calculation, and astronomy, and geometry, and music (he 
 gave a look at Hippias as he said this) ; but if he comes to me, 
 he will learn that which he comes to learn. And this is prudence 
 in aflairs private as well as public ; he will learn to order his own 
 house in the best manner, and he will be best able to speak and 
 I act in the aflairs of the state. 
 
 I Do I understand you, I said; and is your meaning that you 
 teach the art of politics, and that you promise to make men 
 ( good 'citizens ? f>^, 
 
 \ That, Socrates, is exactly the profession which I make. 
 \ . Then, I said, you do indeed possess a noble art, if there is no 
 mistake about this; for I will freely confess to you, Protagoras, 
 jithat I have a doubt whether this art is capable of being taught, 
 .and yet I know not how to disbelieve your assertion. And I 
 j,ought to tell you why I am of opinion that this art cannot be 
 jtaught or communicated by man to man. I say that the Athenians 
 
128 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 are an understanding people, as indeed they are esteemed by tl 
 other Hellenes. Now I observe that when we are met togetfa 
 in the assembly, and the matter in hand relates to building, tl 
 builders are summoned as advisers; when the question is oi 
 of ship-building, then the ship-builders ; and the like of other ar 
 which they think capable of being taught and learned. And 
 some person offers to give them advice who is not supposed 1 
 them to have any skill in the art, even though he be good-lookioj 
 and rich, and noble, they don't listen to him, but laugh at hin 
 and hoot him, until either he is clamoured down and retires ( 
 himself; or if he persist, he is dragged away or put out by ti 
 constables at the command of the prytanes. This is their wa 
 of behaving about the arts which have professors. When, howeve: 
 the question is an affair of state, then everybody is free to hav 
 a say — carpenter, tinker, cobbler, sailor, passenger; rich and pooi 
 high and low— any one who likes gets up, and no one reproache 
 him, as in the former case, with not having learned, and having n 
 teacher, and yet giving advice ; evidently because they are unde 
 the impression that this sort of knowledge cannot be taughl 
 And not only is this true of the state, but of individuals ; the bes 
 and wisest of our citizens are unable to impart their politics 
 wisdom to others : as for example, Pericles, the father of thes 
 young men, who gave them excellent instruction in all that couL 
 be learned from masters, in his own department of politics taugh 
 them nothing; nor did he give them teachers, "but they wer 
 allowed to wander at their own free will in a sort of hope tha 
 they would light upon virtue of their own accord. Or take anothe 
 example : there was Cleinias the younger brother of our friem 
 Alcibiades, of whom this very same Pericles was the guardian 
 and he being in fact uhder the apprehension that Cleinias woulc 
 be corrupted by Alcibiades, took him away, and placed him in thi 
 house of Ariphron to be educated ; but before six months hac 
 elapsed, Ariphron sent him back, not knowing what to do witl 
 him. And I could mention numberless other instances of person; 
 who were good themselves, and never yet made any one else 
 good, whether friend or stranger. Now I, Protagoras, when I 
 reflect on all this, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be 
 taught. But then again, when I listen to your words, I'l^m 
 disposed to waver; and I believe that there must be something 
 
PROTAGORAS. 129! 
 
 e 
 
 in what you say, because I know that you have great experience, 
 and learning, and invention. And I wish ^at you would, if pos- 
 sible, show me a little more clearly that virtue can be taught 
 Will you be so good ? 
 
 , That I will, Socrates, and gladly. But what would you like ? 
 Shall I, as an elder, speak to you as younger men in an apologue 
 or myth, or shall I argue the question ? 
 ; To this several of the company answered that he should choos^ 
 for himseF. ' 
 
 Well, then, he said, I think that the myth will be more in- 
 teresting. '" 
 
 , Once upon a time there were gods only, and no mortal creatures. 
 But when the time came that these- also should be created, the 
 gods fashioned them out of earth and fire and various mixtures 
 of both elements in the inward parts of the earth j and when 
 they were about to briiig them into the light of day, they ordered 
 Prometheus and Epimetheus to equip them, and to distribute to' 
 
 ; them severally their proper qualities. Epimetheus said to Prome- 
 theus : ' Let me distribute, and do you inspect.' This was agreed, 
 and Epimetheus made the distribution. There were some to 
 whom he gave strength without swiftness, or again swiftness 
 without strength j some he armed, and others he left unarmed ; 
 
 ! and .devised for the latter some other means of pressrvation, 
 making some large, and having their size as a protection, and 
 others small, whose nature was to fly in the air or burrow in the 
 
 t ground ; this was to be their way of escape. Thus did he com- 
 pensate them with the view of preventing any race from becoming 
 extinct. And when he had provided against their destruction by 
 one another, he contrived also a means of protecting , them against 
 the seasons of heaven j clothing them with close hair and thick 
 skins sufficient to defend them against the winter cold and summer 
 
 ^, heat, and for a natural bed of their own when they wanted to rest ; 
 also he furnished them with hoofs and hair and hard and callous 
 skins under their feet. Then- he gave them varieties of food, — to 
 some herb of the soil, to others fruits of trees, and to others roots, 
 and to some again he gave^ other animals as food. And some he 
 made to have few:, young ones, while those who were their prey 
 were very prolific ; and in this way the race was preserved. Thus 
 
 fdid Epimetheus, who, not- being very wise, forgot that he had 
 
 w 
 
I30 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 distributed among the brute animals all the qualities that he had 1 
 give, — and when he came to man, who was still unprovided, he wi 
 terribly perplexed. Now while he was in this perplexity, Pri 
 metheus came to inspect the distribution, and he found that tl 
 other animals were suitably furnished, but that man alone w£ 
 naked and shoeless, and had neither bed nor arms of defeno 
 The appointed hour was approaching in which man was to go fort 
 into the light of day ; and Prometheus, not knowing how he coul 
 devise his salvation, stole the mechanical arts of Hephaestus am 
 Athene, and fire with them (they could neither have been acquirei 
 nor used without fire), and gave them to man. Thus man had tb 
 wisdom necessary to the support of life, but political wisdom b 
 had not j for that was in the keeping of Zeus, and the power q 
 Prometheus did not extend to entering into the castle of heaven 
 in which Zeus dwelt, who moreover had terrible sentinels; bui 
 he did enter by stealth into the common workshop of Athene anc 
 Hephaestus, in which they used to pursue their favourite arts, anc 
 took away Hephaestus' art of working by fire, and also the artol 
 Athene, and gave them to man. And in this way man was sup- 
 plied with the means of life. But Prometheus is said to have 
 been afterwards prosecuted for theft, owing to the blunder of 
 Epimetheus. 
 
 Now man, having a share of the divine attributes, was at first 
 the only one of the animals who had any gods, because he alone 
 was of their kindred ; and he would raise altars and images of them. 
 He was not long in inventing language and names ; and he also 
 constructed houses and clothes and shoes and beds, and drew sus- 
 tenance from the earth. Thus provided, mankind at first lived dis- 
 psrsed, and there were no cities. But the consequence was that 
 they were destroyed by the wild beasts, for they were utterly weak 
 m comparison of them, and their art was only suflScient to provide 
 them with the means of life, and would not enable them to carry 
 on war against the, animals : food they had, but not as yet any art 
 of government, of which the art of war is a part. After a while 
 the desire of self-preservation gathered them into- cities; but when 
 they were gathered together, having no art of government, they 
 evil intreated one another, and were again in process of dispersion 
 and destruction. Zeus feared that the race would be exterminated, 
 and so he sent Hermes to them, bearing reverence and justice iv 
 
PROTAGORAS. 131 
 
 W 
 
 ' be the ordering principles of cities and the bonds of friendship and 
 
 conciliation, Hermes asked Zeus how he should impart justice 
 
 and reverence among men : — should he distribute them as the arts 
 
 , are distributed ; that is to say, to a favoured few only, — for one 
 
 . skilled individual has enough of medicine, or of any other art, for 
 
 many unskilled ones ? Shall' this be the manner in which I dis- 
 
 i tribute justice and reverence among men, or shall I give them to 
 
 all ? To all,^ said Zeus ; I should like them all to have a share ; for 
 
 ': cities cannot exist, if a few only share in the virtues, as in the arts. 
 
 ^ And further, make a law by my order, that he who has no part in 
 
 , reverence and justice shall be put to death as a plague of the state. 
 
 And this is the reason, Socrates, why the Athenians and man- 
 
 ^ kind in general, when the question relates to carpentering or any 
 
 , other mechanical art, allow but a few to share in their delibera^ 
 
 tions ; and when any one else interferes, then, as you say, they 
 
 object, if he be not of the favoured few, and that, as I say, is very 
 
 natural. But when they come to deliberate about political virtue, 
 
 ^\ which proceeds only by way of justice and wisdom, they are patient 
 
 "^jenough of any mart who speaks of them, as is also natural, because 
 
 they think that every man ought to share in this sort of virtue, 
 
 and that states could not exist if this were otherwise. I have 
 
 explained to you, Socrates, the reason of this phenomenon. 
 
 ^ And that you may not suppose yourself to be deceived in think- 
 
 *' ing that all men regard every man as having a share of justice and 
 
 f every other political virtue, let me give you a further proof, which 
 
 »• is this. In other cases, as you are aware, if a man says that he is 
 
 11'' a good flute-player, or skilful in any other art in which he has no 
 
 ^ skill, people either laugh at him or are angry with him, and his 
 
 n" relations think that he is mad and go and admonish him ; but 
 
 Mwhen honesty is in question, or some other political virtue, even if 
 
 iWfthey know that he is dishonest, yet, if the man comes publicly for- 
 
 l»*ward and tells the truth about his dishonesty, in this case they 
 
 i|ilideem that to be madness which in the other case was held by 
 
 IJnithem to be good sense. They say that men ought to profess 
 
 SjKhonesty whether they are honest or not, and that a man is mad 
 
 iDjitwho does not make such a profession. Their notion is, that 
 
 i^ man must have some degree of honesty j and that if he has 
 
 uKfJnone at all he ought not to be in the world. 
 
 jj£ 1 have been showing that they are right in admitting every man 
 
132 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 as a counsellor about this sort of virtue, as they are of opinic 
 that every man is a partaker of it. And I will now endeavbi 
 further to show that they regard this virtue, not as given t 
 /nature, or growing spontaneously, but as capable of being learne 
 land acquired by study. For injustice is punished, whereas no on 
 would instruct, or rebuke, or be angry at those whose calamitie 
 they suppose to come to them either by nature or chance ; the 
 do not try to alter them, they do but pity them. Who would b 
 so foolish as to chastise or instruct the ugly, or the diminutivi 
 or the feeble ? And for this reason ; they know, I imagine, tha 
 this sort of good and evil comes to them by nature and chance 
 whereas if a man is wanting in those good qualities which com 
 to men from study and exercise and teaching, and has only th 
 contrary evil qualities, men are angry with him, and punish hir 
 and reprove him. And one of those evil qualities is impiety ani 
 injustice, and they may be described generally as the opposite o 
 political virtue. When this is the case, any man will be angry witl 
 another, and reprimand him, — clearly under the impression that b' 
 study and learning the virtue in which he is deficient may bi 
 acquired. For if you will think, Socrates, of the effect whicl 
 punishment has on evil-doers, you will see at once that in th( 
 opinion of mankind virtue may be acquired ; for no one punishei 
 the evil-doer under^the notion, or for the reason, that he has doiw 
 wrong,— only the unreasonable fury of a beast acts in that way 
 But he who desires to inflict rational punishment does not retallatf 
 for a past wrong, for that which is done cannot be undone, bul 
 he has regard to the future, and is desirous that the man who ii 
 punished, and he who sees him punished, may be deterred from 
 doing wrong again. And he implies that virtue is capable ol 
 being taught; as he undoubtedly punishes for the sake of pre- 
 vention. This is the notion of all who retaliate upon others 
 either privately or publicly. And the Athenians, too, like othir 
 men, retaliate on those whom they regard as evil-doers ; and this 
 argues them to be of the number of those who think that virtue 
 may be acquired and taught. Thus far, Socrates, I have shown 
 you clearly enough, if I am not mistaken, that your countryfflgn 
 are right in admitting the tinker and the cobbler to advise about 
 politics, and also that they deem virtue to be capable of being 
 taught and acquired. 
 
r 
 
 I' PROTAGORAS. 133 
 
 ^' There yet remains one difficulty which has been raised by you 
 I about the sons of good men. What is the Reason why good men 
 I teach their sons the knowledge which is gained from teachers, 
 I and make them wise in that, but do nothing towards improving 
 i them in the virtues which distinguish themselves ? And here, 
 j Socrates, I will leave the apologue and take up the argument. 
 I Please to consider: Is there or is there not some one quality in which 
 i all the citizens must be partakers, if , there is to be a city at all ? 
 I In the answer to this question is contained the only solution of 
 your difficulty ; there is no other. For if there be any such quality, 
 J and this quality or unity is not the art of the carpenter, or the 
 -5 smith, or the potter, but justice and 'temperance and holiness and, 
 ' in a word, manly virtue — if this is the quality of which all men 
 i must be partakers, and which is 'the Very condition of their learn- 
 ■ ing or doing anything else, and if he who is wanting in this, 
 
 V whether he be a child only or' a grown-up man or woman, must 
 be taught arid punished, until by punishment he becomes better, 
 
 \ and he who rebels against instruction and punishment is either 
 , exiled or condemned to death under the idea that he is incurable — 
 
 V if, I say, this be true, and nevertheless good men have their sons 
 taught other things and not this, do consider how extraordinary 
 would be their conduct. For we have shown that they think 
 
 ^ virtue capable of being taught and inculcated both in private and 
 ' public j and yet, notwithstanding this, they teach their sons lesser 
 
 matters, ignorance of which does not involve the punishment of 
 I death : but those things, the ighorance of which may cause death 
 
 and exile to- those who have no knowledge or training — aye, and 
 
 '" confiscation as well as "death, and, in a word, may be the ruin of 
 
 J families — ^those -things, I say, they are supposed not to teach them, 
 
 ■ — ^not to take the utmost care that they should learn. That is 
 
 * not likely, Socrates. 
 
 Iff Education and admonition commence in the first years of child- 
 ^■hood, and last to the very end of life. Mother and nurse and 
 "i' father and tutor are quarrelling about the improvement of the 
 '■^ child as soon as ever he is able to understand them : he cannot 
 '^ say or do anything without their setting forth to him that this is 
 ''just and that is unjust j this is honourable, that is dishonourable ; 
 '''this is holy, that is unholy; do this and abstain from that. And 
 !'*''if he obeys, well and good ; if not, he is straightened by threats and 
 
134 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 blows, like a piece of warped wood. At a later stage they send hin 
 
 to teachers, and enjoin them to see to his manners even more thai 
 
 to his reading and music ; and the teachers do as they are desked 
 
 And when the boy has learned his letters and is beginning, t( 
 
 understand what is written, as before he understood only what wa 
 
 spoken, they put into his hands the works of great poets, whid 
 
 he reads at school ; in these are contained many admonitions, am 
 
 many tales, and praises, and encomia of ancient famous men 
 
 which he is required to learn by heart, in order that he maj 
 
 imitate or emulate them and desire to become like them. Then 
 
 again, the teachers of the lyre take similar care that their younj 
 
 disciple is temperate and gets into no mischief^ and when the] 
 
 \ have taught him the use of the lyre, they introduce him to th( 
 
 ; poems of other excellent poets, who are the lyric poets ; am 
 
 these they set to music, and make their harmonies and rhythm: 
 
 quite familiar to the children, in order that they may learn to bi 
 
 more gentle, and harmonious, and rhythmical, and so more fittet 
 
 for speech and action ; for the life of man in every part has neec 
 
 I of harmony and rhythm. Then they send them to the master o: 
 
 gymnastic, in order that their bodies may better minister to thi 
 
 virtuous mind, and that' the wealcness of their bodies may noi 
 
 force them to play the coward in war or on any other occasion. Thii 
 
 is what is done by those who have the means, and those who havi 
 
 the means are the rich; their children begin education soones 
 
 and leave off latest. When they have done with masters, the stati 
 
 again compels them to learn the laws, and live after the patten 
 
 .which they furnish, and not after their own fancies; and just a 
 
 ni learning to write, the writing-master first draws lines witl 
 
 ■a style for the use of the young beginner, and gives him the table 
 
 and makes him follow the lines, so the city draws the laws, whicl 
 
 were the invention of good lawgivers who were of old time ; thesi 
 
 are given to the young man, in order to guide him in his conduc 
 
 whether as ruler or ruled ; and he who transgresses them is to bi 
 
 corrected, or, in other words, called to account, which is a tern 
 
 iised not only in your country, but also in many others. Nov 
 
 when there is all this care about virtue private and publicj why 
 
 Socrates, do you still wonder and doubt whether virtue can b 
 
 taught ? Cease to wonder, for the opposite would be far mor 
 
 surprising. 
 
PROTAGORAS. 135 
 
 ' But why then do the sons of good fathers often turn out ill? 
 '^, Let me explain that^ — which is far from ^eing wonderful, if, as 
 ^ I have been saying, the very existence of the state implies that 
 "^^ virtue is not any man's private possession. If this be true — 
 's and . nothing can be truer — then I will ask you to imagine, 
 1' as an illustration, some other pursuit or branch of knowledge 
 \ which may be assumed equally to be the condition of the existence 
 ' of a state. Suppose that there could be no state unless we were 
 ' all flute-players, as far as each had the capacity, and everybody 
 was freely teaching everybody the art, both in private and public, 
 
 I and reproving the bad player as freely and openly as every man 
 ^ now teaches justice and the laws, not concealing them as he 
 •' ' would conceal the other arts, but imparting them — ^for all of us have 
 *' a mutual interest in the justice and virtue of one another, and this 
 'ij is the reason why every one is ready to teach justice and the laws j 
 » — suppose, I say, that there were the same readiness and liberality 
 ^ a,mong us in teaching one another flute-playing, do you imagine, 
 
 II Socrates, that the sons of good flute-players would be more likely 
 IS to be good than the sons of bad ones ? I think not. Would not 
 fe their sons grow up to be distinguished or undistinguished accord- 
 si ing to their own. natural capacities as flute-players, and the son 
 s of a good player would often turn out to be a bad one, and the son 
 gii of a bad player to be a good one, and all flute-players would be 
 ii! good enough in comparison of those who were ignorant and un- 
 4 acquainted with the art of flute-playing ? In like manner I would 
 iB- have you consider that he who appears to you to be the worst of 
 •i those who have been brought up in laws and humanities, would 
 sit; appear to be a just man and a master of justice if he were to be 
 (t' compared with men who had no education, or courts of justice^ or 
 ii| laws, or any restraints upon them which compelled them to prac- 
 \^- tise virtue — with the savages, for example, whom the poet Phere- 
 jjt" crates exhibited on the stage at the last year's Lenaean festival. If 
 ^ you were living among men such as the man-haters in his Chorus, 
 jdl you would be only too glad to meet with Eurybates and Phrynondas, 
 ^ and you would sorrowfully desire the rascality of this part of the 
 jli^ world. And you, Socrates, are discontented, and why? Because 
 ^ all men are teachers of virtue, each one according to his ability, 
 jjjj and you say that there is no teacher. You might as well ask. Who 
 
 8 teaches Greek? For of that too there will not be any teachers 
 
136 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 found. Or you might ask. Who is to teach the sons of our arti- 
 sans this same art which they have learned of their fathers ? He 
 and his fellow-workmen have taught them to the best of their 
 ability,— but who will carry them further in their arts ? And you 
 would certainly have a difficulty, Socrates, in finding a teacher 
 of them ; but there would be no difficulty in finding a teacher 
 of those who are wholly ignorant. And this is true of virtue or 
 of anything ; and if a man is better able than we are to promote 
 virtue ever so little, that is as much as we can expect. A teacher 
 of this sort I believe myself to be, and above all other men to 
 have the knowledge which makes a man noble and good ; and I 
 give my pupils their money's-worth, and even more, as they them- 
 selves confess. And therefore I have introduced the following 
 mode of payment : — When a man has been my pupil, if he likes 
 he pays my price, but there is no compulsion j and if he does not 
 like, he has only to go into a temple and take an oath of the value 
 of the instructions, and he pays no more than he declares to be 
 their value. 
 
 Such is my Apologue, Socrates, and such is the argument by 
 which I endeavour to show that virtue may be taught, and that 
 this is the opinion of the Athenians. And I have also attempted 
 to show that you are not to wonder at good fathers having bad 
 sons, or at good sons having bad fathers, as may be seen in the 
 sons of Polycleitus, who are of the same age as our friends Paralus 
 and Xanthippus, and who are very inferior to their father j and 
 this is true of many other artists. But I ought not to say the 
 same as yet of Paralus and Xanthippus themselves, for they are 
 young and there is still hope of them. 
 
 Protagoras ended, and in my ear 
 
 ' So charming left his voice, that I the while 
 Thought him still speaking; still stood fixed to hear.' 
 
 At length, when I saw that he had really finished, I gradually re- 
 covered consciousness, and looking at Hippotrates, I said to him : 
 O son of Apollodorus, how deeply grateful I am to you for having 
 brought me hither ; I would not have missed the speech of Prota- 
 goras for a great deal. For I used to imagine that no human care 
 could make men good ; but I know better now. Yet I have still 
 one very small difficulty which I am sure that Protagoras will 
 easily explain, as he has already explained so much. For if a man 
 
PROTAGORAS. 137 
 
 S9 were to go and consult Pericles or any of our great speakers about 
 these matters, he might perhaps hear as fin# a discourse j but then 
 
 1 if any one has a question to ask of any of them, like books, 
 
 I' they can neither answer nor ask ; and if any one challenges the 
 
 9 least particular of their speech, they go ringing on in a long 
 
 \ harangue, like brazen pots, which when they are struck continue 
 
 * to sound unless some one puts his hand upon them ^ whereas our 
 g friend Protagoras can not only make a good speech, as he has 
 \ already shown, but when he is asked a question he can answer 
 I briefly ; and when he asks he will wait and hear the answer ; and 
 ji this is a very rare gift. Now I, Protagoras, have a little question that 
 || I want to ask of you, and if you will only answer me that, I shall 
 \ be quite satisfied. You were saying that virtue can be taught; — 
 I? that I will take upon your authority, and there is no one to whom 
 li I am more ready to trust. But I marvel at one thing about which 
 \. I should like to have my mind set at rest. You were speaking of 
 J] Zeus sending justice and reverence to men; and several times 
 
 while you were speaking justice, and temperance, and holiness, 
 
 g, and all these qualities, were described by you as if together they 
 
 ^ made up virtue. Now I want you to tell me truly whether virtue 
 
 g is one whole, of which justice and temperance and holiness are 
 
 j parts; or whether all these are only the names of one and the 
 
 ,, same thing: that is the doubt which still lingers in my mind. 
 i,j There is no difficulty, Socrates, in answering that the qualities 
 
 • of which you are speaking are the parts of virtue which is one. 
 
 J And are they parts, I said, in the same sense in which mouth, 
 
 t nose, and eyes, and ears, are the parts of a face ; or are they like 
 -the parts of gold, which differ from the whole and from one another 
 only in being larger or smaller ? 
 I should say that they differed, Socrates, in the first way ; as the 
 
 ^., parts of a face are related to the whole face. 
 (■ And do men have some one part and some another part of 
 virtue ? Or if a man has one part, must he also have all the others ? 
 
 ^ By no means, he said ; for many a man is brave and not just, 
 
 1 or just and not wise. 
 
 i4 , Why then, I said, courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue ? 
 
 J Most undoubtedly, he said ; and wisdom is the noblest of the 
 
 4 parts- 
 
 ji ; And they are all different from one another ? I said. 
 
138 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And each of them has a distinct function like the parts of 
 the face ; — the eye^ for example, is not like the ear, and has not the 
 same functions; and the other parts are none of them like one 
 another, either in their functions, or in any other way? Now 
 I want to know whether the parts of virtue do not also differ in 
 themselves and in their functions; as that is clearly what the 
 simile would imply. 
 
 Yes, Socrates, you are right in that. 
 
 Then, I said, no other part of virtue is like knowledge, or like 
 justice, or like courage, or like temperance, or like holiness ? 
 
 No, he answered. 
 
 Well then, I said, suppose that you and I enquire into their 
 natures. And first, you would agree with me that justice is of the 
 nature of a thing, would you not ? That is my opinion, would not 
 that be yours also ? 
 
 Yes, he said ; that is mine also. 
 
 And suppose that some one were to ask us, saying, O Prota- 
 goras, and you Socrates, what about this thing which you just now 
 called justice, is it just or unjust? And I were to answer, just: 
 and you — would you vote for me or against me ? 
 
 With you, he said. 
 
 Thereupon 1 should answer to him who asked me, that justice 
 is of the nature of the just : would not you ? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And suppose that he went on to say : Well now, is there such 
 a thing as holiness ? — we should answer. Yes, if I am not mis- 
 taken? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And that you acktiowledge to be a thing— should we admit that? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And is this a sort of thing which is of the nature of the holy, 
 or of the nature of the unholy ? I should be angry at his putting 
 such a question, and should say, Peace, man ; nothing can be 
 holy if holiness is not holy. What do you say to that? Would 
 you not answer in the same way ? 
 
 Certainly, he said. 
 
 And then after this suppose that he came and asked us. What 
 were you saying just now? Perhaps I may not have heard you 
 
PROTAGORAS. 139 
 
 rightly, but you seemed to me to be saying that the parts of virtue 
 « were not the same as one another. I shoaid reply, You certainly 
 (31 heard that said, biit you did not, as you think, hear me say that; 
 \ for Protagoras gave thd answer, and I did but ask the question. 
 !)? And_ suppose that he turned to you and said, Is this true, Prota- 
 \ goras ? and do you maintain that one part of virtue is unlike 
 IS another, and is this your position ? how would you answer him ? 
 I could not help acknowledging the truth of what he said, 
 Socrates. 
 ji Well then, Protagoras, assuming thiSj and supposing that he pro- 
 5: ceeded to say further. Then holiness is not of the nature of justice, 
 nor justice of the nature of holiness, but of the nature of unholi- 
 s ness ; and holiness is of the nature of the not just, and therefore 
 151 of the unjust, and the unjust is unholy ; how shall we answer 
 n, him ? I .should certainly answer him on my own behalf that jus- 
 tice is holy, and that holiness is just ; and I would say in like 
 manner on -your behalf also, if you would allow me, that justice 
 jl is either the same with holiness, or very nearly the same j and I 
 ,i would most ^surediy say that justice is like holiness and holiness 
 is like justice ; and I wish that you would tell me whether I may 
 be permitted to give this ajiswer on your behalf, and whether you 
 would agree with me. 
 ^, He replied, I cannot simply agree, Socrates, to the proposition 
 that justice is holy and that holiness is just, for there appears to 
 me to be a difference between them. But what matter ? if you 
 I please I please; and let us assume, if you will, that justice is 
 holy, and that holiness is just. 
 
 Pardon me, I said ; I do not want this ' if you wish' or ' if you 
 will' sort of argument to be proven, but. I want you and me to 
 ^ be proven; and I mean by this that the argument will be best 
 
 proven if there be no 'if.' 
 , Well, he said, I adrnit that justice bears a resemblance to holi- 
 ness, for there is always some point of view in which everything 
 is like every other thing ; white is in a certain way like black, 
 ""^1 and hard is like soft, and the most extreme opposites have some 
 qualities in common; even the parts of the face which, as we 
 were saying before, are distinct and have different functions, are 
 still in a certain point of view similar, and one of them is like 
 ''^ another of them. And you may prove that they are like one 
 
 B 
 
 fi 
 
I40 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 another on the same principle that all things are like one another j 
 and yet things which are alike in some particular ought not to be 
 called alike, nor things which are unlike in some particular, how- 
 ever slight, unlike. 
 
 And do you think, I said in a tone of surprise, that justice and 
 holiness have but a small degree of likeness ? 
 
 Certainly not, he said ; but I do not agree with what I under- 
 stand to be your view. 
 
 Well, I said, as you appear to have a difficulty about this, let 338 
 us take another of the examples which you mentioned instead. 
 Do you admit the existence of folly ? 
 
 I do. 
 
 And is not wisdom the very opposite of folly ? 
 
 That is true, he said. 
 
 And when men act rightly and advantageously they seem to 
 you to be temperate or moderate ? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And moderation makes them moderate ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And they who do not act rightly act foolishly, and in thus acting 
 are not moderate ? 
 
 I agree to that, he said. 
 
 Then to act foolishly is the opposite of acting moderately? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And foolish actions are done by folly, and moderate or tem- 
 perate actions by moderation ? 
 
 He agreed. 
 
 And that is done strongly which is done by strength, and weakly 
 which is done by weakness ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And that which is done with swiftness is done swiftly, and that 
 which is done with slowness, slowly ? 
 
 He acknowledged that. 
 
 And if anything is done in the same way, that is done by the 
 same ; and if anything is done in an opposite way, by the opposite! 
 
 He agreed. ., 
 
 Once more, 1 said, is there anything beautiful ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 To which the only opposite is the ugly ? 
 
PROTAGORAS. 141 
 
 There is no other. 
 
 And is there anything good ? * 
 
 There is. 
 
 To which the only opposite is the evil ? 
 
 There is no other. 
 
 And there is the acute in sound ? 
 
 True. 
 
 To which the only opposite is the grave ? 
 
 There is no other, he said, but that. 
 
 Then every opposite has one opposite only and no more ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 Then now, I said, let us recapitulate our admissions. First of 
 all we admitted that everything has one opposite and not more 
 than one ? 
 
 To that we assented. 
 
 And we admitted also that what was done in opposite ways was 
 done by opposites ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And that which was done fpolishly, as we also admitted, was 
 done in the opposite way to that which was done moderately ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And that which was done moderately was done by moderation 
 or temperance, and that which was done foolishly by folly ? 
 
 He agreed. 
 
 And that which is done in opposite ways is done by opposites ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And one thing is done by moderation or temperance, and quite 
 another thing by folly ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And those are opposite ways ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And therefore done by opposites. Then folly is the opposite of 
 moderation or temperance ? 
 
 That Is evident. 
 
 And do you remember that folly has already been acknowledged 
 by us to be the opposite of wisdom ? 
 
 He assented. ^ 
 
 And we said that everything has only one opposite ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
142 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 Then, Protagoras, which of the two assertions shall we re- 
 nounce? One says that everything has but one opposite j the 
 other that wisdom is distinct from temperance or moderation, 
 and that both of them are parts of virtue ; and that they are not 
 only distinct, but unlike, both in themselves and in their functions, 
 like the parts of a face. Which of these two assertions shall we 
 renounce ? For both of them together are certainly not in har- 
 mony ; they do not accord or agree : for how can they be said to 
 agree if everything is assumed to have only one opposite and not 
 more than one, and yet folly, which is one, has clearly the two 
 opposites — wisdom and temperance ? Is not that true, Protagoras ? 
 I said. What else would you say ? 
 
 He assented, but with great reluctance. 
 
 Then temperance and wisdom are the same, as before justice 
 and holiness appeared to us to be nearly the same. And now, 
 Protagoras, I said, do not let us be faint-hearted, but let us 
 complete what remains. Do you think that an unjust man can 
 be temperate in his injustice ? 
 
 I should be ashamed, Socrates, he said, to acknowledge this, 
 which nevertheless many may be found to assert. 
 
 And shall I argue with them or with you ? I replied. 
 
 I would rather, he said, that you should argue with the many 
 first, if you will. 
 
 Whichever you please, if you will only answer me and say 
 whether you are of their opinion or not. My object is to test the 
 validity of the argument ^ and yet the result may be that I and you 
 who ask and answer may also be put on our trial. 
 
 Protagoras at first made a show of refusing, as he said that 
 the argument was not encouraging \ at length, however, he con- 
 sented to answer. 
 
 Now thefl, 1 said, begin at the beginning and answer me. You 
 think that some men are moderate or temperate, and yet unjust ? 
 
 Yes, he said ; let that be admitted. 
 
 And moderation is good sense ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And good sense is good counsel in doing injustice ? 
 
 Granted. 
 
 If they succeed, I said, or if they don't succeed ? 
 
 If they succeed. 
 
PROTAGORAS. 143 
 
 ! And you would admit the existence of good^ ? 
 
 ; Yes. • 
 
 ; And is the good that which is expedient for man ? .._ 
 
 I Yes, indeed, he said ; and there are some things which may be 
 
 i inexpedient, and yet I call them good. 
 
 i I thought that Protagoras was getting rufHed and excited ; he 
 
 il seemed to be setting himself in an attitude of war. Seeing this, 
 
 J I minded my business and gently said : — 
 
 !4 When you say, Protagoras, that things inexpedient are good, 
 
 J do you mean inexpedient for man only, or inexpedient altogether ? 
 
 a and do you call the latter good ? 
 
 Certainly not the last, he replied ; for I know of many things, 
 
 meats, drinks, medicines, and ten thousand other things, which are 
 i partly expedient for mqp, and partly inexpedient ; and some which 
 \\ are expedient for horses, and not for men ; and some for oxen only, 
 i and some for dogs ; and some for no animals, but only for trees ; 
 - and some for the roots of trees and not for their branches, as for 
 I example, manure, which is a good thing when laid about the roots, 
 t( but utterly destructive if thrown upon the shoots and young 
 ? branches J or I may instance olive oil, which is mischievous to all 
 
 ■ plants, and generally most injurious to the hair of every animal 
 ,1 with the exception of man, but beneficial to human hair and to 
 
 the human body generally ; and even in this application (so various 
 { and, changeable is the nature of the benefit) that which is the 
 il greatest good to the outward parts of a man, is a very great evil 
 , to his inward parts : and for this reason physicians always forbid 
 I their patients the use of oil in their food, except in very small 
 Iquantities, just sufficient to take away the disagreeable sensation 
 l|of smell in meats and sauces. 
 
 Wlien he had given this answer, the company cheered him. 
 
 And I said : Protagoras, I have a wretched memory, and when any 
 lone makes a long speech to me I never remember what he is 
 
 talking about. As then, if I had been deaf, and you were going 
 
 to converse with me, you would have had to raise your voice; 
 
 so now, having such a bad memory, I will ask you to cut your 
 
 answers shorter, if you would take me with you. 
 What do you mean ? he said : how am I to shorten my answers ? 
 
 shall I make them too short ? 
 Certainly not, I said. 
 
144 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 But short enough ? he said. 
 
 Yes, I said. 
 
 Shall I answer what appears to me to be short enough, or wh 
 appears to you to be short enough ? 
 
 I have heard, I said, that you can speak and teach others 
 speak about the same things at such length that words nev 
 seemed to fail, or with such brevity that no one could use few 
 of them. Please therefore, if you talk with me, to adopt the latt 
 or more compendious method. 
 
 Socrates, he replied, many a battle of words have I fought, ai 
 if I had followed the method of disputation which my adversari 
 desired, as you want me to do, I should have been no better tk 
 another, and the name of Protagoras would have been nowhere. > 
 
 I saw that he was not satisfied with his previous answers, ar 
 that he would not play the part of answerer any more if he ecu 
 help ; and I considered that there was no call upon me to contim 
 the conversation ; so I said : Protagoras, I don't wish to force tl 
 conversation upon you if you had rather not, but when you ai 
 willing to argue with me in such a way that I can follow yoi 
 then I will argue with you. Now you, as is said of you by othe: 
 and as you say of yourself, are .able to have discussions in shorti 
 forms of speech as well as in longer, for you are a master < 
 wisdom ; but I cannot manage these 16ng speeches : I only wis 
 that I could. You, on the other hand, who are capable of eithe 
 ought to speak shorter as I beg you, and then we might convers 
 But I see that you are disinclined, and as I have an engagemei 
 which will prevent my staying to hear you at length (for I have I 
 be in another place), I will depart ; although I should have like 
 to have heard you. 
 
 Thus I spoke, and was rising from my seat, when C^Uii 
 seized me by the hand, and in his left hand caught hold of th; 
 old cloak of mine. He said : We cannot let you go, Socrate 
 for if you leave us there will be an end of our discussion^ 
 I must therefore beg you to remain, as there is nothing in tl 
 world that 1 should like better than to hear you and Protagors 
 discourse. Do not deny the company this pleasure. 
 
 Now I had got up, and was in the act of departure. Son c 
 Hipponicus, I replied, I have always admired, and do now heartil 
 applaud and love your philosophical spirit, and I would 
 
PROTAGORAS. 145 
 
 comply with your request, if I could. But the truth is that I 
 cannot. And what you ask is as great %n impossibility to me, 
 as if you bade me run a race with Crison of Himera, when in 
 'his prime, or with some one of the long or day course runners. To 
 that I should reply, that I humbly make the same request to my 
 own legs; and they can't comply. And therefore if you want to 
 see Crison and me in the same stadium, you must bid him slacken 
 his speed to mine, for I cannot run quickly, and he can nm slowly. 
 And in like manner if you want to hear me and Protagoras dis- 
 coursing, you must ask him to shorten his answers, and keep to 
 the point, as he did at first; if not, how can there be any dis- 
 cussion? For discussion is one thing, and making an oration is 
 quite another, according to my way of thinking. 
 
 But you see, Socrates, said Callias, that Protagoras may fairly 
 claim to speak in his own way, just as you claim to speak in yours. 
 
 Here Alcibiades interposed, and said : That, Callias, is not a 
 fair statement of the case. For our friend Socrates admits that he 
 cannot make a speech — in this he yields the palm to Protagoras ; 
 but I should be greatly surprised if he yielded to any living man 
 in the power of holding and apprehending an argument. Now 
 if Protagoras will make a similar admission, and confess that he 
 is inferior to Socrates in argumentative skill, that is enough for 
 Socrates ; but if he claims a superiority in argument as well, let 
 him ask and answer — not, when a question is asked, having re- 
 course to shifts and evasions, and instead of answering, making a 
 speech at such length that most of his hearers forget the question at 
 issue (not that Socrates is likely to forget — I will be bound for that, 
 although he may pretend in fun that he has a bad memory). And 
 Socrates appears to me to be more in the right than Protagoras ; 
 that is my opinion, and every man ought to say what he thinks. 
 
 When Alcibiades had done speaking, some one — Critias, I 
 believe — went on to say : O Prodicus and Hippias, Callias appears 
 to me to be a partisan of Protagoras. And this led Alcibiades, who 
 loves opposition, to take the other side. But we should not be 
 partisans either of Socrates or Protagoras ; let us rather unite in 
 entreating both of them not to break up the discussion. 
 ' Prodicus added : That, Critias, seems to me to be well said, for 
 those who are present at such discussions ought to be impartial 
 hearers of both the speakers; remembering, however, that impar- 
 
146 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 tiality is not the same as equality, for both sides should be im- 
 partially heard, and yet an equal meed should not be assigned 
 to both of them ; but to the wiser a higher meed should be giveji,j 
 and a lower to the less wise. And I as well as Critias would b^ 
 you, Protagoras and Socrates, to grant our request, which isj that 
 you will argue with one another and not wrangle j for friends 
 argue with friends out of good will, but only adversaries and 
 enemies-wrangle. And then our meeting will be delightful; for 
 in this way you, who are the speakers, will be most likely to win 
 esteem, and not praise only, among us who are your audience j 
 for esteem is a sincere conviction of the hearers' souls, but praise 
 is' often an insincere expression of men uttering words contrary 
 to their conviction. And thus we who are the hearers will be 
 gratified and not pleased ; for gratification is of the mind when 
 receiving wisdom and knowledge, but pleasure is of the body 
 when eating or experiencing some other bodily delight. Thus 
 spoke Prodicus, and many of the company applauded his words. .. 
 Hippias the sage spoke next. He said : All of you who are 
 here present I reckon to be kinsmen and friends and fellow- 
 citizens, by nature and not by law ; for by nature like is akin tq 
 like, whereas law is the tyrant of mankind, and often compels 
 us to do many things which are against nature. How great would 
 be the disgrace then, if we, who know the nature of things, and 
 are the wisest of the Hellenes, and as such are met together in 
 this city, which is the metropolis of wisdom, and in the greatest 
 and most glorious house of this city, should have nothing to show 
 worthy of this height of dignity, but should only quarrel with one 
 another like the meanest of mankind. I do pray and ^dvise you, 
 Protagoras, and you, Socrates, to agree upon a comprofljise. 
 Let us be your peacemakers. And do not you, Socrates, aim at this 
 precise and extreme brevity in discourse, if Protagoras objects, 31 
 but loosen and let go the reins of speech, that your words may 
 be grander and become you* better. Neither do you, Protagorsj^^ 
 go forth on the gale with every sail set out of sight of land inl?s 
 an ocean of words, but let there be a mean observed by both aft 
 you. Do as I say. And let me also suggest and suppose further, 
 that you choose an arbiter or overseer or president j he will keep 
 watch over your words and reduce them, to their proper length. ,. 
 
 ' Reading viiiv. -'^ 
 
Kl 
 
 PROTAGORAS. 147 
 
 This ptoposal was received by the company with universal 
 approval J and Callias said- that he woiild not let me off, and that 
 ' r was to choose an arbiter. But I said that to choose an umpire 
 of discourse would be unseemly j for if the person chosen was 
 inferior, then the inferior or worse ought not to preside over the 
 better ; or if he was equal, neither would that be well ; for he who 
 is our equal will do as we do, and what will be the use of choosing 
 him ? And if you say ' Let us have a better then,' to that I answer 
 ' that you cannot have any one who is wiser than Protagoras. 
 And if you choose another who is not really better, and whom you 
 only say is better, to put another over him as though he were an 
 "J inferior person would be an unworthy reflection on him ; not that, 
 if as far as I am concerned, any reflection is of much consequence 
 ^1 to me. Let me tell you then what I will do in order that the 
 conversation and discussion may go on as you desire. If Protagoras 
 r is not disposed to answer, let him ask and I will answer; and 
 "" I will endeavour to show at the same time how, as I maintain, he 
 "" ought to answer: and when I have answered as many questions 
 ■"I as he likes to ask, let him in like manner answer ; and if he seems 
 '" to be not very ready at answering the exact questions, you and I 
 i"' will unite in entreating him, as you entreated me, not to spoil the 
 f discussion. And this will require no special arbiter: you shall 
 •( all of you be arbiters. 
 
 \4 This was generally approved, and Protagoras, though very much 
 tkf against his will, was obliged to agree that he would ask ques- 
 ^■ tions J and when he had put a sufficient number of them, that he" 
 mill would answer in his turn those which he was asked in sho$t 
 i(li( replies. He began to put his questions as follows : — 
 111^' I am of opinion, Socrates, he said, that skill in poetry is the, 
 3,iit» principal part of education; and this I conceive to be the power 
 ((jt of knowing what compositions of the poets are correct, and what 
 ii^ are not, and how they are to be distinguished, and of explaining 
 ^H them when asked. And I propose to transfer the question which 
 ■p you and I have been discussing to the domain of poetry, speaking 
 j|l(l as before of virtue, but in reference to a passage of a poet. Now 
 A Simonides^ays to Scopas the son of Creon the Thessalian: — 
 "i^ ' Hardly on the one hand can a man become truly good ; built four-square 
 lilj in hands and feet and mind, a work without a flaw.' 
 Do you know the poem ? or shall I repeat the whole ? 
 
148 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 There is no need, I said; for I am perfectly well acquainted 
 with the ode, of which I have made a careful study. 
 
 Very good, he said. And do you think that the ode is a good 
 composition, and true ? 
 
 Yes, I said, both good and true. 
 
 But if there is a contradiction, can the composition be good 
 or true ? 
 
 No, not in that case, I replied. 
 
 And is there not a contradiction ? he asked. Reflect. 
 
 Well, my friend, I have reflected. 
 
 And does not the poet proceed to say, 'I do not agree with 
 the word of Pittacus, albeit the utterance of a wise man ; hardly,' 
 says he, ' can a man be good.' Now you will observe that this 
 is said by the same poet. 
 
 I know that, I said. 
 
 And do you think, he said, that the two sayings are consistent ? 
 
 Yes, I said, I think they are (at the same time I could not help 
 fearing that there might be something in what he said). And you 
 think otherwise ? I said. 
 
 Why, he said, how can he be consistent in saying both ? First 
 of all, premising as his own thought, ' Hardly can a man become 
 truly good ;' and then a little further on in the poem, forgetting, 
 and blaming Pittacus and refusing to agree with him, when he 
 says, ' Hardly can a man be good,' which is the very same thing. 
 And yet when he blames him who says the same with himself, 
 he blames himself j so that he must be wrong either in his first 
 oj; his second assertion. 
 
 Many of the audience cheered and applauded this. And I felt 
 at first giddy and faint, as if I had received a blow from the expei* 
 hand of a boxer, when I heard his words and the sound of the cheer- 
 ing J and to confess the truth, I wanted to get time to think what 
 the meaning of the poet really was. So I turned to Prodicus and 
 called him. Prodicus, I said, Simonides is a countryman of yours, 
 and you ought to come to his rescue. I think that I must summon 
 you to my aid, like the river Scamander in Homer, who, when 
 beleaguered by Achilles, asks Simois to aid him, saying : 
 
 ' Brother dear, let us both together stay the force of the hero ^ .' 
 
 s II, xxi. 308. 
 
PROTAGORAS. i49 
 
 And I summon you, for I am afraid that Protagoras will make 
 an end of Simonides. Now is the time to Rehabilitate Simonides, 
 by the application of your charming philosophy of synonyms, which 
 distinguishes 'will' and 'wish' and many similar words which 
 you mentioned in your admirable speech. And I should like to 
 know whether you would agree with me; for I am of opinion 
 that there is no contradiction in the words of Simonides. And 
 first of all I wish that you would say whether, in your opinion, 
 Prodicus, 'being' is the same as 'becoming.' 
 
 Not the same, certainly, replied Prodicus. 
 
 Did not Simonides first set forth, as his own view, that ' Hardly 
 can a man become truly good ?' 
 
 ■Quite right, said Prodicus. 
 
 And then he blames Pittacus, I said, not for saying the same 
 as himself, as Protagoras imagines, but for saying something 
 different; for Pittacus does not say as Simonides says, that hardly 
 can a man become good, but hardly can a man be good : and our 
 friend Prodicus says that being, Protagoras, is not the same as 
 becoming; and if they are not the same, then Simonides is not 
 inconsistent with himself. I dare say that Prodicus and many 
 others would say, as Hesiod says, ' Hardly can a man become good, 
 for the gods have placed toil in front of virtue ; but when you 
 have reached the goal, then the acquisition of virtue, however 
 difficult, is easy 6.' 
 
 Prodicus heard and approved; but Protagoras said: Your cor- 
 rection, Socrates, involves a greater error than is contained in 
 the sentence which you are. correcting. 
 
 Alas ! I said, Protagoras ; then I am a sorry physician, and do 
 but aggravate a disorder which I am seeking to cure. 
 
 The fact, he said, is as I have stated. 
 , How is that ? I asked. 
 
 The poet, he replied, could never have made such a mistake 
 as to say that virtue, which in the opinion of all men is the 
 hardest of all things, can be easily acquired. 
 
 Wei], I said, and how fortunate this is that Prodicus should 
 
 be of the company, for he has a wisdom, Protagoras, which, as 
 
 ■ I imagine, is more than human and of very ancient date, and may 
 
 the as old as Simonides or even older. Learned as you are in 
 
 « Works and Days, 264 foil. 
 
I50 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 many things, you appear to know nothing of this j but I know, 
 for I am a disciple of his. And now, if I am not mistaken, 
 you do not understand the word 'hard' {^aKiisov) in the -sense which 
 Simonides intended j and I must correct you, as Prodicus corrects 
 me when I use the word ' dreadful' (8«vo's) as a term of praise. If 
 I say that Protagoras is a dreadfully wise man, he asks me if I 
 am not ashamed of calling that which is good dreadfiil j and then 
 he explains to me that the term ' dreadful' is always taken in a 
 bad sense, and that no one speaks of being dreadfully healthy. or 
 wealthy or wise, but of dreadful war, dreadfixl poverty, dreadful 
 disease, meaning by the term ' dreadful,' evil. And I think that 
 Simonides and his countrymen the Ceans, when they spoke of 
 ^ hard ' meant ' evil,' or something which you do not understand. 
 Let us ask Prodicus, for he ought to be able to answer questions 
 about the dialect of Simonides. What did he mean, Prodicus, 
 by the term ' hard' ? 
 
 Evil, said Prodicus. 
 
 And therefore^, I said, Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying, 
 'Hard is the good,' just as if that were equivalent to saying, Evil 
 is the good. 
 
 Yes, he said, that was certainly his meaning • and he is twitting 
 Pittacus with ignorance of the use of terms, which in a Lesbian, 
 who has been accustomed to speak a batbarous language, is natural. 
 
 Do you hear, Protagoras, I askedj what our friend Prodicus is 
 saying ? And have you an answer for him ? 
 
 You are all wrong, Prodicus, said Protagoras ; and I know very 
 well that Simonides in using the word ' hard ' meant what all of 
 us mean, not evil, but that which is not easy — ^that which takes 
 a great deal of trouble. Of this I ^m positive. 
 
 I said : I also . incline to think, Protagoras, that this was the 
 meaning of Simonides, and that our friend Prodicus : was quite 
 aware of this, but he thought that he would make fun, ,and t^ 
 if you could maintain your thesis j for that Simonides could never 
 have meant the other is clearly proved by the contextj in which 
 he says that God only has this gift. Now he cannot surely mean 
 to say that to be good is evil, when he afterwards proceeds to say 
 that God only has this gift, and that this is the attribute of him 
 and of no other. For if this be his meaning, Prodicus would 
 impute to Simonides a character of recklessness which is very 
 unlike his countrymen. And I should like to tell you, I said, 34 
 
PROTAGORAS. .151 
 
 what I imagine to be the real meaning of Simonides in this poem, 
 if you will test what, in your way of speaMng, would be called my 
 skill in poetry ; or if you would rather, I will be the listener. 
 ., -Protagoras hearing me offer this, replied: As you please j and 
 Hippias, Prodicus, and the others, told me by all means to do 
 as I proposed. 
 
 Then now, I said, I will endeavour to explain to you my 
 opinion about this poem. There is a very ancient philosophy 
 which is more cultivated in Crete and Lacedaemon than in ^ny 
 other part of Hellas, and there are more philosophers in those 
 countries than anywhere else in the world. This, however, is 
 a secret which the Lacedaemonians deny ; and they pretend to be 
 ignorant, just because they do not wish to have it thought that 
 they rule the world by wisdom, like the Sophists of whom Pro- 
 tagoras was speaking, and not by valour of arms j considering 
 tiiat if the reason of their superiority were disclosed, all men 
 would be practising their wisdom. And this secret of theirs has 
 never been discovered by the imitators of Lacedaemonian fashions 
 in other cities, who go about with their ears bruised in imitation 
 of them, and have the caestus bound on their arms, and are always 
 in training, and wear short cloaks ; for they imagine that these 
 are the practices which have enabled the Lacedaemonians to con- 
 quer the other Hellenes. Now when the Lacedaemonians want 
 to unbend and hold free conversation with their wise men, and are 
 no longer satisfied with mere secret intercourse, they drive out 
 all these laconiiers, and any other foreigners who may happen 
 to be in their country, and they hold a philosophical stance un- 
 known to the strangers ; and they themselves forbid their young 
 men to go out into other cities (in this they are like the Cretans), 
 in order that they may not unlearn the lessons which they have 
 taught them. And in these cities not only men but also women 
 have a pride in their high cultivation. And you may know that 
 I am only speaking the truth in attributing this excellence in 
 philosophy to the Lacedaemonians, by this token : If a man con- 
 verses with the most ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him 
 seldom good for much in general conversation, but at any point 
 in the discourse he will be darting out some notable saying, terse 
 and full of meaning, with unerring aimj and the person with 
 whom he is talking seems to be like a child in his hands. And 
 many of our own age and of former ages have noted that the 
 
152 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 true Lacedaemonian type of character has the love of philosophy} 
 even stronger than the love of gymnastics; they are conscious ^ 
 that only a perfectly educated man is capable of uttering such*^ 
 expressions. Such were Thales of Miletus, and Pittacus of Myti*) 
 lene, and Bias of Priene, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus the 
 Lindian, and IVJyson the Chenian ; and seventh in the catalogue i 
 of wise men was the Lacedaemonian Chilo. All these were lovers. ■> 
 and emulators and disciples of the culture of the LacedaemonisB^, • 
 and any one may perceive that their wisdom was of this characteijm 
 consisting of short memorable sentences, which individiKtls 
 uttered. And they met together and dedicated in the tempfev 
 of Apollo at Delphi, as the first-fruits of their wisdom, the far- 
 famed inscriptions, which are in all men's mouths, * Know thy^ ' 
 self,' and ' Nothing too much.' I 
 
 Why do I say all this ? I am explainii^ that this Lacedaemo^f-f 
 , nian brevity was the style of primitive philosophy. Now there i 
 was a saying of Pittacus which was privately circulated- and •' 
 received the approbation of the wise, 'Hard to be good.' And 
 Simonides, who was ambitious of the fame of wisdom, was aware 
 that if he could overthrow this saying, then, as if he had won 
 a victory over some famous athlete, he would carry oflF the ■. 
 palm among his contemporaries. And if I am not mistaken, he 
 composed the entire poem with the secret intention of damagingio 
 that saying. r<v» 
 
 Let us all unite in examining his words, and see whether I am 
 speaking the truth. Simonides must have been a lunatic,' if, in 
 the very first words of the poem, wanting to say only that to be 
 good is hard, he inserted \iAv, * on the one hand ' (on the one hand' 
 to become good is hard) ; there would be no possible reason for 
 the introduction of \i.iv, unless you suppose him to speak with 
 a hostile reference to the words of Pittacus. Pittacus is saying 
 ' Hard to be good,' and he says, controverting this, ' No, the truly 
 hard thing, Pittacus, is to become good,' not joining < truly ' with 
 'good,' but with ' hard.' Not the hard thing is to be truly good, 
 as though there were some truly good men, and there were 
 others who were good but not truly good (that would be a very 
 simple observation, and quite unworthy of Simonides) j but you 
 must suppose him to make a trajection of the word (d\a«4)ife| 
 construing the saying of Pittacus thus (and let us imagine Pittacus 
 
PROTAGORAS. 153 
 
 to be speaking and Simonides answering him) : 5 O my friends,' 
 says Pittacus, *hard to be good,' and Simonftes answers, 'In that, 
 jPittacus, you are mistaken, the difficulty is not to be good, but 
 on the one hand, to become good, four-square in hands and feet 
 and .^mind, without a flaw — ^that is hard truly.' This way of 
 reading the passage accounts for the insertion of {}x.kv) ' on the 
 9ne hand,' and for the use of the word 'truly,' which is rightly placed 
 at the end; and all that follows tends to prove that this is the 
 meaning. A great deal might be said in praise of the details 
 of the poem, which is a charming piece of workmanship, and 
 very finished, but that would be. tedious. I should like, however^ 
 to point out the general intention of the poem, which is certainly 
 designed in every part to be a refutation of the saying of Pittacus. 
 For he speaks in what follows a little further on as if he meant 
 to argue that although there is a difficulty in becoming good, yet 
 this is possible 'for a time, and only for a time. But having 
 become good, to remain in a good state and be good, as you, 
 Pittacus, affirm, that is not possible, and is not granted to man ; 
 God only has this blessing; 'but man cannot help being bad when 
 the force of circumstances overpowers him.' Now whom does the 
 force of circumstances overpower in the command of a vessel ? — 
 not the private individual, for he is always overpowered ; and as 
 one who is already prostrate cannot be overthrown, but only he 
 who is standing upright and not he who is prostrate can be laid 
 prostrate, so the force of circumstances can only be said to over- 
 power him who has, resources, and not him who is at all times 
 helpless. The descent of a great storm may make the pilot helpless, 
 or the severity of the season the husbandman or *he physician ; 
 for the good may become bad, as another poet witnesses : — 
 
 ' The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad.' 
 But the bad does not become bad; he is always bad. So 
 that when the force of circumstances overpowers the man of 
 resources and skill and virtue, then he cannot help being bad. 
 And you, Pittacus, are saying, 'Hard to be good.' Now there 
 is a difficulty in becoming good ; and yet this is possible : but to 
 be 'good is an impossibility; 'for he who does well is the good 
 man, and he who does ill is the bad.' But what sort of doingis 
 good in letters ? and what sort of doing makes a man good in 
 letters? Clearly the knowing of them. And what sort of well- 
 
154 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 doing makes a man a good physician? Clearly the knowing of 
 the art of healing the sick. 'But he who does ill is the bad.' 
 Now who becomes a bad physician ? Clearly he who is in the 
 first place a physician, and in the second place a good physidan; 
 for he may become a bad one also : but none of us unskilled indi- 
 viduals can by any amount of doing ill become physicians, any 
 more than we can become carpenters or anything of that sortj 
 and he who by doing ill cannot become a physician at all, clearly 
 cannot become a bad physician. In like manner the good may i 
 become deteriorated by time, or toil, or disease, or other accident i 
 (the only real ill-doing* is the deprivation of knowledge), but the ; 
 bad man will never become bad, for he is always bad ; and if he : 
 were to^ become bad, he must previously have been good. Thus ; 
 the words of the poem tend to show that on the one hand a man 
 cannot be continuously good, but that he may become good and ; 
 may also become bad ; and again that ' they are the best for the '. 
 longest time whom the gods love.' 
 
 All this relates to Pittacus, as is further proved by the sequeL i 
 For he adds : ' Therefore I will not throw away my life in search- : 
 ing after the impossible, hoping in vain to find a perfectly fault- s 
 less man among those who partake of the fruit of the broad- i: 
 bosomed earth; and when I have found him to tell you of him' - 
 (this is the veheimeiit way in which he pursues his attack upon il 
 Pittacus throughout the whole poem) : ' but him who does no evil a 
 voluntarily I praise and lovej — not even the gods war agdnst j 
 necessity.' All this has a similar drift, for Simonides was not > 
 so ignorant as to say that he praised those who did no evil : 
 voluntarily, as though there were some who did evil voluntarily, ji 
 For no wise man, as I believe, will allow that any human being » 
 errs voluntarily, or voluntarily does evil' and dishonourable^ 
 actions; but they are very well aware that all who do evil and V 
 dishonourable things do them against their will. And Simonides ; 
 never says that he praises him who does no evil voluntarily; the i- 
 word ' voluntarily ' applies to himself. For he was under the ■^^ 
 impression that a good man might often compel himself to love , 
 and praise another, and that there might be an involuntaryslove, i, 
 such as a man might feel to an ungainly father or mother, or to . 
 his country, or something of that sort. Now bad men, when their • 
 parents or country have any defects, rejoice at the sight of them, :- 
 
PROTAGORAS. 155 
 
 and expose them to others, and find fault with them and denounce 
 
 them, under the idea that the rest of mankind will be less likely 
 
 to take them to task and reproach them when they neglect them; 
 
 and this makes them exaggerate their defects, in order that the 
 
 ■odium which is necessarily incurred by them may be increased : 
 
 but the good man dissembles his feelings, ajid constrains himself 
 
 to .praise them ; and if they have wronged him and he is angry, he 
 
 -pacifies his , anger and is reconciled, and compels himself to love 
 
 and praise his own flesh and blood. Aiid Simonides, as is probable, 
 
 ?iiOnsidered that he himself had often had to praise and magnify a 
 
 ilyrant or the like, much against his will, and he also wishes to 
 
 amply to Pittacus that he is not censorious and does not censure 
 
 him. 'For I am satisfied,' he. says, 'when a man is neither bad 
 
 nor very stupid, and when he knows justice (which is the health 
 
 -of states), and is of sound mind, I will find no fault with him, 
 
 for I am not given to finding fault, for there are innumerable 
 
 fools ' (implying that if he delighted in censure he might have 
 
 abundant opportunity of finding fault). ' All things are good with 
 
 which evil is unmingled.' In these latter words he does not mean 
 
 to say that all things are good which have no evil in them, as 
 
 you might say ' All things are white which have no black in them,' 
 
 for that would be ridiculous ; but he means to say that he accepts 
 
 and finds no fault with the moderate or intermediate state. ' I 
 
 do not hope,' he says, ' to find a perfectly blameless man among 
 
 . those who partake of the fruits of the broad-bosomed earth, and 
 
 when I have found him to tell you of him ; in this sense I praise 
 
 ; no man. But he who is moderately good, and does no evil, is 
 
 , good enough for me, who love and approve every one * (and here 
 
 1^ observe that he uses a Lesbian word, kiraCvrifu, because he is ad- 
 
 * dressing Pittacus,— 'who love and approve every one voluntarily,' 
 
 says, 'who does no evil:' and that the stop should be put after 
 
 :;' voluntarily'); 'but there are some whom I involuntarily praise 
 
 and love. And you, Pittacus, I would never have blamed, if you 
 
 f^had spoken what was moderately good and true ; but I do blame 
 
 *' you because, wearing the appearance of truth, you are speaking 
 
 j f^sely about the greatest matters.' /And this, I said, Prodicus and 
 
 ,) Protagoras, I take to be the true meaning of Simonides in this 
 
 ,'poem. 
 
 Hippias said : I think, Socrates, that you have given a very good 
 
v 
 
 156 PROTAGORAS, 
 
 \ explanation of this poem ; but I have also an excellent interpret 
 
 • tion of my own which I will expound to you^ if you will allow nif 
 
 Nay, Hippias, said Alcibiadesj not now, but another tim 
 
 ■At present we must abide by the compact which was ma< 
 
 between Socrates and Protagoras, to the effect that as long ; 
 
 Protagoras is willing to ask, Socrates should answer; or that 
 
 he would rather answer, then that Socrates should ask. 
 
 I said : I wish Protagoras either to ask or answer as he is inclinec 
 but I would rather have done with poems and pdes, if you do nc 
 object, and come back to the question about which I was askin 
 you at first, Protagoras, and by your help make an end of tha 
 The talk about the poets seems to me like a commonplace, entei 
 tainment to which a vulgar company have recourse j who, becaus 
 they are not able to converse or amuse one another, while the 
 are drinking, with the sound of their own voices and conversatio: 
 by reason of their stupidity, raise the price of flute-girls in th 
 market, hiring for a great sum the voice of a flute instead of thei 
 own breath, to be the medium of intercourse among them : bu 
 where the company are real gentlemen and men of education,-yoi 
 will see no flute-girls, nor dancing-girls, nor harp-girls ; and the; 
 have no nonsense or games, but are contented with one another*! 
 conversation, of which their own voices are the medium, am 
 which they carry on by turns and in an orderly manner, evei 
 though they are very liberal in their potations. And a companj 
 like this of ours, and men such as we profess to be, do not re 
 quire the help of another's voice, or _q£ the poets whom yoi 
 cannot interrogate about the meaning of what they are saying; 
 people who cite them declaring; some that the poet has one 
 meaning, and others that he has another ; and there arises a dis- 
 pute which can never be put to the proof. This sort of enter- 
 tainment they decline, and prefer to talk with one another, and 
 try one another's mettle in conversation. And these are the sort 
 of models which I desire that you and I should imitate. Leaviflg 
 the poets, and keeping to ourselves, let us try the mettle of one 
 another and of the truth in conversation. And if you have a mind 
 to ask I am ready to answer; or if you would rather, do you 
 answer, and give me the opportunity of taking up and completing 
 our unfinished argument. 
 
 I made these and some similar observations; but Protagoras 
 
PROTAGORAS. 157 
 
 k) would not distinctly say which he would do. Thereupon Alci- 
 bl bjades turned to Callias, and said :^Do yflU think, Callias, that 
 «l Beatagoras is fair in refusing to say whether he will or will not 
 Jl ajisyer ? for I certainly think that he is unfair ; he ought either 
 il(, to proceed with the argument, or distinctly to refuse to proceed, 
 1! tiiat we may know his intention ^ and then Socrates will be able 
 to discourse with some one else, and the rest of the company will 
 lif be free to talk with one another. 
 
 fil I think that Protagoras was really made ashamed by these wofds 
 m of Alcibiades, and when the prayers of Callias and the company 
 i\ were superadded, he was at last induced to argue, and said that 
 it I might ask and he would answer. 
 
 i(|| < So I said: Do not imagine, Protagoras, that I have any other 
 iS interest in asking questions of you but that of clearing up my 
 E own difficulties. For I think that Homer was very right in saying 
 *, that 'When two go^together, one sees before the other?,' for all men 
 jjj who have a companion are readier in deed, word, or thought j 
 .\i but if a man ' sees a thing when he is alone,' he goes about 
 straightway seeking until he finds some one to whom he may 
 I; J show his discoveries, and who may confirm him in them. And 
 j; I would rather hold discourse with you than with any one, because 
 ^ I think that no man has a better understanding of most things 
 j^ which a good man may be expected to understand, and in 
 IjI particular of virtue. For who is there, but you ? — who not only 
 jj claim to be a good man and a gentleman, for many are this, and 
 '^ yet have not the power of making others good. Whereas you are 
 |2not only good yourself, but also the cause of goodness in others.^ 
 ^J^oreover such confidence have you in yourself, that although other 
 _jjSophists conceal their profession, you proclaim in the face of 
 jHellas that you are a Sophist or teacher of virtue and education, 
 jand are the first who demanded pay in return. How then can I do 
 ietherwise than invite you to the examination of these subjects, 
 
 «■ "nd ask. questions and take advice of you? Indeed, I must. And 
 should like once more to have my memory refreshed by you 
 i about the questions which I was asking you at first, and also to have 
 "^your help in considering them. If I am not mistaken the question 
 "was this: Are wisdom and temperance and courage and justice 
 'and holiness five names of the same thing ? or has each of the 
 
158 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 names a separate underlying essence and corresponding tliinj 
 having -a proper function, no one of them being like any othe 
 of them ? And you said that the five names were not the name 
 of the same thing, but that each of them had a separate object 
 and that all of them were parts of virtue, not in the same wa; 
 that the parts of gold are like each other and the whole of whid 
 they are parts, but as the parts of the face are unlike the whol( 
 of which they are parts and one another, and have each of then 
 a distinct function. I should like to know whether this is stil 
 your opinion ; or if not, I will ask you to define your meaning 
 as I shall not take you to task if you now make a different state 
 ment. For I dare ,say that you may have said what you did onl] 
 in order to make trial of me. 
 
 I answer, Socrates, he said, that all these qualities are parti 
 of virtue, and that four out of the five are to some extent similaf, 
 and that the fifth of them, which is courage, is very different fron 
 the other four, as I prove in this way : You may observe thai 
 many men are utterly unrighteous, unholy, intemperate, ignorant 
 who are nevertheless remarkable for their courage. 
 
 Stop, I said J that requires consideration. When you speak oi 
 brave men, do you mean the confident, or another sort of nature ? 
 
 Yes, he said • I mean the impetuous, ready to go at that whid 
 others are afraid to approach. 
 
 In the next place, you would affirm virtue to be a good thing, oi 
 which good thing you assert yourself to be a teacher. 
 
 Yes, he said ; I should say the best of all things, as I am a 
 ^ane man. 
 
 And is it partly good and partly bad, I said, or wholly good? 
 
 Wholly good, and that in the highest degree. 
 
 Tell me then; who are they who have confidence in divinf 
 into a well ? 
 
 I should say, the divers. 
 
 And the reason of this is that they have knowledge ? 
 
 Yes, that is the reason. ( 
 
 And who have confidence in fighting on horseback — the skillec 
 horsemen or the unskilled ? 
 
 The skilled. 
 
 And who in fighting with light shields — the peltasts or th( 
 nonpeltasts? 
 
PROTAGORAS. 159 
 
 The peltasts.- And that is true of all other things, he said, 
 if tiiat is your point : those who have knovWedge are more con- 
 sfident than those who have no knowledge, and they are more 
 i confident after they have learned than before. 
 
 , And have you not seen persons utterly ignorant, I said, of these 
 \ things, and yet confident about them ? 
 11 Yes, he said, I have seen persons very confident. 
 i( And are not these confident persons also courageous ? 
 1 1 Ii} that case, he replied, courage would be a base thing, for the 
 jmen of whom we are speaking are surely madmen. 
 |i Then who are the courageous ? Are they not the confident ? 
 : Yes, he said ; and I still maintain that. 
 
 And those, I said, who are thus confident without knowledge 
 
 I are really not courageous, but mad ; and in that case the wisest 
 
 liare also the most confident, and being the most confident are also 
 
 jthe bravest, and upon that view again wisdom will be courage. 
 
 ^ Nay, Socrates, he replied, you are mistaken in your re- 
 
 jinenibrance of what was said by me. When you asked me, 
 
 r certainly did say that the courageous are the confident j but 
 
 ,,I was not asked whether the confident are the courageous; for 
 
 j,if you had asked me that, I should have answered ' not all of 
 
 jjthem:' and what I did answer you have not disproved, although 
 
 you proceed to show that those who have knowledge are more 
 
 jpurageous than they were before they had knowledge, and more 
 
 courageous than others who have no knowledge ; and this makes 
 
 .you think that courage is the same as wisdom. But in this 
 
 ' way of arguing you might come to imagine that strength is 
 
 .wisdom. You might begin by asking whether the strong, are..able, 
 
 "and I should say 'Yes'j and then whether those who know how 
 
 to, wrestle are not more able to wrestle than those who »do not 
 
 bow how to wrestle, and more able after than before they had 
 
 earned, and I should assent. And when I had admitted this, you 
 
 night use my admissions in such a way as to prove that upon my 
 
 aew wisdom is strength ; whereas in that case I should not have 
 
 idmitted, any more than in the other, that the able are strong, 
 
 "^tlthough I have admitted that the strong are able. For there is 
 
 I difference between ability and strength; the former is given 
 
 )y knowledge as well as by madness or rage, but strength comes 
 
 *'*'rom nature and a healthy state of the body. And in like manner 
 
i6o PROTAGORAS. 
 
 I say of confidence and courage, that they are not the same; and 
 I argue that the courageous are confident, but not all the confident 
 courageous. For confidence may be given to men by art, and also, 
 like ability, by anger and madness ; but courage comes to them 
 from nature and the healthy state of the soul ? \ 
 
 I said : You would admit, Protagoras, that some men live well 
 and others ill ? 
 
 He agreed to this. 
 
 And do you think that a man lives well who lives in pain and 
 grief? 
 
 He does not. 
 
 But if he lives pleasantly to the end of his life, don't you thinlc 
 that in that case he will have lived well ? 
 
 I do. 
 
 Then to live pleasantly is a good, and to live unpleasantly an 
 evil ? 
 
 Yes, he said, if the pleasure be good and honourable. 
 
 And do you, Protagoras, like the rest of the world, call some \ 
 pleasant things evil and some painful things good ? — for I am : 
 rather disposed to say that things are good in as far as they are 
 pleasant, if they have no consequences of another sort, and in ' 
 as far as they are painful they are bad. 
 
 I do not know, Socrates, he said, whether I can venture to t 
 assert in that unqualified manner that the pleasant is the good \ 
 and the painful the evil. Having regard not only to my present ;: 
 answer, but also to the rest of my life, I shall be safer, if I am ^ 
 not mistaken, in saying that there are some pleasant things which \ 
 are not good, and that there are some painful things which are ; 
 good, and some which are not good, and that there are some ; 
 which are neither good nor evil. \/ 
 
 And you would call pleasant, I said, the things which participate j 
 in pleasure or create pleasure ? 
 
 Certainly, he said. 
 
 Then my meaning is, that in as far as they are pleasant they are - 
 good ; and my question would imply that pleasure is a good in itself. ; 
 
 According to your favourite mode pf speech, Socrates, Jet us ■ 
 inquire about this, he said ; and if the result of the inquiry is to , 
 show that pleasure and good are really the same, then we will'* 
 agree ; but if not, then we will argue. 
 
PROTAGORAS. i6i 
 
 \r. And would you wish to begin the enquiry? I saidj or shall 
 f I begin ? • 
 
 |a You ought to take the lead, he said; for you are the author of 
 ifthe discussion. 
 
 f May I use this as an illustration? I said. Suppose some one 
 
 ! who is enquiring into the health or some other bodily quality of 
 
 another : — he looks at his face and at the tips of his fingers, and 
 
 ^ then he says," Uncover your chest and back to me that I may have 
 
 I* a better view : — that is the sort of thing which I desire in this 
 
 peculation. Having seen what your opinion is about gqpd and 
 
 pleasure, I am minded to say to you : Uncover your mind to me, 
 
 ^ Protagoras, and reveal your opinion about knowledge, that I may 
 
 know whether you agree with the rest of the world. Now the 
 
 rest of the world are of opinion that knowledge is a principle not 
 
 g| of strength, or of rule, or of command u their notion is that a man 
 
 may have knowledge, and yet that the knowledge which is in 
 
 him may be overmastered by anger, or pleasure, or pain, or love, 
 
 i or perhaps fear, — just as if knowledge were a slave, and might be 
 
 i dragged about anyhow. Now is that your view ? or do you think 
 
 i! that knowledge is a noble arid commanding thing, which cannot 
 
 i be overcome, and will not allow a man, if he only knows the 
 
 difference of good and evil, to do anything which is contrary to 
 
 ( knowledge, but that wisdom will have strength to help him ? 
 
 j> I agree with you, Socrates, said Protagoras; and not only that, 
 
 , but I, above all other men, am bound to say that wisdom and 
 
 l( knowledge are the highest of human things. / 
 
 jj ' Good, I said, and true. But are you aware that the majority of 
 
 ^ the world are of another mind ; and that men are commonly sup- 
 
 ,, posed to know the things which are best, and not to do them 
 
 when they might ? And most persons of whom I have asked the 
 
 reason of this have said that those who did thus were overcome 
 
 by pain, or pleasure, or some of those affections which I was just 
 
 now mentioning. 
 
 J ' Y.es, Socrates, he replied ; and that is not the only point about 
 
 , which mankind are in error. 
 
 ' Suppose, then, that you jnd I endeavour to instruct and inform 
 , . them what is the nature of this affection, which is called by them 
 "being overcome by pleasure, and which, as they declare, is the 
 * reason why they know the better and choose the worse. When we 
 
 M 
 
1 62 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 say to them : Friends, you are mistaken, and are saying what 
 not true, they would reply : Socrates and Protagoras, if this ; 
 fection of the soul is not to be described as being overcome 
 pleasure, what is it, and how do you call it ? Tell us that. 
 
 But why, SocrateSj should we trouble ourselves about the opinic 
 of the many, who just say anything that happens to occur to then 
 I think, I replied, that their opinion may help us to discov 
 the nature and relation of courage to the other parts of virtu 
 If you are disposed to abide by our recent agreement, that I shou 
 lead in the way in which I think that we shall find the truth bes 
 do you follow ; but if you are disinclined, never mind. 
 
 You are quite right, he saidj and I would have you procee 
 as you have begun. 
 
 Well then, I said, let me suppose that they repeat their ques 
 tion; What account do you give of that which, in our language 
 is termed being overcome by pleasure ? I should answer ther 
 thus : Listen, and Protagoras and I will endeavour to show yoi 
 When men are overcome by eating and drinking and other sensua 
 desires which are pleasant, and they, knowing them to be evil 
 nevertheless indulge in them, is not that what you would- cal 
 being overcome by pleasure ? That they will admit. And suppose 
 that you and I were to go on and ask them again : In what waj 
 do you say that they are evil, — in that they are pleasant and giv« 
 pleasure at the moment, or because they cause disease and povert) 
 and other like evils in the future ? Would they still be evil, ii 
 they had no attendant evil consequences, simply because thej 
 give the consciousness of pleasure of whatever nature.' Would 
 they not answer that they are not evil on account of the pleasure 
 which is immediately given by them, but on account of the after 
 consequences— diseases and the like ? 
 
 I believe, said Protagoras, that the world in general would give 
 that answer. 
 
 And in causing diseases do they not cause pain ? and in causing 
 poverty do they not cause pain ;— they would agree to that also, 
 if I am not mistaken ? 
 Protagoras assented. 
 
 Then I should say to them, in my name and yours : Do you 
 think them evil for any other reason, except that they end in pain 
 and rob us of other pleasures :— that again they would admit ? 
 
PROTAGORAS, 163 
 
 i 
 
 4 We both of us thought that they would. ^ 
 
 \ And tlien I should take the question from the opposite point 
 1 of view, and say : Friends, when you speak of goods being painfiil, 
 ' do you not mean remedial goods, such as gymnastic exercises and 
 , military services, and the physician's use of burning, cutting, 
 ; digging, and starving ? Are these the things which are good but 
 
 k painful ?— tiiey would assent to that ? 
 , He agreed. 
 ' And do you call them good because theiy occasion the greatest 
 
 immediate suffering and pain j or because, afterwards, they bring 
 
 health and iftiprovement of the bodily condition and the salvation 
 'I* of states and empires and wealth ? — they would agree to thatj if 
 
 I am not mistaken ? 
 He assented. 
 ■ Are these things good for any other reason except that they end 
 * in pleasure, an^ get rid of and avert pain ? Are you looking to 
 *' any other standard but pleasure and pain when you call them 
 ■' good ? — they would acknowledge that they were not ? 
 ** I think that they would, said Protagoras. 
 
 ^ And do you not pursue after pleasure as a good, and avoid pain 
 i'' as an evil ? 
 1' He assented. 
 
 " Then you think that pain is an evil and pleasure is a good : 
 Hi and even pleasure you deerti an evil, when it robs you of greater 
 Ik' pleasiires than it gives, or causes greater pain than the pleasures 
 i» which it has. If, however, you call pleasure an evil in relation 
 t! to some other end or standard, you will be able to show us that 
 Ikj standard. But you llave none to show. 
 jl I do not think that they have, said Protagoras. 
 
 And have you not a similar way of speaking about pain ? You 
 l#call pain a good when it. takes away greater pains than those 
 
 which it hafe, or gives pleasures greater than the pains : for I say 
 ^(ithat if you have some standard other than pleasure and pain to 
 jHwhich you refer when you call actual pain a good, you can show 
 
 what that is. But you cannot. 
 That is true, said Protagoras. 
 j;! Suppose again, I said, that the world says to me : Why do you 
 ^ispend many words and speak in many ways on this subject ? Excuse 
 ^me, fifiends, I should reply ; but in- the first place there is a dif- 
 
1 64 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 ficulty in explaining the meaning of the expression ' overcome b; 
 pleasure 3' and the whole argument turns upon this. And evei 
 now, if you see any possible way in which evil can be explainei 
 as other than pain, or good as other than pleasure, you may stil 
 retract. But I suppose that you are satisfied at having a life 
 pleasure which is without pain. And if you are satisfied, and i: 
 you are unable to show any good or evil which does not end ii 
 pleasure and pain, hear the consequences : — If this is true, thei 
 I say that the argument is absurd which affirms that a man ofter 
 does evil knowingly, when he might abstain, because he is'seducec 
 and amazed by pleasure; or again, when you say that a mar 
 knowingly refuses to do what is good because he is overcome a1 
 the moment by pleasure. Now that this is ridiculous will be 
 evident if only we give up the use of various names, such as 
 pleasant and painful, and good and evil. As there are two things, 
 let us call them by two names — first, good and evil, and then 
 pleasant and painfiil. Assuming this, let us go on to say that 
 a man does evil knowing that he does evil. But some one will 
 ask. Why? Because he is overcome, is the first answer. And 
 by what is he overcome? the enquirer will proceed to ask. 
 And we shall not be able to reply 'By pleasure,' for the name of 
 pleasure has been exchanged for that of good. In our answer, 
 then, we shall only say that he is overcome. 'By what?' he will 
 reiterate. By the good, we shall have to reply j indeed we shall. 
 Nay, but our questioner will rejoin with a laugh, if he be one of 
 the swaggering sort. That is too ridiculous, that a man should do 
 what he knows to be evil when he ought not, because he is over- 
 come by "good. Is that, he will ask, because the good was worthy 
 or not worthy of conquering the evil ? And in answer to that we 
 shall clearly reply. Because it was not worthy j for if it had been 
 worthy, then he who, as we say, was overcome by pleasure, would 
 not have been wrong. But how, he will reply, can the good be 
 unworthy of the evil, or the evil of the good ? Is not the real 
 explanation that they are out of proportion to one another, either 
 as greater and smaller, or more and fewer? This we cannot 
 deny. And when you speak of being overcome — what do you 
 mean, he will say, but that you choose the greater evil in ex- 
 change for the lesser good? This being the case, let us now 
 substitute the| names of pleasure and pain, and say, not as before, 
 
PROTAGORAS. 165 
 
 that a man does what is evil knowingly, but that he does what 
 is^ painful knowingly, and because he is ^ercome by pleasure, 
 which is unworthy to overcome. And what measure is there of 
 the relations of pleasure to pain other than excess and defect, 
 which means that they become greater and smaller, and more and 
 fewer, and differ in degree ? For if any one says : ' Yes, Socrates, 
 \> but immediate pleasure differs widely from future pleasure and 
 p pain ' — To that I should reply : And do they differ in any other way 
 I except by reason of pleasure and pain? There can be no other 
 measure of them. And do you, like a skilful weigher, put into 
 I the balance the pleasures and the pains, near and distant, and 
 , ^eigh them, and then say which outweighs the other. If you 
 1 weigh pleasures against pleasures, you of course take the more 
 4 ^nd greater ; or if you weigh pains against pains, you take the 
 Ilewer and the less j or if pleasures against pains, then you choose 
 J, that course of action in which the painful is exceeded by the 
 . pleasant, whether the distant by the near or the near by the dis- 
 'i tant ; and you avoid that course of action in which the pleasant 
 ' is exceeded by the painful. Would you not admit, my friends, 
 1, that this is true ? I am confident that they cannot deny this. 
 I He agreed with me. 
 
 .,,, Well then, I shall say, if you admit that, be so good as to 
 , answer me a question : Do not the same magnitudes appear 
 , larger to your sight when near, and smaller when at a distance ? 
 , They will acknowledge that. And the same holds of thickness 
 1 and number; also sounds, which are in themselves equal, are 
 " greater when near, and lesser when at a distance. They will grant 
 J that also. Now siJ(pposing that happiness consisted in making 
 and taking large things, what would be the saving principle of 
 ^ human life? Would the art of measuring be the saving principle, 
 "or would the power of appearance? Is not the latter that de- 
 ceiving art which makes us wander up and down and take the 
 "■things at one time of which we repent at another, both in our 
 * actions and in our choice of things great and small ? But the art 
 •*" of measurement is that which would do away with the effect of 
 s* appearances, and, showing the truth, would fain teach the soul at 
 •''llast to find rest in the .truth, and would thus save our life. Would 
 '%4 ^mankind generally acknowledge that the art which accom- 
 jl'^lishes this is the art of measurement? 
 
1 66 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 Yes, he said, the art of measurement. 
 
 Suppose, again, the salvation of human life to depend on th 
 choice of odd and even, and on the knowledge of when me 
 ought to choose the greater or less, either in reference to their 
 selves or to each other whether near or at a distance ; what woul 
 be the saving principle of our lives ? Would not knowledge ?— 
 knowledge of measuring, when the question is one of excess an 
 defectj and a knowledge of number, when the question is of odi 
 and even? The world will acknowledge that, will they not? ^ 
 
 Protagoras admitted that they would. 
 
 Well then, I say to them, my friends ; seeing that the salvatio: 
 of human life has been found to consist in the right choice c 
 pleasures and pains, — in the choice of the more and the fewei 
 and the greater and the less, and the nearer and remoter, mus 
 not this measuring be a consideration of excess and defect an 
 equality in relation to each other ? 
 
 That is undeniably true. 
 
 And this, as possessing measure, must undeniably also be ai 
 art and science ? 
 
 They wiU agree to that. 
 
 The nature of that art or science will be a matter of futun 
 consideration j the demonstration of the existence of such a scieno 
 is a sufficient answer to the question which you asked of m 
 and Protagoras. At the time when you asked the question, if yoi 
 remember, both of us were agreeing that there was nothinj 
 mightier than knowledge, and that knowledge, in whatever exist 
 ing, must have the advantage over pleasure and all other things 
 and then you said that pleasure often got the advantage even ove 
 a man who has knowledge ; and we refused to allow this, and yoi 
 said : O Protagoras and Socrates, if this state is not to be calla 
 being overcome by pleasure, tell us what it is ; what would ya 
 call it ? If we had immediately and at the time answered ' Igno 
 ranee,' you would have laughed at us. But now, in laughing at us 
 you will be laughing at yairselves : for you also admitted that mei 
 err in their choice of pleasures and pains j that is, in their choice o 
 good and evil, from defect of knowledge ; and you admitted furthei 
 that they err, not only from defect of knowledge in general, but o: 
 that particular knowledge which is called measuring. And yoi 
 are also aware that the erring act which is done without knowledgl 
 
PR0T4G0RAS. 1 67 
 
 is done in ignorance. This, therefore, is the meaning of being 
 overcome by pleasure j — ignorance, and that the greatest. And our 
 friends Protagoras and Prodicus and Hippias declare that they are 
 the physicians of ignorance j but you, who are under the mistaken 
 impression that ignorance is not the cause, neither go yourselves, 
 nor send your children, to the Sophists, who are the teachers of 
 these things — you take care of your money and give them none; 
 and the result is, that you are the worse oiF both in public and 
 private life : — Let us suppose this to be our answer to the world 
 in general. But I would like now to ask you, Hippias, and you, 
 Prodicus, as well as Protagoras (for the argument is to be yours as 
 well as ours), whether you think that I am speaking the truth or 
 not? 
 They all thought that what I said was entirely true. 
 
 * Then you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good, and the 
 painful evil. And here I would beg my friend Prodicus not to 
 introduce his distinction of names, whether he is disposed to say 
 pleasurable, delightful, joyful. However and in whatever way he 
 rejoices to name them, I will ask you, most excellent Prodicus, to 
 answer this in my sense. 
 
 Prodicus laughed and assented, as did the others. 
 
 Then, my friends, I said, what do you say to this ? Are not all 
 actions, the 1;endency of which is to make life painless and plea- 
 sant, honourable and useful ? The honourable work is also useful 
 and good ? 
 
 This was admitted. 
 > Then, I said, if the pleasant is the good, nobody does anything 
 under the idfea or conviction that some other thing would be 
 better and is also attainable, when he might do the better. And 
 this inferiority of a man to himself is merely ignorance, as the 
 superiority of a man to himself is wisdom. 
 
 They all assented. 
 
 • And is not ignorance the having a false opinion and being 
 deceived about important matters ? 
 
 To that they also unanimously assented. 
 
 Then, I said, no man voluntarily pursues evil, or that which 
 he thinks to be evil. To prefer evil to good is not in human 
 nature ; and when a man is compelled to choose one of two evils, 
 no one will choose the greater when he might have the less. 
 
1 68 PROTAGQRAS. 
 
 All of us agreed to every word of this. 
 
 Well, I said, there is a certain thing called fear or terror ; and 
 here, Prodicus, I, should particularly like to know whether you 
 would agree with me in defining this fear or terror as expectation 
 of evil. 
 
 Protagoras and Hippias agreed, but Prodicus said that this was 
 fear and not terror. 
 
 Never mind about that, Prodicus, I said j but let me ask whether, 
 if our former assertions are true, a man will pursue that which he 
 fears when he need not ? Would not this be in contradiction to the 
 admission which has been already made, that he thinks the things 
 which he fears to be evil j and no one will pursue or voluntarily 
 accept that which he thinks to be evil. 
 
 That also was universally admitted. ; 
 
 Then, I said, these, Hippias and Prodicus, are our premisses; 
 and I would beg Protagoras to explain to us how he can be rightin 
 what he said at first. I do not mean in what he said quite at first, 
 for his first statement, as you may remember, was that whereas 
 there were five parts of virtue none of them was like any other 
 of them; each of them had a separate function. To this, how- 
 ever, I am not referring, but to the assertion which he afterwards 
 made that of the five virtues four were nearly akin to each other, 
 but that the fifth, which was courage, diflfered greatly from the 
 others. And of this he gave me the following proof. He said: 
 You will find, Socrates, that some of the most impious,; and 
 unrighteous^ and intemperate, and ignorant of men are among 
 the most courageous ; and that is a proof that courage is very 
 diiFerent from the other parts of virtue. I was surprised at his 
 saying this at the time, and I am still more surprised now that 
 I have discussed the matter with you. So I asked him whether 
 by the brave he meant the confident. Yes, he replied, and the 
 impetuous or goers. (You may remember, Protagoras, that this 
 was your answer.) A 
 
 He acknowledged the truth of this. ^ 
 
 Well then, I said, tell us against what are the courageous ready 
 to go — ^against the same as the cowards ? . 
 
 No, he answered. , ,> J|| 
 
 Then against something diiFerent? "sf I 
 
 Yes, he said. .T?^a 
 
: PROTAGORAS. 169 
 
 \) , 
 
 \ Then do cowards go where there is safety, and the courageous 
 
 where there is danger ? • 
 
 ll Yes, Socrates, that is what men say. 
 
 That is true, I said. But I want to know against what the 
 courageous are ready to go — against dangers, believing them to 
 be dangers, or not against dangers ? 
 I No, said he ; that has been proved by you in the previous argu- 
 '' ment to be impossible. 
 
 That, again, I replied, is quite true. And if this has been rightly 
 ' proyeii, then no one goes to meet what he thinks to be dangers, 
 . since the want of self-control, which makes men rush into dangers, 
 has been shown to be ignorance. 
 He assented. 
 ^, And yet the courageous man and the coward alike go to meet 
 i ' that about which they are confident j so that, in this point of view, 
 I the cowardly and the courageous go to meet the same things. 
 lb. And yet, Socrates, said Protagoras, that to which the coward 
 '^goes is the opposite of that to which the courageous goes j the 
 one, for example, are ready to go to battle, and the others are 
 not ready. 
 And is going to battle honourable or disgraceful ? I said. 
 Honourable, he replied. 
 j And if honourable, then already admitted by us to be good ; for 
 I all honourable actions we have admitted to be good. 
 ' That is true ; and to that opinion I shall always adhere. 
 3 True, I said. But which of the two are they who, as you say, 
 I are unwilling to go to war, which is a good and honourable 
 ; thing? 
 
 ( The cowards, he replied. 
 
 i( And yet, I said, that which is good and honourable is also 
 ; pleasant? 
 
 That, he said, was certainly admitted. 
 
 And do the cowards knowingly refuse to go to the nobler, and 
 pleasanter, and better ? 
 il The admission of that, he replied, would belie our former 
 admissions. 
 
 But does not the courageous man also go to meet the better, and 
 pleasanter, and nobler ? 
 That must be admitted. 
 
170 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 And the courageous man has no base fear or base confidence ? 
 
 True, he replied. 
 
 And if not base, then honourable ? 
 
 He admitted this. 
 
 And if honourable, then good ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 But the fear and confidence of the coward or foolhardy or 
 madman, on the contrary,, are base ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And these base fears and confidences originate in ignorance and 
 uninstructedness ? 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 Then as to the motive from which the cowards act, do you call 
 that cowardice or courage ? 
 
 I should say cowardice, he replied. 
 
 And have they not been shown to be cowards through their 
 ignorance of dangers ? 
 
 Assuredly, he said. 
 
 And because of that ignorance they are cowards ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And the reason why they are cowards is admitted by you to be 
 cowardice ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 Then the ignorance c& what is and is not dangerous is 
 cowardice ? 
 
 He nodded assent. 
 
 But surely courage, I said, is opposed to cowardice ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And the wisdom which knows what are and are not dangers is 
 opposed to the ignorance of them ? 
 
 To that again he nodded assent. 
 
 And the ignorance of them is cowardice ? 
 
 To that he very reluctantly nodded assent. 
 
 And the knowledge of that which is and is not daiigeiious is 
 courage, and is opposed to the ignorance of these things? 
 
 At this point he would no longer nod assent, but was sikHt. 
 
 And why, I said, do you neither assent nor dissent, Protagoras? 
 
 Finish the argument by yourself, he said. 
 
 I only want to ask one more question, I said. I want to know 
 
I PROTAGORAS. iti 
 
 'i whether you still think that there are men who are most ignorant 
 and yet most courageous ? « 
 
 You seem to have a great ambition to make me answer, Socrates, 
 and therefore I will gratify you, and say, that this appears to me 
 to be impossible consistently with the argument. 
 My only object, I said, in continuing the discussion, has been 
 
 s the desire to ascertain the relations of virtue and the essential 
 
 ii nature of virtue ; for if this were clear, I am very sure that the 
 other controversy which has been carried on at great length by both 
 
 « of us — you affirming and I denying that virtue can be taught — 
 would also have become clear. The result of our discussion 
 appears to me to be singular. For if the argument had a human 
 
 |i voice, tliat voice would be heard laughing at us and saying : Pro- 
 tagoras and Socrates, you are strange beings ; there are you who 
 were saying that virtue cannot be taught, contradicting yourself 
 
 ! now in the attempt to show that all things are knowledge, in- 
 cluding justice, and temperance, and courage,— which tends to 
 show that virtue can certainly be taiught ; for if virtue were other 
 than knowledge, as Protagoras attempted to show, then clearly 
 virtue cannot be taught ; but if virtue is entirely knowledge, as 
 
 I you, Socrates, are seeking to show, then I cannot but suppose that 
 virtue is capable of being taught. Protagoras, on the other hand, 
 who started by saying that it might be taught, is now eager to 
 
 J show that it is anything rather than knowledge j and if this is 
 true, it must be quite incapable of being taught. Now I, 
 Protagoras, perceiving this terrible confusion of ideas, have a great 
 desire that they should be cleared up. And I should like to carry 
 on the discussion until we ascertain what virtue is, and whether 
 
 I capable of being taught or not, lest haply Epimetheus should trip 
 us up and deceive us in the argument, as he forgot to provide for 
 us in the story • and I prefer your Prometheus to your Epimetheus : 
 of him I make use whenever I am busy about these questions in 
 Promethean care of my own life. And if you have no objection, 
 
 I as I said at first, I should like to have your help in the enquiry. 
 ' Protagoras replied : Socrates, I am not of a base nature, and 
 
 I I am the last man in the world to be envious. I cannot but 
 
 . applaud your enthusiasm in the conduct of an argument. As 
 I have often said, I admire you above all men whom I know, 
 certainly above all men of your age ; and I believe that you will 
 
172 PROTAGORAS. 
 
 become very eminent in philosophy. Let us come back to the 
 subject at some future timej at present we had better turn to 
 something else. 
 
 By all means, I said, if that is your wish j for I too ought long 
 since to have kept the engagement of which I spoke before, and 
 only tarried because I could not refuse the request of the noble 
 Callias. This finished the conversation, and we went our way. 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Euthydemus is, of all the Dialogues of Plato, that in which he 
 approaches most nearly to the comic poet. The mirth is broader, the 
 irony more sustained, the contrast between Socrates and the two 
 Sophists, although veiled, penetrates deeper than in any other of his 
 writings. - Even Thrasymachus, in the Republic, is at last pacified, and 
 becomes a friendly and interested auditor of the great discourse. But in 
 the Euthydemus the mask is never dropped',* the accustomed irony of 
 Socrates continues to the end. 
 
 Socrates narrates to Crito a remarkable scene in which he has himself 
 taken part, and in which the two brothers, Dionysodorus and Euthy- 
 demus are the chief performers. They are' natives of Chios, who have 
 been exiled from Thurii, and in former days had appeared at Athens as 
 teachers of rhetoric and of the art of fighting in armour. To this they 
 have now added a new fighting accompUshment — the art of Eristic, or 
 •fighting with words, which they are likewise willing to teach ' for a consi- 
 deration.' But they can also teach virtue in a very short time and in the 
 very best manner. Socrates, who is always on the look out for teachers of 
 virtue, is interested in the youth Cleinias, the grandson of the great Alci- 
 biades, and is desirous that he should have the benefit of their instructions. 
 He is quite ready to fall down and worship them ; although the greatness 
 of their professions does arouse in his mind a temporary incredulity. 
 
 A circle gathers round them, in the midst of which are Socrates, the 
 two brothers, the youth Cleinias, who is watched by the eager eyes of his 
 lover Ctesippus, and others. The performance begins ; and such a per- 
 formance as might well seem to require an invocation of Memory and 
 the Muses. It is agreed that the brothers shall question Cleinias. 
 ' Cleinias/ says Euthydemus, ' who learn, the wise or the unwise ? ' ' The 
 wise,' is the reply ; given with blushing and hesitation. ' And yet when 
 
176 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 you learned you did not know and were not wise.' Then Dionysodorus 
 takes up the ball : ' Who are they who learn dictation of the grairiinar- 
 master; the wise boys or the foolish boys?' ' The wise.' ' Then after 
 all the wise learn.' ' And do they learn,' said Euthydemus, ' what they 
 know or what they do not know?' 'The latter.' 'And dictation is 
 a dictation of letters ? ' 'Yes.' ' And you know letters ? ' 'Yes.' ' Then 
 you learn what you know.' ' But,' retorts Dionysodorus, ' is not learning 
 acquiring knowledge?' 'Yes.' 'And you acquire that which you 
 have not got already.' ' Then you learn that which you do not know.' 
 
 Socrates is afraid that the youth Cleinias may be discouraged at these 
 repeated overthrows. He therefore explains to him the nature of the 
 process to which he is being subjected. The two strangers are not 
 serious; there are jests at the mysteries which precede the enthrohe- 
 ment, and he is being initiated into the mysteries of the sophisticalrituali 
 This is all a sort of horse-play; which is now ended. The exhorta-' 
 tion to virtue will follow, and Socrates himself (if the wise men will iw' 
 - laugh at him) is desirous of carrying on such an exhortation, by way of 
 example to them, according to his own poor notion. He prdeeeds 
 to question Cleinias. The result of the investigation may be summed 
 up as follows : — 
 
 All men desire good ; and good means the possession of goodSj such 
 as wealth, health, beauty, birth, power, honour; not forgetting the virtues 
 and wisdom. And yet in this 'enumeration the greatest good of all is 
 omitted. What is that? Good fortune. But what need is there of 
 good fortune when we have wisdom already ; — in every art and business 
 are not the wise also the fortunate? This is admitted! And again, the 
 possession of goods is not enough ;^ there must be a right use of them 
 as well, and this can only be given by knowledge -, in themselves they 
 are neither good nor evil, but knowledge and wisdom are the only good, 
 and ignorance and folly the only evil. The conclusion is that we must 
 get ' wisdom.' But can wisdom be taught ? ' Yes,' says Cleinias. Socrates 
 is delighted at the ingenuousness of the youth relieving him from the 
 necessity of discussing one of his great puzzles. ' As wisdom is the only 
 good, he must become a philosopheii or lover of wisdom.' 'That I 
 will,' says Cleinias^ 
 
 After Socrates has given this specimen of his own mode of instructioii, 
 the two brothers recommence their exhortation to virtue^^which is of quite 
 another sort. 
 
INTRODUCTION. ill 
 
 'Youwant Cleiniastobewise,? 'Yes.' '.And he is not wise yet?' 'No.' 
 
 ' Then you want, him to be what 'he^is not, and not to be what he is ?™— 
 
 not to be — that is, to perish. , Pretty lovers and friends you must all be ! * 
 
 ..Here Ctesippus^ the lover of Cleinias interposes in great excitement, 
 
 ^linking that he will teach the two Sophists a lesson of good manners, 
 
 i. But he is quickly entangled in the meshes of their sophistry ;, and as 
 
 a storm seems to be gathering Socrates pacifies him with a joke, and 
 
 Ctesippus then says that he is not reviling the two Sophists^ he is only 
 
 contradicting them, ' But,' says' Dionysodorus, ' there is no such thing 
 
 as contradiction. When you and I describe the same thing, or you 
 
 ^escribe one thing and I describe another, how is there any contradiction 
 
 , in that ?' Ctesippus is unable to reply, 
 
 Socrates has already heard of the denial of contradiction, and would 
 , like to be informed by the great master of the art,"*What is the meaning 
 ,, of this?' Do they mean that there is no such thing as error, ignorance, 
 ^^ {^ehood ? Then what are they professing to teach ? The two Sophists 
 . complain that Socrates is ready to answer what they said a year ago, but 
 ' is '.aon-plussed' at what they are saying now. 'What does the word 
 " non-plussed " mean ?.' Socrates is informed in reply that words are 
 lifeless things, and lifeless things have no sense or meaning. Ctesippus 
 , again breaks out, and again has to be.pacified by Socrates, who renews the 
 , conversation with Cleinias. The two Sophists are like Proteus in the 
 ' variety of their transformations, and he, like Menelaus, hopes to restore 
 , them to their natural form. 
 
 , He had arrived at the conclusion that philosophy must be studied. 
 And philosophy is the possession of knowledge ; and knowledge must 
 'be of a kind which is profitable, and in which knowledge and use 
 
 * coincide. What knowledge is there which is of such a nature ? Not the 
 knowledge which is required in any particular art ; nor again the art of 
 
 'the^eomposer of speeches, who knows how to write them, but cannot 
 
 speak„them, although he too must be admitted to be a kind of enchanter 
 
 'of^wild animals. Neither is the knowledge for which we are searching 
 
 * Aejknowledge of the general. For the general makes over his prey to the 
 '^^ginan, as the 'huntsman does to the cook, or the taker of quails to 
 ■^^ keeper of quails ; he has not the use of that which he acquires. The 
 
 two. enquirers, Cleinias and Socrates, are described as wandering about 
 ''pa wilderness, vainly searching after the art of life and happiness. At 
 %t they fix upon the kingly art, as having the desired sort of knowledge. 
 
178 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 But the kingly art only gives men those goods which are neither good 
 nor evil : and if we say further that it makes us wise, in what doesdt 
 make us wise ? Not in special arts, such as cobbling or carpentering, 
 but only in itself: or say again that it makes us good, there isno answer 
 to the question, 'good in what?' At length in despair Cleinias and 
 Socrates turn to the ' Dioscuri ' and request their aid. 
 
 Euthydemus argues that Socrates knows something ; and as he cannot 
 know and not know, he cannot know some things and not know' others, 
 aitd thetefore he knows all things : he and Dionysodorus and all other 
 men know all things. ' Do they know shoemaking, &c ? ' ' Yes.' The 
 sceptical Ctesippus would like to have some evidence of this extra- 
 ordinary statement : he will believe if Euthydemus will tell him- how 
 many stumps of teeth Dionysodorus has, and if Dionysodoniffiwill give 
 him a like piece of information about Euthydemus. Even Socrates is 
 incredulous, and indulges in a little raillery at the expense of j the 
 brothers. But he restrains himself, remembering that if the men who 
 are to be his teachers think him stijpid they will take no pains withuhim. 
 Another fallacy is produced which turns on the absoluteness of the verb 
 ' to know.' And here Euthydemus is caught ' napping,' and is induced 
 by Socrates to confess that ' he does not know the good to be unjust' 
 Socrates recommends him to call his brother Dionysodorus to his assist- 
 ance, as Heracles called his nephew lolaus. Dionysodorus rejoins that 
 lolaus was no more the nephew of Heracles than of Socrates. For 
 a nephew is a nephew, and a brother is a brother; and a father is a 
 father, not of one man only, but of all ; nor of men only, but of dogs 
 and sea-monsters. Ctesippus makes merry with the consequences which 
 follow : ' Much good has your father got out of the wisdom of bis 
 puppies.' 
 
 But, says Euthydemus, unabashed, 'Nobody wants much good.' 
 Medicine is a good, arms are a good, money is a good, and yet there 
 may be too much of them in wrong .places, ' No,' says Ctesij^fij ; 
 'there cannot be too much goldi' ' And would you be happy if you hacf 
 three talents of gold in your belly, a talent in your pate, and a stater in I 
 either eye ?' Ctesippus, imitating the new wisdom, replies, ' And do not ] 
 the Scythians reckon those to be the happiest of men who have their | 
 skulls gilded and see the inside of them ?' ' Do you see,' retorts Euthy- ; 
 demus, 'what has the quality of vision or what has not the quality of , 
 vision ?' ' What has the quality of vision.' 'And you see our garments?' , 
 
INTRODUCTION. 179 
 
 ' Yes.' ' Then our garments hlave the quality of vision.' A similar 
 play of words follows, which is successfully retofted by Ctesippus, to the 
 great delight of Cleinias, who is rebuked by Socrates for laughing at 
 such solemn and beautiful things. 
 
 ' But are there any beautiful things ? And if there are such, are they 
 the same or not the same as absolute beauty?' Socrates replies that 
 they are not the same, but each of them has some beauty present with 
 it. 'And are you an ox because you have an ox present with you?' 
 i After a few more similar amphibol iae, in which Socrates, like Ctesippus, 
 in self-defence borrows the weapons of the brothers, they both confess 
 that the two heroes are invincible; and. the scene concludes with, a 
 grand chorus of shouting and laughing, and a panegyrical oration from 
 Socrates : 
 
 First, he praises the indifference of Dionysodorus and Euthydemus to 
 ipublic opinion ; for most persons would rather be refuted by such argu- 
 ments than use them in the refutation of others. Secondly, he remarks 
 upon their impartiality ; for they stop their own mouths, as well as those 
 of other -people. Thirdly, he notes their liberality, which makes them 
 give away their secret to all the world: they should be more reserved, 
 and let no one be present at this exhibition who does not pay them 
 money; or better still they might practise on one another only. He 
 concludes with a respectful request that they will take him and Cleinias 
 as their disciples. 
 
 - Crito tells Socrates that he has heard one of the audience criticise 
 severely this wisdom, — not sparing Socrates himself for countenancing 
 such an exhibition. Socrates asks what manner of man was this cen- 
 sorious critic. ' Not an orator, but a great composer of speeches.' 
 Socrates understands that he is an amphibious sort of animal, half 
 philosopher, half politician ; one of a class who have the highest opinion 
 of themselves, and a spite against philosophers, whom they imagine to be 
 their rivals. They are a class who are very likely to get mauled by 
 ■Euthydemus and his friends, and have a great notion of their own 
 wisdom; for they imagine themselves to have all the advantages and 
 none of the drawbacks both of politics and of philosophy. They do 
 not understand the principles of combination, and hence are ignorant 
 that the union of two good things which have different ends produces 
 a compound inferior to either' of them taken separately. 
 * Crito is anxious about the education of his children, one of whom is 
 
i8o EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 growing up. The description of Dionysodorus and Euthydemus suggest 
 to hiin the reflection that the professors of education are strange beings 
 Socrates consoles him with the remark that the good in all profession! 
 are few, and recommends that 'he and his house,' should continue tc 
 serve philosophy, and not mind about its professors. 
 
 There is a stage in the history of philosophy in which the old is dyii^ 
 out, and the new has not yet come into full life. Great philosophies 
 like the Eleatic or Heraclitean, which have enlarged the boundaries ol 
 the human mind, begin to pass away in words. They subsist only as 
 forms which have rooted themselves in language — as troublesome elements 
 of thought which cannot be either used or explained away. The same 
 absoluteness which was once attributed to abstractions is now attached 
 to the words which are the signs of them. The philosophy which in the 
 first and second generation was a grea t and inspiring effort of reflectioBi 
 in the third becomes sophistical, verbal, eristic. 
 
 It is this stage of philosophy which Plato satirises in the Euthydemus. 
 The fallacies which are noted by him appear trifling to us now, but they 
 were not trifling in the age before logic, in the decUne of the earlier Greek 
 philosophies, at a time when language was first beginning to perplex 
 human thought. Besides he is caricaturing them ; they probably received 
 more subtle forms at the hands of those who seriously maintained them. 
 They are patent to us in Plato, and we are inclined to wonder how.any 
 one could ever have been deceived by them ; but we must remember 
 also that there was a time when the human mind was only with great 
 difficulty disentangled from such fallacies. 
 
 To appreciate fully the drift of the Euthydemus, we should imagine 
 a mental state in which not individuals only, but whole schools during 
 more than one generation, were animated by the desire to exclude the 
 conception of rest, and therefore the very word ' thus ' from language ; 
 in which the ideas of space, time, matter, motion, were proved to be con- 
 tradictory and imaginary ; in which the nature of qualitative change was 
 a puzzle, and even differences of degree, when appUed to abstract 
 notions, were not understood ; in which contradiction itself was denied; 
 in «'hich, on the one hand, it was affirmed that every predicate was 
 true of every subject, and on the other hand, that no predicate was tme 
 of any subject ; and that nothing was, or was known, or could be spoken. 
 
INTRODUCTION^ i8i 
 
 Let tis imagihe disputes carried on with religious eafnestness and more 
 than scholastic subtlety, in which the catchwords of philosophy are 
 completely detached from their context. To such disputes the humour, 
 Whether of Plato in the ancient, or of Pope and Swift in the modern 
 world, is the natural enemy. Nor must we forget that in modern times 
 also there is no fallacy so gross, no trick of language so transparent, 
 no abstraction so barren and unmeaning, no form of thought so contra- 
 dictory to experience, which has not been found to satisfy the minds 
 of philosophical enquirers at a certain stage, or when regarded from a 
 Certain point of view only. The peculiarity of the fallacies of our own 
 age is that we live within them, and are therefore generally unconscious 
 of them. 
 
 Aristotle has analysed several of the same fallacies in his book ' De 
 ■Sophisticis Elenchis,' which Plato, with equal command of their true 
 •nature, has preferred to bring to the test of ridicule. At first we are only 
 struck with the broad humour of this ' reductio ad absurdum ;' gradually 
 we perceive that some important questions begin to emerge. Here, as 
 Everywhere else, Plato is making war against the philosophers who put 
 words in the place of things, who tear arguments to tatters, who deny 
 predication, and thus make knowledge impossible. Two great truths seem 
 to be . indirectly taught through these fallacies: (i) The uncertainty of 
 language, which allows the same words to be used in different meanings, 
 or with different degrees of meaning: (2) The necessary limitation or 
 relative nature of all phenomena. Plato is aware that his own doctrine 
 of ideas (p. 301 A.), as well as the Eleatic Being and Not-being, alike 
 admit of being regarded as verbal fallacies (p. 284 A.B.) .> 
 
 Contrasted with the exhibition of the Sophists are the two discourses'!^ 
 of Socrates in several respects : (i) In their perfect relevancy to the sub- 
 ject of discussion, whereas the Sophistical discourses are wholly irrelevant ; 
 
 (2) In their enquiring sympathetic tone, which encourages the youth, 
 instead of 'knocking him down,' after the manner of the two Sophists : 
 
 (3) In the "absence of any definite -conclusion— for while Socrates and 
 the youth are s^jreed that philosophy is to be studied, they are riot able 
 to arrive at any certain result about the art which is to teach it. This is 
 a question which will hereafter be answered in the Repubhc and the 
 Politicus. ~ • 
 
 I The characters of the Dialogue are easily intelligible. There is 
 Socrates once more in the character of an old man ; and his equal in 
 
 \ 
 
182 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 ^ ^ _^ . — > ■ '- 
 
 - years, Crito, the father of Critobulus, like Lysimachus in the Ladhes.^l; 
 fellow demesman (Apol. aa^D), to whom the scene is narrated, and wte 
 once or twice interrupts with a remark after the manner of the interl- 
 locutor in the Phaedo, and adds his commentary at the end ; Soirate* 
 makes a playful allusion to his money-getting habits. There is the 
 youth Cleinias, the grandson of Alcibiades, who may be compared with 
 Lysis, Charmides, Menexenus, and other ingenuous youths out of whosS^ 
 mouths Socrates draws his own lessons, and to whom he always seems 
 to stand in a kindly and sympa;thetic relation. Crito will not believe 
 that Socrates has not improved or fjerhaps invented the answei-s'of 
 Cleinias (cp. Phaedrus, 275 B). The name of the grandson of Alci- 
 biades, who is described as long dead, toO 77aXaio5,and who died at the 
 age of forty-four, in the year 404 b.c, suggests not only that the intended 
 scene of the Dialogue could not have been earlier than "404, but that 
 as a fact this Dialogue, which is probably one of the earliest of the 
 Platonic writings, could not have been composed before 390 at the 
 soonest, and probably even later. (See Introd.) Ctesippus, who is 
 the lover of Cleinias, has been already introduced to us in the 
 Lysis, and seems there too to deserve the character which is here 
 given him, of a somewhat uproarious young man. But the chief 
 study_of^l!_iOte4iictur«-of the-two brothers;~wh5^afe'unapproached in 
 their effrontery, equally careless of what they say to others and of what is 
 said to them, and never at a loss. They are ' Arcades ambo et cantare 
 pares et respohdere pi,rati.' Some superior degree of wit or subtlety is 
 attributed, however, to Euthydemus, who continues the conversation 
 when Dionysodorus has been put to silence. 
 
 The epilogue or conclusion of the Dialogue has been criticised as 
 inconsistent with the general scheme. Such a criticism is like similar 
 criticisms on Shakespeare, and proceeds upon a narrow notion of thie 
 variety which the Dialogue, like the drama, seems to admit. Plato in the 
 abundance of his dramatic power has chosen to write a play upon 
 a play, just as he often gives us an argument within an argument. At 
 the same time he takes the ojiportunity of assailing another class of 
 persons who are as alien from the spirit of philosophy as Euthydemus 
 and Dionysodorus. The Eclectic, the Syncretist, the Doctrinaire, have 
 been apt to have a bad name both in ancient and modern times. The 
 persons whom Plato ridicules in the epilogue to the Euthydemus are of this 
 class. They occupy a border-ground between philosophy and politics; 
 
INTRODUCTION. 183 
 
 they 'are free from the dangers of politics, and at the same time use 
 l^psophy as a means of serving their own interests. Plato quaintly 
 describes them as making two good things, philosophy and politics, 
 a^ip^e worse by perverting the objects of both. 
 
 g^Education is the common subject of all Plato's earlier Dialogues. 
 The soncluding remark of Crito, that he has a difficulty in educating 
 his two sons, and the advice of Socrates to him thit he should not give 
 up philosophy because he has no fa,ith in philosophers, seems to be 
 a preparation for the more peremptory declaration of the Meno that 
 ')yirtue cannot be taught because there are no teachers,' 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE HIALOGUE. 
 
 Socrates, <wi)o is the narrator EUTHYDKMUS." 
 
 of the Dialogue. DiONYSODORUS. • 
 
 Crito. Ctesifpus. 
 
 Cleinias. 
 
 Scene: — The Lyceum. 
 
 Crito. Who was the person, Socrates, with whom you were 
 talking yesterday at the Lyceum ? There was such a crowd around 
 you that I could not get within hearing, but I caught a sight of 
 him over their heads, and I made out, as I thought, that he was 
 a stranger with whom you were talking : who was he ? * 
 
 Socrates. There were two, Crito j which of them do you mean ? 
 
 Cri. The one who was seated second from you on the right-hand 
 side. In the middle was Cleinias the young son of Axiochus, who 
 has wonderfiiUy grown ; he is only about the age of my own 
 Critobulus, but he is much forwarder and very good-looking : the 
 other is thin and looks younger than he is. 
 
 Soc. He whom you mean, Crito, is Euthydemus ; and on my left 
 hand there was his brother Dionysodorus, who also took part in 
 the conversation, 
 
 Cri. 'Neither of them are known to me, Socrates j they are 
 
 ' Or, according to the arrangement of Stallbaum'i — 
 Cri. Neither of them are known to me. 
 Sof. They are a new importation of Sophists, as I imagine. 
 Cri. Of what country, &c. 
 
i86 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 a new importation of Sophists, as I should imagine. Of what 
 country are they, and what is their line of wisdom? ; 
 
 Sec. As to their origin, I believe that they are natives of this , 
 part of the world, and have migrated from Chios to Thurii j they 
 were driven out of Thurii, and have been living for many years 
 past in this region. As to their wisdom, about which you ask, 
 Crito, they are wonderful — consummate ! I never knew what' the 
 true pancratiast was before j they are simply made up of fighting^ 
 not like the two Acarnanian brothers who fight with their bodies 
 only, but this pair are perfect in the use of their bodies and have 
 a universal mode of fighting (for they are capital at fighting^ja^?! 
 armour, and will teach the art to any one who pays them) : and ~ 
 also they are masters of legal fence, and are ready to do battle 
 in the. courts J they will give lessons in speaking and pleading,; 
 and in writing speeches. And this was only the beginning of their,, 
 wisdom, but they have at last carried out the pancratiastic art 
 to the very end, and have mastered the only mode of fighting 
 which had been hitherto neglected by them ; and now no one 
 dares look at them : such is their skill in the war of words, that 
 they can refute any proposition whether true or false. Now 
 I am thinking, Grito, of putting myself in their hands; for 
 they say that in a short time they can impart their skill to any 
 one. 
 
 ^ Cf't. But, Socrates, are you not too old ? there may be reason 
 to fear that. 
 
 Soc. Certainly not, Crito j as I will prove to you, for I have the- 
 consolation of knowing that they began this art of disputation 
 which I covet, quite, as I may say, in old age ; last year, or the 
 year before, they had none of their new wisdom. I am only 
 apprehensive that I may bring the two strangers into disrepute, 
 as I have done Connus the son of Metrobius, the harp-player,- 
 who is still my music-master ; for when the boys who also go to 
 him see me going, they laugh at me and call him grandpapa's 
 /master. Now I should not like the strangers to experience this , 
 sort of treatment, and perhaps they may be afraid and not like 
 to receive me because of this ; and therefore, Crito, I shall try j 
 and persuade some old men to go along with me to tliem, as 
 I persuaded them to go to Connus, and I hope that you wiU make ; 
 one : and perhaps we had better take your sons as a bait j' they ; 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 187 
 
 1 want tQ have them, and will be willing to receive us as 
 )ils for the sake of them. 
 
 "ru I see no objection, Socrates, if you like ; but first I wish that 
 i would give me a description of their wisdom^ that I may know 
 ictfehand what we are going to learn. 
 
 Jof. I will tell you at once j for I cannot say that 1 did not 
 end: the fact was tliat I paid great attention to them, and 
 smember and will endeavour to tell you the whole story. I was 
 (videntially sitting alone in the dressing-room of the Lyceum , 
 which you saw me, and was about to depart, when as I was 
 ting up I recognised the familiar divine sign : so I sat down 
 tin, and in a little while the two brothers Euthydemus and 
 Dnysodorus came in, and several others with them, whom 
 elieve to be their disciples, and they walked about in the 
 fared space ; they had not taken more than two or three turns 
 en Cleinias entered^ who, as you truly say, is very much 
 proved : he was followed by a host of lovers, one of whom was 
 ssippus the Paeanian, a well-bred youth, but also leaving the- 
 Idness of youth. Cleinias saw me from the entiance as I was 
 ting alone, and at once came and sat down on the right hand 
 me, as you describe j and Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, when 
 y saw him, at first stopped and talked with one another, now 
 1 then glancing at us, for I particularly watched them j and then 
 thydemus came and sat down by the youth, and tlie other by 
 
 on the left hand; the rest anywhere. I saluted the bi others, 
 om I had not. seen for a long time; and then I said to Cleinias : 
 ese two men, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, Cleinias, are not 
 a small but in a large way of wisdom, for they know all about 
 r, — all that a good general ought to know about the array and 
 nmand of an army, and the whole art of fighting in armour: 
 i they know about law too, and can t6acTi' a man how to use -^ 
 
 weapons of the courts when he is injured, 
 riiey heard me say this, and I was despised by them; they 
 ked at one another, and ' both of them, laughed ; and then 
 thydemus said: Those, Socratesj are matters .which we no 
 ger pursue seriously ; they are secondary occupations to us. 
 indeed, I said, if such occupations are regarded by you as 
 omdary, what must the principal one be; tell me, I beseech 
 
 I ««TUn4- 4>1-.n4- n/-kKlA cflTi^W 1C ^ 
 
188 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 The teaching of virtue, Socrates, he replied, is our prindpal 
 occupation; and we believe that we can impart it better* and 
 quicker than any man. 
 
 My God! I said, and where did you learn that? I alw^ 
 thought, as I was saying just now, that your chief accomplishment 
 was the art of fighting in armour ; and this was what I used- to 
 say of. you, for I remember that this was professed by you when 
 you were here before. But now if you really have the other know- 
 ledge, O forgive me : I address you as I would superior beings, 
 and ask you to pardon the impiety of my former expressions. But 
 are you quite sure aboiit this, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus: 
 the promise is so vast, that a feeling of incredulity will creep in. 
 
 You may take our word, Socrates, for the fact. 
 
 Then I think you happier in having such a treasure than the 
 great king is in the possession of his kingdom. And please to tell 
 me whether you interid to exhibit this wisdom, or what yoii 
 will do. 
 
 That is why we are come hither, Socrates; and our purpose 
 is not only to exhibit, but also to teach any one who likes to 
 learn. 
 
 But I can promise you, \ said, that every unvirtuous person 
 will want to learn. I shall be the first ; and there is the youth 
 Cleinias, and Ctesippus : and here are several others, I said, point- 
 ing to the lovers of Cleinias, who were beginning to gather round 
 us. Now Ctesippus was sitting at some distance from Cleinias; 
 and when Euthydemus leaned forward in talking with me, he was 
 prevented from seeing Cleinias, who was between us ; and so, 
 partly because he wanted to look at his love, and also because 
 he was interested, he jumped up and stood opposite to us : and 
 all the other admirerfe of Cleinias, as well as the disciples of 
 Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, followed his example. And these 
 were the persons whom I showed to Euthydemus, telling him 
 that they were all eager to learn : to which Ctesippus and all 
 of them with one voice vehemently assented, and bid him ex- 
 hibit the power of his wisdom! Then I said : O Euthydenitis 
 and Dionysodorus, I earnestly request you to do myself and the 
 company the favour to exhibit. There may be some trouble' ih 
 giving the whole exhibition ; but tell me one thing,— cafl you 
 make a good man only of him who is convinced that he ougfit 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 189 
 
 [earn of you, or of him also who is not convinced? either 
 luse he imagines that virtue is not a thifig which can be taught 
 ill, or that you two are not the teachers of it. Say whether 
 r art is able to persuade such an one nevertheless that virtue 
 
 be taught;' and that you are the men from whom he will 
 Host likely to learn. 
 
 "his is the art, "Socrates, said Dionysodorus, and no other. 
 Ind you, Dionysodorus, I said, are the men who among those 
 ) are now living are the most likely to stimulate him to 
 losophy and the study of virtue ? 
 fes, Socrates, I rather think that we are. 
 
 IThen I wish that you would be so good as to defer the other 
 t of the exhibition, and only try to persuade the youth whom 
 
 see here that he ought to be a philosopher and study virtue, 
 libit that, and you will confer a great favour on me and on 
 ry one present ; for the fact is that I and all of us are ex- 
 nely anxious that he should be truly good. His name is 
 inias, and he is the son of Axiochus, and grandson of the old 
 ibiades, cousin of the Alcibiades that now is. He is quite 
 mg, and we are naturally afraid that some one may get . the 
 rt of us, and turn his mind in a wrong direction, and he may 
 ruined. Your visit, therefore, is most happily timed; and 
 ope that you will make a trial of the young man, and converse 
 ;h him in our presence, if you have no objection. 
 These were pretty nearly the expressions which I used; and 
 :hydemus, in a lofty and at the same time cheerful tone, 
 lied : There can be no objection, Socrates, if the young man 
 )nly willing to answer questions. 
 
 -le is quite accustomed to that, I replied ; for his friends often 
 ne and ask him questions and argue with him; so that he 
 It home in answering. 
 
 kVhat followed, Crito, how can I rightly narrate ? for not slight 
 :he task of rehearsing infinite wisdom, and therefore, like the 
 :ts, I ought to commence my relation with an invocation to 
 mory and the Muses. Now Euthydemus, if. I remember 
 itly, began nearly as follows : O Cleinias, are those who learn 
 
 wise or the ignorant ? 
 
 The youth, overpowered by the question, blushed, and in his 
 nlpvitw \nr<\ri^A cit mp fnr bpln.r aiTd- T. knowinff that he was 
 
1 90 EUTHYDEM US. 
 
 disconcerted, said:" Don't be afraid, Cleinias, but answer likf 
 a man whichever you think ; for my belief is that you will deriiB 
 the greatest good from their questions. 
 
 Whichever he answers, said Dionysodorus, leaning forward in 
 my ear and laughing, I prophesy that he will be refuted, Socrafess 
 While he was speaking to me, Cleinias gave his answer : the 
 consequence was that I had no time to warn him of the pre- 
 dicament in which he was placed, and he answered that, those 
 who learned were the wise. 
 
 Euthydemus proceeded: There are those whom you call teachers, 
 are there not ? 
 The boy assented. 
 
 And they are the teachers of those who Iparn— the grammar- 
 master and the lyre-master used to teach you and other boys j. and 
 you were the learners ? 
 Yes. 
 
 And when you were learners you did not as yet know the 
 things which you were learning ? 1 
 
 , No, he said. ^ • 
 
 And were you wise then ? 
 
 No, indeed, he said. y .i 
 
 But if you were not wise you were unlearned ? 
 Certainly. 
 
 You then, learning what you did not know, were unlearned 
 when you were learning ? 
 
 The youth nodded assent. ..^r 
 
 .Then the unlearned learn", and not the wise, Cleinias,- as you 
 imagine. 
 
 At these words the followers of Euthydemus, of whom I spoke, 
 like a chorus at the bidding of their director, laughed and cheered. ^ 
 Then, before the youth had well time to recover, Dionysodonis \ 
 took him in hand, and said: Yes, Cleinias; and when the 
 grammar-master dictated to you, were they the wise boys or the 
 unlearned who learned the dictation ? 
 
 The wise, replied Cleinias. 
 
 Then after all the wise are the learners and riot the unlearned; j 
 and your last answer to Euthydemus was wrong. 
 
 ^ Omitting o-o^oi'. 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 191 
 
 Then foHowed another peal of laughter and shouting, which 
 
 ne from the admirers of the two herdls, who were ravished 
 
 :h their wisdom, while the rest of us were silent and amazed. 
 
 is Euthydemus perceiving, determined to persevere with the 
 
 ith ; and in order to heighten the eiFect went on asking another 
 
 lilar question, which might be compared to the double turn 
 
 an expert dancer. Do those, said he, who learn, learn what 
 
 ;y know, or what they do not know ? 
 
 Dionysodorus said to me in a whisper : That, Socrates, is just 
 
 3ther of the same sort. 
 
 jood heavens, I said ; and your last question was so good ! 
 
 Like All our other questions, Socratss, he replied, — inevitable. 
 
 [ see the reason, I said, why you are in such reputation among 
 
 ir disciples. 
 
 Meanwhile Cleinias had answered Euthydemus that those v/ho 
 
 rned learn what they do not know j and he put him through 
 
 eries of questions as before. 
 
 Don't you know letters ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 All letters ? 
 
 5fes. 
 
 3ut when the teacher dictates to you, does he not dictate 
 
 ters? 
 
 Fie admitted that. 
 
 Then if you know all letters, he dictates that which you know ? 
 
 He admitted that also. 
 
 Then, said the other, you do not learn that which he dictates ; 
 
 ; he_@ji.ly- who does not know letters learns ? 
 
 Nay, said Cleinias ; but I do learn. 
 
 Then, said he, you learn what you know, if you know all the 
 
 ters? 
 
 He admitted that. 
 
 Then, he said^ you were wrong in your answer. 
 
 The word was hardly out of his mouth when Dionysodorus took 
 
 the argument, like a ball which he caught, and had another 
 
 ow at the youth. Cleinias, he said, Euthydemus is deceiving 
 
 I. For tell me no"W, is not learning acquiring knowledge of 
 
 t which one learns ? 
 
 r!lpinia<! assented. 
 
192 EUTH YD EMUS. 
 
 And knowing is having knowledge at the time ? 
 
 He agreed. 
 
 And not knowing is not having knowledge at the time ? 
 
 He admitted that. 
 
 And are those who acquire those who haVe or have not a thing ? 
 
 Those who have not. 
 
 And have you not admitted that those who do not know are of 
 the number of those who have not ? 
 
 He nodded assent. 
 
 Then those who learn are of the class of those who acquire, and 
 not of those who have ? 
 
 He agreed. 
 
 Then, Cleinias, he said, those who do not know learn, and not 
 those who know. 
 
 Euthydemus was proceeding to give the youth a third fall j but 1 
 krj^ that he was in deep water, and therefore, as I wanted to 
 give him a rest, and also in order that he might not get out of 
 heart, I said to him consolingly: You must not be surprised^ 
 Cleinias, at the singularity of their mode of speech : this I say 
 because you may not understand what they are doing with you ; 
 they are only initiating you after the manner of the Corybantes in 
 the mysteries j and this answers to the enthronement, which, if 
 you have ever been initiated, is, as you will know, accompanied by 
 dancing and sport ; and now they are just prancing and dancing 
 about you, and will next proceed to initiate you ; and at this stage 
 you must imagine yourself to have gone through the first part of 
 the sophistical ritual, which, as Prodicus says, begins with initia- 
 tion into the correct use of terms. The two strange gentlemen 
 wanted to explain to you, as you do not know, that the word ' to 
 learn' has two meanings, and is used, first, in the sense of acquiring 
 knowledge of some matter of which you previously have no know- 
 ledge, and also, when you have the knowledge, in the sense of 
 reviewing this same matter done or spoken by the light of this 
 knowledge; this last is generally called 'knowing' rather than 
 ' learning ;' but the word ' learning ' is also used, and you did not 
 see that the word is 'used of two opposite sorts of men, of those 
 who know, and of those who do not know, as they explained. 
 There was a similar trick in the second question, when they asked 
 you whether men learn what they know or what they do not know. 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 193 
 
 These parts of learning are not serious, and therefore I say that 
 these gentlemen are not serious, but only in fun with you. And 
 if a man had all that soft of knowledge that ever was, he would 
 not be at all the wiser ; he would only be able to play with men, 
 tripping them up and oversetting them with distinctions of words. 
 He would be like a person who pulls away a stool from some one 
 when he is about to sit down, and then laughs and claps his hands 
 at the sight of his friend sprawling on the ground. And you must 
 regard ' all that has passed hitherto as merely play. But now I 
 am certain that they will proceed to business, and keep their 
 promise (I will show Ihem how) j for they promised to give me a 
 sample of the hortatory philosophy, but I suppose that they wanted 
 to "have a game of play with you first. And now, Euthydemus and 
 Dionysodorus, I said, I think that we have had enough of this. 
 Will you let me see you exhibiting to the young man, and showing 
 him how he is to apply himself to the study of virtue and wisdom ? 
 And I will first show you what I conceive to be the nature of the 
 task, and what I desire to hear j and if I do this in a very inartistic 
 and ridiculous manner, do not laugh at me, for I only venture to 
 improvise before you because I am eager to hear your wisdom : and 
 I must therefore ask you to keep your countenances, and your 
 disciples also. And now, O son of Axiochus, let me put a questioii 
 to you : Do not all men desire happiness ? And yet, perhaps, this 
 is one of those ridiculous questions which J am afraid to ask, and 
 which ought not to be asked by a sensible man : for what human 
 being is there who does not desire happiness ? 
 > There is no one, said Cleinias, who does not. 
 
 Well, then, I said, since we all of us desire happiness, how can 
 
 we be happy ? — ^that is the next question. Shall we not be happy 
 
 if we have many good things ? And this, perhaps, is even a more 
 
 I'simple question than the first, for there can be no doubt of the 
 
 (answer. 
 
 I He assented. 
 
 II And what things do we esteem good ? No solemn sage is required 
 to tell us this, which may be easily answered ; for every one will 
 say that wealth is a good. 
 Certainly, he said. 
 
 And are not health and beauty goods, and other personal gifts ? 
 u« „ J 
 
194 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 Now, can there be any doubt that good birth, and powerj and 
 honours in one's own land^ are goods ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And what other goods are there ? I said. What do you say of 
 justice, temperance, courage : do you not verily and indeed thinkj 
 Cleinias, that we shall be more right in ranking them as goods 
 than in not ranking them as goods ? For a dispute might possibly 
 arise about this. What then do you say ? 
 
 They are goods, said Cleinias. 
 
 Very well, I said ; and in what c(Anpany shall we find a place for 
 wisdom — among the goods or not ? 
 
 Among the goods. 
 
 And now, I said, think whether we have lefl out any consida' 
 able goods. 
 
 I do not think that we have, said Cleinias. ■% 
 
 Upon recollection, I said, indeed I am afraid that we have left 
 out the greatest of them all. 
 
 What is that ? he asked. 
 
 Fortune, Cleinias, I replied ; which all, even the most foolish, 
 admit to be the greatest of goods. 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 On second thoughts, I added, how narrowly, O son of Axiochus, 
 have you and I escaped making a laughing-stock of ourselves to the 
 strangers. 
 
 Why do you say that ? 
 
 Why, because we have already spoken of fortune, and are but 
 repeating ourselves.. 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 I mean that there is something ridiculous in putting fortune 
 •again forward, and saying the same thing twice over. 
 
 He asked what was the meaning of this, and I replied : Surely 
 wisdom is good fortune j even a child may know that. 
 
 The simple-minded youth was amazed ^ and, observing this, I 
 said to him: Do you not know, Cleinias, that flute-players are 
 most fortunate and successful in performing on the flute ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And are not the scribes most fortunate in writing and reading 
 letters ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 195 
 
 ■ Amid the dangers of the sea, again, are any more fortunate, on 
 the whole than wise pilots ? 
 
 None, certainly. 
 ■■ And if you were engaged in war, in whose company would you 
 rather take the risk-^in company with a wise general, or with a 
 foolish one ? 
 \ With a wise one. 
 
 And if you were ill, whom would you rather have as a com- 
 panion in a dangerous illness — a wise physician, or an ignorant 
 one? 
 
 A wise one. 
 
 You think, I said, that to act with a wise man is more fortunate 
 "than to act with an ignorant one ? 
 
 He assented. 
 3 Then wisdom always makes men fortunate : for by wisdom no 
 man would ever err, and therefore he must act rightly and succeed, 
 or his wisdom would be wisdom no longer. At last we somehow 
 contrived to agree in a general conclusion, that he who had wis- 
 dom had no longer need of fortune. I then recalled to his mind 
 the previous state of the question. You remember, I said, our 
 making the admission that we should be happy and fortunate if 
 many good things were present with us ? 
 *^ He assented. 
 
 And should we be happy by reason of the presence of good 
 things, if they profited us not, or if they profited us ? 
 "If they profited us, he said. 
 
 And would they profit us, if we only had them and did not use 
 them ? For example, if we had a great deal of food and did not 
 eat, or a great deal of drink and did not drink, should we be 
 profited ? •% 
 
 Certainly not, he said. 
 
 Or would an artisan, who had all the implements necessary for 
 his work, and did riot use them, be any the better for the posses- 
 sion of all that he ought to possess ? For example, would a car- 
 penter be any the better for having all his tools and -plenty, of 
 wood, if he never worked ? 
 ■t Certainly not, he said. 
 
 And if a person had wealth and all the goods of which we were 
 
196 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 just now speaking, and did not use them, would he be happ; 
 because he possessed them ? 
 
 No indeed, Socrates. 
 
 Then, I said, a man who would be happy must not only hav( 
 the good things, but he must also use them ; there is no advantagi 
 in merely having them ? 
 
 True. 
 
 Well, Cieinias, but if, you have the use as well as the possesSior 
 of good things, is that sufficient to confer happiness ? 
 
 Yes, in my opinion. ' 
 
 And may a person use them either rightly or wrongly ? 
 
 He must use them rightly. 
 
 That is quite true, I said. And the wrong use of a thing is fei 
 worse than the non-use; for the one is an evil, and the other-is 
 neither a good nor an evil. You admit that ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 Now in the working and use of wood, is not that which gives 
 the right use simply the knowledge of the carpenter ? 
 
 Nothing else, he said. 
 
 And surely, in the manufacture of vessels, knowledge is that 
 Which gives the right way of making them ? , ' . , 
 
 He agreed. 
 
 And in the use of the goods of which we spoke at first — wealth 
 and health and beauty, is not knowledge that which directs us to 
 the right use of tliem, and guides our practice about them ? 
 
 Knowledge, he replied. 
 
 Then in every possession and every use of a thing, knowledge is 
 that which gives a man not only good fortune but success ? »! 
 
 He assented. j 
 
 % And tell me, I said, O tell me, what do possessions profit a man, 
 if he have neither sense nor wisdoin ? Would a man be better off, 
 having and doing many things without' wisdom, or a few.thin^ 
 with wisdom ? Look at the matter thus : If he did fewer things 
 would he not make fewer mistakes ? if he made fewer mistakes 
 would he not have fewer misfortunes? and if he had fewer mis- 
 fortunes would he not be less miserable ? ^ " 
 
 Certainly, he said. ,i^ 
 
 And who would do least — a poor man or a rich man ? ? : '' 
 
 A poor man. .% 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 197 
 
 A weak man or a strong man ? 
 
 A weak man. 
 
 A noble man or a mean man ? 
 - A mean man. 
 
 r= And a coward would do less than a courageous and temperate 
 man? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And an indolent man less than an active man ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And a slow man less than a quick ; and one who had dull per- 
 ceptions of seeing and hearing less than one who had keen ones ? 
 
 All this was mutually allowed by us. , 
 » iThen, I said, Cleinias, the sum of the matter appears to be that 
 the goods of which we spoke before are not to be regarded as goods 
 in themselves, but the degree of good and evil in them depends on 
 whether they are or are not under the guidance of knowledge: 
 under the guidance of ignorance, they are greater evils than their 
 opposites, inasmuch as" they are more able to minister to the evil 
 principle which rules themj and when under the guidance of 
 wisdom and virtue, they are greater goods : but in themselves they 
 are nothing ? 
 
 That, he said, appears to be certain. 
 ^i What then, I said, is the result of all this? Is not this the 
 '^sult — ^that other things are indifferent, and that wisdom is the 
 only good, and ignorance the only evil ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 Let us consider this further point, I said: Seeing that all men 
 
 desire happiness, and happiness, as has been shown, is gained by 
 
 ' a use, and a right use, of the things of life, and the right use of 
 
 -them, and good fortune in the use of them, is given by knowledge,-|| 
 
 I the inference is that every man ought by all means to try and 
 
 f^make himself as wise as he can? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 : And the desire to obtain this treasure, which is far more 
 -precious than money, from a father or a guardian or a friend 
 or a suitor, whether citizen or stranger— the eager desire and 
 prayer to them that they would impart wisdom to you, is not at 
 all dishonourable, Cleinias; nor is any one to be blamed for 
 
 J_" * 11 : ._;.>. Jf.4-*.n4-«^vt +i-* nmr man \u\\(^^\\e^T 
 
ipS EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 a lover or not, if his aim is wisdom. Do you agree to that, I 
 said? 
 
 Yes, he said, I quite agree, and think that you are right. 
 
 Yes, I said, Cleinias, if only wisdom can be taught, and does 
 not come to man spontaneously j for that is a point whith has 
 still to be considered, and is not yet agreed upon by you and 
 me. 
 
 But I think, Socrates, that wisdom can be taught, he said. - - 
 
 Best of men, I said, I am delighted to hear you say that ; and 
 I am also grateful to you for having saved me from a long and 
 tiresome speculation as to whether wisdom can be taught or not. 
 But now, as you think that wisdom can be taught, and that 
 wisdom only can make a man happy and fortunate, will you not 
 - acknowledge that all of us ought to love wisdom, and that you in 
 particular should be of this mind and try to love her ? 
 
 Certainly Socrates, he said ; and I will do my best. 
 
 I was pleased at hearing this ; and I turned to Dionysodorus and 
 Euthydemus and said : That is an example, clumsy and tedious I 
 admit, of the sort of exhortations which I desire you to ofFer 3 and 
 I hope that one of you will set forth what I have been saying in 
 a more artistic style; at any rate take up the enquiry where \ 
 left ofF, and next show the youth whether he should have all 
 knowledge ; or whether there is one sort of knowledge only which 
 will make him good and happy, and what that is. For, as I was 
 saying at first, the improvement of this young man in virtue and 
 wisdom is a matter which we have very much at heart. 
 
 Thus I spoke, Crito, and was all attention to what was coming. 
 I wanted to see how they would approach the question, and where 
 they would start in their exhortation to the young man that he 
 imiiould practise wisdom and virtue. Dionysodorus the elder spoken 
 first. Everybody's eyes were directed towards him, perceiving that 
 something wonderful might shortly be expected, And certainly 
 they were not far wrong 5 for the man,, Crito, began a remarkable 
 discourse well worth hearing, and wonderfully persuasive as an 
 exhortation to virtue. 
 
 Tell me, he said, Socrates and the rest of you who say that you 
 want this young man to become wise, are you in jest or in re^ 
 earnest? 
 
 (I was led by this to imagine that they fancied us to have been 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 199 
 
 jesting when we asked them to converse with the youth, and that 
 this made them jest and play, and being*unrier this impre^jon, 
 I was the more decided in saying that we were in profound 
 ejjnest.) Dionysodorus said: 
 
 ...Reflect, Socrates j you may have to deny your words. 
 -. I have reflected, I said j and I shall never deny my words. 
 
 Well, said he, and so you say that you wish Cleinias to become 
 wise? 
 
 Undoubtedly. 
 
 And he is not wise as yet ? 
 
 At least his modesty will not allow him to say that he is. 
 
 You wish him, he s^id, to become wise and not to be 
 ignorant ? 
 
 That we do. 
 
 You wish him to be what he is not, and no longer to be what 
 he is. 
 
 I was thrown into consternation at this. 
 
 Taking advantage of my consternation he added ; You wish him 
 no longer to be what he is, which can only mean that you wish 
 bim to perish. Pretty lovers and friends they must be who want 
 their favourite not to be, or to perish 1 
 
 When Ctesippus heard this he got very angry (as a lover might) 
 and said ; Strangers of Thurii — if politepcss would allpw me I 
 
 should say. You be What can make you tell such a lie about 
 
 me and the others, which I hardly like to repeat, as that I wish 
 Cleinias to parish ? 
 
 Euthydemus replied: And do you think, Ctesippus, that it 
 is possible to telj a He ? ^ 
 
 Yes, said Ctesippus j I should be mad to deny that. 
 
 And in telling a lie, do you tell the thing of which you speak ^ 
 lot? ^ 
 
 . You tell the thing of which you speak. 
 
 And be who tells, tells that thing which he tells, and no other ? 
 
 Yes, said Ctesippus. 
 
 And that is a distinct thing apart from other things ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And he who says tjiat thing says that whiph is ? 
 
 Yes. -^ 
 
 And he who says that which is, says the truth. And therefore 
 
200 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 Dionysodoras, if he says that which is, says the truth of you and 
 no lie. ' 
 
 ^ • Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus ; but in saying this, he says 
 what is not. 
 
 Euthydemus answered : Arid that which is not is not. 
 
 True. 
 
 And that which is not is nowhere ? 
 
 Nowhere. 
 
 And can any one do anything about that which has no existence, 
 or do to Cleiaias that which is not and is nowhere ? 
 
 I think not, said Ctesippus. 
 
 Well, but do rhetoricians, when they speak in the assembly, do 
 nothing ? 
 
 Nay, he said, they do something. 
 
 And doing is making ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And speaking is doing and making ? -\ 
 
 He agreed. 
 
 Then no one says that which is not, for in saying that, he 
 would be doing nothing ; and you -have already acknowledged that 
 no one can do what is not. And therefore, upon your own showing, 
 no one says what is false; but if Dionysodonis says anything, he 
 says what is true and what is. 
 
 Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus ; but he speaks of things' in 
 a certain way and manner, and not as they really are. 
 
 Why, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus, do you mean to say thsJ; 
 any one speaks of things as they are ? 
 
 Yes, he said, — all gentlemen and truth-speaking persons. 
 
 And are not good things good, and evil things evil ? 
 ^fjk He assented. 
 
 And you say that gentlemen speak of things as they are ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then the good speak evil of evil things, if they speak of them 
 as they are ? 
 
 Yes, indeed, he said; and they speak evil of evil men. And if I 
 may give you a piece of advice, you had better take care that they 
 don't speak evil of you, since I can tell you that the good speak 
 evil of the evil. 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 201 
 
 |i ■ — . _ 
 
 I And do they speak great things of the great, rejoined Euthy- 
 demus, and warm things of the warm ? • 
 
 j Yes, indeed, said Ctesippus; and they speak coldly of the 
 insipid and cold dialectician. 
 
 You are abusive, Ctesippus, you ate abusive ! 
 
 Indeed, I am not, Dionysodorus, he replied j for I love you 
 and am giving you friendly advice, and, if I could, would persuade 
 you not to make so uncivil a speech to me as that I desire my 
 beloved, whom I value above all men, to perish. 
 
 I saw that they were getting exasperated with one another, so 
 I made a joke with him and said: O Ctesippus, I think that we 
 must allow the strangers to use language in their own way, and 
 not quarrel with them about words, but be thankful for what they 
 give us. If they know how to destroy men in such a way as to 
 make good and sensible men out of bad and foolish ones — whether 
 this is a discovery of their own, or whether they have learned 
 from some one else, this new sort of death and destruction, which 
 enables them to get rid of a bad man and put a good one in his 
 place — if they know this (and they do know this — at any rate 
 they said just now that this was the secret of their newly-dis- 
 covered art) — let them, in their phraseology, destroy the youth 
 and make him wise, and all of i^ with him. But if you young 
 men do not like to trust yourselves with them, then fiat experi- 
 mentum in ewpore seith ; I will be the Carian on whom they shall 
 operate. And here I offer my old person to Dionysodorus; he 
 may put me into the pot, like Medea the Colchian, kill me, 
 pickle me, eat me, if he will only make me good. 
 
 Ctesippus said: And I, Socrates, am ready to commit myself to 
 the strangers; they may skin me alive, if they please (and I am 
 pretty well skinned by them already), if only my skin is made a^ 
 last, not like that of Mar^yas, into a leathern bottle, but into 
 a piece of virtue. And here is Dionysodorus fancying that I 
 am angry with him, when I am really not angry at all ; I do but 
 contradict him when he seems to me to be in the wrong: and 
 you must not confound abuse and contradiction, O illustrious 
 Dionysodorus; for they are quite different things. 
 
 Contradiction! said Dionysodorus; why, there never was such 
 a thing. 
 
202 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 Certainly there is, he replied ; there can be no question of that. 
 Do you, Dionysodorus, maintain that there is not ? 
 
 You will never prove to me, he said, that you have heard:any 
 one contradicting any one else. 
 
 Indeed, he said ; then now you may hear Ctesippus contradict- 
 ing Dionysodorus. Are you prepared to make that good ? 
 
 Certainly, he said 
 
 Well, then, are not words expressive of things ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Of their existence or of their non-existence ? 
 
 Of their existence. For, as you may remember, Ctesippus, we 
 just now proved that no man could affirm a negative ; for no one 
 could affirm that whicli is not. 
 
 And what does that signify, said Ctesippus ; you and I may 
 contradict all the same for that. 
 
 But can we contradict one another, said Dionysodorus, whea 
 both of us are describing the same thing ? Then we must surely 
 be speaking the same thing ? 
 %w He admitted that. 
 
 af . Or when neither^ of us is speaking of the same thing? For 
 then neither of us says a word about the thing at all ? 
 
 He granted that also. 
 
 But when I describe something and you describe another 'thing, 
 
 or I say something and you say nothing — is there any contradic- 
 
 J tion? How can he who speaks contradict him who speaks not? 
 
 'Tfil Here Ctesippus was silent ,' and I in my astonishment saiji: 
 
 f What do you mean, Dionysodorus ? I have often heard, and have 
 
 been amazed, to hear this thesis of yours, which is maintained and 
 
 employed by the disciples of Protagoras, and others before them, 
 
 ^nd which to me appears to be quite wonderful and suicidal, as 
 
 well as destructive, and I think that I am most likely to hear the 
 
 truth of this from you. The dictum is that there is no such thing 
 
 as falsehood j a man must either say what is true or say nothir^ 
 
 Is not that your position ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 But if he cannot speak falsely, may he not think falgely ? 
 
 No, he cannot, he said. 
 
 Then there is no such thing as false opinion ? ■•\ih:W^' 
 
 No, he said. -M S 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 203 
 
 . Then there is no such thing as ignorance, or men who .are 
 ignorant ; for is not ignorance, if there be Hich ^ thing, a mistake 
 of facts ? 
 
 Certainly, he said. 
 
 And that is impossible ? 
 
 Impossible, he replied. 
 
 Are you saying this as a paradox, Dionysodorus ; or do you 
 seriously maintain that no man is ignorant ? 
 
 Do you refute me ? he said. 
 
 But how can I refute you, if, as you say, falsehood is impossible ? 
 \ ■: Very true, said Euthydemus. 
 
 Neither did I tell you just now to refute me, said Dionysodorus ; 
 for how can I tell you to do that which is not ? , 
 
 *•■ O Euthydemus, I said, I have but a dull conception of these 
 * subtleties and excellent devices of wisdom j I am afraid that I 
 hardly understand them, and you must forgive me therefore if I 
 ' ask a very stupid question : if there be no falsehood or false 
 opinion or ignorance, there can be no such thing as erroneous 
 action, for a man cannot fail of acting as he is acting — tlmt is 
 what you mean ? 'S^^.. -^^ 
 
 Yes, he replied. •■HSf' 
 
 And now, I said, I will ask my stupid question : If there is no 
 gach thing as error in deed," word, or thought, then what, in the 
 name of goodness, do you come hither to teach? And were you 
 not just now saying that you could teach virtue best of all men, to ^^ 
 any one who could learn ? ' ' ■ 
 
 And are you such an old fool, Socrates, rejoined Dionysodorus,'., 
 that you bring up now what I said at first— and if I had said 
 Kifflything last year, I suppose that you would bring that np^-but 
 are non-plussed at the words I have just uttered ? ^ 
 
 Why, I said, they are not easy to answer; for they are the 
 words of wise men; and indeed I have a great difficulty in 
 liStowiag what you mean in that last expression of yours, ' that I am 
 non-plussed at them.' What do you mean by that, Dionysodorus ? 
 You must mean that I have no refutation of them. Tell me if the 
 words have any other sense. 
 
 No, he said; the sense or meaning of them is that there is 
 a difficulty in answering them ; and I wish that you would answer. 
 
 What, before you, Dionysodorus ? I said. 
 
204 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 Answer, said he. i 
 
 And is that fair ? "* 
 
 Yes, quite fair, he said. 
 
 Upon what principle ? I said. I can only suppose that you iare 
 a very wise man, who comes to us in the character of a grea* 
 logician, and who know when to answer and when not to answer J 
 and now you won't open your mouth at all, because you know that 
 you ought not. 
 
 You prate, he said, instead of answering. But if, my good sir, 
 you admit that I am wise, answer as I tell you. 
 
 I suppose that I must obey, for you are master. Put the 
 question. 
 
 Are the things which have sense alive or lifeless ? 
 
 They are alive. 
 
 And do you know of any word which is alive ? '« 
 
 I cannot say that I do. 
 
 Then why did you ask me what sense my words had ? 
 
 Why, because I was stupid and made a mistake. And yet, per- 
 haps, I was right after all in saying that words have a sense ; — what 
 do you say, wise man? If I was not in error, and you do not 
 .refute me, all your wisdom will be non-plussedj but if I did fall 
 into error, then again you are wrong in saying that there is no 
 error, — and this remark was made by you not quite a year ago. I 
 am inclined to think, however, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus,. 
 that this argument is not very likely to advance : even your skiM 
 in the subtleties of logic, which is really amazing, has not found 
 out the way of throwing another and not falling yourselfi 
 
 Ctesippus said : Men of Chios, Thurii, or however and whatever 
 you call yourselves, I wonder at you, for you seem to have no 
 , objection to talking nonsense. 
 
 Fearing that there would be high words, I endeavoured to soothe 
 Ctesippus, and said to him : To you, Ctesippus, I must repeat 
 what I said before to Cleinias — that you don't understand the 
 peculiarity of these philosophers. They are not serious, but, likie 
 the Egyptian wizard, Proteus, they take different forms and deceive 
 us by their enchantments: and let us, like Menelaus, refuse to let 
 them go until they show us their real form and character. When 
 they are in earnest their full beauty will appear : let us then beg 
 and entreat and beseech them to shine forth. And I think that I 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 205 
 
 had better show them once more the form in which I pray to 
 behold them. I will go on where I left ofF bSfore, as well as I can, 
 in the hope that I may touch their hearts and move them to pity, 
 and that when they see me deeply serious, they may also be serious. 
 You, Cleinias, I said, shall remind me at what point we left ofF. 
 Did we not agree that philosophy should be studied ? and was not 
 that our conclusion ? 
 
 Yes, he replied. 
 • And philosophy is the acquisition of knowledge? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And what knowledge ought we to acquire ? Is not the simple 
 answer to that, A knowledge that will do us good ? 
 
 Certainly, he said. 
 
 And should we be any the better if we went about having a know- 
 ledge of the places where most gold was hidden in the earth ? 
 
 Perhaps we should, he said. 
 
 But have we not already proved, I said, that we should be none 
 the better oflf, even if without trouble and digging all the gold that 
 there. is in the earth were ours ? And if we knew how to convert 
 stones into gold, the knowledge would be of no value to us, 
 unless we also knew how to use the gold ? Do. you not remember ? 
 I said. 
 
 I quite, remember, he said. 
 
 Nor would any other knowledge, whether of money-making, or 
 of medicine, or of any other art which knows only how to make a 
 thing, and not to use that which is made, be of any use to us. Is 
 not that true ? 
 
 He agreed. 
 : And if there were a knowledge which was able to make men 
 immortal, without giving them the knowledge of the way to use 
 the immortality, neither would there be any use in that, if we may 
 argue from the analogy of the previous instances ? 
 
 To all this he agrped. 
 
 Then, my dear boy, I said, the knowledge which we want is one 
 that uses as well as makes ? 
 * True, he said. 
 
 And our desire is not to be skilful lyre-makers, or artists of that 
 sort J far otherwise : for with them the art which makes is one, and 
 the art which uses is another. Having to do with the same, they 
 
2o6 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 are divided ; for the art which makes and tlie art which plays on 
 the lyre differ widely from one another. Am I not-riglit? 
 
 He ^reed. ' ro 
 
 And clearly we do not want the art of the flute-makef j for that 
 is another of the same sort ? 
 
 He assented. ■ ;! 
 
 But suppose, I said, that we were to learn the art of making 
 speeches — would that be the art which would make us happy? 
 
 I think not, rejoined Gleinias. '■ 
 
 And what proof have you of that ? I asked. 
 
 I see, he replied, that there are some composers of speechesTsho 
 do not know how to use the speeches which they make, just as the 
 makers of lyres do not know how to use the lyres; and also some 
 who are of themselves unable to compose speedies, but are able 
 to use. the speeches which the others make for themj and -this 
 proves that the art of making speeches is not the same as the art 
 of using them. 
 
 Yes, I said ; and that I think is a sufficient proof that the art of 
 making speeches is not one which will make a man happy. And yet 
 I did think that the art which we are seeking might be discoverei 
 in that direction ; for the composers of speeciies, whenever J meet 
 them, always appear to me to be very extraordinary men, Cleinks, 
 and their art is lofty and divine, and no wonder. For their art- is ; 
 a part of the great art of enchantment, and hardly, if at ail, inferior 
 to it : and whereas the art of the enchanter is a mode of charming 
 snakes and spiders and scorpions, and other monsters and pests, 
 this art acts upon dicasts and ecclesiasts and bodies of menj for 
 the charming and consoling of them. Do you agree with me? ' .; 
 
 Yes, he said, I think that you are quite right. . 
 
 Whither then shall we go, I said, and to what aa-t shall we have 
 recourse? ' -' 
 
 I do not see my way, he said. r:*^E 
 
 But I think that I do, I replied. '^ 
 
 And what is your notion ? asked Gleinias. 
 
 I think that the art of the general is the one the possessiMi'of 
 which is most likely to make a man happy. '■'^^■ f 
 
 I do not think that, he said. i^ 
 
 Why not ? I said. 'a*> 
 
 The art of the general is surely an art of hunting mankind. '# 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 207 
 
 ; What of that ? I said. 
 
 Why, he said, no art of hunting extend beyond hunting and 
 capturing ; and when the prey is taken they cannot use it ; but the 
 kuotsman or fisherman hands it over to the cook, and the geo- 
 -metricians and astronomers and calculators (who all belong to the 
 hunting class, for they do not make their diagrams, but only find 
 oat that which was previously contained in them) — they/ L say, 
 not being able to use but only to catch their prey, hand over their 
 inventions to the dialecticians to be applied by th-cm, if they have 
 any sense in them. 
 .Good, I said, fairest and wisest Cleinias. And is this true ? 
 
 Certainly, he said j just as a general when he takes a city or 
 a camp hands over his new acquisition to the statesman, for he 
 does not know how to use them himself j or as the quail-taker 
 tesmsfers the quails to the keeper of them. If we are looking for^ 
 that art which is to make us blessed, and which is able to use that 
 which it makes or takes, the art of the general is not the one, 
 and some other -must be found. 
 
 i- Cn. And do you mean to say, Socrates, that the youngster said 
 that? 
 
 Sot. Are you incredulous, Crito ? 
 
 Cw. Indeed, I am; for if he said that, I am of opinion that he 
 needs neither £uthydemus nor any one else to be his instructor. 
 
 &c. Perhaps I may have forgotten, and Ctesippus was the real 
 answerer. 
 
 Cri, Ctesippus ! nonsense. 
 
 Soc. All I know is that I heard these words, and that they were 
 not spoken either by Euthydemus or Dionysodorus. I dare say, my 
 good Crito, that they may have been spoken by some superior 
 person. That I heard them I am certain. 
 
 Cri. Yes, indeed, Socrates, by some one a good deal superior, as 
 I should be disposed to think. But did you carry the search any 
 further, and did you find the art which you were seeking ? 
 
 Soc. Find ! my dear, sir, no indeed. And we cut a poor figure ; 
 we were like children after larks, always on the point of catching 
 the art, which was always getting away from us. But why should 
 I repeat the whole story ? At last we came to the kingly art, and 
 enquired whether that gave and caused happiness, and then we 
 got into a labyrinth, and when we thought we were at the 
 
2o8 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 end, came out again at the beginning, having still tp seek as 
 much as ever. 
 
 Cri. How did that happen, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. I will tell you j the kingly art was identified by us with the 
 political. 
 
 Cri. Well, and what came of that ? 
 
 Soc. To this royal or political art all the arts, including that of 
 the genera], seemed to render up the supremacy, as to the only one 
 which knew how to use that which they created. This seemed to 
 be the very art which we were seeking — the art which is the 
 source of good government, and which may be described, in the 
 language of Aeschylus, as alone sitting at the helm of the vessel of 
 state, piloting and governing all things, and utilizing them. 
 
 Cri. And were you not right, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. You shall judge, Crito, if you are willing to hear what' 
 followed ; for we resumed the enquiry, and a question of this sort 
 was asked : Does this kingly art, having this supreme authority, 
 do anything for us ? To be sure, was the answer. And would 
 not you, Crito, say the same ? 
 
 Cri. Yes, I should. 
 
 Soc. And what would you say that the kingly art jdoes? If 
 medicine were supposed to have supreme authority over the sub- 
 ordinate arts, and I were to ask you a similar question about that, 
 you would say that it produces health ? 
 
 Cri. I should. 
 
 Soc. And what of your own art of husbandry, supposing that to 
 have supreme authority over the subject arts — what does that 
 do ? Does it not supply us with the fruits of the earth ? 2 
 
 Cri. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And what does the kingly art do when invested with 
 supreme power ? Perhaps you may not be ready with an answer ? 
 
 Cri. Indeed I am not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. No more were we, Crito. But at any rate you know that 
 if this is the art which we were seeking, it ought to he. usefiil ? 
 
 Cri. Certainly. '* 
 
 Soc. And surely it ought to do us some good? "^ 
 
 Cri. Certainly, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And Cleinias and I had arrived at the conclusion that know- 
 ledge is the only good ? 4; 
 
V EUTHYDEMUS. 200 
 
 ^*- 
 
 Cri. Yes, that was what you were saying. 
 
 Soc. All the other results of politics, and^they are many, as for 
 example, wealth, freedom, tranquillity, were neither good nor evil 
 ia themselves ^ but the political science ought to make us wise, 
 and impart wisdom to us, if that is the science which is likely to 
 do us good, and make us happy. 
 
 , Cri. Yes ; that was the conclusion at which you had arrived, 
 according to your report of the conversation. 
 
 Soc. And does the kingly art make men wise and good ? 
 
 Cri. Why not, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. What, all men, and in every respect? and teach them all the 
 a-rts, — carpentering, and cobbling, and the rest of them ? 
 
 Cri. I do not think that, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. But then what is this knowledge, and what are we to do 
 with it ? For it is not the source of any works which are neither 
 good nor evil, nor of any knowledge, but the knowledge of itself; 
 what then can it be, and what are we to do with it ? ShaiU we 
 say, Crito, that it is the knowledge by which, we are to make 
 other men good ? 
 
 Cri. By all means. 
 
 Soc. And in what way will they be good and useful ? Shall we 
 -repeat that they will make others good, and that these others will 
 make others again, without ever determining in what they are 
 to be good ; for we put aside the results of politics, as they are 
 called. Why, here is iteration ; as I said, we are just as far, if 
 not farther, than ever from the knowledge of the art or science 
 of happiness. 
 
 i Cri. Indeed, Socrates, you do appear to have got into a great 
 perplexity. 
 
 Soc. Thereupon, Crito, seeing that I was on the point of ship- 
 wreck, I lifted up my voice, and earnestly entreated and called 
 upon the strangers to save me and the youth from the whirlpool of 
 the argument; they were our Castor and Pollux, I said, and they 
 should be serious, and show us in sober earnest what that know- 
 ledge was which would enable us to pass the rest of our lives in 
 happiness. 
 
 Cri. And did Euthydemus show you this knowledge ? 
 
 Soc. Yes, indeed ; he proceeded in a lofty strain to the following 
 effect: Would you rather, Socrates, said he, that I should show 
 
2 T o E UTHYDEMUS. 
 
 you this knowledge about which you are doubting, or shall I prove 
 that you already have it ? 
 
 What, I said, are you blessed with such a power as this ? 
 
 Indeed I am. 
 
 Then I would much rathef that you should prove me to have 
 such a knowledge ; at my time of life that will be more agreeable 
 than having to learn. 
 
 Then tell me, he saidj do you know anything ? 
 
 Yes, I said, I know many things, but not anything of much 
 importance. 
 
 That will do, he said. And would you admit that anything is 
 what it is, and at the same time is not what it is ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 And did you not say that you knew something? 
 
 I did. 
 
 If you know, you are knowing. 
 
 Certainly, of the knowledge which I have. 
 
 That makes no difference j — and must you not, if you are know- 
 ing, know all things ? 
 
 Certainly not, I said, for there are many other things, which 1 
 do not know. 
 
 And if you do not know, you are not knowing. 
 
 Yes, my friend, I said, I am not knowing of that which I do not 
 know. . ' 1 
 
 Still you are not knowing, and you said just now that you were 
 knowing ; arid therefore you are and are not at the same time, and 
 in reference to the same things. 
 
 That sounds well, Euthydemus; and yet I must ask you to 
 explain how I have that knowledge' which we were seeking; — since 
 a thing cannot be and not be, and if I know one thing I know 
 all, for I cannot be knowing and not knowing at the same time, 
 and if I know all things, I must have that knowledge as well. 
 May I not assume that to be your ingenious notion ? ^^ 
 
 Out of your own mouth, Socrates, you are convicted, he said. -1 
 
 Well, but, Euthydemus, I said, has that never happened to yea; 
 for if I am only in the same case as you and our beloved Diony- 
 sodorus, I cannot greatly mind that. Tell me then, you two, do 
 you not know some things, and not know others ? 
 
 Certainly not, Socrates, said Dionysodorus. 
 
E UTHYDEMUS. 1 1 1 
 
 What do you mean, I said j do you know nothing ? 
 
 Nay, he replied, we do know something. 
 
 Then, I said, .you know all things, if you know anything? 
 
 Yes, all things, he said ; and that is as true of you as of us. 
 
 O, indeed, I said, what a wonderful thing, and- what a great 
 blessing ! And do all other men know all things or nothing ? 
 
 Certainly, he replied; they cannot know some things, and not 
 know others, and be at the same time knowing and not knowing. 
 
 Then what is the inference ? I said. 
 
 They all know all things, he replied, if they know one thing. 
 
 O heavens., Dionysodorus, I said, I see now that you are in 
 earnest ; hardly have I got you to that point. And do you really 
 know all things, including carpentering and leather-cutting ? 
 
 Certainly, he said. 
 
 And do you know stitching ? 
 
 Yes, indeed we do, and cobbling, too. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And do you know things such as the numbers of the stars and of 
 the sand ? 
 
 Certainly ;, did you think that we should say No to that ? 
 
 By Zeus, said Ctesippus, interrupting, I only wish that you 
 would give me some proof which would enable me to know whether 
 you say truly. 
 
 What proof shall I give you ? he said. 
 
 Will you tell me how many teeth Euthydemus has ? and Euthy- 
 demus shall tell how many teeth you have. 
 
 Will you not take our word that we know all things ? 
 ■ ' Certainly not, said Ctesippus ; you must further tell us this 
 one thing, and then we shall know that you are speaking the truth ; 
 if you tell us the number, and we count them, and you are 
 found to be right, we will believe the rest. They fancied that 
 Ctesippus was making game of them, and they refused, and con- 
 tented themselves with saying, in answer to each of his questions, 
 that they knew all things. Ctesippus at last began to tlirow oft 
 all restraint ; no question was too bad for hjm ; he would ask them 
 ifthey knew the foulest things, and they, like wild boars, came 
 rushing on his blows, and fearlessly replied that they did. At last, 
 Crito, I too was carried away by my incredulity, and asked Euthy- 
 demus whether Dionysodorus could dance. 
 
212 E UTHYDEMUS. 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 And can he vault upon swords, and turn upon a wheel, at his 
 age ? has he got to such a height of skill as that ? 
 
 He can do anything, he said. 
 
 And did you always know this ? 
 
 Always, he said. 
 
 When you were children, and at your birth ? 
 
 They both said that they did. 
 
 This we could not believe. And Euthydemus said : You are 
 incredulous, Socrates. 
 
 Yes, I said, and I might well be incredulous, if I did not know 
 that you are wise men. 
 
 But if you will answer, he said, I will make you confess to 
 similar marvels. 
 
 Well, I said, there is nothing that I should like better than to 
 be self-convicted of this, for if I ani really a wise man, 'Which I 
 never knew before, and you will prove to me that I know and 
 have always known all things, there is nothing in life that would 
 be a greater gain to me than that. 
 
 Answer then, he said. 
 
 Ask, I said, and I will answer. ' 
 
 Do you know something, Socrates, or nothing ? 
 
 Something, I said. 
 
 And do you know with what you know, or with something 
 else ? 
 
 With what I know j and I suppose that you mean with my soul ? 
 
 Are you not ashamed, Socrates, of asking a question when you 
 are asked ? 
 
 Well, I said • but then what am I to do ? for I will do what 
 you bid ; when I do not know what you are asking, you tell me to 
 answer nevertheless, and not to ask again. 
 
 Why, you surely have some notion of my meaning, he said. ' 
 
 Yes, I replied. 
 
 Well then answer according to your notion of my meaning." 
 
 YeSj I said ; but if the question which you ask in one sense is 
 understood and answered by me in another, will that please you— 
 if I answer what is not to the point .' , : 
 
 That will please me very well ; but will not please you equally 1 
 well, as I imagine. .S 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 213 
 
 I certainly will not answer unless I understand you, I said. 
 
 You won't answer, he said, according tS your view of the mean- 
 ing, because you are an old fool and pedant. 
 
 Now I saw that he was getting angry with me for drawing dis- 
 tinctions, when he wanted to catch me in his springes of words. 
 .And I remembered that Connus was always angry with me when I 
 opposed him, and then he neglected me, because he thought that I 
 was stupid J and as I was intending to go to Euthydemus as a 
 pupil, I thought that I had better let him have his way, as he might 
 think me a blockhead, and refuse to take me. So I said : You are 
 a far better dialectician than myself, Euthydemus, for I have never 
 made a profession of the art, and therefore do as you say j ask your 
 questions once more, and I will answer. 
 
 Answer then, he said, once more, whether you know what you 
 know with something, or with nothing. 
 
 Yes, I said ; I know with my soul, 
 i The man will go on adding to the question ; for, said he, I did not 
 ask you with what you know, but whether you know with something. 
 
 My ignorance, I saidj led me to answer more- than yo.u asked, 
 and I hope that you will forgive that. And now I will answer 
 simply that I always know what I know with something, 
 
 And is that something, he rejoined, always the same, or some- 
 times one thing, and sometimes another thing ? 
 
 Always, I replied, when I know, I know with this. 
 
 Will you not cease adding to your answers ? 
 
 My fear is that this word ' always ' may get us into trouble. 
 
 You, perhaps, but certainly not us. And now answer : Do you 
 always know with this ? 
 
 Always j siiice I am required to withdraw the words ' when I 
 know.' 
 
 You always know with this, or, always knowing, do you know 
 some things with this, and some things with 'something else, or do 
 you know all things with this ? 
 
 All that I know, I replied, I know with this. 
 ..There again, Socrates, he said, the addition is superfluous. 
 
 Well, then, I said, I will take away the words, ' that I know.' 
 
 Nay, take nothing away ; I desire no favours of you ; but let me 
 ask : Would you be able to know all things, if you did not know 
 all things ? 
 
214 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 Quite impossible. 
 
 And now, he said, you may add on whatever you like, for you 
 confess that you know all things., 
 
 I suppose that is true, I said, if my qualification implied in the 
 words, < that I know,' is not allowed to stand ; and so I do know 
 all things. 
 
 And have you not admitted that you always know all things 
 with that which you know, whether you make the addition of when 
 you know them or not ? for you have acknowledged that you have 
 always and at once known all things, that is to say, when you were 
 a child,. and at your birth, and when you were growing up, and 
 before you werfe born, and before the heaven and earth existed, you 
 knew all things, if you always know them ; and I swear that you 
 shall always continue to know them, if I am of the mind to make 
 you. ) 
 
 But I hope that you will be of that mind, reverend EuthydemuSj J 
 said, if you are really speaking the truth, and yet I a little doubt 
 your power to accomplish this unless you have the help of youf 
 brother Oionysodorus ; then you may do it. Tell me now, for 
 although in the main I cannot doubt that I really do know all things, 
 when I am told so by men of your prodigious wisdom— how can I 
 say that I know such things as this, Euthydemus, that the good 
 are unjust ; come, do I know that or not ? 
 
 Certainly, you know that. 
 
 What do I know ? 
 
 That the good are not unjust. 
 
 Quite true, I saidj and I have always known thatj but the 2 
 question is, where did I learn that the good are unjust ? 
 
 Nowhere, said Dionysodorus. 
 
 . Then, said I, I do not know this. 
 
 . You are ruining the argument, said Euthydemus to Dionysodorus j 
 he will be proved not to know, and then after all he will be know- 
 ing and not knowing at the same time. 
 
 Dionysodorus blushed. 
 
 I turned to the other, and said, What do you think, Euthyde- 
 mus ? Does not your omniscient brother appear to you to have made ' 
 a mistake ? ^ \ 
 
 What, replied Dionysodorus in an instant ; am I the brother of 
 Euthydemus ? # 
 
 'I 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 215 
 
 Thereupon I said. Please not to interrupt, my good friend, or 
 prevent Euthydemus from proving to me that I know the unjust ,,to 
 be the good ; such a lesson you might at least allow me to learn. 
 
 You are running away, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, and refusing 
 to answer. 
 
 No wonder, I said, for I am not a .match for one of you, and a 
 prtiw't I inust run away from two. I am no Heracles j and even, 
 Heracles could not fight against the Hydra, who was a she-sophist, 
 and had the wit to shoot up many new heads when one of them 
 was cut off ; especially when he saw a second monster of a sea- 
 crab, who was also a Sophist, and appeared to have newly arrived 
 from a sea voyage, bearing down upon him from the left, opening 
 his mouth and biting. Then he called lolaus, his nephew, to his 
 help, -and he ably succoured himj but if my lolaus, who is Patro- 
 cles the statuary, were to come, he would make a bad business 
 worse. 
 
 And now that you have delivered yourself of this strain, said 
 Dionysodorus, will you inform me whether lolaus was the nephew 
 of Heracles any more than he is yours ? 
 
 I suppose that I had best ans^yer you, Dionysodorus, I said, for 
 you will insist on asking — that I pretty well know — out of envy, in 
 order to prevent me from learning the wisdom of Euthydemus. 
 
 Then answer me, he said. 
 
 Well then, I said, I have only to say in answer, that lolaus was 
 ,not my nephew at all, but the nephew of Heracles j and his father 
 was not my brother Patrocles, but Iphicles, who has a name rather 
 like his, and was the brother of Heracles. 
 
 And is Patrocles, he said, your brother ? 
 
 Yes, I said, he is my half brother, the son of my mother, but not 
 of my father. 
 
 Then he is and is not your brother. 
 
 Not by the same father, my good man, I said, for Chaeredemus 
 was his father, and mine was Sophroniscus. 
 
 And was Sophroniscus and Chaeredemus a father ? 
 
 Yes, I said ; the former was mine, and the latter his father. 
 
 Then, he said, Chaeredemus is not a father. 
 
 He is not my father, I said. 
 
 But can a father be other than a father ? or are you the same as 
 a stone ? 
 
•216 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 I certainly do not think that I am a stonq, I saW, though I am 
 afraid that you may proye me one. 
 Are you not other than a stone ? 
 I am. 
 
 And being other than a stone, you are not a stone j and being 
 other than gold, you are not gold. 
 Very ^true. 
 
 And so Chaeredemus, he said, being other than a father, is not 
 a father. 
 • I suppose that he is not a father, I replied. 
 
 For if, said Euthydemus, taking up the argument, Chaeredemus 
 is a father, then Sophroniscus, being other than a father, is not a 
 father j and you, Socrates, are without a father. " 
 
 Ctesippus retorted : And is not your father in the same case, for 
 he is other than my father ? 
 
 Assuredly not, said Euthydemus. 
 Then he is the same ? 
 He is the same. 
 
 I cannot say that I like the connection ; but is he only my father, 
 Euthydemus, or is he the father of all other men ? 
 
 Of all other men, he replied. Do you suppose that he is a father 
 and not a father ? 
 
 Certainly, I did imagine that, said Ctesippus. 
 And do you suppose that gold ig not gold, or that a man is not a 
 man? 
 
 They are not ' in pari materia^ Euthydemus, said Ctesippus, and 
 you had better take care, for it is monstrous to suppose that your 
 father is the father of all. 
 
 But he is, he said. ' I 
 
 What, of men only, said Ctesippus, or of horses and all other f 
 animals ? ' M 
 
 Of all, he said. 9 
 
 And your mother, too, is the mother of all ? i}%| 
 
 Yes, our mother too. ^^M 
 
 Yes ; and your mother has a progeny of sea-urchins then ? 
 Yes; and yours, he said. ^•y-l 
 
 And gudgeons and puppies and pigs are your brothers. '"S^i 
 And yours too. . ,.v .^ . j 
 
 And your papa is a dog. -^i 
 
E UTHYDEMUS. 2 1 7 
 
 I 
 
 ^li And so is yours, he said. 
 
 If you will answer my questions, said Dionysodorus, I will soon 
 extract the same admissions from you, Ctesippus. You say that 
 you have a dog. 
 'k Yes, a villain of a one, said Ctesippus. 
 And he has puppies ? 
 Yes, and they are very like himself. 
 i|ii And the dog is the father of them ? 
 
 Yes, he said, I certainly saw him and the mother of the puppies 
 come together. 
 iii And is he not yours ? 
 ^; To be sure he is. 
 
 Then he is a father, and he is yours j ergo, he is your father, 
 i«jt and the puppies are your brothers. 
 
 mp Let me ask you one little question more, said Dionysodorus, 
 quickly interposing, in order that Ctesippus might not get in his 
 word : You beat this dog ? 
 Ctesippus said, laughing. Indeed I do ; and I only wish that I 
 |S]i could beat you instead of him. 
 ! ^ Then you beat your father, he said. 
 
 tii!i99 I should have had far more reason to beat yours, said Ctesippus j 
 what could he have been thinking of when he begat such wise 
 sons ? much good has this father of you and other curs got out of 
 nil your wisdom.! 
 
 But neither he nor you, Ctesippus, have any need of much good. 
 jjg 'And have you no need, Euthydemus ? he said. 
 jj^y Neither I nor any other man ; for tell me now, Ctesippus, if 
 i you think it good or evil for a man who is sick to drink medicine 
 when he wants it ; or to go to war armed rather than unarmed. 
 jjl 'Good, I say. And yet I know that I am going to be caught in 
 one of your charming puzzles. 
 
 That, he replied,, you will discover, if you answer ; for seeing that 
 
 you admitted medicine to be good for a man to drink, when wanted, 
 
 must it not be good for him to drink as much as possible — a cart- 
 
 jj! load of hellebore will not be too much for him? 
 
 p • Ctesippus said: Certainly not, Euthydemus, if he who drinks be 
 
 as big as the statue of Delphi. 
 
 And if, he said, in war it be good to have arms, he ought to 
 have as many spears and shields as possible ? 
 
2i8 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 Very true, said Ctesippusj and do you think that he ought' to 
 have one shield only, Euthydemus, and one spear? 
 I do. 
 
 And would you arm Geryon and Briareus in that way ? 
 Considering the skill which you and your companion have- in 
 fighting in armour, I thought that you would have kiiOwn better. 
 Here Euthydemus held his peace, and Dionysodorus returned'to 
 the previous answer. 
 
 Don't you think the possession of gold is good ? 
 Yes, said Ctesippus, and the more the better. i f 
 
 And to have money everywhere and always is a good. v 
 
 Certainly, a great good, he said. -I 
 
 And you admit that gold is a good ? 
 I have admitted that, he replied. 
 
 And ought not a man then to have gold everywhere and always, 
 and as much as possible in himself, and may he not be deemed 
 the happiest of men who has three talents of gold in his belly, 
 and a talent in his head, and a stater of gold in either eye ? 
 
 Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus j and the Scythians count 
 them the happiest and bravest of men who have gold in their 
 own skulls (that is only another instance of your manner of 
 speaking about the dog and father), and what is still . more 
 extraordinary, they drink out of their own skuUs gill^ and see the 
 inside of them, and hold their own head in their hands. 
 
 And do the Scythians and others see that which has the quality 3 
 of vision, or that which has not ? said Euthydemus. 
 
 That which has the quality of vision clearly. '' 
 
 And 3 you also see that which has the quality of vision? he said. . , 
 Yes, I do. J 
 
 Then do you see our gargients ? .^^k 
 
 Yes. • Lfj®. 
 
 Then our garments have the quality of vision. rrfe"" 
 
 They can see to any extent, said Ctesippus. n| 
 
 What can they see ? " ^ 
 
 Nothing j but you, my sweet man, may perhaps imagine that ; 
 they do not see j and certainly, Euthydemus, you do seem to me 1 
 to have been caught napping when you were not asleep, and that 1 
 
 3 Note : the ambiguity of Surara opav, (riyavra "Keyuv cannot be perfectly i 
 rendered in English. M 
 
EUTHYDEMUS. 219 
 
 if it be possible to say and say nothin^-that is what you are 
 doing. 
 
 And may not a person speak and be silent ? said Dionysodorus. 
 
 Impossible, said Ctesippus. 
 ^ Or be silent and speak. 
 
 That is still more impossible, he said. 
 
 But when you speak of stones, wood, iron bars, do you not 
 speak (of them) silent ? 
 
 Not when I pass a smithy ^ for then the iron bars make a 
 tremendous noise and outcry if they are touched : so that here 
 your wisdom is strangely mistaken; please^ however, to tell me 
 how you can be silent when speaking (I thought that Ctesippus 
 was put upon his mettle because Cleinias was present). 
 
 When you are silent, said Euthydemus, are you not silent about 
 alltiiings? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 Then the speaking are silent, if speaking things are included 
 in all things. 
 
 'What, said Ctesippus, are not all things silent? 
 
 Certainly not, said Euthydemus. 
 
 Then, my gotad friend, do they all speak ? 
 
 Yes ; those which speak. 
 
 Nay, said Ctesippus, but the question which I ask is whether 
 all things are silent or speak ? 
 
 , Neither and both, said Dionysodorus, quickly interposing ; I am 
 sure tiiat you will be ' non-plussed' at that answer. 
 
 Here Ctesippus, as his manner was, burst into a roar of 
 laughter; he said. That brother of yours, Euthydemus, has got 
 into a dilemma j all is over with him. This delighted Cleinias, 
 whose laughter made Ctesippus ten times as uproarious; but I 
 cannot help thinking that the rogue must have picked up this 
 answer from them ; for there has been no wisdom like theirs in 
 our time. Why do you laugh, Cleinias, I said, at such solemn and 
 beautifiil things ? 
 
 Why, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, did you ever see a beautiful 
 thing ? 
 ^ Yes, Dionysodorus, I replied, I have seen many. 
 
 Were they other than the beautiful, or the same as the 
 bdautifiil ? 
 
220 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 Now I was in a great quandary at having to answer this 
 question, and I thought that I was rightly served for having 
 opened my mouth at all : I said however. They are not the same 
 as absolute beauty, but they have beauty present, with each of 
 them. 
 
 And are you an ox because an ox is present with you, or are 
 you Dionysodorus, because Dionysodorus is present with you ? 
 
 I don't like to hear you say that, I replied. 
 
 But how, he said, by reason of one thing being present with 
 another, will one thing be another ? 
 
 Is that your difficulty ? I said. For I was beginning to imitate 
 their skill, on which my heart was set. 
 
 Yes, he answered, and I and all the world are in a difficulty 
 about the non-existent. 
 
 What do you mean, Dionysodorus, I said. Is not the honouTT^ 
 able honourable and the base base ? 
 
 That, he said, is as I please. . ^n 
 
 And do you please ? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 Also you will admit that the same is the same, and the other 
 other ; for surely the other is not the same ; I should imagine 
 that even a child will hardly have any difficulty about this. But, 
 I think, Dionysodorus, that you must have intentionally missed 
 the last question; for in general you seem to me to be a good 
 workman, and to do the dialectician's business excellently well. 
 
 What, said he, is the business of a good workman ? tell me, in 
 the first place, whose business is hammering ? 
 
 The smith's. 4i 
 
 And whose the making of pots ? !r,, \ 
 
 The potter's. 
 
 And who has to kill and skin and mince and boil and. cook? 
 
 The cook, I said. 
 
 And if a man does his business he does rightly ? -#■* 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And the business of the cook is to cut up and skin ; you have 
 admitted that ? • . | 
 
 Yes, I have admitted that, but you must not be too severe upoo 
 me. i 
 
 Then if some one were to kill, mince, boil, roast the cook, he 
 
;iiiiG 
 
 EUTHYDEMUS. 221 
 
 ' would do his business, and if he were to hammer the smith, and 
 ' pot the potter, he would do their business. * 
 
 ' ''•Poseidon, I said, this is the crown of wisdom ; can I ever hope 
 " to have such wisdom of my own ? 
 
 And would you be able, Socrates, to recognize this wisdom 
 " when it has become your own? 
 ' Certainly, I said, if you will allow me. 
 
 What, he said, do you think that you know what is your own ? 
 '' Yes, I do, subject to your correction ; for you are the bottom, 
 
 and Euthydemus is the top, of all my wisdom. 
 
 ■ Is not that which you would deem your own, he said, that 
 
 '2 which you have in your own power, and which you are able to 
 
 use as you would desire, for example, an ox or a sheep — would 
 
 L you not think tliat your own which you could sell and give and 
 
 ^^\^ sacrifice to any god whom you pleased, and that which you could 
 
 not give or sell or sacrifice you would think not" to be in your 
 
 own power ? 
 
 Yes, I said (for I was certain that something good would come 
 of the questions, which I was impatient to hear) ; yes, such things 
 it,ialta only are mine. 
 
 i iy * Yes, he said, and you would mean by animals living beings ? 
 Wit Yes, I said. 
 
 ^s^ ■ You admit then, that those animals only are yours with which 
 Bttltii you have the power to do all these things which I was just 
 ■^i naming. 
 10! nil I adniit that. 
 
 Then, after an ironical pause, in which he seemed to be 
 
 thinking of something great, he said : Tell me, Socrates, have 
 
 you an ancestral Zeus? Here anticipating the final move which 
 
 was to enclose me in the net, in the attempt to get away, I gave. 
 
 ^0 a desperate twist and said : No, Dionysodorus, I have not. 
 
 What a miserable man you must be then, he said ; you are not 
 ) an Athenian if you have no ancestral gods or temples, or any 
 
 other good. 
 ,0 Nay, Dionysodorus, I said, do not be rough; good words, if you 
 please ; in the way of religioii I have altars and temples, domestic 
 j^ and ancestral, and all that other Athenians have. 
 
 And have not other Athenians, he said, an ancestral Zeus ? 
 u That name, I said, is not to be found among the lonians, 
 
22 2 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 whether colonists or citizens of Athens; an ancestral Apollo 
 
 there is, who is the father of Ion, and a family Zeus, . and sa \ 
 
 Zeus guardian of the phratry, and an Athene guardian of the i 
 
 phratry. But the name of ancestral Zeus is unknown to us. i 
 
 No matter, said Dionysodorus, for you admit that you have ) 
 
 Apollo, Zeus, and Athene. f 
 
 Certainly, I said., . , ' 1 
 
 And they are your gods, he said. i 
 
 Yes, I said, my lords and ancestors. 
 
 At any rate they are yours, he said, did you not admit that ? 
 
 I did, I said ; what is going to happen to me ? '■ 
 
 And are not these gods animals ? -For you admit that all things 
 which have life are animals ; and have not these gods life ? 
 
 They have life, I said. 
 
 And are they not animals ? 
 
 They are animals, I said. \ 
 
 And you admitted that of animals those are yours which you : 
 could give away or sell or offer in sacrifice, as you pleased ? dl' 
 
 I did admit that, Euthydemus, and I have no way of escape. I 
 
 Well then, said he, if you admit that Zeus and the other gods ■ 
 
 are yours, can you sell them or give them away, or do what you 4 
 
 will with them, as you would with other animals ? ^ \ 
 
 At this I was quite struck dumb, Crito, and lay prostrate. \ 
 
 Ctesippus came to the rescue. jii 
 
 Bravo, Heracles, brave words, said he. ; 
 
 Bravo Heracles, or is Heracles a bravo ? said Dionysodorus. k 
 
 Poseidon, said Ctesippus, what awful distinctions. I will have i 
 
 no more of them ; the pair are invincible. K 
 
 Then, my dear Crito, there was universal applause of the t 
 
 speakers and their words, and what with laughing and clapping \ 
 
 of hands and rejoicings the two men were quite overpowered; \ 
 
 for hitherto only their partisans had cheered at each successive ) 
 
 hit, but now the whole company shouted with delight until the i 
 
 columns of the Lyceum returned the sound, seeming almost to 1| 
 
 sympathise in their joy. To such a pitch was I affected myself, m 
 
 that I made a speech, in which I acknowledged that I had never ^ 
 seen the like of their wisdom ; I was their devoted servant, and 
 fell to praising and admiring of them. What marvellous dexteirity 
 of wit, I said, enabled you to acquire this great perfection in 
 
I EUTHYDEMUS. 223 
 
 ji such -a short time ? There is much, indeed, to admire in your 
 I words, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, bift there is nothing that 
 I iadmire more than your magnanimous disregard of any opinion — 
 
 whether of the many, or of the grave and reverend seigniors — which 
 li -is not the opinion of those who are likeminded with you. And I 
 ' do verily believe that there are few who are like you, and would 
 
 approve of your arguments ; the majority of mankind are so ignorant 
 
 of their value, that they would be more ashamed of employing them 
 
 in the refutation of others than of being refuted by them. I must 
 ft • further express my approval of your kind and public-spirited denial 
 > of all differences, whether of good and evil, white or black, or any 
 116 other; the result of which is that, as you say, every mouth is stopped, 
 I not excepting, your own, which graciously follows the example of 
 
 others j and thus all ground of offence is taken away. But what 
 ' appears to me to be more than all is, that this art and invention of 
 
 yours is so admirably contrived, that in a very short time it can be 
 y imparted-to any one. I observe that Ctesippus learned to imitate 
 II34 you in no time. Now this quickness of attainment is an excellent 
 s' thing; but at the same time I would advise you not to have any 
 1^1 more public entertainments ; there is a danger that men may un- 
 ^ i^dervalue an art which they have so easy an opportunity of learning ; 
 
 the exhibition would be best of all, if the discussion were confined 
 g to your two selves; but if there must be an audience, let him only 
 
 be present who is willing to pay a handsome fee ;— you should be 
 
 careful of this ; — and if you are wise, you will also bid your dis- 
 j( ciples discourse with no man but you and themselves. For only 
 jl what is rare is valuable ; and water, which, as Pindar says, is the 
 
 best of all things, is also the cheapest. And now I have only to 
 I request that you will receive Cleinias and me among your pupils. 
 ifc.;, Such was the discussion, Crito ; and after a few more words had 
 J passed between us we went aw^y. I hope that you will come to 
 ^ them with me, since they say that they are able to teach any one 
 
 who will give them money, however old or stupid. And one thing 
 u which they said I must repeat for your especial benefit, — .that not 
 ,j even the business of making money need hinder any man from 
 yi taking in their wisdom with ease. 
 
 ^, ; Crl. Truly, Socrates, though I am curious and ready to learn, yet 
 if J fear tl»t I am not like minded with Euthydemus, but one of the 
 "^ other sort,'>ho, as you were saying, would rather be refuted by 
 { 1. 
 
2 24 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 such arguments than use them in refutation of others. And though 
 I may appear ridiculous in venturing to advise you, I think that, 
 you may as well hear what was said to me by a man of very coht 
 siderable pretensions — he was a f)rofessor of legal oratory — whO: 
 came away from you while I was walking up and down. ' Crito/ 
 said he to me, 'are you attending to these wise men?' ' Noj- in- 
 deed,' I said to him; 'I could not get within hearing of them, 
 there was such a crowd.' ' You would have heard something worth 
 hearing if you had.' ' What was that ? ' I said. ' You would have 
 heard the greatest masters of the art of rhetoric discoursing.' ' And 
 what did you think of them ? ' I said. ' What did I think of them,' 
 he said ; * what any one would think of them who heard them 
 talking nonsense, and making much ado about nothing.' That was 
 the expression which he used. ' Surely,' I said, ' philosophyas a 
 charming thing.' ' Charming ! ' he said ; ' what simplicity ! philo- 
 sophy is nought; and I think that if you had been present you jl 
 would have been ashamed of your friend — his conduct was so very 
 strange in placing himself at the mercy of men who care not what 
 they say, and fasten upon every word. And these, as I was telling 
 you, are supposed to be the most eminent professors of their time* 
 But the truth is, Crito, that the study and the men themselves are 
 both equally mean and ridiculous.' Now his censure of the pur- 
 suit, Socrates, whether coming from him or from others, appears 
 to me to be undeserved ; but as to the impropriety of holding a 
 public discussion with such men, I confess that I thought he was 
 in the right about that. 
 
 Soc. O Crito, they are marvellous men ; but what was I going 
 to say ? What manner of man was he who came up to you and 
 censured philosophy ; was he an orator who himself practises in 
 the courts, or an instructor of orators, who makes the speeches, 
 with which they do battle ? / 
 
 Cri. He was certainly not an orator, and I doubt whether he had 
 ever been into court ; but they say that he knows the business, 
 and is a clever man, and composes wonderful speeches. j 
 
 Soc. Now I understand, Crito ; he is one of an amphibious class, 
 whom I was on the point of ijientioning — one of those whoiqi 
 Prodicus describes as on the border-ground between philosophe;';S.and 
 statesmen — they think that they are the wisest of all men, and that 
 they are generally esteemed the wisest; nothing but the rivalry of the ' 
 
I EUTHYDEMUS. 225 
 
 I plsiosophers stands in their. way; and they are of the opinion that 
 P if they can prove the philosophers to be good for nothing, no one 
 will dispute their title to the palm of wisdom, for that they are 
 really the wisest, although they are apt to be_ mauled by Euthydemus 
 Mid his friend, when they get hold of them in conversation. This 
 opinion which they entertain of their own wisdom is very natural j 
 for they have a certain amount of philosophy, and a certain amount 
 ' of political wisdom ; there is reason in what they say, for they 
 
 1 argue that they have just enough of both, while they keep out of the 
 ' way of all risks and conflicts and reap the fruits of their wisdom. 
 
 • Cri. What do you say of them, Socrates? There is certainly 
 ' something specious in that notion of theirs. 
 
 'i6 Soc. Yes, Crito, there is more speciousness than truth; they 
 (| cannot be made to understand the nature of intermediates. For 
 f all persons or things, which are intermediate between two other 
 Ip.vthings, and participant of them^if one of these two things is 
 » good and the other evil, are better than the one and worse than 
 rt the other; but if they are in a mean between two good things 
 S which do not tend to the same end, they fall short of either of 
 % their component elements in the attainment of their ends. Only 
 in the case when the two component elements which do not tend to 
 the same end are evil is the participant better than either. Now, 
 if |)hilosophy and political action are both good, but tend to dif- 
 k ferent endSj and they participate in bothj and are in a mean 
 Ik between them, then they are talking nonsense, for they are worse 
 than either ; or, if the one be good and the other evil, they are 
 ill better than the one and worse than the other; only on the suppo- 
 \f sition that they are both evil could there be any truth in what 
 iU they say. I do not think that they will admit that their two 
 ;^ pul-suits are either wholly or partly evil; but the truth is, that 
 these philosopher-politicians who aim at both fall short of both in 
 ^t the attainment of their respective ends, and are really third, 
 j| although they would like to stand first. There is no need, how- 
 ever, to be angry at this ambition of theirs — ^they may be forgiven 
 ^i that; for every man ought to be loved who says and manfully 
 Ul pursues and works out anything which is at all like wisdom : at 
 
 2 the same time we shall do well to see them as they really are. 
 
 4 Cri. I have often told you, Socrates, that I am in a constant 
 \ difficulty about my two sons. What am I to do with them? 
 
2 26 EUTHYDEMUS. 
 
 There is no hurry about the younger one^ who is only a child ; but 
 the other, Critobulus, is getting on, and needs some one who will 
 improve him. I cannot help thinking, when I hear you talk, that 
 there is a sort of madness in many of our anxieties about our 
 children : — in the first place, about marrying a wife of good family 
 to be the mother of them, and then about heaping up money for 
 them — and yet taking no care about their education. But then 
 again, when I contemplate any of those who pretend to educate 
 others, I am amazed. They all seem to me to be such outrageous 
 beings, if I am to confess the truth : so that I do not know how I 
 can advise the youth to study pl^ilosophy. 
 
 Soc. Dear Crito, do you not know that in every profession the 
 inferior sort are numerous and good for nothing, and the good are 
 few and beyond all price: for example, are not gymnastic and 
 rhetoric and money-making and the art of the general, noble arts ? 
 
 Cri. Certainly they are, in my judgment. 
 
 Soc. Well, and do you not see that in each of these arts the 
 many are ridiculous performers ? 
 
 Cri. Yes, indeed, that is very true. 
 - Soc. And will you on this account shun all these pursuits yourself 
 and refuse to allow them to your son ? 
 
 Cri. That would not be reasonable, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Do you then be reasonable, Crito, and do not mind whether 
 the teachers of philosophy are good or bad, but think only (rf 
 philosophy herself. Try and examine her well and truly, and if 
 she be evil seek to turn away all men from her, and not your sons 
 only; but if she be what I believe that she is, then follow her and 
 serve her, you and your house, as the saying is, and be of good 
 cheer. 
 
ION. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Ion is the shortest, or nearly the shortest, of all the writings 
 which bear the name of Plato, and is not authenticated by any early 
 external testimony. The grace and beauty of this little work supply the 
 only, and perhaps a sufficient, proof of its genuineness. The plan is 
 simple, and the dramatic interest consists entirely in the contrast between 
 the irony of Socrates and the transparent vanity and childlike enthusiasm 
 of the rhapsode Ion. The theme of the Dialogue may possibly have been 
 suggested by the passage of Xenophon's Memorabilia (iv. 2, 10) in 
 which the rhapsodists are described by Euthydemus as ' very precise 
 about the exact words of Homer, but very foolish themselves.' (Cp. 
 Aristotle, Met. xiii. 6, 7.) 
 
 Ion the rhapsode has just come to Athens ; he has been exhibiting in 
 Epidaurus at the festival of Asclepius, and is intending to exhibit at the 
 festival of the Panathenaea. Socrates admires and envies the rhapsode's 
 art — for he is always well dressed and in good company — in the company 
 of good poets and of Homer, who is the prince of them. In the course 
 of conversation the admission is elicited from Ion that his skill is 
 restricted .to Homer, and that he knows nothing of inferior poets, such 
 as Hesiod and Archilochus ; — he brightens up and is wide awake when 
 Homer is being recited, but is apt to go to sleep at the recitations of any 
 other poet. ' And yet, surely, he who knows the superior ought to know 
 the inferior also; — he who can judge of the good speaker is able to 
 judge of the bad. And poetry is a whole ; and he who judges of poetry 
 by rules of art ought to be able to judge of all poetry.' This is con- 
 firmed by the analogy of sculpture, painting, flute-playing, and the other 
 arts. The argument is at last brought home to the mind of Ion, who 
 asks how this contradiction is to be solved. The solution given by 
 Socrates is as follows : — 
 The rhapsode is not guided by rules of art, but is an inspired'person 
 
23° 
 
 ION. 
 
 who derives a mysterious power from the poet; and the poet, in like 
 manner, is inspired by the God. The poets and their interpreters may 
 be compared to a chain of magnetic rings suspended from one another, 
 and from a magnet. The magnet is the Muse, and the large ring which 
 comes next in order is the poet himself; then follow the rhapsode^'and 
 actors, who are rings of inferior power; and the last ring of all is the 
 spectator. The poet is the inspired interpreter of the God, and the 
 rhapsode is the inspired interpreter of the poet, and this is the reason 
 why some poets, like Tynnichus, are the authors of single poems, and 
 some rhapsodes the interpreters of single poets. 
 
 Ion is delighted at the notion of being inspired, -and acknowledges that 
 he is beside himself when he is performing; — his eyes rain tears and his 
 hair stands on end. Socrates is of opinion that a man must be ma^ho 
 behaves in this way at a festival when there is nothing to trouble hlSji, 
 Ion is confident that Socrates would never think him mad if he could' 
 only hear his embellishments of Homer. Socrates asks whether he can 
 speak well about everything in Homer. 'Yes, indeed he can.' 'What 
 about things of which he has no knowledge ?' Ion answers that he can 
 interpret anj^hing in Homer. But, rejoins Socrates, when Homer speaks 
 of the arts, as for example, of chariot-driving, or of medicine, or of prophecy, 
 or of navigation — will he, or will the charioteer or physician or prophet 
 or pilot be the better judge i ._ Ion is compelled to admit that every man 
 will judge of his own particular art better than the rhapsode. He still 
 maintains, however, that he understands the art of the general as well as 
 any one. ' Then why in this city of Athens, in which men of merit are •• 
 always being sought after, is he not at once appointed a general ? ' Ion 
 replies that he is a foreigner, and the Athenians and Spartans will not 
 appoint a foreigner to be their general. ' No, that is not the real reason. 
 But Ion has long been playing tricks with the argument ; like Proteus, he 
 transforms himself into a variety of shapes, and is at last about to escape 
 in the disguise of a general. Would he rather be regarded as inspired or 
 dishonest ? ' Ion eagerly embraces the alternative of inspiration. 
 
 The Ion, like the other earlier Platonic Dialogues, is a mixture of jest 
 and earnest, in "which no definite result is obtained, but some Socratie or _ 
 Platonic truths are allowed dimdy to appear. 
 
 The elements of a true theory of poetry are contained in the notion j 
 that the poet is inspired. Genius is often said to be unconscious, or 
 
INTRODUCTION. 231 
 
 spontaneous, or a gift of nature : that genius is akin to madness is 
 a popular aphorism of modern times. The greatest strength is often 
 abserved to have an element of limitation. It is said, too, that the force 
 ot, nature must have its way, and is incapable of correction or improve- 
 ment. Reflections of this kind may have been passing before Plato's 
 mind when he describes the poet as inspired, or when, as in the Apology 
 (22 b, foil.), he speaks of poets as the worst critics of their own writings 
 ■^anybody taken at random from the crowd is a better interpreter of 
 them than they are of themselves. They are sacred persons, 'winged 
 and holy- things,' who have a touch of madness in their composition 
 (Phaedr. 245 a), and should be treated with every sort of respect 
 (Rep. iii. 398 a), but not allowed to live in a well-ordered state. 
 
 In the Protagoras (316 d, foil.) the ancient poets are recognized by 
 Protagoras himself as the original sophists ; and this family resemblance 
 may be traced in the Ion. The rhapsode belongs to the realm of imita- 
 tion and of opinion : he professes to have all knowledge, which is 
 derived by him from Homer, just as the sophist professes to have all 
 wisdom, which is contained in his art of rhetoric. Even more than the 
 sophist he is incapable of appreciating the commonest logical distinc- 
 tions ; his great memory remarkably contrasts with his inability to follow 
 the steps of the argument. And in his highest dramatic flights he has 
 an eye to his own gains. 
 
 The old quarrel between philosophy and poetry, which in the Republic 
 leads to their final separation, is already working in^the mind of Plato, 
 and is embodied by him in the contrast between Socrates and Ion. Yet, 
 as in the Republic, Socrates shows a sort of sympathy with the poetic 
 nature. Also, the manner in which Ion is affected by his own recitations 
 affords a lively illustration of the power which, in the Republic (394 
 foil.), Socrates attributes to dramatic performances over the mind of 
 the performer. His allusion to his embellishments of Homer, in which 
 he declares himself to have surpassed Metrodorus of Lampsacus and 
 Siesimbrotus .of Thasos, seems to show that, like them, he belonged 
 to the allegorical school of interpreters. The circumstance that nothing 
 more is known of him may be adduced in confirmation of the, argument 
 that this truly Platonic little work is not a forgery of later, times. 
 
I O N. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Socrates. Ion. 
 
 Socrates, Welcome, Ion. Are you from your native city of 
 Ephesus ? 
 
 Im. No, Socrates ; but from Epidaurus, where I attended the 
 festival of Asclepius. 
 
 Soc. And do the Epidaurians have contests of rhapsodes at the 
 festival ^ 
 
 Ion, O yes, and of all sorts of musical performers. 
 
 Soc. And were you one of the competitors — and did you succeed .' 
 
 Ion. I obtained the first prize of all, Socrates. 
 
 Soc, Well done ; and I hope that you will do the same for us at 
 the Panathenaea. 
 
 Ion. And I will, please heaven. 
 
 Soc. I often envy the profession of a rhapsode. Ion ; for you have 
 always to wear fine clothes and to look as beautiful as you can is a 
 part of your art. Then, again, you are obliged to be continually in 
 the company of many good poets ; and especially of Homer, who 
 is the best and most divine of them ; and to understand him, and 
 not merely learn his words by rote, is a thing greatly to be envied. 
 And no man can be a rhapsode who does not understand the mean- 
 ing of the poet. For the rhapsode ought to interpret the mind of 
 the poet to his hearers, and he cannot do this well unless he knows 
 what he means. All this is greatly to be envied. 
 
 Ion. That is true, Socrates j and that has certainly been the 
 most troublesome part of my art ; and I believe that I can speak 
 about Homer better than any man ^ and that neither Metrodorus 
 
234 ION. 
 
 of Lampsacus, nor Stesimbrotus of Thasbs, nor Glaucon, nor any 
 one else that ever was, had as good ideas about Homer as ] have, 
 or as many of them. 
 
 Soc. I am glad to hear that. Ion; for I see that you will not 
 refuse to acquaint me with them. 
 
 Ion. Certainly, Socrates ; you ought to hear my embellishmfnts 
 of Homer. I think that the Homeridae should give me a golden 
 crown as a reward for them. 
 
 Soc. I shall take an opportunity of hearing them at some future 53 
 time. But just now I should like to ask you a question : Does 
 your art extend to Hesiod and Archilochus, or to Homer only? 
 
 Ion. To Homer only; and that appears to me to be quite 
 enough. 
 
 Soc. Are- there any things about which Homer and Hesiod agree ? 
 
 Ion. Yes ; I am of opinion that there are a good many. 
 
 Soc. And can you interpret better what Homer says, or what 
 Hesiod says, about these matters in which they agree ? 
 
 Ion. I can interpret them equally well, Socrates, where they 
 agree. 
 
 Soc, But what about matters in which they do not agree ? — for 
 example, about divination, of which both Homer and. Hesiod have 
 something to say. 
 
 Ion. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Well now, would you or a good prophet be a better in- 
 terpreter of what these two poets say, whether they agree or 
 disagree, about divination ? 
 
 Ion. A prophet, 
 
 Soc. But if you were a prophet, would you not be able to interpret 
 them when they disagree as well as when tliey agree ? 
 
 Ion. Clearly. 
 
 Soc. Well then, how come you to have this skill about Homer, 
 but not about Hesiod or the other poets ? Does not Homer speak 
 of the same themes which all other poets handle ? Is not war his 
 great argument ? and does he not speak of human society and of 
 intercourse of men, good and bad, skilled and unskilled, and of the 
 gods conversing with one another and with mankind, and about 
 what happens in heaven and in the world below, and the genera- 
 tions of gods and heroes ? Are not these the themes of which 
 Homer sings ? 
 
ION. 235 
 
 Ion. Very true, Socrates. 
 ,; Soc. And do not the other poets sing of tlfe same ?. 
 
 Ion. Yes, Socrat« j but not in the same way. as Homer. 
 
 Soc. What! in a worse way? 
 
 Ion. Yes, in a far., worse. ' 
 
 ■pSoc. And Homer is better ? -'»3 
 
 ' ' Ion. He is incomparably better. ':''f'»' 
 
 Soc. And yet surely, my dear frieiid Ion, in a discussion about 
 arithmetic, where many people are speaking, and some one person 
 speaks better than the rest, any one can judge who is the good 
 speaker ? 
 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And he who judges of the good will be the same as he who 
 judges of the bad speakers ? 
 
 Im, The same. 
 ■ Soc. And he will be the arithmetician ? 
 
 Ion, Yes. \ 
 
 Soc. Well, and in discussions about the wholesomeness of food, 
 jwhen many persons are speaking, and one speaks better than the 
 rest, will he who recognizes the better speaker be a different 
 person from him who recogni'zes the worse, or the same ? 
 
 Ion. Clearly the same. 
 
 Soc. And who is he, and what is his name ? 
 
 Ion. A jiiysician. 
 
 Soc. And speaking generally, in all discussions in which the 
 subject is the same and many men are speaking, will not he who 
 knows the good know jthe _bad speaker also ? Or if he does not 
 know the bad, neither will he know the good. 
 
 Ion. True. 
 
 Soc. Is not the same person skilfiil in both ? 
 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And you say that Homer and the other poets, such as 
 Hesiod and Archilochus, speak of the same things, although not in 
 the same way ; but the one speaks well and the other not so well ? 
 
 Ion. Yes ; and I am right in saying that. 
 
 Soc. And if you know the good speaker, you would also know 
 that the inferior speakers are inferior ? 
 
 Ion. That is true. 
 
 Soe. Then, my dear friend, can I be mistaken in saying that Ion 
 
236 ION. 
 
 is equally skilled in Homer, and in other poets, since he himself 
 acknowledges that the same person will be a good judge of all 
 I those who speak of the same things ; and that almost all poets do 
 speak of the same things ? 
 
 Ion. What then, Socrates, is the reason why I lose attention 
 and go to sleep and have absolutely no ideas, when any one speaks 
 of any other poet ; but when Homer is mentioned, I wake up at 
 once and am all attention and have plenty to say ? 
 / Soc. That, my friend, is easily explained. No one can fail to 
 / see that you speak of Homer not by any art or knowledge. If you 
 [ were able to speak of him by rules of art, you would have been able 
 i^ to speak of all other poets, for poetry is a whole."" 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And when any one acquires any other art as a whole, the 
 same may be said of them. Would you like me to explain" my 1 
 meaning. Ion? | 
 
 Ion. Yes, indeed, Socrates j I wish that you would : for I love to 
 hear you wise men talk. 
 
 Soc. I wish, Ion, that we could be truly called wisejibut the ' 
 
 \ truth is that you rhapsodes and actors, and the poets i whose 
 verses you sing, are wise ; and I am a common man,-T^oralj[ 
 speaks the truth. For do but consider what a very common and 
 triviarffiing^aiis is, which I have said — a thing which any man 
 might say ; /that when a man has acquired a knowledge of a whole 
 art, the inquiry into good and bad is one and the same. Let us 
 think about this j is not the art of painting a whole ? 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And there are and have been many painters good and bad ? , 
 Ion. Yes. i 
 
 Soc. And did you ever know any one who was skilful in 
 pointing out the excellences and defects of Polygnotus the 1 
 son of Aglaophon, but incapable of criticising other painters; S- 
 and when the work of any other painter was produced, went to 
 sleep and was at a loss and had no ideas; but when he had to 
 give his opinion about Polygnotus, or whoever the painter might 
 be, woke up and was attentive and had plenty to say ? 
 Ion. No indeed, I never did. , • 
 
 Soc. Or did you ever know of any one in sculpture, who was 
 skilful in expounding the merits of Daedalus the son of Metioii, 
 
 
ION. 237 
 
 or of Epeius the son of Panopeus, or of Theodorus the Samian, or of 
 some other individual sculptor j but whdfi the works of other 
 sculptors were produced, was at a loss and went to sleep and had 
 nothing to say ? 
 
 Ion. No indeed, I never did. 
 
 Soc. And if I am not mistaken, you never met with any one 
 among flute-players or harp-players or singers to the harp or 
 rhapsodes who was able to discourse of Olympus or Thamyras or 
 Prpheus, or Phemius, the rhapsode of Ithaca, but was at a loss 
 when he came to speak of Ion of Ephesus, and had no notion of 
 his merits or defects ? 
 
 Ion. I cannot deny that, Socrates. Nevertheless I am> con- 
 scious in my own self that I do speak better and have more to 
 say about Homer than any otjjer man, and this is the general 
 opinion. But I do not speak equally well about others — tell me 
 the reason of this ? 
 
 Soc. I perceive, Ion j and I will proceed to explain to you what 
 I imagine to be the reason of this. This gift which you have of 
 speaking excellently about Homer is not an art, but, as I was just 
 saying, an inspiration j/i:here is a divinity moving you,' like 
 that in the stone which Euripides calls a magnet, but which 
 is commonly known as the stone of Heraclea. For that 
 stone not only attracts iron ringsj but also imparts to them 
 a similar power of attracting other rings; and sometimes you 
 may see a number of pieces of iron and rings suspended from 
 one another so as to form quite a long chain: and all of them 
 derive their power of suspension from the original stone. Now. 
 this is like the Muse, who first gives to men inspiration herself ; 
 and from these inspired persons a chain of other persons is 
 suspended, who take the inspiration from them. J For all good~-.^ 
 poets, epic as well as lyric, compose their beautiful poems not 
 as works of art, but because mey are inspired and possessed. | And / 
 (as the Corybantian revellers when they dance are not in their 
 right mind, so the lyric poets are not in their right mind 
 when they are composing their beautiful strains : but when falling 
 under the power of music and metre they are inspired and 
 possessed; like Bacchic maidens who draw milk and honey from 
 the rivers, when they are under the influence of Dionysus, but 
 not when they are in their right mind. And the soul of the lyric 
 
2 38 ION. 
 
 poet does the same, as they themselves tell usj for they tell u 
 that they gather their strains from liDnied fountains out of th 
 gardens and dells of the Muses; thither, like the bees, they win] 
 their way. And this is true. For the poet is a light and winge( 
 and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he ha 
 been inspired and is out of his senses, and the mind is no loi 
 in him : when he has not attained to this state, he is powerl^^ 
 is unable to utter his oracles. Many are the noble words in wl 
 poets speak of actions like your own worcjs about Homer j but 1 
 do not speak of them by any rules of art : only when they make \ 
 to which the Muse impels them are their inventions inspired; ■ 
 then one of them will make dithyrambs, another hymns of pra 
 another choral strains, another epic or iambic verses — and he i 
 is good at one is not good at any other kind of verse : /for not 
 art does the poet sing, but by power divine. Had he learned 
 rules of art, he would have known how to speak not of one the 
 only, but of all ; and therefore God takes away the minds of po 
 and uses them as his ministers, as he also uses diviners and h 
 prophets, in order that we who hear them may know that t 
 speak not of themselves who utter these priceless words in a si 
 of unconsciousness, but that God is the speaker, and thai thro 
 L Jthem he is conversing with us. And Tynnichus the Chalcid 
 affords a striking instance of what I am saying : he wrote noth 
 that any one would care to remember but the famous paean wh 
 is in every one's mouth, and is one of the finest poems e 
 writte'n, and is certainly an invention of the Mikcs, as he himi 
 says. For in this way the God would seem to indicate to us i 
 I not allow us to doubt that these beautiful poems are not hum 
 I or the work of man, but divine and the word of God; and t 
 \^ the poets are only the interpreters of the Gods by whom they 
 severally possessed. ■ Was not this the lesson which the C 
 intended to teach when by the mouth of the worst of poets 
 sang the best of songs ? Am I not right. Ion ? 
 ^^ Ion. Yes, indeed, Socrates, I feel that you are; for_j!Our wc 
 "^ .touch niy soul, and I am persuaded somehow that good poetS' 
 the inspired interpreters of the Gods. 
 
 Soc. And you rhapsodists are the interpreters erf' the poets? 
 
 Ion. That again is true. "^ 
 
 Soc. Then you are the interpreters of interpreter? 'f . tf^; 
 
ION. 239 
 
 Ion. Precisely. 
 
 Sw. I wish you would frankly tell me, Ibn, what 1 am going, to 
 ask of you: When you produce the greatest effect upon the 
 spectators in the recitation of some striking passage, such as the 
 apparition of Odysseus leaping forth on the floor, recognized by 
 the suitors and casting his arrows at his feet, or the description of 
 i^chilles rushing at Hector, or the sorrows of Andromache, Hecuba, 
 or Priam, — are you in your right mind ? Are you not carried out 
 of yourself, and does not your soul in an ecstasy seem to be among 
 the persons or places of which she is speaking, whether they are in 
 Ithaca or in Troy or whatever may be the scene of the poem ? 
 
 Im. That proof strikes home to me, Socrates. For I must 
 confess that at the tale of pity my eyes are filled with tears, and 
 when I speak of horrors, my hair stands on end and my heart 
 throbs. 
 
 Soc. Well, Ion, and what are. we to say of a man who at a 
 sacrifice or festival, when he is dressed in holiday attire,, and has 
 gold crowns upon his head, of which nobody has robbed him, 
 appears weeping or panic-stricken in the presence of more' than 
 twenty thousand friendly faces, when there is no one spoiling or 
 wronging-him j — is he in his right mi nd qr^is he not ? 
 , Jim. No indeed, Socrates, I must say that strictly speaking he 
 is not in his right mind. 
 
 ■ Sm. And are you aware that you produce similar eiFects on most 
 of the spectators ? 
 
 l»w. Yes indeed.^ I am; for I look down upon them from the 
 stage, and behold the various emotions of pity, wonder, sternness, 
 stamped upon their countenances when I am speaking : and I am 
 obliged to attend to them; for unless I make them cry I myself 
 shall not laugh, and if I make them laugh, I shall do anything but 
 laugh myself when the hour of payment arrives. 
 
 Soc. Do you know that the spectator is the last of the rings 
 which, as I am saying, derive their power from the original 
 magnet ; and the rhapsode like yourself and the actors are inter- 
 mediate links, and the poet himself is the fir st link of all ? And 
 through all these the God sways the souls of men in any direction 
 which he pleases, and makes one man hang down from another. 
 There is also a chain of dancers and masters and undermasters of 
 bands, who are suspended at the side, and are the rings which 
 
■'240 ION. 
 
 hang from the Muse. And every poet has a Muse from whom he i< 
 suspendedj and by whom he is said to be possessed, which is nearlj 
 the same thing 5 for he is taken possession of. And from these 
 first rings, which are the poets, depend others, some deriving their 
 \ inspiration from Orpheus, others from Musaeus ; but the greater 
 number are possessed and held by Homer. Of which latter you ; 
 one, Ion — possessed by Homer j and when any one repeats' 1 
 verses of another poet you go to sleep, and know not what to sa 
 but when any one recites a strain of Homer you wake up in 
 moment, and your soul leaps within you, and you have plenty 
 /say, for not by art or knowledge about Homer do you say what y 
 { say, but by divine inspiration and by possession ; just as t 
 revellers too have a quick perception of that str^iin only which 
 appropriated to the God by whom they are possessed, and ha 
 plenty of dances and words for that, but take no heed of ai 
 other. And you too. Ion, when the name of Homer is mention) 
 have plenty to say, and nothing to say of others. And the reas( 
 of this is, that you praise Homer not by art but by divine inspir 
 tion : and this is the answer to your question. 
 
 Ion. That is good, Socrates ; and yet I doubt whether you w 
 ever have eloquence enough to persuade me that I praise Horn 
 only when I am mad and possessed ; and if you could hear n 
 speak of him I am sure that you would never think that. 
 
 Sac. I should like very much to hear you, but not until yc 
 have answered a question which I have to ask. On what pa 
 of Homer do you speak well ? — not surely about every part ? 
 
 Ion. There is no part, Socrates, about which I do not spes 
 well : of that I can assure you. 
 
 Soc. Sure^jiot^ about, things in Homer of which you have r 
 knowledgeT""" z 
 
 Ion. And what is there of which Homer speaks of which 
 have no knowledge ? 
 
 Soc. Why ! does not Homer speak in many passages about arts 
 For example, about driving; if I can only remember the lin( 
 I will repeat them. 
 
 Ion. I remember, and will repeat them. 
 
 Soc. Tell me then, what Nestor says to Antilochus, his soi 
 where he tells him to be carefiil of the bend at the horse rac 
 in honour of Patroclus. 
 
ION. 241 
 
 Ian. ' Bend gently,' he says, ' in the polished chariot to the left of them, 
 and .give the horse on the right hand a touch ofthe whip, and shout — and at 
 th^ same time slacken his rein. And when you are at the goal, let the left 
 horse draw near, yet so that the nave of the well-wrought wheel may not even 
 seem to touch the extremity ; and keep from catching the stone.' ' 
 
 Soc. Enough. Now, Ion, will the charioteer or the physician be 
 ^e better judge of the propriety of these lines ? 
 
 Im. The charioteer, clearly. 
 
 Soc. And will the reason be that this is his art, or will there 
 be any other reason ? < 
 
 Im. No, that will be the reason. 
 
 ^oc. And every art is appointed by Gpd to have knowledge of 
 a certain workj for that which we know by the art of the pilot 
 we do not know by the art of medicine"? 
 
 low. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. Nor do we know by the art of the carpenter that which we 
 know by the art of mediciiie ? 
 
 Ion. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. And this is true of all the arts j— that which we know with 
 one art we do not know with the other ? But let me preface this 
 question by another : You admit that there are differences of arts ? 
 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. You would argue, as I should, that when the subject of 
 knowledge is different, the art is also different ? 
 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Yes J for surely, if the subject of knowledge were the 
 same, there would be no meaning in saying that the arts were 
 different, — if they both gave the same knowledge. For example, 
 I know that here are five fingers, and you know the same. And 
 if I were to ask whether I and you became acquainted with this 
 fact by the help of the same science of arithmetic, you would 
 acknowledge that we did ? IC'l"' 
 
 Ion, Yes. 
 
 Soc. Tell me, then, what I was going to ask you just now,— 
 8 whether this holds universally? Must the same art have the 
 same subject of knowledge, and any others have other subjects of 
 knowledge? " " 
 
 Ifl», That is my opinion, Socrates. 
 
 1 II. xxiii. 335. 
 
 R 
 
242 ION. 
 
 Soc. Then he who has no knowledge of a particidar art will- 
 have no right judgment of the sayings and doings of that art ? 
 Ion. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Then which w;ill be a better judge of the lines of Homer 
 which you were reciting, you or the charioteer ? 
 [ Ion. The charioteer.^ 
 
 Soc. Why, yes, because you are a rhapsode and not a charioteer 
 ( Ion. Yes. 
 
 . Soc. And the art of the rhapsode is different from that of th 
 charioteer ? 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And if a different knowledge, then a knowledge of differen 
 matters ? 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. You know the passage in which Hecamede the concubim 
 of Nestor is described as giving to the wounded Machaon a posset 
 as he says, 
 
 ' Made with Pramnian wine ; and she grated cheese of goat's milk wit] 
 a brazen knife, and at his side there was an onion which gives a relish t( 
 drink.' 2 
 
 Would you say now that the art of the rhapsode or the art a 
 medicine was better able to judge of these lines ? 
 Ion. The art of medicine. 
 Soc. And when Homer^says, 
 
 ' And she descended into the deep like a leaden plummet, which, set in tht 
 horn of ox that ranges in the fields, rushes along carrying death among the 
 ravenous fishes,' — * 
 
 will the art of the fisherman or of the rhapsode be better able to 
 judge of the propriety of these lines ? 
 
 Ion, Clearly, Socrates, the art of the fisherman. 
 
 Soc. Come now, suppose that you were to say to me : Since you, 
 Socrates, are able to assign different passages in Homer to their 
 corresponding arts, I wish that you would tell me what are the 
 passages the excellence of which ought to be judged of by the 
 prophet and prophetic art, and you shall see how readily and truly 
 I will answer you. For there are many such passages, particularly 
 in the Odyssee j as, for example, the passage in which Theocly- 
 menus of the house of Melampus says to the suitors : — 
 
 2 II. X. 638, 630. 3 II. xxiv. 80. 
 
ION. 243 
 
 19. 'Wretched men ! what is happening to you? Your heads and your faces 
 and your limbs underneath are shrouded in ni^t ; and the voice of lamenta- 
 tion bursts forth, and your cheeks are wet with tears. And the vestibule is 
 Jfull, and the court is full, of ghosts descending into the darkness of Erebus, 
 and the sun has perished out of heaven, and an evil mist is spread abroad.' ^ . 
 
 And there are many -such passages in the Iliad also; as for 
 example in the description of the battle near the rampart, where 
 he says : — 
 
 S- 'As they were eager to pass the ditch, there came to them an omen: a 
 soaring eagle, holding back the people on the left, bore a huge bloody dragon 
 in his talons, still living and panting ; nor had he yet resigned the strife, for he 
 bent back and smote the bird which carried him on the breast by the neck, 
 arid he in pain let him fall from him to the ground into the midst of the multi- 
 tude. And the eagle, with a cry, was borne afar on the wings of the wind.' * 
 
 These are the sort of things which I should say that the prophet 
 ought to consider and determine. 
 
 Ion. And you are quite right, Socrates, in saying that. 
 
 Soc. Yes, Ion, and you are right also. And. as I have selected 
 from the Iliad and Odyssee for you passages which describe the 
 oiEce of the prophet and the physician and the fisherman, do you, 
 who know Homer so much better than I do, Ion, select for me 
 passages which -relate to the rhapsode and the rhapsode's art, and 
 which the rhapsode ought to examine and judge of better than 
 other men. 
 
 Ion. All passages, I should say, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Not all, I®n, surely. Have you already forgotten what you 
 were saying ? A rhapsode ought to have a better mem»ry. , 
 
 Ion. Why, what am I forgetting ? 
 ♦0 Soc. Do you not remember that you declared the art of the 
 rhapsode to be diflFerent from the art of the charioteer ? 
 
 Ion. Yes, I remember. 
 
 Soc. And you admitted that being different they would have 
 different subjects of knowledge ? 
 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then upon your own showing the rhapsode, and the art of 
 the rhapsode, will not know everything. 
 
 Ion. I dare say, Socrates, that there may be exceptions. 
 
 Soc. You mean to say that he will not know the subjects of the 
 
 * 4 Od. XX. 351. * II. xii. 200. 
 
 \. R % 
 
244 ION. 
 
 other arts. As he does not know all of them, which of them will 
 he know? 
 
 Ion. He will know what a man ought to say and what a woman 
 ought to say, and what a freeman and what a slave ought to say, 
 and what a ruler and what a subject. 
 
 Soc, Do you mean that a rhapsode will know better than the 
 pilot what the ruler of a sea-tossed vessel ought to say ? 
 
 Ion. No J the pilot will know that best. 
 
 Soc. Or will the rhapsode know better than the physician what 
 the ruler of a sick man ought to say ? 
 
 Ion. He will not. 
 
 Soc. But he will know what a slave ought to say ? 
 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Suppose the slave to be a cowherd j the rhapsode will know 
 )etter than the cowherd what he ought to say in order to soothe 
 he rage of infuriated cows ? 
 
 Ion. No, he won't. 
 
 Soc. But he will know what a spinning-woman ought to say 
 bout the working of wool ? 
 
 Ion. No. 
 
 Soc. But he will know what a general ought to say when exhorting > 
 is soldiers ? ; 
 
 Ion. Yes, that is the sort of thing which the rhapsode will know. 
 
 Soc. Well, but is the art of the rhapsode the art of the general ? 
 
 Ion. I am sure that I should know what a general ought to say. . 
 
 Soc. Why, yes, Ion, because you may possibly have a knowledge 
 f the general's art ; and you may also have a knowledge of horse- 
 lanship as well as of the lyre : in that case you would know when 
 orses were well or ill managed. But suppose I were to ask you : 
 y the help of which art. Ion, do you know whether horses are well 
 lanaged, by your skill as a horseman or as a perforiner on the lyre 
 -what would you answer ? 
 
 Ion. I should reply, as a horseman. ' | 
 
 Soc. And if you judged of performers on the lyre, you would \ 
 Imit that you judged of them as performers on the lyre, and not 
 i horsemen ? 
 Ion. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And in judging of the general's art, do you judge of that as 
 general or a rhapsode ? 
 
 'S 
 
ION. 245 
 
 !J 1 --Im. That appears to me to be all one. 
 
 Soc. What do you mean ? Do you mean to say that the art of 
 the rhapsode and of the general is the same ? 
 
 Ion. Yes, one and the same. 
 
 Soc. Then he who is a good rhapsode is also a good general ? 
 
 Im. Certainly, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And he who is a good general is also a good rhapsode ? 
 
 Ion. No ; I don't say that. 
 
 Soc. But you do say that he who is a good rhapsode is also 
 a good general ? 
 
 Ion. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And you are the best of Hellenic rhapsodes ? 
 
 Ion. Far the best, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And are you the best general. Ion ? 
 
 Ion. To be Sure, Socrates; and Homer was my master. 
 
 Soc. But then. Ion, what in the name of goodness can be the 
 reason why you, who are the best of generals as well as the bes^ 
 of rhiapsodes in all Hellas, go about as a rhapsode instead of being 
 a general ? Do you think that the Hellenes want a rhapsode with 
 his golden crown, and do not want a general ? 
 J- Ion. Why, Socrates, the reason is, that my countrymen, the 
 , Ephesians, are the servants and soldiers of Athens, and don't 
 fleed a general; and you and Sparta are not likely to have me, 
 for you think that you have enough generals of your own. 
 
 Soc. My good Ion, did you never hear of Apollodorus of 
 "Cyiicus ? 
 
 Ion. Who may he be ? 
 iv Soc. One who, thoiigh a foreigner, has often been chosen their- 
 : general by the Athenians: and there is Phanosthenes of Andros, 
 and Heraclides of Clazomenae, whom they have also appointed 
 to the command of their armies and to other offices, although 
 ^ aliens, after they had shown their merit. And will they not 
 choose Ion the Ephesian as their general, and honour him, if he 
 prove himself worthy ? Were not the Ephesians originally Athe- 
 nians ; and Ephesus is no mean ,city ? But, indeed. Ion, if you 
 are correct in saying that by art and knowledge you are able to 
 praise Homer, you don't deal fairly with me, and after all your 
 ^professions of knowing many glorious things about Homer, and 
 promises that you would exhibit them to me, do only deceive 
 
246 ION. 
 
 me, and will not even explain at my earnest entreaties what 
 is the art of which you are a master. You have literally as many 
 forms as Proteus ; and now you go all manner of ways, twisting 
 and turning, and, like Proteus, become all maimer of people at 
 once, and at last slip away from me in the disguise of a general, 
 in order that you may escape exhibiting your Homeric lore. 
 And if, as I was saying, you have art, then I should say that in 
 falsifying your promise that you would exhibit Homer, you are 
 not dealing fairly with me. But if, as I believe, you have no 
 art, but speak all these beautiful words about Homer unconsciously 
 
 / under his inspiring influence, then I acquit you of dishonesty, 
 
 I and shall only say that you are inspired. Which do you prefer 
 
 j to be thought, dishonest or inspired ? 
 
 ^ Ion. There is a great difference, Socrates, between them ; and 
 inspiration is the far nobler alternative. 
 
 Soc. Then, Ion, I shall assume the nobler alternative j and 
 attribute to you in your praises of Homer inspiration, and not 
 art. 
 
 
ME NO. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 This Dialogue begins abruptly with a question of Meno, who asks 
 'whether virtue can be taught.' Socrates replies that he does not as 
 yet know what virtue is, and has never known any one who did. 
 ' Then he cannot have met Gorgias when he was at Athens.' Yes, 
 Socrates had met him, but he has a bad memory, and has forgotten 
 what Gorgias said. Will Meno tell him his own notion, which is 
 probably not very different from that of Gorgias ? ' O yes — nothing , 
 easier ; there is the virtue of a man, of a woman, of an old man, and 
 of a child ; there is a virtue of every age and state of life, all of which 
 may be easily described.' 
 
 Socrates reminds Meno that this is only an enumeration of the virtues 
 and not a definition of the notion which is common to them all. Meno 
 tries again ; this time he defines virtue to be ' the power of command.' 
 But to this, again, exceptions are taken. For there must be a virtue of*' 
 those who obey, as well as of those who command; and the power of 
 command must be justly or not unjustly exercised. Meno is very ready 
 to admit that justice is virtue : ' Would you say virtue or a virtue, for 
 there are other virtues, such as com-age, temperance, and the like ; just 
 as round is a figure, and black and white are colours, and yet there are 
 other figures and other colours. Let Meno take the examples of figure 
 and colour, and try to define them.' Meno confesses his inability, and 
 after a process of interrogation, in which Socrates explains to him the 
 nature of a ' simile in multis,' Socrates himself defines figure as ' the 
 accompaniment of colour.' But some one may object that he does not 
 know the meaning of the word ' colour;' and if he is a candid friend, 
 and not a mere disputant, Socrates is willing to furnish him with a simpler 
 and more philosophical definition, in which no disputed word is allowed 
 
250 MENO. 
 
 to intrade : ' Figure is the limit of form.' Meno imperiously insists that 
 he must still have a definition of colour. To which, after some playfulw^ 
 raillery, Socrates is induced to reply, ' that colour is the effluence of form:, 
 in due proportion to the sight.' This definition is exactly suited to the^ 
 taste of Meno, who welcomes the familiar language of Gorgias and- 
 Empedocles. Socrates is of opinion that the more abstract or dialecticak; 
 definition of figure is far better. 
 
 Now that Meno has been made to understand the nature of a general 
 definition, he answers in the spirit of a Greek gentleman, and in the j 
 words of a poet, 'that virtue is to delight in things honourable, and to 
 have the power of getting them,' This is a nearer approximation: than • 
 he has yet made to a complete definition, and, regarded as a piece; of 
 proverbial or popular morality, is not far from the truth. But the 
 objection is urged, ' that the honourable is the good,' and as every one 
 desires the good, the point of the definition is contained in the last 
 words, ' the power of getting them.' ' And they must be got justly .or 
 with justice.' The definition will then stand thus : ' Virtue is thfe power 
 of getting good with justice.' But justice is a part of virtuCj and there^ 
 fore virtue is the getting of good with a part of virtue. The defimtioji 
 repeats the word defined. 
 
 Meno complains that the conversation of Socrates has the effect of a 
 torpedo's shock upon him. When he talks with other persons he has 
 plenty to say about virtue ; in the presence of Socrates, Ms thoughts- , 
 seem to desert him. Socrates replies that he is only the cau,se of per- 
 plexity in others, because he is himself perplexed. He proposes- to 
 continue the inquiry. But how, asks Meno, can he inquire either -into 
 what he knows or into what he does not know? This is a sophisticfj v 
 puzzle, which, as Socrates remarks, saves a great deal of trouble to him 
 who accepts it. But the puzzle has a real difficulty latent under it, to 
 which Socrates replies in a figure. The difiiculty is the origin of >^ 
 knowledge. 
 
 He professes to have heard from priests and priestesses, and fron) the 
 poet Pindar, of an immortal soul which is always learning and forgettioyg^ ' 
 in successive periods of existence, wandering over all places of the 
 upper and under world, having seen and known all things at one time - 
 or other, and by association out of one thing capable of recovering aL 
 For nature is of one kindred ; and every soul has a seed or germ whi(^ 
 may be developed into all kmowledge. The existence of this latent 
 
 \ 
 J 
 
INTRODUCTION. 251 
 
 kBDwledge is further proved by the interrogation of one of Meno's slaves, 
 who, in the skilful hands of Socrates, is nrade to acknowledge some 
 'I elementary relations of geometrical figures. The theorem that the square 
 of the diagonal is double the square of the side — that famous discovery 
 of primitive mathematics, in honour of which the legendary P3rthagorias 
 is said to have sacrificed a hecatomb — is elicited from him. The first 
 step in the process of teaching has made him conscious of his own 
 ignorance. He has had the ' torpedo's shock ' given him, and is the 
 better for the operation. But whence had the uneducated man this know- 
 ledge ? He had never learnt geometry in this world ; nor was it born with 
 him; he must therefore have had it in a previous existence. (Cp. Phaedo 
 
 73, B.) 
 
 After Socrates has given this specimen of the true nature of teaching, 
 the original question of the teachableness of virtue is renewed. Again 
 he professes a desire to know ' what virtue is ' first. But he is willing to 
 argue the question, as mathematicians say, under an hypothesis. He will 
 assume that if virtue is knowledge, then vu-tue can be taught. (This 
 was the stage of the argument at which the Protagoras concluded.) 
 
 ■Socrates has no difficulty in showing that virtue is a good, and that 
 goods, whether of body or mind, must be under the direction of know- 
 ledge. Upon the assumption just made, then, virtue is teachable. But 
 where are the teachers } There are none found. This is extremely dis- 
 couraging. Virtue is no sooner discovered to be teachable, than the 
 discovery follows that it is not taught. Virtue, therefore, is and is not 
 teachable. 
 
 In this dilemma an appeal is made to Anytus, who is a respectable 
 
 and well-to-do citizen of the old school, and happens to be present. He 
 
 is asked ' whether Meno shall go to the Sophists and be taught.' The 
 
 very suggestion of this throws him into a rage. ' To whom, then, shall 
 
 , Meno go ? ' asks Socrates. To any Athenian gentleman— to the great 
 
 Athenian statesmen of past times. Socrates replies here, as elsewhere 
 
 (Laches 179 C, foil.; Prot. 319, foil.), that Themistocles, Pericles, and 
 
 L other great men, never taught their sons anything worth learning ; and 
 
 I they would surely, if they could, have imparted to them their own political 
 
 '' wisdom. Anytus is, angry at the imputation which is supposed to be 
 
 i cast on his favomite statesmen, and breaks off with a significant threat. 
 
 J. Socrates returns to the consideration of the question ' whether virtue 
 
 I is teachable,' which was denied on the ground that there are no teachers 
 
252 MENO. 
 
 of it: (for the Sophists are bad teachers, and the rest of the world-do f* 
 
 not profess to teach.) But there is another point which we failed I© »« 
 
 observe, and in which Gorgias has never instructed Meno, nor Prodicus -"'^' 
 
 Socrates. This is the nature of right opinion. For virtue may be unda >**' 
 
 the guidance of right opinion as well as knowledge ; and right ojmiion ^ 
 
 is for practical purposes as good as knowledge, but is incapable of beii^ «'•* 
 
 taught, and is also liable to ' walk' off,' because not bound by the tie of :-■" 
 
 the cause. This is the sort of instinct which is possessed by statesmen, s^m 
 
 who are not wise or knowing persons, but only inspired or divine. The sm 
 
 higher virtue, which is identical with knowledge, is an ideal only. If the iS' 
 
 statesman had this knowledge, and could teach what he knew, he would - 
 
 be like Tiresias in the world below, — ' he alone would have "wisdom, while ':"-■ 
 
 the rest flit as shadows.' - fj" 
 
 ^iSI 
 
 This Dialogue is an attempt to answer the question. Can virtue be 
 taught ? No one would either ask or answer such a question -in modem ii 
 times. But in the age of Socrates it was only by an eflFort that the mind ais 
 could rise to a general notion of virtue as distinct from the particular ab 
 virtues of courage, liberality, arid the like. And when a hazy conception 
 
 "jI; 
 
 of this was attained, it was only by a further effort that the question' of ioi 
 
 
 'iiJi 
 
 the teachableness of virtue could be resolved. :;; i 
 
 The answer which is given by Plato is paradoxical enough, and seems ssi 
 
 rather intended to stimulate than to satisfy inquiry. Virtue is knowledge, liiiidi 
 
 and therefore virtue can be taught. But virtue is not taught, and there- ^^ 
 
 fore in this higher and ideal sense there is no virtue and no knowledge. Jajtr 
 
 The teaching of the Sophists is confessedly inadequate, and Meno, who Cifc 
 is their pupil, is ignorant of the very nature of general terms. He can 
 only produce out of their armoury the sophism, ' that you can neither 
 
 inquire into what you know nor into what you do not know j' to which fe 
 
 Socrates replies by his theory of reminiscence. ilei; 
 
 To the doctrine that virtue is knowledge, Plato has been constantly 
 
 tending in the previous Dialogues. But here the new truth is no sooner ij^j 
 
 found than it seems to vanish away. ' If there is knowledge, there must .y \ 
 
 be teachers; and where are the teachers?' There is no knowledgfe in \it^^ 
 
 the higher sense of systematic, connected, reasoned knowledge, such as ;j(p 
 
 may one day be attained, and such as Plato himself seems to see in some ijj^ 
 
 far off vision of a single science. And there are no teachers in the ^j^j 
 
 higher sense of the word ; that is to say, no real teachers who will arousb -^^ 
 
 a 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 253 
 
 |i _ — 
 
 the spirit of inquiry in their pupils, and not merely instruct them in 
 «hetoric or impart to them ready-made info^ation for a fee of ' one ' 
 or of' .'fifty drachms.' Plato is desirous of deepening the notion of 
 -education, and therefore he asserts the seeming paradox that there are 
 BO Bducators. A suspicion of this has already been suggested atdie end 
 jfrthe Euthydemus. 
 
 * But there is still a possibility which must not be overlooked. Even if 
 there is no knowledge, as has been proved by ' the wretched state of 
 SjlScation,' there may be right opinion. This is a sort of guessing or 
 divination which rests on no knowledge of causes, and is incommunicable 
 tOfOthers. This is what our statesmen have, as is proved by the circum- 
 stance that they are unable to impart their knowledge to others. Those 
 who are possessed of this gift cannot be said to be men of science or 
 philosophers, but they are inspired and divine. 
 
 ' : There is no trace of irony in this curious passage, which forms the 
 •Goncluding portion of the dialogue. Nor again does Plato mean to 
 intimate that the supernatural or divine is the true basis of human life. 
 To him knowledge, if only attainable in this world, is of all things the 
 most divine. But, like other philosophers, he is willing to admit that 
 'probability is the guide of life ;' and at the same time is desirous to 
 contrast ' the wisdom which governs the world' with true wisdom. 
 There are many instincts, judgments, and anticipations of the human 
 njind which cannot be reduced to rule, and of which the grounds 
 cannot always be .given in words. A person may have some skill or 
 latent experience which he is able to use himself and is yet unable to 
 teach others, because he has no principles, and is not able to collect or 
 arrange his ideas. He has practice, but not theory ; art, but not science. 
 This is a true fact of psychology, which is recognized by Plato in this 
 
 Also here, as in the Ion and Phaedrus, Plato appears to acknow- 
 ledge an unreasoning element in the higher nature of man. The philo- 
 sopher only has knowledge, and yet the. statesman and the poet are 
 igspired. There may be a sort of irony in regarding in this way the 
 gifts of genius. But there is no reason to suppose that he is deriding 
 them any more than he is deriding the phenomena of love or of 
 enthusiasm in the Symposium, or of oracles in the Apology, or of divine 
 intimations when he is speaking of the daemonium of Socrates. He 
 recognizes the lower form of right opinion, as well as the higher one of 
 
254 MENO. 
 
 r,sir 
 
 science, in the spirit of one who desires to include in his philosophy 
 every aspect of human life; just as he recognizes the existenoS*rof 
 popular opinion as a fact, and the Sophists as the expression of it. - ■'" 
 
 This Dialogue contains the first intimation of the doctrine of remiriis- i*'^ 
 cence and of the immortality of the soul. It may be observed that the '^^ 
 fanciful notion of pre-existence is combined with a true \iew of the unity t# 
 of knowledge, and of the association of ideas. The germs of two valu- "*^ 
 able principles of education may also be gathered from the ' doctrine of S"*' 
 priests and priestesses : ' (i) that true knowledge is a knowledge of causes ''•' 
 (cp. Aristotle's theory of fwia-rriftr)) ; and (2) that the process of learning !•*'' 
 consists not in what is brought to the learner, but in what is drawn out ^'^^ 
 of him. The philosophy of ideas is here presented in a less developed iMi 
 form, than in the Phaedo and Phaedrus. Nothing is said' of the pre- asbt 
 existence of ideas of justice, temperance, and the Hke. Nor is Socrates *is 
 positive of anything but the duty of 'inquiry (86 B). The doctrine of Tsu 
 reminiscence too is explained in a manner more in accordance with fact ^jj 
 and experience out of the affinities of nature (Ste r^r 0uo-€<Br 0X175 miyytveds 'Bi,ik 
 oSaris). Modern philosophy says that all things in nature are dependent k H 
 on one another ; the ancient philosopher has the same truth latent in his iiiviii 
 mind when he says that out of one thing all the rest may be recovered. >' iiJUdl 
 
 Some lesser traits of the dialogue may be noted also, such as the ssiitj 
 acute observation that Meno prefers the familiar definition, which -is ajlfi,, 
 embellished with poetical language, to the better and truer one (p. 76D)-; sj^it, 
 or (2) the shrewd reflection, which may admit of an application to modern in,^ 
 as well as to ancient teachers, that the Sophists having made large jtluti, 
 fortunes, this must surely be a criterion of their powers of teaching, iiU,j 
 for that no man could get a living by shoemaking who was not a good it[j^ 
 shoemaker (91 C); or (3) the remark conveyed, almost in a word,'that id,!,, 
 the verbal sceptic is saved the labour of thought and inquiry (oiSev 8« ifu 
 T^ Toioura fijT^o-ecar, 80 E). Characteristic also of the temper of the »j,jj||^ 
 Socratic inquiry is, (4) the proposal to discuss the teachableness of virtue i^^ 
 under an hypothesis, after the manner of the mathematiciane (87 A); 11^ 
 and (6) the repetition of the favourite doctrine which occurs so frequently ^ , 
 ip the eariier and more Socratic Dialogues, and gives a colour to all of \,^. 
 them— that mankind only desire evil through ignorance (77, 78 foil.). _^^ 
 
 The character of Meno, like that of Critias, has no relation to thei|<|,j^' 
 actual circumstances of his life. Plato is silent about his treachCTj*itBi»|,(i ' 
 the ten thousand Greeks, which Xenophon has recorded, as he is also L^ 
 
INTRODUCTION. 2gg 
 
 silent about thq crimes of Critias. He is a Thessalian Alcibiades, rich 
 i^d luxurious — a ■ spoilt cbild of fortune,*and is described as the 
 hereditary friend of the great king. Like Alcibiades, he is inspired with 
 an ardent desire of knowledge, and is equally willing to learn of Socrates 
 ogjid die Sophists. He may be regarded as standing in the same relation 
 to Gorgias as Hippocrates in the Protagoras to the other great Sophist 
 He. is the sophisticated youth on whom Socrates tries his cross-examining 
 powers, , with a view of exhibiting him and his teachers in their true light, 
 just as in the Charmides, the Lysis, and the Euthydemus, he makes 
 ingenuous boyhood the subject of a similar experiment. Socrates treats 
 Meno in a half playful manner, and tries to exhibit him to himself and to 
 the reader as ignorant of the very elements of dialectics, in which the 
 Sophists have failed to instruct their disciple. 
 
 Anytus is the type of the narrow-minded man of the world, who is 
 indignant at innovation, and equally detests the popular teacher and the 
 true philosopher. He seems, like Aristophanes, to regard the new 
 opinions, whether of Socrates or the Sophists, as fatal to Athenian 
 greatness. He is of the same class as Callicles in the Gorgias, but of 
 a different variety; the immoral and sophistical doctrines of Callicles are 
 not attributed to him. The moderation with which he is described is 
 remarkable, if he be the accuser of Socrates; and this seems to be 
 indicated by his. parting words. Perhaps Plato may have been desirous 
 of showing that the accusation of Socrates was not to be attributed to 
 badness or malevolence, but rather to a tendency in men's nrinds. Or 
 he may have been regardless of the historical truth of the characters of 
 his dialogue, as in the case of Meno and Critias. Like Chaerephon 
 (Apol. 2i) the real Anytus was a democrat, and had joined Thrasybulus 
 in the conflict with the thirty. 
 
 The Protagoras arrived at a sort of hypothetical conclusion, that if 
 '.virtue is knowledge, it can be taught.' In the Euthydemus, Socrates 
 himself offered an example of the manner in which -ingenuous youth 
 s^iould be taught; this was in contrast to the quibbling follies of the 
 Sophists. In the Meno the subject is carried further ; and although no 
 dear result is attained, the foundations of the inquiry are laid deeper, 
 and the nature of knowledge is more distinctly explained. There is a 
 sort of progression by antagonism of two opposite aspects of philosophy. 
 When we have reached the ideal of knowledge, we seem to find that it is 
 ijreconcilable with . actual fact. In human life there is the profession 
 
2S6 MENO. 
 
 of knowledge, but right opinion is our actual guide. Knowledge, at the 
 best, is only opinion, and is really incapable of being taught. There is 
 also another sort of progress from the general notions of Socrates, who 
 asked simply, ' what is friendship ? what is temperance ? what is courage ? ' 
 as in the Lysis, Charmides, Laches, to the transcendentalism of Plato, 
 who, in the second stage of his philosophy, sought to find the nature of 
 knowledge in a prior and future state of existence. 
 
 The difSculty in framing general notions which has appeared in all 
 the previous Dialogues recurs in the Gorgists and Theaetetus as well as 
 in the Republic. In the Gorgias the statesmen are again introduced, 
 but in stronger opposition'" to the philosopher. They are no longer 
 allowed to have a divine insight, but, though acknowledged to have been 
 clever men and good speakers, are denounced as ' blind leaders of the 
 blind.' In the Republic the relation of knowledge to virtue is described 
 in a manner more consistent with modern distinctions. The existence 
 of the virtues without the possession of knowledge in the higher or 
 philosophical sense, is admitted to be possible. Right opinion is agdh 
 introduced in the Theaetetus as an account of knowledge, but is rejected 
 on the ground that it is irrational (as here, because it is not bound by 
 the tie of the cause), and also, because the conception of false opinion 
 is given up as hopeless. Such are the shifting points of view which 
 Plato presents to us in his life-long effort to work out the great in- 
 tellectual puzzle of his age — the nature of knowledge and of good, and 
 their relation to one another, and to human life. 
 
MENO. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Meno. a Slave of Meno. 
 
 Socrates. Anytus. 
 
 Meno. Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is acquired by 
 teaching or by practice ; or if neither by teaching nor by practice, 
 then whether it comes to man by nature, or in what other way ? 
 
 Socrates. O Meno, there was a time when the Thessalians were 
 famous among the other Hellenes only for their riches and their 
 riding j but now, if I am not mistaken, they are equally famous for 
 their wisdom, especially at Larisa, which is the native city of 
 your friend Aristippus. And this is Gorgias' doing j for when he 
 came there, the flower of the Aleuadae, of whom your lover Aristippus 
 is one, and the other chiefs of the Thessalians, fell in love with his 
 wisdom. Andjie has taught you the habit of answering questions 
 in a grand and bold style, which becomes those who know, and is 
 the style in which he himself answers all comers ; and any Hellene 
 who likes may ask him anything. How different is our lot ! my 
 h-dear Meno. Here at Athens there is a dearth of the commodity, 
 and all wisdom seems to have emigrated from us to you. I am 
 certain that if you were to ask any Athenian whether virtue was 
 natural or acquired, he would laugh in your face, and say : Stranger, 
 you have far too good an opinion of me ; if I were inspired I might 
 answer your question. But now I literally do not know what virtue 
 is, and much less whether it is acquired by teaching or not. And I 
 myself, Meno, living as I do in this region of poverty, am as poor 
 as the rest of the citizens ; and I confess with shame that I know 
 literally nothing about virtue ; and when I do not know the ' quid ' 
 
12 58 MENO. 
 
 of anytl^ how can I know the ' quale ? ' How, if I knew 
 nothin^fcu of Meno, could I tell if he was fair, or the oppoate 
 of fair J riSPand noble, or the reverse of rich and noble ? Do yoa 
 think that I could ? 
 
 Men. No, indeed. But are you in earnest, Socrates, in saying 
 that you do not know what virtue is ? And am I to carry back 
 this report of you to Thessaly ? 
 
 Soc. Not only that, my dear boy, but you may say further that I 
 have never known of any one else who did, in my judgment. 
 
 Men. Then you have never n;iet Gorgias when he was at 
 Athens ? 
 
 Soc. Yes, I have. 
 
 Men. And did you not think that he knew ? 
 
 Soc. I have not a good- memory, Meno, and therefore I cannot 
 now tell what I thought of him at the time. And I dare say that 
 he did know, and that you know what he said : please, therefore, 
 to remind me of what he said ; or, if you would rather, telL me 
 your own view, for I dare say that you and he think much alike> 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. Then as he is not here, never mind him, and do you tell 
 me. By the gods, Meno, be generous, and tell me what you say 
 that virtue is ; for I shall be truly delighted to find that I have 
 been mistaken, and that you and Gorgias do really know what I 
 have been saying that I have never found anybody who knew. ' ' 
 
 Men. There will be no difficulty, Socrates, in answering that. 
 Take first ,the virtue of a man : his virtue is to know how to- 
 administer the state, in the administraticm of which he will benefit 
 his friends and damage his enemies, and will take care not- to 
 suffer damage himself. A woman's virtue may also be easily, 
 defscribed: her virtue is to order her house, and keep wha:t is 
 indoors, and obey her husband. Every age, every condition of 
 life, young or old, male or female, bond or free, has a different 7? 
 virtue : there are virtues numberless, and no lack of definitions 
 of them; for virtue is relative to the actions and ages of each 
 of us in all that we do. And the same may be said of vice, 
 Socrates. 
 
 Soc. How fortunate I am, Meno! (When I ask you for one 
 virtue, you present me with a swarm of them, which are in your 
 keeping. »,Suppose that I carry on the figure of the swarm, and ask \ 
 
MENO. 259 
 
 of you, Whkt is the nature of the bee ? and you answer ^ft there 
 1U% many kinds of bees, and I reply : But do bees diSj^ms bees, 
 teeipaHse there are many and diflterent kinds of them Pro are they 
 not rather to be distinguished by some other quality^ as for 
 ilsiiHple beauty, size, or shape ? How would you answer that ? 
 ii Mm. I should answer that bees do not differ from one another, 
 as bees. * 
 
 i Soc. And suppose that I went on to say : That is what I want to 
 know, Meno ; tell me what is that quality in which they do not 
 differ, but are all aiike ; — you would be able to answer that ? 
 Mm. I should. au- 
 
 Soc. And so of the virtues, however many and different they 
 may be, they have all a common nature which makes them virtues ; 
 and on this he who would answer the question, ' What is virtue ? ' 
 would do well to have his eye fixed. Do you understand ? 
 ' Mm^. I am beginning to understand j but I do not as. yet take 
 hold of the question as I could wish. 
 
 Soc. When you say, Meno, that there is one virtue of a man, 
 another of a woman, another of a child, and so on ; does this 
 apply only to virtue, or would you say the same of health, and size, 
 snd strei^th ? Or is the nature of health always the same, whether 
 in man or woman ? 
 
 I Mm. I should say that health, regarded as healthy is the same, 
 whether of man or woman. 
 
 .Soc. And is not this true of size and strength? If a woman is 
 istrong, she will be strong by reason of the same form and of the 
 same strength subsisting in her which there is in the man. I 
 mean to say that strength, as strength, whether of man or woman, 
 
 73 is tlie same. Is there any difference ? 
 
 ■ Mew. I think not. ^ 
 
 •: Soc. And will not virtue^ as virtue, be the same, whether, in a 
 
 ! : child or in a grown-up person, in a woman or in a man ? 
 'r Men. I cannot help feelii^, Socrates, that this case is not like 
 
 J the others. 
 .Soc. Why? Were you not saying that the virtue of a man was 
 to order a state, and the virtue of a woman was to order a house ? 
 
 Men. I did say that. 
 ■\b.Soc. And can either house or state or anythiaig be well ordered 
 Mthout temperance and without justice? 
 
26o MENO. 
 
 ATew.^^rtainly not. t 
 
 Soc. t1|| they who order a state or a house temperately or 
 justly order them with temperance and justice ? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. - Then botii men and women, if they are to be good men 
 and women, must have the same virtues of temperance and 
 justice ? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And can either a young man or an old one be good, if they 
 are intemperate and unjust ? 
 
 Men. They cannot. 
 
 Soc. They must be temperate and just ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc, Then all men are good in the same way, and by participa- 
 tion in the same virtues ? 
 
 Men. That is the inference. 
 
 Soc. And they surely would not have been good in the same 
 way, unless their virtue had been the same ? 
 
 Men. They would not. 
 
 Soc. Then now tfaat ^e sameness of all virtug_has_heen_pioven,, 
 try and remember what youaSd^GoigTEg'say that virtue is. 
 
 Men. Will you have one definition of them all ? 
 
 Soc. That is what I am seeking. 
 
 Men. What can I say but that virtue is the power of governing 
 mankind ? 
 
 Soc. And does this definition of virtue include all. virtue? 
 Is virtue the same in a child and in a slave, Meno? Ought the 
 child to govern his father, or the slave his master j and would he 
 who governed be any longer a slave ? 
 
 Mem. I think not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. No, indeed; there would be small reason in that. Yet 
 once more, fair friend j according to you, virtue is ' the power of 
 governing ; ' but do you not add 'justly ' and not unjustly ? 
 
 Men. Yes, Socrates j I agree t:o that, for justice is virtue. 
 
 Soc. Would you say ' virtue,' Meno, or * a virtue ?' 
 
 Men. What do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. I mean as I might say about anything ; that a round, for 
 example, is 'a figure ' and not simply 'figure,' and I should say this 
 because there are other figures. 
 
MENO. 261 
 
 Men. Quite right; and that is just»what I am saying about 
 virtue — that there are other virtues as well as justice. 
 4 Soc. What are they ? tell me the names of them, as I would tell 
 you the names of the other figures if you asked me. 
 ' Men. Courage and temperance and wisdom and magnificence 
 are virtues j and there are many others. 
 
 Soc. Yes, Meno j and again we are in the same case : in search- 
 ing after one virtue we have found many, though not in the same 
 Wky as before; but we have been unable to find the common 
 element which runs through them all. ^ 
 
 Men. Why, Socrates, even now I am not able to follow you in 
 the attempt to get at one common notion of virtue as of other 
 things. 
 
 Soc. No wonder; but I will try to arrive a little nearer if 
 I can, for you know that all things have a common notion. 
 -Suppose now that some one asked you the question which 
 Tasked before: Meno, he would say, what is figure? And if you 
 answered ' roundness,' he would reply to you, in my way of 
 speaking, by asking whether you would say that roundness is 
 ' figure' or ' a figure ;' and you would answer ' a figure.' 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And for this reason — that there are other figures ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And if he proceeded to ask, what other figures are there ? 
 you would have told him. 
 
 Men. I should. 
 
 Soc. And if he similarly asked what colour is, and you answered 
 wfiiteness, and the questioner rejoined. Would yoU say that 
 whiteness is colour or a colour? you would reply; A colour, 
 because there are other colours as well. 
 
 Men. I should. 
 ■ Soc. And if he had said. Tell me what they are, you would have 
 told him of other colours which are colours just as much as 
 whiteness. 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And suppose that he were to pursue the matter in my way, 
 he would say : Ever and anon we are landed in particulars, but 
 this is not what I want; tell me then, since you call them by 
 a common name, and say that they are allfigurds, even when 
 
262 MEMO. 
 
 opposed to one another, what is that common nature which you 
 designate as figure — which comprehends straight as well as 
 round, and is no more one than the other — would you not say 
 that ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Arid in saying that, you do not mean to say that the round 
 is round any more- than straight, or the straight any more straight 
 than round ? 
 
 Men. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. You only assert that the round figure is not more a figure 
 than the straight, or the straight than the round ? 
 
 Men. That is true. 
 
 Soc. What then is this which is called figure? Try and 
 Answer. Suppose that when a person asked you this question 
 either about figure or colour, you were to reply, Man, I do not 7i 
 understand what you want, or know what you are saying; be 
 would look rather astonished and say: Do you not understand 
 that I am looking for the 'simile in multis'? And then he 
 might put the question in another form: Meno, he might say, 
 What is that ' simile in multis' which you call figure, and which ^ 
 includes not only round and straight figures, but all ? Could you 
 not answer that question, Meno? I wish that you would try j 
 the attempt will be good practice with a view to the answer 
 about virtue. 
 
 Men. I would rather that you should answer, Socrates. 
 
 Soc: Shall I indulge you ? 
 
 Men. By all means. 
 
 Soc. And then you will tell me about virtue ? 
 
 Men. I will. 
 
 Soc. Then I must do my best, for there is a prize to be 
 won. 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Well, I will try and explain to you what figure is. What do 
 you say to this answer? — Figure is the only thing that always 
 follows colour. I hope that you are satisfied with thait, as I am 
 sure I should be content if you would let me have a similar 
 definition of virtue. 
 
 Men, But that, Socrates, is a simple answer. 
 
 Sue. Why simple ? 
 
MENO. 263 
 
 ji Mew. Because you say that figure is that which always follows - 
 0)loiir ; but if a person says that he does not know what colour is, 
 any more than what figure is — what sort of, answer would you 
 have given him ? 
 
 Soc. I should have told him the truth. And if he were a 
 philosopher of the eristic and antagonistic sort, I should say to 
 him: You have, my answer^ and if I am wrong, your business js 
 to take up the argument and refute me. But if I were talking 
 as you and I now are, as between friends, I should reply in a 
 milder strain and more in the dialectician's way; that is to say, 
 I should not only speak the truth, but I should make use of 
 premisses which the person interrogated would be willing to 
 admit. And this is the way in which I shall approach you. 
 You will acknowledge, will you not, .that there is such a thing 
 as an end, or termination, or extremity ? — all of which words I use 
 in the same sense, although I am aware that Prodicus might 
 quarrel with us about this: but still you, I am sure, would speak 
 erf a thing as ended or terminated — that is all which I am say- 
 ing — not anything very difficult. 
 
 , Men. Yes, I should j and I believe that I understand your 
 meaning. 
 
 Soc. And you would speak of a surface and also of a solidj as for 
 example in geoinetry. 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Sot. Well then, you are now in a condition to understand my 
 definition of figure. I define figure to be that in which the solid 
 ends J or, more concisely, as the limit of solid. 
 
 Men. And now, Socrates, what is colour ? 
 
 Soc. You are outrageous, Meno, in thus plaguing a poor old man 
 to give you an answer, when you won't take the trouble of 
 remembering what is Gorgias' definition of virtue. 
 
 Men. When you have told me what I ask, I will tell you, 
 Socrates. 
 
 : Soc. A man who was blindfolded has only to hear you talking, 
 and he would know that you are a fair creature and have still 
 many lovers. 
 
 Men. Why do you say that ? 
 
 Soc. Why, because you always speak in imperatives: like all 
 beauties when they are in their prime, you are tyrannicjal ; and also. 
 
264 MEMO. 
 
 as I suspect, you have found out that I have a weakness for the, 
 fair, and therefore I must humour you and answer. i ;•' 
 
 Men. Please do. 
 
 Soc. Would you like me to answer you after the manner of 
 Gorgias, which is familiar to you ? 
 
 Men. I should very much like that. 
 
 Soc. Do not he and Empedocles say that there are certain 
 effluences of existence ? 
 
 Men, Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And passages into which and through which the effluences 
 pass? 
 
 Men. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. And some of the effluences fit into the passages, and some 
 of them are too small or too large ? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And there is such a thing as sight ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And now, as Pindar says, ' read my meaning :' — colour is an 
 effluence of form, commensurate with sight, and sensible. 
 
 Men. That, Socrates, appears to me to be an admirable answer. 
 
 Soc. Why, yes, because it is just such an one as you have been 
 in the habit of hearing : and your wit will have discovered that 
 you may explain in the same way the nature of sound and smell, 
 and of many other similar phenomena. 
 
 Men. Quite true. 
 
 Soc. The answer, Meno, was in the orthodox solemn vein, and 
 therefore was more acceptable to you than the other answer about 
 figure. 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And yet, O son of Alexidemus, I cannot help thinking that 
 the other was the better; and I am sure that you would be of the 
 same opinion, if you would only stay and be initiated, and were 
 not compelled, as you said yesterday, to go away before the 
 mysteries. 
 
 Men. But I will gladly stay, Socrates, if you will give me many 77 
 such answers. 
 
 Soc. Well then, for my own sake as well as for yours, I will do 
 my very best ; but I am afraid that I shall not be able to give you 
 very many as good : and now, in your turn, you are to fidfil your - 
 
ME NO. 265 
 
 pBDmise, and tell me what virtue is in the universal ; and do not 
 make a singular into a plural, as the facetious say of those who 
 break a thing, but deliver virtue to me whole and sound and not 
 Broken into a number of pieces. I have given you the pattern. 
 
 Men. Well then, Socrates, virtue, as I take, it, is the love and 
 attainment of the honourable ; that is what the poet says, and 1 
 say too — 
 
 'Virtue is the desire and power of attaining the honourable/ 
 
 Soc. And does he who desires the honourable also desire the 
 good? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Then are there some who desire the evil and others who 
 desire the good ! Do not all men, my dear sir, desire good ? 
 
 Men. No, I do not think that. 
 
 Soc. There are some who desire evil ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Do you mean that they think the evils which they desire to 
 be good; or do they know that they are evil and yet desire them ? 
 
 Men. Both, as I think. 
 
 Soc. And do you really imagine, Meno, that a man knows evils 
 to be evils and desires them notwithstanding? 
 
 itfew. Certainly I do. 
 
 Soc. And desire is of possession ? 
 
 Men. Yes, of possession. 
 
 Soc. And does he think that the evils will do good to him who 
 possesses them, or does he know that they will do him harm? 
 
 Men. There are some who think that the evils will do them 
 good, and others who know that they will do them harm. 
 
 Soc. And, in your opinion, do those who think that they will do 
 theih good know^that they are evils ? 
 
 •Men. No, I certainly do not think that. 
 
 Soc. Can anything be clearer than that those who are ignorant 
 of the evils do not desire them, but they desire what they suppose 
 to be good when they are really evils, and they who do not know 
 V^m to be evils, and suppose them to be good, desire good ? 
 
 Men. Yes, in that case. 
 
 Soc. Well, and do those who, as you say, desire evils, and think 
 thatrevils axe hurtful to the possessor of them, know that they will 
 be hurt by them ? 
 
266 MENO. 
 
 Men. They must know that. ' 
 
 Soc. And do they not suppose that they are miserable in the- 
 degree that they are hurt ? 
 
 Men. That again they must believe. 
 
 Soc. And are not the miserable ill-fated ? -fi 
 
 Men. Yes, indeed. ' 
 
 Soc. And does any one desire to be miserable and ill-fated ? ;;t: 
 
 Men. I should say not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. But if there is no one who desires to be miserable, there is 
 no one, Meno, who desires evilj for what is misery but the desire 
 and possession of evil ? - 1 
 
 Men. That appears to be the truth, Socrates, and I admit that 
 nobody desires evil. 
 
 Soc. And yet, were you not saying just now that virtue is the 
 desire and power of attaining good ? 
 
 Men. Yes, I did say that. 
 
 Soc. But granting that, then the desire of good is common to all, 
 and one man is no better than another in that ? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And if one man is not better than another in desiring good, 
 he must be better in the power of attaining good ? 
 
 Men. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. Then, according to your definition, virtue would appear to 
 be the power of attaining good ? 
 
 Men. I entirely approve, Socrates, of the manner in wbicb you 
 view this matter. j 
 
 Soc. Then now let us see whether this is true from another 
 point of view j for I dare say that you are right. What you say 
 is, that virtue is the power of attaining good ? 
 
 Men. Yes. ' :f 
 
 Soc. And you would say that goods are such as health and wealth 
 and the possession of gold and silver, and having office and honour 
 in the state — these are what you would call goods ? 
 
 Men. Yes, all these. 
 
 Soc. Then, according to Meno, who is the hereditary friend of 
 the great king, virtue is the power of getting silver and gold; and 
 would you add piously, justly, or do you deem this of no con- 
 sequence ? And is any mode of acquisition, even if unjust or 
 dishonest, equally to be regarded as virtue ? 
 
MENO. 267 
 
 Men. Not virtue, Socrates, but vice. 
 ij :*-"Soc. Then justice or temperance or holiness, or some other part 
 of virtue, as would appear, must accompany the acquisition^ and 
 without them the mere acquisition of good will not be virtue. 
 
 Men. Why, how can there be virtue without these ? 
 
 Soc. And the non-acquisition of gold and silver in a dishonest 
 manner may be equally virtue ? 
 
 Men. True. 
 i'l Sec. Then the acquisition of such goods is no more virtue than the 
 J flon-acquisition of them, but whatever is accompanied by justice 
 or honesty is virtue, and whatever is devoid of justice is vice ? 
 
 Men. There can be no doubt about that,' in my judgment. 
 
 Soc. And were we not saying just now that justice, temperance, 
 and the like, were each of them a part of virtue ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And so, Meno, this is the way in which you mock me. 
 ^ -Men. • Why do you say that, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. Why, because I asked you to deliver virtue into niy hands 
 whole and unbroken, and I gave you a pattern according to which 
 you were to frame your answer; and you have already forgotten 
 this, and tell me that virtue- is the power of attaining good justly, 
 or with justice — thus acknowledging justice to be a part of virtue. 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then it follows from your own admissions, that virtue is 
 doing what you do with a part of virtue ; for justice and the like 
 are each of them parts of virtue. 
 
 Men. What of that ? 
 , 5'ef. What of that! Why, did not I ask you to tell me the 
 nature of virtue as a whole ? And you are very far from telling me 
 this ; but declare every action to be virtue which is done with a 
 part of virtue ; as though you had already told me the whole of 
 virtue, and as if I should know what the whole was when frittered 
 away into little pieces. And, therefore, my dear Meno, I fear 
 that I must begin again and repeat the same question : What is 
 virtue ? for otherwise, I can only say, that every action done with 
 a part of virtue is virtue; what else is the meaning of saying that 
 every action done with justice is virtue ? Don't you think that the 
 question requires to be repeated ; for can any one who does not 
 know virtue know a part of virtue ? 
 
268 ME NO. I 
 
 itfe». No; I do not say that he can. ' 
 
 Soc. Do you remember how, in the example of figure/we rejectsff 
 any answer given in terms which were as yet unexplained or 
 unadmitted ? 
 
 Men. Yes, Socrates; and we were right in that, -^ 
 
 Soc. Well, my friend, do as we did then : and do not supposi 
 that we can explain to any one the nature bf virtue as a whole' 
 through some unexplained portion of virtue, or anything 'at all in 
 that fashion ; for that only leads to a repetition of the old question, 
 What is virtue ? Now, am I not right ? 
 
 Me». I believe that you are. 
 
 Soc. Then begin ^ain, and answer me, What, according to 
 you and your friend, is the definition of virtue ? 
 
 Men. O Socrates; I used to be told, before I knew you, that! 
 you are always puzzling yourself and others ; and now you are 
 casting your spells over me, and I am simply getting bewitched 
 and enchanted, and am at my wits' end. And if 1 may venture to 
 make a jest upon you, you seem to- me both in your appeafartce 
 and in .your power over others to be very like the flat torpedo fish, 
 who torpifies those who come near him with the touch, as j^ou 
 have now torpified me, I think. For my soul and my topgue *are 
 really torpid, and I do not know how to answer you ; and though 
 I have been delivered of an infinite variety of speeches ' about 
 virtue before now, and to many persons — a,nd very good ones they 
 were, as I thought — now I cannot even say what virtue is. And' I 
 think that you are very wise in not voyaging and going away 
 from home, for if you did in other places as you do in Athens, yoU 
 would be cast into prison as a magician. 
 
 Soc. You are a rogue, Meno, and had all but caught me. 
 
 Men. What do you mean, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. I can tell why you made a simile about me. 
 
 Men. Why, do you think ? 
 
 Soc. In order that I might make another simile about you. For 
 I know that all pretty young gentlemen like to have pretty simil'ef 
 made about them ; and well they may : but I shall not return tM 
 compliment. As to my being a torpedo, if the torpedo is torpid i 
 well as the cause of torpidity in others, then indeed I am a tor 
 but not otherwise ; for I perplex others, not because I am clfel 
 but because I am utterly perplexed myself. And now I know not 
 
MENO. it() 
 
 vhat virtue is, and you seem to be in the same case^ although you 
 lid qnce know before you touched me. However, I have no 
 ^eqtion to join with you in the inquiry. ,. 
 
 Men. And how will you inquire, Socrates, into that which you 
 mow not ? What will you put forth as the subject of inquiry ? 
 l^iid if you find what you want, how will you ever know that this 
 s ;Khat you did not know ? 
 
 Soc. I know, Meno, what you meanj but just see what a tire- 
 ome dispute you are introducing. You argue that a man cannot 
 nquire either about that which he knows, or about that which he 
 loes not know ; for he knows, and therefore has no need to inquire 
 ^out-that — nor about that which he does not know j for he does 
 lot know that about which he is to inquire. 
 jg^f». Well, Socrates, and is not the argument sound ? 
 ,,^w. I think not. 
 ]^Mm. Why not? i.., 
 
 Soc. I will tell you why. I have heard from certain wise men 
 ipd women who spoke of things divine that — 
 -Men. What did they say?. 
 
 Soc. They spoke of a glorious truth, as I conceive. 
 ,^Jiien. What was that? and who were they? 
 
 Soc. Some of them were priests and priestesses, who had studied 
 low they might be able to give a reason of their profession : there 
 lave been poets also, such as the poet Pindar and other inspired 
 nen. And what they say is— mark, now, and see whether their 
 fords are true — they say that the soul of man is immortal, and 
 t one time has an end, which is termed dying, and at another time 
 3 born again, but is never destroyed. And the moral is, that a man 
 ught to live always in perfect holiness. For in the ninth year 
 'ersephone sends the souls of those from, whom she has received 
 lie penalty of ancient crime back again into the light of this 
 wld, and these are they who become noble kings and mighty 
 len and great in wisdom and are called saintly heroes in after ages, 
 'he soul, then, as being immortal, and having been born again 
 jany times, and having seen all things that there are, whether in 
 lis world or in the world belo,w, has knowledge of them all j and it 
 ! no,wonder that she should be able to call to remembrance all that 
 ie,ever knew, about virtue, and about everything; for as all nature 
 i,akin,.ajid the soul has learned all things, there is no difficulty in 
 
270 MEMO. 
 
 her eliciting, or as men say learning, all out of a single recollectjoii 
 if a man is strenuous and does not faint; for all inquiry andaali 
 learning is but recollection. And therefore we ought not to listen 
 to this sophistical argument about the impossibility of inqufry: 
 that is a saying which will make us idle, and is sweet only t&itbe 
 sluggard; but the other saying will make us active and enter- 
 prising. In that confiding, I will gladly inquire with you int®'the 
 nature of virtue. ■ . . 
 
 Men. Yes, Socrates ; but what do you mean by saying that' we 
 do not learn, and that what we call learning is only a process of 
 recollection ? Can you teach me that ? 
 
 Soc. I told you, Meno, that you were a rogue, and now you ask 
 whether I can teach you, when I am saying that there is no teach- 
 ing, but only recollection j and thus you imagine that you will 
 involve me in a contradiction. 
 
 Mere. Indeed, Socrates, I protest that I had no such intention. 
 I only asked the question from habit ; but if you can prove to me 
 that what you say is true, I wish that you would. 
 
 Soc. That is no easy matter, but I will try to please you to. the 
 utmost of my power. Suppose that you call one of your numerous 
 attendants, that I may demonstrate on him. 
 
 Men. Certainly. Come hither, boy. 
 
 Soc. He is Greek, and speaks Greek, does he not ? 
 
 Men. Yes ; he was born in the house. 
 
 Soc. Attend now to the questions which I ask him, and observe 
 whether he learns of me or only remembers. 
 
 Men. I will. 
 
 Soc. Tell me, boy, do you know that a figure like this is a square ? 
 
 Boy. I do. 
 
 Soc. And you know that a square figure has these four lines 
 equal ? 
 
 Boy. Certainly. 
 
 Soc; And these lines which I have drawn through the middle of 
 the square are also equal ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. A square may be of any size ? 
 
 Boy. Certainly. ' 
 
 Soc. And if one side of the figure be of two feet, and the ■other 
 side be of two feet, how much will the whole be ? Let me explain : 
 
MENO. 271 
 
 if din one . direction the space was of two feet, and in the other 
 direction of one foot, the whole would be of two feet taken once? 
 flsStfj'. Yes. 
 
 ■ vTS«r. But since this side is also of two feet, there are twice two 
 feet? 
 . Say. There are. 
 i« 5(k:. Then the square is of twice two feet? 
 
 'Bay. Yes. 
 
 Soc, And how many are twice two feet? count and tell me. 
 k Boy. Four, Socrates. 
 
 Soc, And might there not -be another square twice as large as 
 this,' and having like this the lines equal ? 
 : :' Jt<^. Yes. 
 \ \S}&oc. And of how many feet will that be ? 
 
 Bay. Of eight feet. 
 iliac. 'And now try and tell me the length of the line which forms 
 the side of that double square : this is two feet — what will that be ? 
 
 Bay. Clearly, Socrates, that will be double. 
 '>*:Sm. Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching the boy any- 
 thing, but only asking him questions ; and now he fancies that he 
 knows how long a line is necessary in order to produce a figure of 
 eight square feet ; does he not ? ^ 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And does he really know ? 
 
 Men. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. He only guesses that [because the square is double], the line 
 is double. 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. Observe him while he recalls the steps in regular order, (ro 
 } the Boy.) TeU me, boy, do you assert that a double space comes 
 fi'om a double line ? Remember that I am not speaking of an 
 oblong, but of a square, and of a square twice the size of this one — 
 tiiat is to say of eight feet \ and I want to know whether you still 
 say that a double square comes from a. double line ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. But does not this line become doubled if we add another 
 such line here ? 
 li'iBfly. iCertainly. 
 
 Soc. And four such lines will make a space containing eight feet ? 
 
272 
 
 MEMO. 
 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Let us describe such a figure : is not that what you would 
 say is the figure of eight feet ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And are there not these four divisions in the figure, each oi 
 which is equal to the figure of four feet ? ^''' 
 
 Boy. True. 
 
 Soc. And is not that four times four ? 
 
 Boy. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And four times is not double ? 
 
 Boy. No, indeed. 
 
 Soc. But how much ? ' 
 
 Boy. Four times as much. 
 
 Soc. Therefore the double line, boy, has formed a space, not 
 twice, but four times as much. 
 
 Bojr. True. 
 
 Soc. And four times four are sixteen — are they not? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. What line would give you a space of eight feet, as this 
 gives one of sixteen feet ; — do you see ? 
 
 Bey. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the space of four feet is made from this half line? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Good; and is not a space of eight feet twice the size of 
 this, and half the size of the other ? 
 
 Boy. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Such a space, then, will be made out of a line greater than 
 this one, and less than that one ? 
 
 Bey. Yes ; that is what I think. 
 
 Soc. Very go&d ; I like to hear you say what you think. And now 
 tell me, is not this a line of two feet and that of four ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then the line which forms the side of eight feet ought to be 
 more than this line of two feet, and less than the other of four 
 fiset? 
 
 Boy. It ought. 
 
 Soc. Try and see if you can tell me how much it will be. • 
 • Bey. Three feet. 
 
 Soc. Then if we add a half to this line of two, that will be the 
 
MENO. 273 
 
 line of three. Here are two and there is one ; and on the other 
 jj^e, hjere are two. also and there is one : \nd that makes the figure 
 of which you speak ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 \, Sec. But if there are three feet this way and three feet that way, 
 the whole space will be three times three feet ? 
 i Boy. That is evident. 
 . Soc. And how much are three times three feet ? 
 
 .'Boy. Nine. 
 frSoc. And how much is the double of four ? 
 \_Boy. Eight. 
 
 Soc. Then the figure of eight is not made out of a line of three ? 
 
 Bey. No. 
 t See. But from what linep^tell me exactly j and if you would 
 rather not reckon, try and show me the line. 
 
 Bey. Indeed, Socrates, I do not know. 
 
 Soc. Do you see, Meno, what advances he has made in his ppwer 
 of recollection ? He did not know at first, and he does not know 
 now, what is the side of a figure of eight feet : but then hie thought 
 that he knew, and answered confidently as if he knew, and had no 
 difficulty; but now he has a difficulty, and neither knows nor fancies 
 that he knows. 
 
 Me». True. 
 : Sec. Is he not better off in knowing his ignorance ? 
 
 Men. I think that he is. 
 
 Sec. If we have made him doubt, and given him the ' torpedo's 
 shock,' have we done him any harm ? 
 
 Me». I think not. 
 
 Soc. We havfe certainly done something that may assist him in 
 finding out the truth of the matter ; and now he will wish to 
 remedy his ignorance, but, then he would have been ready to tell 
 all the world that the double space should have a double side. 
 j.:Me». Tiue. 
 
 , Sec. But do you suppose that he would ever have inquired or 
 learned what he fancied that he knew and did not know, until he 
 had fallen into perplexity under the idea that he did not know, 
 and had desired to know ? 
 
 Men. I think not, Socrates. 
 'M'.Soc. Then he was the better for the torpedo's touch ? 
 
 T 
 
274 MEMO. 
 
 Men. I think that he was. 
 
 Soc. Mark now the farther development. I shall only ask him, 
 and not teach him, and he shall share the inquiry with me : and 
 do you watch and see if you find me telling or explaining anything, 
 to him, instead of eliciting his opinion. Tell me, boy, is not this 
 a square of four feet which I have drawn ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And now I add another square equal to the former one ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And a third, which is equal to either of them ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Suppose that we fill up liie vacant corner. 
 
 Boy. Very good. 
 
 Soc. Here, then, there are four equal spaces ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And how many times is this space larger than this ? 
 
 Boy. Four times. 
 
 Soc. But it ought to have been twice only, as you will remembcyf. 
 
 Boy. True. i 
 
 Soc. And does not this line, reaching from corner to corner, 
 bisect each of these spaces ? 
 
 Boy. Yes. .8 
 
 Soc. And are there not here four equal lines which contain this 
 space ? 
 
 Boy. There are. 
 
 Soc. Look and see how much this: space is. 
 
 Boy. I do not understand. 
 
 Soc. Has not each interior line cut ofFhalf of the four spaces? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And how many such spaces are there in this division ? 
 
 Boy. Four. 
 
 Soc. And how many in 'this ? 
 
 Boy. Two. 
 
 Soc. And four is how many times two ? 
 
 Boy. Twice. 
 
 Soc. And this space is of how many feet ? 
 
 Boy. Of eight feet. 
 
 Soc. And from what line do you get this %ure ? 
 
 Boy, From this. 
 
ME NO. 275 
 
 Soc. That is, from the line which extends from corner to corner ? 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And that is the line which the learned call the diagonal. 
 And if this is the proper name, then you, Meno's slave, are pre- 
 pa-ed to affirm that the doubl e space is th e square of the diagonal ? 
 Boy. Certainly, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. What do you say of him, Meno? Were not all these 
 answers given out of his own head ? 
 Men. Yes, they were all his own. 
 
 Soc. And yet, as we were just now saying, he did not know ? 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And yet he had those notions in him ? 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then he who does not know still has true notions of that 
 which he does not know ? 
 Men. He has. 
 
 Soc. And at present -these notions are just wakening up in him, 
 as in a dream; but if he were frequently asked the same questions, 
 in different forms, he would know as well as any one at last ? 
 Men. I dare say. 
 
 Soc. Without any one teaching him he will recover his know- 
 ^ ledge for himself, if he is only asked questions? 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And this spontaneous recovery in him is recollection ? 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc, And this knowledge which he now has must he not either 
 have acquired or always possessed ? 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. But if he always possessed this knowledge he would always 
 have known ; or if he has acquired the knowledge he could not have 
 acquired it in this life, unless he has been taught geometry ; for he 
 may be made to do the same with all geometry and every other 
 branch of knowledge. Now, has any one ever taught him ? You 
 must know that, if, as you say, he was born and bred in your house. 
 Men. And I am certain that no one ever did teach him. 
 Soc. And yet has he not the knowledge ? 
 6 Men. That, Socrates, is most certain. 
 
 Soc. But if he did not acquire this knowledge in this life, then 
 clearly he must have had and learned it at some other time ? 
 
276 MEMO. 
 
 Men. That is evident. i "' 
 
 Soc. And that must have been the time when he was not a ma®.;^ 
 
 Men. Yes. '>"' -'' 
 
 Soc. And if there have been always true thoughts in him, both ^at 
 the time when he was and was not a man, which only need to be 
 awakened into knowledge by putting questions to him, his soul 
 must have always possessed this knowledge, for he always .either 
 was or was not a man ? , '>5 
 
 Men. That is clear. 
 
 So(i. And if the truth of all things always existed in the soul, 
 then the soul is immortal. Wherefore be of good cheer, and try to 
 recollect what you do not know, or rather do not rememben 
 
 Men. I feel, somehow, that I like what you are saying; 
 
 Soc. And I, Meno, like what I am saying. Some things I have 
 said of which I am not altogether confident. But that we shall be 
 better and braver and less helpless if we think that we ought to 
 inquire, than we should have been if we indulged in the idle fancy 
 that there was no knowing and no use in searching after what we 
 know not j — that is a theme upon which I am ready to fight, in 
 word and deed, to the utmost of my power. 
 
 Men. That again, Socrates, appears to me to be well said. 
 
 Soc. Then, as we are agreed that a man should inquire about 
 that which he does not know, shall you and I make an effort to 
 inquire together into the nature of virtue ? 
 
 /I Men. By all means, Socrates. And yet I would rather return to 
 ' my original question. Whether virtue comes by instruction, or by 
 nature, or is gained in some other way? 
 
 Soc. Had I the command of you as well as of myself, Meno, 
 I would not have inquired whether virtue is given by instruction 
 or not, until we had first ascertained 'what virtue is.' But as 
 you never think of controlling yourself, but only of controlliij^ 
 him who is your slave, and this is your notion of freedom, I must 
 yield to you, for I cannot help., And therefore I have now to 
 inquire into the qualities of that of which I do not at present 
 know the nature. At any rate, will you condescend a little^ and 
 allow the question ' Whether virtue is given by instruction,..or in 
 any other way,' to be argued upon hypothesis ? As the geometrician, 
 when he is asked whether a certain triangle is capable of being t 
 described in a certain circle, will reply: *I cannot tell you as yetj 
 
MENO. 277 
 
 but I will offer a hypothesis which m^ assist us in forming a 
 csnclusion : If the space be such that when you have drawn along 
 the line given by it another figure, the original figure is reduced 
 by a space equal to that which is added,' then one consequence 
 follows, and if this is impossible then some other ; and therefore 
 I wish to assume a hypothesis before I tell you whether this 
 triangle is capable of being included in the circle:" — that is a 
 geometrical hypothesis. And we too, as we know not the nature 
 and qualities of virtue, must ask, whether virtue is or is not 
 taughtj under a hypothesis : as thus, if virtue is of such a class of 
 mental goods, will it be taught or not ? Let the first hypothesis-be 
 that virtue is or is not knowledge, — in that case will it be taught 
 or not ? or, as we were just now saying, ' remembered ?' For there 
 is no use in disputing about the name. But is virtue taught or not ? 
 or rather, does not every one see that knowledge alone is taught ? 
 
 Men. I agree. 
 
 Soc. Then if virtue is knowledge, virtue will be taught ? 
 
 Mm. Certainly, 
 
 5of.-Then now we have made a quick end of this question: if 
 virtue is of such a nature, it will be taught ; and if not, not ? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And the next question is, whether virtue is knowledge or of 
 another species ? 
 
 Men. Yes, that appears to be the question which comes next 
 in order. 
 ;» Soc. Do we not say that virtue is a good ? This is a hypothesis 
 which is not set aside. 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 ■ 5or. Now, if there be any sort of good which is parted from 
 knowledge, virtue may be that good ; but if knowledge embraces 
 all good, then we shall be right in thinking that knowledge is 
 some sort of good ? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 ■ Sot. And virtue makes us good ? 
 ' Men. Yes. 
 
 '« Soc. And if we are good, then we are profitable; for all good 
 
 things are profitable ? 
 L Men. Yes. 
 P^ 1 Or, in simpler phrase, ' If so much be taken from the triangle.' 
 
2 78 MEMO. 
 
 Soc. Then virtue is profitable ? 
 
 Men. That is the only inference. ' 
 
 Soc. Then now let us 'see what are the things that severally 
 profit us. Health and strength, and beauty and wealth— these, as ' 
 we say, are the sort of things which profit us ? 
 
 Men. True. f 
 
 Soc. And yet these things may also sometimes do us harm: 
 would you not admit that ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And what is the guiding principle which makes them 
 profitable or the reverse ? Are they not profitable when they are 
 rightly used, and hurtful when they are not rightly used ? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Sec. Next, let us consider the goods of the soul: these are 
 temperance, justice, courage, quickness of apprehension, memory, 
 magnificence, and the like ? 
 
 Men. Surely. 
 
 Soc. And such of these as are not knowledge, but of another 
 sort, are sometimes profitable and sometimes hurtful ; as, for 
 example, courage,' which has no prudence, but is only a sort of 
 confidence ? When a man has no sense he is harmed by courage, 
 but when he has sense he is profited ? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And the ^ame may be said of temperance and quickness 
 of apprehension ; whatever things are learned or done with sense 
 are profitable, but when done without sense they are hurtful ? 
 
 Men. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And in general, all that the soul attempts or endures, when 
 under the guidance of wisdom, ends in happiness; but when shefis 
 under the guidance of folly, in the opposite ? 
 
 Men, That appears to be true. 
 
 Soc. If then virtue is a good of the soul, and is to be profitable, 
 it must be wisdom or prudence, since some of the goods of the soul 
 are either profitable or hurtful by the addition of wisdom or of 
 folly ; and therefore if virtue is profitable, virtue must be a sort 
 of wisdom or prudence ? 
 
 Men. That is my view. 
 
 Soc. And the other goods, such as wealth and the like, of which 
 we were just now saying that they are sometimes good and some- 
 
MEMO. 279 
 
 times evil, are they not also made profitable or hurtful, accordingly 
 as the soul guides and uses them rightly or wrongly-^as in the 
 soul generally, wisdom is the useful and folly the hurtful guide ? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And the wise soul guides, them rightly, and the foolish soul 
 wrongly ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 I9 Soc, And is not this universally true of human nature ? All other 
 things hang upon the soul, and the things of the soul hang upon 
 wisdom, if they are to be good ; and according to this view of the 
 question that which profits is wisdom — and virtue, as we say, is 
 profitable ? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And thus we arrive at the conclusion that virtue is either 
 wholly or partly wisdom ? 
 
 Men. I think that what you are saying, Socrates, is very true. 
 
 Soc. But if this is true, then the good are not by nature good ? 
 
 Men. I think not. 
 
 Soc. If they had been, there would assuredly have been dis- 
 cerners of characters among us who would have known our future 
 great men ; and we should have taken them on their showing, and 
 when we had got them, we should have kept them in the citadel 
 out of the way of harm, and set a stamp upon them more than 
 upon gold, in order that no one might tamper with them ; and then 
 when they grew up they would have been useful to the state ? 
 
 Men. Yes, Soci'ates, that would have been the way. 
 
 Soc. But if the good are not by nature good, are they made good 
 by instruction ? 
 
 Men. There is no other alternative, Socrates. On the. supposition 
 that virtue is knowledge, there can be no doubt that virtue is taught. 
 
 Soc. Yes, indeed j but what if the supposition is erroneous ? 
 
 Men. I certainly thought just now that we were right. 
 , Soc. Yes, Meno ; but a principle which has any soundness should 
 istand firm not only now and then, but always and for ever. 
 
 Men. Well ; and why are you so slow of heart to believe that 
 knowledge is virtue ? 
 
 Soc. I will try and tell you why, Meno. I do not retract the 
 assertion that if virtue is knowledge it may be taught ; but I fear 
 that I have some reason in doubting whether virtue is knowledge : 
 
 J 
 
280 MEI^O. 
 
 for consider now and say whether virtue, or anything that is taught^ 
 must not have teachers and disciples ? '■•^^ 
 
 Men. Surely. 
 
 Soc. And again, may not that art of which there are neither 
 teachers nor disciples be assumed to be incapable of being :taught ? 
 
 Men. True ; but do you think that there are no teachers of virtue ? 
 
 Soc. I have certainly often inquired whether there were any/ and 
 taken great pains to find them, and have never succeeded ; and many 
 have assisted me in the search, and they were the persons whom i 
 I thought the most likely to know. Here is Anytus, who is sitting 
 by us at the very moment when he is wanted ; he is the person 
 whom we should ask. In the first place, he is the son of a wealthy 9' 
 and wise father, Anthemion, who acquired his wealth, not by 
 accident or gift, like Ismenias the Theban (who has recently made 
 himself as rich as a Polycrates), but by his own skill and indnstryj 
 and he is a well-conditioned, modest man, not insolent, or over- 
 bearing, or annoying^ moreover, he has given his son a good 
 education, as the Athenian people certainly appear to think,- for 
 they choose him to fill the highest offices. And these are the sort 
 of men from whom you are likely to learn whether there are any 
 teachers of virtue, and who they are. Please, Anytus, to help me 
 and your friend Meno in answering our question. Who are the 
 teachers ? Consider the matter thus : If we wanted Meno to be a 
 good physician, to whom should we send him ? Should we not 
 send him to the physicians ? 
 
 Any. Certainly. * 
 
 Soc. Or if we wanted him to be a good cobbler, should we not 
 send him to the cobblers ? ■ 
 
 Any. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And 60 forth ? 
 
 Any. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Let me trouble you with one more question. When we 
 say that we should be right in sending him to the physician^' if 
 we wanted him to be a physician, do we mean that we should be 
 right in sending him to those who profess the art, rather than to 
 those who don't, and to those who demand payment for teachifflg 
 the art, and profess to teach it to any one who will come and learn? 
 If we were right in sending him, would that be the reason ? 
 
 Any. Yes. 
 
MEMO. 281 
 
 Sm. And might not the same be said of flute-playing, and of 
 the other arts ? No man who wanted to make a man a flute-player 
 would refuse to send him to those who profess to teach the art for 
 money, and trouble other persons to give him instruction who do 
 not profess to teach, and never had a disciple in that branch of 
 koowledge which we want him to acquire — that would be the 
 height of folly. 
 
 . Any. Yes, by Zeus, and of ignorance too. 
 
 ; Soc. Very good. And now you are in a position to advise with 
 me about my friend Meno. He has been saying to me, Anytus, 
 that he desires to attain that wisdom and virtue, by which men 
 order the state or the house, and honour their parents, and know 
 when to receive and when to send away citizens and strangers, as 
 a good man should. Now, to whom ought we to send him in order 
 that he may learn, this virtue ? Does not the previous argument 
 imply clearly that he ought to go to those who profess and avouch 
 that they are the common teachers of Hellas, and are ready to 
 inipart instruction t(f any one who likes, at a fixed price ? 
 ' Any. Whom do you mean, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. You surely know, do you not, Anytus, that these are the 
 people whom mankind describe as Sophists ? 
 -Any. By Heracles, Socrates, forbear! I only hope that no 
 friend or kinsman or acquaintance of mine, whether citizen or 
 stranger, will ever be so mad as to allow himself to be corrupted 
 by them^j for they are a manifest pest and corrupting influence of 
 those who llave to do with them. 
 
 Soci. What do you mean, Anytus ? Of all the people who profess 
 that they know how to do men good, are these the only ones who 
 not only do them no good, but positively corrupt those who are 
 entrusted to them ? That is very singular. And moreover, in return 
 they publicly demand money. Indeed, I cannot believe this ; for I 
 know of a single man, Protagoras, who made more out of his craft 
 than the illustrious Pheidias, or any ten other statuaries. How 
 could that be ? A mender of old shoes, or patcher up of clothes, 
 who made the shoes or clothes worse than he received them, could 
 not have remained thirty days undetected, and would very soon 
 have starved ; whereas, during more than forty years, Protagoras 
 was corrupting his disciples, and sending them from him worse 
 than he received them, and yet all Hellas failed in detecting him. 
 
282 MENO. 
 
 For, if I am not mistaken, he was about seventy years old at his 
 death, forty of which were spent in the practice of his professiQU;^ 
 and during all that time he had a good reputation, which to this-day 
 he retains : and not only Protagoras, but many others have a good 
 reputation j some who lived before him, and others who are still 
 living. Now, when you say that they deceived and corrupted thf \ 
 youth, are they to be supposed to have corrupted them intentionally 
 or unintentionally ? Can those who were deemed by many to be 
 the wisest men of Hellas have been out of their minds ? 
 
 Any. Out of their minds ! No, Socrates ; the young men whg 
 gave their money to them were out of their minds, and their rela-^ 
 tions and guardians who entrusted them to their care were still 
 more out of their minds, and most of all the cities who allowed 
 them to come in and did not drive them out, citizen or stranger 
 alike. 
 
 Soc. Has any of the Sophists wronged you, Anytus ? What makes 
 you so angry with them ? 
 
 Any. No, indeed, neither I nor any of my belor^ings has ever 
 had, nor would I suffer them to have, anything to do with them, 
 
 Soc. Then you are entirely unacquainted with them ? 
 
 Any. And I have no wish to be. acquainted. 
 
 Soc. Then, my dear friend, how can you know whether a thing 
 is good or bad of which you are wholly ignorant ? 
 
 Any. Quite well ; I am quite sure that I know what manner of 
 men these are, whether I know them or not. 
 
 Soc. You must be a diviner, Anytus, for I really cannot make outj 
 judging from your own words, how, if you are not acquainted with 
 them, you know about them. But I am not inquiring of you who 
 are the teachers who will corrupt Meno (let them be, if you pleascj 
 the Sophists) ; I only ask you to tell him who there is in this great 
 city who will teach him how to become eminent in the virtues 
 which I was just now describing. He is the friend of your femily, 
 and you will oblige him. 
 
 Any. Why don't you tell him ? 
 
 Soc. I have told him whom I supposed to be the teachers of. these 
 things ; but I learn from you that I am utterly at fault, and I dare 
 say that you are right. And now I wish that you, on your part, 
 would tell me to whom among the Athenians he should go. Whom 
 would you name ? 
 
MEMO. 283 
 
 Any. Why single but individuals ? Any Athenian gentleman, 
 taken at random, if he will mind him, will do him far more good 
 than the Sophists. 
 
 * Soc. And did those gentlemen grow of themselves; and without 
 having been taught by any one, were they nevertheless able to 
 teach others that which they never learned themselves ? 
 
 Any. I imagine that they learned of the previous generation of 
 gentlemen. Have there not been many good men in this city ? 
 
 Soc. Yes, certainly, Anytus; and many good statesmen also there 
 always have been, and there are still, in the city of Athens. But 
 the qiiestion is whether they were also good teachers of their own 
 virtue ; — not whether there are, or have been, good men, but whether 
 virtue can be taught, is the question which we have been dis- 
 cussing. Now, do we mean to say that the good men of our own 
 and of other times knew how to impart to others that virtue which 
 they had themselves; or is this virtue incapable of being com- 
 municated or imparted by one man to another? That is the 
 question which I and Meno have been arguing. Look at the 
 matter in your own way. Would you not admit that Themistocles 
 was a good man ? 
 
 Any. Certainly ; no man better. 
 
 - Sic. And must not he then have been a good teacher, if any man 
 ever was a good teacher, of his own virtue ? 
 
 Any. Yes, certainly, — if he wanted to be that. 
 
 Soc. But would he not have wanted ? He would, at any rate, 
 have desired to make his own son a good man and a gentleman ; 
 he Could not have been jealous of him, or have intentionally. ab-« 
 Stained from imparting to him his own virtue. Did you never 
 hear that he made Gleophantus, who was his son, a famous horse- 
 man?— he would stand upright on horseback and hurl a javelin; 
 aftd many other marvellous things he could do which his father 
 had him taught ; and in anything which the skill of a master could 
 teach him he was well trained. Have you not heard from our 
 elders of this ? 
 
 Any. I have. 
 
 - Soc. Then no one could say that his son showed any want of 
 
 capacity ? 
 
 '^''' Any. Possibly not. 
 Soc. But did any one, old or young, ever say in your hearing that 
 
284 ' MEMO. 
 
 Cleophantus, the son of Themistocles, was a wise or good man, as 
 his father was? 
 
 Any. I have certainly never heard that. 
 
 Soc. And if virtue could have been taught, would he have sought 
 to train him in these sort of accomplishments, and allbwedhim 
 who, as you must remember, was his own son, to be no better than 
 his neighbours in those qualities in which he himself excelled ? 
 
 Any. Indeed, indeed, I think not. 
 
 Soc. Here then is a teacher of virtue whom you adiriit to' be 
 among the best men of the past. Let us take another, — Aristidesj 94 
 the son of Lysimachus : would you not acknowledge that he was a 
 good man ? 
 
 Any. To be sure, I should. 
 
 Soc. And did not he train his son Lysimachus better than any 
 other Athenian in all that could be done for him by the help of 
 masters ? But what has been the result ? Is he a bit better than 
 any other mortal ? He is an acquaintance of yours, and you see 
 what he is like. There is Pericles, again, magnificent in his 
 wisdom J and he, as you know, had two sons, Paralus and 
 Xanthippus. 
 
 Any. I know. 
 
 Soc. And you know, also, that he taught them to be unrivalled 
 horsemen, and had them trained in music and gymnastics and 
 all sorts of arts — in these respects they were on a' level with 
 the best — and had he no wish to make good men of them ? Nay, 
 he must have wished that. But I suspect that virtue could not be 
 taught. And that you may not suppose that the incompetent 
 teachers are the meaner sort of Athenians and few in number, 
 remember again that Thucydides had two sons, Melesias and 
 Stephanus, whom he trained chiefly in wrestling ; and they too had 
 an excellent education, and were the best wrestlers in Athens: 
 one of them he committed to the care of Xanthias, ajidthe other 
 of Eudorus, who had the reputation of beir^ the most celebrated 
 wrestlers of that day. Do you remember them ? 
 
 Any. I have heard of them'. 
 
 Soc. Now, can there be a doubt that Thucydides, who had his 
 children taught wrestling, at a considerable expense, would have 
 taught them to be good men, which would have cost him nothing, 
 if virtiie could have been taught? Wild you reply that he was 
 
MEMO. 285 
 
 a mean man, and had not many friends among the Athenians and 
 allies ? Nay, but he was of a great family, and a mai^ of influence 
 at Athens and in all Hellas, and, if virtue could have been taught, 
 heq^yould have found out some one either in or out of Hellas who 
 would have made good pien of his sons, if. he could not himself 
 spare the time from cares of state. Again I suspect, friend 
 Anytus, that virtue is not a thing which can be taught? 
 
 Any. Socrates, 1 think that you are too ready to speak evil of 
 
 gien : and, if you ^ill take my advice, I would recommend you to 
 
 be careful. Perhaps there is no city in which it is not easier to do 
 
 men harm than to do them good, and this is certainly the case 
 
 5 at AthenSj as I believe that you know. 
 
 Soc. O Meno, I think that Anytus is in a rage., And he may 
 jvell be in a rage, for he thinks, in the first place, that I am 
 defaming these gentlemen; and then, in the second place, he 
 thinks .that he is one of them. But when he understands, which 
 he does not at present, what is the meaning of defamation, he will 
 forgive me. Meanwhile I will return to you, Meno j for I suppose 
 that there are gentlemen in your region too ? ^ , 
 
 Men, Certainly there are. 
 
 Soc. And are they willing to teach the young? and do they 
 profess to be teachers ? and do they agree that virtue is taught ? 
 
 Men. No indeed, Socrates, they are anything but agreed ; and 
 you may hear them saying at one time that virtue can be taught, 
 and then again the reverse. 
 
 Soc. Can we call them teachers who do not acknowledge the 
 possibility of their own vocation ? 
 
 Men. I think not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And what do you think of these Sophists, who are the only 
 professors ? Do they seem to you to be teachers of virtue ? 
 
 Men. I often wonder, Socrates, that you never hear Gorgias 
 promising to teach virtue : and when he hears others promising 
 this he only laughs at them ; but he thinks that you ought to teach 
 men to speak. 
 
 Soc. Then do you not think that the Sophists are teachers ? 
 , Men. I cannot tell you, Socrates j like the rest of the world, I am 
 in , doubt, and sometimes I think that they are teachers and 
 sometimes not. 
 . . Soc. And are you aware that not you only and other political 
 
286 MENO. 
 
 men have doubts whether virtue can be taught or not, but that 
 Theognis the poet says the very same thing-^are you aware 
 of that? 
 
 Men, Where does he imply that ? 
 
 Soc. In the elegiac verses, in which he says : — 
 
 'Eat and drink and sit with the mighty, and make yourself agreeaMie-to 
 them ; for from the good you will learn what is good, but if you mix with 
 the bad you will lose the intelligence which you already have.' 
 
 Do you observe that here he seems to imply that virtue can be 
 taught ? 
 
 Men. Ckarly. 
 
 Soc. But in some other verses he shifts about and says : — 
 
 ' If understanding could be created and put into a man, then they (who were 
 able to accomplish this) would have obtained great rewards.' 
 
 And ^ain: — 
 
 ' Never did a bad son spring from a good sire because he heard the voice 9^ 
 of instruction ; not by teaching will you ever make a bad man into a good '•' 
 one.' 
 
 And this, as you may remark, is a contradiction of the other. ' 
 
 Men. That is palpable. 
 
 Soc. And is there anything else of which the teachers and pro- 
 fessors are not only asserted not to be teachers of others, but to be 
 ignorant themselves of that which they profess to teach and bad 
 at the knowledge of that which they preach ; and about which the 
 acknowledged 'gentlemen' are themselves saying sometimes tHat 
 ' this thing can be taught,' and sometimes not. Can you say that 
 they are teachers of authority whose ideas are in this state of 
 confusion ? 
 
 Men. 1 should say, certainly not. 
 
 Soc. But if neither the SojAists nor the gentlemen are teachers^"' 
 clearly there can be no other teachers ? - 
 
 Men. No. 
 
 Soc. And if there are no teachers, neither are there disciples ? 
 
 Men. Agreed. 
 
 Soc. And we have admitted that a thing cannot be tai^ht oP 
 which there are neither teachers nor disciples ? 
 
 Men. We have. 
 
 Soc. And there are no teachers of virtue to be found anywhere ? 
 
ME NO. 287 
 
 Men. There are not. 
 
 Sac. And if there are no teachers neith?r are there scholars ? 
 
 Men, I think that is true. 
 
 Soc. Then virtue cannot be taught ? 
 
 Men. Not if we are right in our view. But I cannot believe, 
 grates, that there are no good men in the state. And if there, 
 are, how did they come into existence ? 
 
 Soc, I am afraid, Meno, that you and I are not good for much, 
 and that Gorgias has been as poor an educator of you as Prodicus 
 has been of me. Certainly we shall have to look to ourselves, and 
 try to find some one who will help to improve us. This I say, 
 because I observe that in the previous discussion none of us re- 
 marked that right and good action is possible to man under other 
 guidance than that of knowledge ; — and indeed if this be denied, 
 there is no seeing how there can be any good men at all. 
 
 Men, How do you mean, Socrates ? 
 ; Soc, I mean this — that good men must necessarily be useful or 
 ' ffrofitable. Were we not right in admitting that ? 
 
 Men, Yes. 
 
 Soc, And in supposing that they will be useful only' if they are 
 true guides of action — in that we were also right ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. But we do not seem to have been right in saying that know- 
 ledge only was the right and good guide of action. 
 
 Men, What do you mean by the'word ' right ? ' 
 
 Soc, I will explain. If a man knew the way to Larisa, or any- 
 where else, and went to the place and led others thither, would lie 
 not be a right and good guide ? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc, And a person who had a right opinion about the way, but 
 had never been and did not know, might be a good guide also, 
 might he not ? 
 
 Men, Certainly. 
 
 Soc, And while he has true opinion about that which the other 
 knows, he will be just as good a guide if he thinks the truth, as if 
 he knows the truth ? 
 
 Men, Exactly. 
 
 Soc, Then true opinion is as good a guide to correct action as 
 wisdom J and that was the point which we omitted in our specula- 
 
288 MENO. 
 
 tion about the nature of virtue, when we said that wisdom only is 
 the guide of right action j whereas there is also right opinion. ,. 
 
 Men. True. ■; 
 
 Soc. Then right opinion is not less useful than knowledge? •. 
 
 Men. The diflFerence, Socrates, is only that he who has know- 
 ledge will always be right; but he who has right opinion wi-U 
 sometimes be right, and sometimes not right. 
 
 Soc. What do you mean? Can he be wrong who has. right 
 opinion, as long as he has right opinion ? 
 
 Men. I admit the cogency of that, and therefore, Socrates, 
 allowing this, I wonder that knowledge should be preferred to right 
 opinion — or why they should ever differ. 
 
 Soc. And shall I explain this wonder to you ? 
 
 Men. Do tell me. 
 
 Soc. You would not wonder if you had ever observed the im^es 
 of Daedalus j but perhaps you have not got them in your country ? 
 
 Men. Why do you refer to them ? 
 
 Soc. Because they require to be fastened in order to keep them, 
 and if they are not fastened they will run away. 
 
 Men. Well, what of that ? 
 
 Soc. I mean to say that it is not much use possessing one of 
 them if they are at liberty, for they will walk oflf like runaway 
 slaves ; but when fastened, they are of great value, for they are 
 really beautiful works of art. Now this is an illustration of the 
 nature of true opinions : while they abide with us they are beayti- 98 
 ful- and fruitful, but they run away out of the human soul, and do 
 not remain long, and therefore they are not of much>alue until 
 they are fastened by the tie of the cause ; and this fastening of 
 them, friend Meno, is recollection, as has been already agreed by 
 us. But when they are bound, in the first place, they have the 
 nature of knowledge ; and, in the second place, they are abiding. 
 And this is why knowledge is more honourable and excellent than 
 true opinion, because fastened by a cliain. 
 
 Men. Yes indeed, Socrates, that I should conjecture to be the 
 truth. 
 
 Soc. I too speak not as one who knows ; and yet that knowledge 
 differs from true opinion is not a matter of conjecture with me. 
 There are not many things which I should affirm that I knewj but 
 that is most certainly one of theip. 
 
MEMO. 189 
 
 Men. You are right, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And am I not right also in saying that true opinion is as 
 good a guide in the performance of an action as knowledge ? 
 Men. That also appears to me to be true. 
 
 Soc. Then right opinion is not a whit inferior to knowledge, or 
 less useful in action ; nor is the man who has right opinion inferior 
 to him who has knowledge ? ^ 
 
 Men. That is true. 
 
 Soc. And surely the good man has been acknowledged by us to 
 be useful ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Seeing then that men become good and useful to states, 
 not only because they have knowledge, but because they have right 
 opinion, and neither knowledge nor right opinion is given to man 
 By nature or acquired by him — (do you think that either of them 
 is given by nature ? 
 
 Men. Not I.) 
 
 Soc. Then if they are not given by nature, neither are the good 
 by nature good ? 
 
 Men. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. And nature being excluded, the next question was whether 
 virtue is acquired by teaching ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. If virtue was wisdom, then, as we thought, it Was taught ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And if it was taught it was wisdom ? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And if there were teachei-s, it might be taught ; and if there 
 were no teachers, not ? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. But surely we acknowledged that there were no teachers of 
 
 virtue ? 
 Men. Yes. 
 Soc. Then we acknowledged that it was not taught, and was not 
 
 wisdom ? 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And yet we admitted that it was a good ? 
 Men. Yes. 
 Soc. And the right guide is useful and good ? - 
 
290 MEND. 
 
 Mm. Certainly. .. o, 
 
 Soc. And the only right guides are knowledge and true opinipn— 
 these are the guides of man j for things which happen by chanee 
 are not under the guidance of man : but the guides of man are true 
 opinion and knowledge. 
 
 Men. I think so too. ; 
 
 Soc. But if virtue is not taught, neither is virtue knowledge. 
 
 Men. Clearly not. 
 
 Soc. Then of two good and useful things, one, which is know- 
 ledge, has been set aside, and cannot be supposed to be our guide 
 in political life. 
 
 Men. I think not. - . 
 
 Soc. And therefore not by any wisdom, and not because they 
 were wise, did Themistocles and those others of whom Anytus 
 spoke govern states. And this was the reason why they were 
 unable to make others like themselves — because their virtue was 
 not grounded on knowledge. 
 
 Men. That is probably true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. But if not by knowledge, the only alternative which remains 
 is that statesmen must have guided states by right opinion, which 
 is in politics what divination is in religion ; for diviners and also . 
 prophets say many things truly, but they know not what they say. 
 
 Men. Veiry true. 
 
 Soc. And may we not, Meno, truly call those men divine who, 
 having no understanding, yet succeed in many a grand deed and 
 word ? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Then we shall also be right in calling those divine whom 
 we were just now speaking of as diviners and prophets, as well as 
 all poets. Yes, and statesmen above all may be said to be divine 
 iand illumined, being inspired and possessed of God, in which con- 
 dition they say many grand things^ not knowing what they say. 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the women too, Meno, call good men divine ; and the 
 Spartans, when they praise- a good man, say ' that he is a divine 
 man.' 
 
 Men. And I think, Socrate.s, that they are right ; although very 
 likely our friend Anytus may take offence at the name. 
 
 Soc. I do not care ; as for Anytus, there will be another oppor- 
 
 i 
 
MENO. 291 
 
 tunity of talking with him. To sum up our inquiry — the result 
 seMns to be, if we are at all right in our«riew, that virtue is neither 
 natural nor acquired, but an instinct given by God to the virtuous. 
 Nor is the instinct accompanied by reason, unless there may be 
 supposed to be among statesmen any one who is also the educator 
 of statesmen. And if there be such an one, he may be said to 
 be among the living what Tiresias was among the dead, who 
 ' alone,' according to Homer, ' of those in the world below, has 
 undeiBtanding j but the rest flit as shadows.' 
 
 Men. That is excellent, Socrates. 
 
 Sk. Then, Meno, the conclusion is that virtue comes to the 
 virtuous by the gift of God. But we shall never know the certain 
 truth until, before asking how virtue is given, we inquire into the 
 attual nature of virtue. I fear that I must go away, but do you, 
 now that you are persuaded yourself, persuade our friend Anytus. 
 And don't let him be so exasperated ; for if you can persuade him 
 you will have done some service to the Athenian people. 
 
 u % 
 
EUTHYPHRO. 
 
IN TROD Oct I ON. 
 
 In the Meno Anytus had parted from Socrates with the threatening 
 words : ' That in any city, and particularly in the city of Athens, it is 
 easier to do men harm than to do them good ' (94 E) ; and Socrates 
 was anticipating another opportunity of talking with him {gg E). In the 
 Euthyphro Socrates is already awaiting his trial for impiety in the porch 
 of the King Archon. (Cp. Theaet. sub fin.) But before the trial proceeds, 
 Plato would like to put the world on their trial, and convince them of 
 ignorance in that very matter touching which Socrates is accused. An 
 incident which may perhaps really have occurred in the family of 
 Euthyphro, a learned Athenian diviner and soothsayer, furnishes the 
 occasion of the discussion. 
 
 This Euthyphro and Socrates are represented as meeting in the porch 
 of the Archon. Both have legal business in hand. Socrates is defendant 
 in a suit for impiety which Meletus has brought against him (it is 
 remarked by the way that he is not a Ukely man himself to have brought 
 a suit against another) ; and Euthyphro too is plaintiff in an action for 
 murder, which he has brought against his own father. The latter has 
 originated in the following manner : — A poor dependant of the family of 
 Euthyphro had slain one of their domestic slaves in Naxos. The guilty 
 person was bound and thrown into a ditch by the command of Euthy- 
 phro's father, who sent to the interpreters of religion at Athens to ask 
 what should be done with him. Before the messenger came back the 
 criminal had died from hunger and exposure. / 
 
 This is the origin of the charge of murder which Euthyphro brings 
 against his father. Socrates is confident that before he could have taken 
 upon himself the responsibility of such a prosecution, he must have been 
 perfectly informed of the nature of piety and impiety ; and as he is going 
 
296 EUTHYPHRO. 
 
 to be tried for impiety, he thinks that he cannot do better than learn of 
 Euthyphro (who will be admitted by all men, including the judges, to be 
 an unimpeachable authority) what piety is, and what is impiety. What 
 then is piety ? 
 
 Euthyphro, who, in the abundance of his knowledge, is very willing to 
 undertake all the responsibility, replies: That piety is doing as I do, 
 prosecuting your father (if he is guilty) on a charge of murder ; doing 
 as the gods do — as Zeus did to Cronos, and Cronos to Uranus. 
 
 Socrates has a dislike to these tales of mythology, and he fancies that 
 this dislike of his may be the reason why he is charged with impiety. 
 'Are they really true?' 'Yes, they are;' and Euthyphro will gladly tell 
 Socrates some more of them. But Socrates would like first of all to 
 have a more satisfactory answer to the question, ' What is piety ?' 'Doing 
 as I do, charging a father with murder' may be a single instance of piety, 
 but can hardly be regarded as a general definition. 
 
 Euthyphro replies, that ' Piety is what is dear to the gods, and impiety, 
 is what is not dear to them.' But may there not be differenc«!S'of 
 opinion, as among men, so also among the gods? Especially about 
 good and evij, which have no fixed rule, and are precisely the sort of 
 differences which give rise to quarrels. And therefore what may be dear 
 to one god may not be dear to another, and the same action may be 
 both pious and impious ; e. g. your chastisement of your father, Euthy- 
 phro, may be dear or pleasing to Zeus, but not pleasing to Cronos or 
 Uranus. 
 
 Euthyphro answers that there is no difference of opinion, either 
 among gods or men, as to the propriety of punishing a mxurderer. 
 Yes, rejoins Socrates, when they know him to be a murderer ; but that 
 assumes the point at issue. If all the circumstances of the case are con- 
 sidered, are you able to show that your father was guilty of murder, or 
 ±at all the gods are agreed in approving of your prosecution of him ? 
 And must you not allow that what is hated by one god may be liked by 
 another ? Waiving this last, however, Socrates proposes to amend the 
 definition, and say that ' what all the gods love is pious, and what they 
 all hate is impious.' To this Euthyphro agrees. \ 
 
 Socrates proceeds to analyse the new form of the definition. He 
 shows that in other cases the act precedes the state ; e. g. the act of being 
 carried, loved, &c., precedes the state of being carried, loved, &c., and 
 therefore that which is dear to the gods is dear to the gods because it i& 
 
INTRODUCTION. 297 
 
 first loved of them, not loved of them because it is dear to them. But 
 the pious or holy is loved by the gods becau^ it is pious or holy, which is 
 equivalent to saying, that it is loved by them becailse it is dear to them. 
 Here then appears to be a contradiction, — Euthyphro has been giving an 
 attribute or accident of piety only, and not the essence. Euthyphro 
 acknowledges himself that his explanations seem to walk away or go 
 round in a circle, like the moving figures of Daedalus, the ancestor of 
 Socrates, who has communicated his art to his descendants. 
 
 Socrates, who is desirous of stimulating the indolent intelligence of 
 Euthyphro, raises the question in another manner : ' Is all the pious just ?' 
 'Yes.' 'Is all the just pious?' 'No.' ' Then what part of justice is 
 piety?' Euthyphro replies that piety is that part of justice which 
 ' attends' to the gods, as there is another part of justice which ' attends' 
 to men. < But what is the meaning of ' attending ' to the gods ? The 
 word ' attending,' when applied to dogs, horses, and men, implies that in 
 some way they are made better. But how do pious or holy acts make 
 the gods any better ? Euthyphro explains that he means by pious acts, 
 acts of ministration. Yes ; but the ministrations of the husbandman, the 
 physician, and the builder have an end. To what end do we minister to 
 the gods, and what do we help them to accompUsh ? Euthyphro replies, 
 that there is not time for all these difficult questions to be resolved ; and 
 he; would rather say simply that piety is knowing how to please the gods 
 in word and deed, by prayers and sacrifices. In other words, says 
 Socrates, piety is ' a science of asking and giving' — asking what we want 
 and giving what they want; in short, a mode of doing business between 
 gods and men. But although they are the givers of all good, how can 
 we- give them any good in return ? ' Nay, but we give them honour.' 
 Then we give them not what is beneficial, but what is pleasing or dear' 
 to them ; and this is what has been already disproved. 
 
 Socrates, although weary of the subterfuges and evasions of Euthy- 
 phro, remains unshaken in his conviction that he must know the nature 
 of piety, or he would never have prosecuted his old father. He is still 
 hoping that he will condescend to instruct him. But Euthyphro is in 
 a hurry and cannot stay. And Socrates' last hope of knowing the 
 nature of piety before he is prosecuted for impiety has disappeared. 
 
 The Euthyphro is manifestly designed to contrast the real nature of 
 piety and impiety with the popular conceptions of them. But although 
 
298 EUTHYPHRO. 
 
 the popular conceptions are overthrown, Plato does not offer any defini- 
 tion of his own : as in the Laches and Lysis, he exhibits the subject of the 
 Dialogue in several different lights,-but fails to answer explicitly his main 
 question. 
 
 Euthyphro is a religionist, and is elsewhere spoken of as the author of 
 a philosophy of names, by whose ' prancing steeds ' Socrates in the Craty- 
 lus is carried away (p. 396). He has the conceit and self-confidence- 
 of a Sophist; no doubt that he is right in prosecuting his father has ever 
 entered into his mind. Like a Sophist too, and perhaps like most 
 educated men of his age, he is incapable either of framing a general de- 
 finition or of following the course of an argument. But he is not a bad 
 man, and he is friendly to Socrates, whose familiar sign he recognizes 
 with interest. Moreover he. is the enemy of Meletus, who, as he thinks, 
 is availing himself of the popular dislike to innovations in religion in 
 order to injure Socrates; at the same time he is amusingly confident 
 that he has weapons in his own armoury which would be more than 
 a match for him. He is quite sincere in his prosecution of his father, 
 who has accidentally been guilty of homicide, and is not wholly free from 
 blame. To purge away the crime appears to him in the light of a du^, 
 whoever may be the criminal. 
 
 Thus begins the contrast between the religion of the letter, or of the 
 narrow and unenlightened conscience, and the -higher notion of religion 
 which Socrates vainly endeavours to elicit from him. ' Piety is doing as 
 I do ' is the first idea of leligion which is suggested to his mind, and 
 may be regarded as the definition of popular religion in all ages. Greek 
 mythology hardly admitted of the distinction between accidental homi- 
 cide and murder ; that the pollution of blood was the same in both cases 
 is also the feeling of the Athenian diviner. He is ready to defend his 
 conduct by the examples of the gods. These are the very tales which 
 Socrates cannot abide ; and his dislike of which, as he suspects, has 
 branded him with the reputation of impiety. Here is one answer to the 
 question, ' Why Socrates was put to death,' suggested by the way. 
 Another is conveyed in the words, ' The Athenians do not care about any 
 man being thought wise until he begins to make other men wise ; and 
 then for some reason or other they are angry : ' which may be said to 
 be the rule of popular toleration in most other countries, and not at 
 Athens only. 
 
 .The next definition, ' Piety is that which, is loved of the gods,' is ship- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 299 
 
 wrecked on a refined distinction between the state and the act, correspond- 
 ing lespectively to the adjective {(j)i\ov) and*the participle ((piKovnevov), or 
 rattoer perhaps to the participle and the verb ((/xXovpecov and <^t\«rm). 
 The words ' loved of the gods ' express an attribute only, and not the 
 essence of piety. Then follows the third and last definition ' Piety is 
 a part of justice.' Thus far Socrates has proceeded in placing religion 
 on a moral foundation. To which the soothsayer adds, ' attending upon 
 the gods.' When further interrogated by Socrates as to the nature of 
 this ' attention to the gods,' he replies, that piety is an aflfair of business, 
 a. science of giving and asking, and the like. Socrates points out the 
 latent anthropomorphism of these notions. (Cp. Politicus, 290 C, D ; 
 Rep. ii. 363 E; Sym. 203 E). But when we expect him to go on and 
 show that the true service of the gods is the service of the spirit, and the 
 co-operation with them in all things true and good, he stops short ; this 
 was a lesson which the soothsayer could not have been made to under- 
 stand,, and which every one must learn for himself. 
 
 There seem to be altogether three aims or interests in this little 
 Dialogue : (i) the dialectical development of the idea of piety; (2) the 
 antithesis of true and false religion, which is carried to a< certain extent 
 only ; (3) the defence of Socrates. 
 
 The subtle connection of this Dialogue with the Apology and the Crito, 
 the holding back of the conclusion, as in the -Laches, Lysis, and other 
 Dialogues; the insight into the religious world; the dramatic power and 
 play of the two characters ; the inimitable irony, are reasons for believing 
 that it is a genuine Platonic writing. The spirit- in which the popular 
 representations of m3^ology are denounced recalls Republic II. The 
 virtue of piety has been already mentioned as one of five in'the Prota- 
 goras, but is not reckoned among the four cardinal virtues of Repiiblic 
 IV. The figure of Daedalus has occurred in the Meno (97 D) ; that of 
 Proteus (15 D) in the Euthydemus (288 E) and lo (541 E). But neither 
 from these nor any other indications of similarity or difference, and still 
 less from arguments respecting the suitableness of this little work to aid 
 Socrates at the time of his trial or the reverse, can any evidence of the 
 date be obtained. 
 
EUTHYPHRO. 
 
 J'ERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 Socrates. Euthyphro. 
 
 Scene :— The Porch of the King Archon. 
 Steph. 
 
 2 Euthyphro. Why have you left the Lyceum, Socrates ? and what 
 are you doing in the porch of the King Archon? Surely you 
 cannot be engaged in an action before the king, as I am. 
 
 Socrates. Not in an action, Euthyphro ; impeachment is the word 
 which the Athenians use. 
 
 Euth. What! I suppose that some one has been prosecuting 
 you, for I cannot believe that you are the prosecutor of another. 
 
 Soc. Certainly not. 
 
 Euth. Then some one else has been prosecuting you ? 
 
 Soc. Yes. 
 
 Euth. And who is he ? 
 
 Soc. A young man who is little known, Euthyphro ; and I hardly 
 know him: his name is Meletus, and he is of the deme of 
 Pittbis. Perhaps you may remember his appearance; he has a 
 beak, and long straight hair, and a beard which is ill grown. 
 
 Euth. No, I do not remember him, Socrates. And what is the 
 charge which he brings Against you ? 
 
 Soc. What is the^charge? Well, a very serious charge, which 
 shows a good deal of character in the young man, and for which 
 he is certainly not to be despised. He says he knows how the 
 youth are corrupted and who are their corruptors. I fancy that 
 he must be a wise man, and seeing that I am anything but a wise 
 man, he has found me out, and is going to accuse me of corrupting 
 
302 EUTHYFHRO, 
 
 his young friends. And of this our mother the state is to be 
 the judge. Of all our political men he is the only one who seems 
 to me to begin in the right way, with the cultivation of virtue in 
 youth ; he is a good husbandman, and takes care of the shoots first, 
 and clears away us who are the destroyers of them. That is the 3 
 first step ^ he will afterwards attend to the elder branches ; and if he 
 goes on as he has begun, he will be a very great public benefactor. 
 
 Euth, I hope that he may ; but I rather fear, Socrates, that the - 
 reverse will turn out to be the truth. My opinion is that in 
 attacking you he is simply aiming a blow at the state in a sacred 
 place. But in what way does he say that you corrupt the young? 
 
 Soc. He brings a wonderful accusation against me, which at first 
 hearing excites surprise : he says that I am a poet or maker of 
 gods, and that I make new gods and deny the existence of old 
 ones J this is the ground of his indictment. 
 
 Euth. I understand, Socrates; he means to attack you about 
 the f3,miliar sign which occasionally, as you say, comes to you. He 
 thiflks that you are a neologian, and he is going to have you up 
 before the court for this. He knows that such a charge is readily 
 received, for the World is always jealous of novelties in religion. 
 And I know that when I myself speak in the assembly about 
 divine things, and foretell the future to them, they laugh at me 
 as a madman ; and yet every word that I say is true. But they are 
 jealous of all of us. I suppose that we must be brave and not 
 mind them. 
 
 Soc. Their laughter, friend Euthyphro, is not a matter of much 
 consequence. For a man may be thought wise ; but the Athenian^ 
 I suspect, do not care much about this, until he begins to make 
 other men wise; and then for some reason or other, perhaps, as 
 you say, from jealousy, they are angry. 
 
 Euth. I have no desire to try conclusions with them about this. 
 
 Soc. I dare say that you don't make yourself common, and are' 
 not apt to impart your wisdom. But I have a benevolent habit 
 of pouring out myself to everybody, and would even pay for a 
 listener, and I am. afraid that the Athenians know this; and' 
 therefore, as I was saying, if the Athenians would only laugh at 
 me as you say that they laugh at you, the time might pass gaily 
 enough in the court ; but perhaps they may be in earnest, and then 
 what the end will be you soothsayers only can predict. Ji 
 
EUTHYPHRO. 303 
 
 ^uth. I dare say that the affair will end in nothing, Soaates, 
 and that you will win your cause ; and I think that I shall win 
 ,mine. 
 
 ^K. And what is your suit? and are you the pursuer or de- 
 fendant, Euthyphro ? 
 ■ Euth. I am pursuer. 
 
 &0C. Of whom? 
 4 'Buth. You will think me mad when I tell you whom I am 
 pursuing. 
 
 Soc. Whyj has the fugitive wings ? 
 
 Euth. Nay, he is not very volatile at his time of life. 
 
 Soc. Who is he ? 
 
 Euth. My father. 
 
 Soc. Your father ! good heavens, you don't mean that ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And of what is he accused ? 
 
 Euth. Murder, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. By the powers, Euthyphro ! how little does the common herd 
 know of the nature of right and truth. A man must be an extra- 
 ordinary man and have made great strides in wisdom, before he 
 could have seen his way to this. 
 
 Euth. Indeed, Socrates, he must have made great strides. 
 
 Soc. I suppose that the man whom your father murdered was 
 one of your relatives ; if he had been a stranger you would never 
 have thought of prosecuting him. 
 
 Euth. I am amused, Socrates, at your making a distinction 
 between one who is a relation and one who is not a relation ; for 
 surely the pollution is the same in either case, if you knowingly 
 associate with the murderer when you ought to clear yourself by 
 proceeding against him. The real question is whether the murdered 
 man has been justly slain. If justly, then your duty is to let the 
 matter alone; but if unjustly, then even if the murderer is under 
 the same roof with you and eats at the same table, proceed 
 against him. Now the man who is dead was a poor dependant 
 of mine who-worked for us as a field labourer at Naxos, and one 
 day in a fit of drunken passion he got into a quarrel with one of 
 our domestic servants and slew him. My father bound him hand 
 and foot and threw him into a ditch, and then sent to Athens to 
 ask of a diviner what he should do with him. Meantime he had 
 
304 EUTHYPHRO. ' 
 
 no care or thought of him, being under the impression that he 
 was a murderer; and that even if he did die there would be no 
 great harm. And this was just what happened. For such was the 
 effect of cold and hunger and chains upon him, that before the 
 messenger returned from the diviner, he was dead. And my. 
 father and family are angry with me for taking the part of the 
 murderer and prosecuting my father. They say that he did not 
 kill him, and if he did, the dead man was but a murderer, and 
 I ought not to take any notice, for that a son is impious who 
 prosecutes a father. That shows, Socrates, how little they know 
 of the opinions of the gods about piety and impiety. 
 
 Soc. Good heavens, Euthyphro ! and have you such a precise 
 knowledge of piety and impiety, and of divine things in general, 
 that, supposing the circumstances to be as you state, you are not 
 afraid that you too may be doing an impious thing in bringing > 
 an action against your father ? 
 
 Eutit. The best of Euthyphro, and that which distinguishes him, 5 
 Socrates, from other men, is his exact knowledge of all these 
 matters. What should I be good for without that ? 
 
 Soc. Rare friend ! I think that I cannot do better than be your 
 disciple, before the trial with Meletus comes on. Then I shall 
 challenge him, and say that I have always had a great interest in 
 religious questions, and now, as he charges me with rash imagina- 
 tions and innovations in religion, I have become your disciple. 
 Now you, Meletus, as I shall say to him, acknowledge Euthyphro 
 to be a great theologian, and sound in his opinions ; and if you 
 think that of him you ought to think the same of me, and not have 
 me into court; you should begin by indicting him who is my 
 teacher, and who is the real corruptor, not of the young, but of the 
 old ; that is to say, of myself whom he instructs, and of his old 
 father whom he admonishes and chastises. And if Meletus refuses 
 to listen to me, but will go on, and will not shift the indictment 
 from me to you, I cannot do better than say in the court that I 
 challenged him in this way. 
 
 Euth, Yes, Socrates ; and if he attempts to indict me I am mis- 
 taken if I don't find a flaw in him ; the court shall have a great 
 "deal more to say to him than to me. 
 
 Soc. I know that, dear friend; and that is the reason why i '>; 
 desire to be your disciple. For I observe that no one, not even 
 
EUTHYPHRO. 305 
 
 Meletus, appears to notice you ; but his sharp eyes have found me 
 out at once, and he has indicted- me foi*impiety. And therefore, 
 I »adjure you to tell me the nature of piety and impiety, which you 
 said that you knew so well, and of murder, and the rest of them. 
 What are they ? Is not piety in every action always the same ? 
 and impiety, again, is not that always the opposite of piety, and 
 also the same with itself, having, as impiety, one notion which 
 includes whatever is impious ? 
 
 'Ettth. To be sure, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And what is piety, and what is impiety? 
 
 Euth. Piety is doing as I am doing ; that is to say, prosecuting 
 any one who is guilty of murder, sacrilege, or of any other similar 
 crime — whether he be your father or mother, or some other person, 
 that makes no difference — and not prosecuting them is impiety. 
 And please to consider, Socrates, what a notable proof I will give 
 you of the truth of what I am saying, which I have already given 
 to others:— of the truth, I mean, of the principle that the impious, 
 whoever he may be, ought not to go unpunished. For do not men 
 regard Zeus as the best and most righteous of the gods ? — and even 
 6 they admit that he bound his father (Cronos) because- he wickedly 
 devoured his sons, and that he too had punished his own father 
 (Uranus) for a- similar reason, in a nameless manner. And yet 
 when I proceed against my father, they are angry with me. This is 
 their inconsistent way of talking when the gods are concerned, and 
 when I am concerned. 
 
 Soc. May not this be the reason, Euthyphro, why I am charged 
 with impiety— that I cannot away with these stories about the 
 gods ? and therefore I suppose that people think me wrong. But, as 
 you who are well informed about them approve of them, I cannot 
 do better than assent to your superior wisdom. For what else can 
 I say, .confessing as I do, that I know nothing of them. I wish 
 you would tell me whether you really believe that they are true ? 
 
 Eirth. Yes, Socrates ; and things more wonderful still, of which 
 the world is in ignorance. 
 
 Soc. And do you really believe that the gods fought with one 
 another, and had dire quarrels, battles, and the like, as the poets 
 say, apd as you may see represented in the works of great artists ? 
 The temples are fiill of them ^ and notably the robe of Athene, 
 •which is carried up to the Acropolis at the great Panathenaea, is 
 
 y 
 
3o6 EUTHYPHRO. 
 
 embroidered with them. Are all these tales of the gods true, 
 Euthyphro ? 
 
 Buth. Yes, Socrates ; and, as I was saying, I can tell you, if you 
 would like to hear them, many other things about the gods which 
 would quite amaze you. 
 
 Soc. I dare sayj and you shall tell me them at some other time 
 when I have leisure. But just at present I would rather hear from 
 you a more precise answer, which you have not as yet given, my 
 friend, to the question, What is 'piety?' In reply, you only say 
 that piety is. Doing as you do, charging your father with murder ? 
 
 Buth. And that is true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. I dare say, Euthyphro, but there are many other pious acts, , 
 
 Euth. There are. 
 
 Soc. Remember that I did not ask you to give me two or three 
 examples of piety, but to explain the general idea which makes all 
 pious things to be pious. Do ybu not recollect that there was one 
 idea which made the impious impious, and the pious pious ? 
 
 Euth. I remember. 
 
 Soc. Tell me what this is, and then I shall have a standard ta 
 which L may look, and by which I may measure the nature of 
 actions, whether yours or any one's else, and say that this action is 
 pious, and that impious ? 
 
 Euth. I will tell you, if you like. 
 
 Soc. I should very much like. 
 
 Euth. Piety, then, is that which is dear to the gods, and impiety 
 is that which is not dear to them. 
 
 Soc. Very good, Euthyphro ; you have now given me just the 7 
 sort of answer which I wanted. But whether it is true or not I 
 cannot as yet tell, although I make no doubt that you will prove 
 the truth of your words. 
 
 Euth. Of course. 
 
 Soc. Come, then, and let us examine what we are saying. That 
 thing or person which is dear to the gods is pious, and that thing or , 
 person which is hateful to the gods is impious. Was not that said^? 
 
 Euth. Yes, that was said. 
 
 Soc. And that seems to have been very well said too ? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates, I think that j it was certainly said. 
 
 Soc. And further, Euthyphro, the gods were admitted to have 
 enmities and hatreds and differences — that was also said ? 
 
EUTHYPHRO. 307 
 
 Euthi Yes, that was said. 
 
 Soc. And what sort of difference crAtes enmity and anger ? 
 Suppose for example that you and I, my good friend, differ about 
 a number; do differences of this sort make us enemies and set 
 us at variance with one another ? Do we not go at once to calcu- 
 lation, and end them by a sum ? 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. Or suppose that we differ about magnitudes, do we not 
 quickly put an end to that difference by measuring ? 
 
 Euth. That is true. 
 
 Soc. And we end a controversy about heavy and light by re- 
 sorting to a weighing-machine ? 
 
 Euth. To be sure. 
 
 Soc. But what differences are those which, because they cannot 
 be thus decided, make us angry and set us at enmity with one 
 another? 1 dare say the answer does not occur to you at the 
 moment, and therefore I will suggest that this happens when 
 the matters of difference are the just and unjust, good and evil, 
 honourable and dishonourable. Are not these the points about 
 which, when differing, and unable satisfactorily to decide our 
 differences, we quarrel, when we do quarrel, as you and I and all 
 men experience ? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates, that is the nature of the differences about 
 which we quarrel. 
 
 Soc. And the quarrels of the gods, noble Euthyphro, when they 
 occur, are of a like nature ? 
 
 Euth. They are. 
 
 Soc. They have differences of opinion, as you say, about good 
 and evil, just and unjust, honourable and dishonourable: there 
 would have been no quarrels among them, if there had been no 
 such differences — would there now ? 
 • Euth. You are quite right. 
 
 Soc. Does not every man love that which he deems noble and 
 just and good, and hate the opposite of them ? 
 
 Euth. Very true. 
 
 Soc. But then, as you say, people regard the same things, some 
 as just and others as unjust j and they dispute about this, and 
 8 there arise wars and fightings among them. 
 
 Euth. Yes, that is true. 
 
 X 2 
 
3o8 EUTHYPHRO, 
 
 Soc. Then the same things, as appears, are hated by the gods 
 and loved by the gods, and are both hateful and dear to them? 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. Then upon this view the same things, Euthyphro, will be 
 pious and also impious ? 
 
 'Euth. That, I suppose, is true. 
 • Soc. Tlhen, my friend, I remark with surprise that you have not 
 answered what I asked. For I certainly did not ask what was 
 that which is at once pious and impious : and that which is loved , 
 by the gods appears also to be hated by them. And therefore, 
 Euthyphro, in thus chastising your father you may very likely be 
 doing what is agreeable to, Zeus but disagreeable to Cronos or 
 Uranus, and what is acceptable to Hephaestus tut unacceptable 
 to Here, and there may be other gods who have similar differences 
 of opinion, 
 
 Euth. But I believe, Socrates, that all the gods would be agreed 
 as to the propriety of punishing a murderer \ there would be no 
 difference of opinion about that. 
 
 Soc. Well, but speaking of men, Euthyphro, did you ever hear 
 any one arguing that a murderer or any sort of evil-doer ought to 
 be let off"? 
 
 Euth. I should rather say that they are always arguing thi^ 
 especially in courts of law : they commit all sorts of crimes^ and 
 there is nothing that they will not do or say in order to escape 
 punishment, 
 
 Soc. But do they admit their guilt, Euthyphro, and yet say that 
 they ought not to be punished ? 
 
 Euth. No ; they do not, 
 
 Soc. Then there are some things which they do not venture to 
 say and do : for they do not venture to argue that the guilty are 
 to be unpunished, but they deny their guilt, do they not ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then they do not argue that the evil-doer should not be 
 punished, but they argue about the fact of who the evil-doer is, 
 and what he did and when ? 
 
 Euth, True. 
 
 Soc. And the gods are in the same case, if as you imply they 
 quarrel about just and unjust, and some of them say.that they wrong 
 one another, and others of them deny this. For surely neither God 
 
EUTHYPHRO. 30^ 
 
 nor man will ever venture to say that the doer of evil is not to be 
 punished : — ^you don't mean to tell me th^ ? 
 £»?/&. That is true, Socrates, in the main. 
 
 Soc. But they join issue about particulars ; and this applies not 
 only to men but to the gods ; if they dispute at all they dispute 
 about some act which is called in question, and which some affirm 
 to be justj others to be unjust. Is not that true ? 
 
 Eutk. Quite true. 
 
 Soe. Well then, my dear friend Euthyphro, do tell me, for my 
 better instruction and information, what proof have you that in the 
 opinion of all the gods a servant who is guilty of murder, and is 
 put in chains by the master of the dead man, and dies because 
 he is put in chains before his corrector can learn from the inter- 
 preters what he ought to do with him, dies unjustly ; and that on 
 behalf of such an one a son ought to proceed against his father 
 and accuse him of murder. How would you show that all the gods 
 absolutely agree in approving of his act ? Prove to me that, and 
 I will applaud your wisdom as long as you live^ 
 
 I-uth. That would not be an easy task, although I could make 
 the matter very clear indeed to you. 
 
 Soc. I understand; you mean to say that I am not so quick of 
 apprehension as the judges : , for to them you will be sure to 
 prove that the act is unjust, and hateful to the gods. 
 
 Buth. Yes indeed, Socrates; at least if they will listen to me. 
 
 Soc. But they will be sure to listen if they find that you are 
 a good speaker. There was a notion that came into my mind 
 while you were speaking; I said tp myself: 'Well, and what if 
 Euthyphro does prove to me that all the gods regarded the death of 
 the serf as unjust, how do I know anything more of the nature 
 of piety and impiety? for granting that this action may be 
 hatefuj. to the gods, ' still these distinctions haive no bearing on 
 the definition of piety and impiety, for that whiph is hateful to the 
 gods has been shown to be also pleasing and dear to them.' And 
 therefore, Euthyphro,- 1 don't ask you to prove this; I will suppose, 
 if you like, that all the gods condemn and abominate such, an 
 action. But I will amend the definition so far as to say that ^ 
 what all the gods hate is impious, and what they love pious or 
 holy ; and what some of them love and others hate is both or 
 neither. Shall this be our definition of piety and impiety ? 
 
3IO EUTHYPHRO. 
 
 Euth. Why not, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. Why not ! certainly, as far as I am concerned, Euthyphro. 
 But whether this admission will greatly assist you in the task of 
 instructing me as you promised, is a matter for you to consider., 
 
 "Euth. Yes, I should say that what all the gods love is pious and 
 holy, and the opposite which they all hate, impious. 
 
 Soc. Ought we to inquire into the truth of this, Euthyphro> or 
 simply to accept the mere statement on our own authority and 
 that of others ? 
 
 Euth. We should inquire ; and I believe that the statement will 
 stand the test of inquiry. 
 
 Soc. That, my good friend, we shall know better in a little 
 while. The point which I should first wish to understand is 
 whether the pious or holy is beloved by the gods because it is lo 
 holy, or holy because it is beloved of the gods. 
 
 Euth. I don't understand your meaning, Socrates. . 
 
 Soc. I will endeavour to explain : we speak of carrying and we 
 speak of being carried, of leading and being led, seeing and being, 
 seen. And here is a difference, the nature of which you understand. 
 
 Euth. I think that I understand. 
 
 Soc. And is not that which is beloved distinct from that which 
 loves ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Well J and now tell me, is that which is carried in this 
 state of carrying because it is carried, or for some other reason ? 
 
 Euth. No ; that is the reason. 
 
 Soc. And the same is true of that which is led and of that which 
 is seen ? 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. And a thing is not seen because it is visible, but conversefly, 
 visible because it is seen; nor is a thing in the state of being led 
 because it is led, or in the state of being carried because it is. 
 carried, but the converse of this. And now I think, Euthyphro, 
 that my meaning will be intelligible; and my meaning is, that: | 
 any state of action or passion implies previous action or passion. 
 It- does not become because it is becoming, but it is becoming- 
 because it comes ; neither does it suffer "because it is in a state of 
 suffering, but it is in a state of suffering because it suffers. Dd j 
 you admit that ? 
 
EUTHYPHRO. 311 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 • Soc. Is not that which is loved in some state either of becoming 
 or sitflFering ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the same holds as in the previous instances j the state 
 of being loved follows the act of being loved, and not the act the' 
 state. 
 
 Euth. That is certain. 
 
 Soc. And what do you say of piety, Euthyphro: is not piety, 
 according to your definition, loved by all the gods ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Because it is pious or holy, or for some other reason ? 
 
 Euth. No, that is the reason. 
 
 Soc. It is loved because it is holy, not holy because it is loved ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And that which is in a state to be loved of the gods, and is 
 dear to them, is in a state to be loved of them because it is loved 
 of them ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Then that which is loved of God, Euthyphro, is not holy, 
 nor is that which is holy loved of God, as you affirm ; but they are 
 two different things. 
 
 Euth. How do you mean, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. I mean to say that the holy has been acknowledged by 
 us to be loved of God because it is holy, not to be holy because 
 it is loved. 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. But that which is dear to the gods is dear to them because 
 it is loved by them, not loved by them be'cause it is dear to them. 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. But, friend Euthyphro, if that which is holy is the same as 
 that which is dear to God, and that which is holy is loved as being 
 holy, then that which is dear to God would have been loved as 
 I being dear to God ; but if that which is dear to God is dear to 
 him because loved by him, then that which is holy would have 
 been holy because loved by him. But now you see that the re- 
 verse is the case, and that they are quite different from one another. 
 For one (deo^iXh) is of a kind to be loved because it is loved, and 
 the other {S<nov) is loved because it is of a kind to be loved. Thus 
 
312 EUTHYPHRO. 
 
 you appear to me, Euthyphro, when I ask you what is the essence 
 of holiness, to offer an attribute only, and not the essence— thtf 
 attribute of being loved by all the gods. But you still refuse to 
 explain to me the nature of piety. And therefore, if you please, I 
 will ask you not to hide your treasure, but to tell me once more 
 what piety or holiness really is, whether dear to the gods or not 
 (for that -is a matter about which we will not quarrel). And what 
 is impiety ? 
 
 'Euth. I really do not know, Socrates, how to say what I mean. 
 For somehow or other our arguments, on whatever ground we rest 
 them, seem to turn round and walk away. 
 
 Soc. Your words, Euthyphro, are like the handiwork of my 
 ancestor Daedalus j and if I were the sayer or propounder of them, 
 you might say that this comes of my being his relation ; and that 
 this is the reason why my arguments walk away and won't remain 
 fixed where they are placed. But now, as the notions are your own, 
 you must find some other gibe, for they certainly, as you yourself 
 allow, show an inclination to be on the move. 
 
 'Euth. Nay, Socrates, I shall still say that you are the Daedalus, 
 who sets arguments in motion; not I, certainly, make them 
 move or go round, for they would never have stirred, as far as I 
 am concerned. 
 
 Soc. Then I must be a greater than Daedalus j for whereaS' he 
 only made his own inventions to move, I move those of other 
 people as well. And the beauty of it is, that I would rather not. 
 For I would give the wisdom of Daedalus, and the wealth of Tan- 
 talus, to be able to detain them and keep them fixed. But enough 
 of this. As I perceive that you are indolent, I will myself en- 
 deavour to show ydu how you might instruct me in the nature of 
 piety; and I hope that you will not grudge your labour. Tell me, 
 then,— Is not that which is pious necessarily just ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And is, then, all which is just pious? or, is that which is li 
 pious all just, but that which is just only in part and not all 
 pious ? 
 
 Euth. I don't understand you, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And yet I know that you are as much wiser than I am, as 
 you are younger. But, as I was saying, revered friend, the abun- 
 dance of your wisdom makes you indolent. Please to exert 
 
EUTHYPHRO, 313 
 
 yourself, for there is no real difficulty in understanding me. 
 What I mean I may explain by an illustration of what I do 
 not mean. The poet (Stasinus) sings — 
 
 ' Of Zeus, the author and creator of all these things, 
 You will not tell : for where there is fear there is also reverence.' 
 
 And I disagree with this poet. Shall I tell you in what I disagree ? 
 
 'Euth. By all means. 
 
 Soc. I should not say that where there is fear there is also reve- 
 rence ; for I am sure that many persons fear poverty and disease, 
 and the like evils, but I do not -perceive that" they reverence the 
 objects of their fear. 
 
 Euth. Very true. 
 
 Soc, But where reverence is, there is fear ; for he who has a 
 feeling of reverence and shame about the commission of any action, 
 fears and is afraid of an ill reputation. 
 
 Euih. No doubt. 
 
 Soc. Then we are wrong in saying that where there is fear there 
 is also reverence j and we should say, where there is reverence there: 
 is also fear. But there is not always reverence where there is 
 fear j for fear is a more extended notion, and reverence is a part of 
 fear, just as the odd is a part of number, and number is a more 
 extended notion than the odd. I suppose that you follow me 
 now? 
 
 Euth. Quite well. 
 
 Soc. That was the sort of question which I meant to raise when 
 asking whether the just is the pious, or the pious the just ; and 
 whether there may not be justice where there is not always piety j 
 for justice is the more extended notion of which piety is only 
 a part. Do you agree in that ? 
 
 Euth. Yes ; that, I think, is correct. 
 
 Soc. Then, now, if piety is a part of justice, I suppose that we 
 inquire what part ? If you had pursued the inquiry in the previous 
 cases ; for instance, if you had asked me what is an even number, 
 and what part of number the even is, I should have had no difficulty 
 in replying, a number which represents a figure having two equal 
 sides. Do you agree ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. In like manner, I want you to tell me what part cf justice 
 is piety or holiness ; that I may be able to tell Meletus not to do 
 
314 EUTHYPHRO. 
 
 me injustice, or indict me for impiety ; as I am now adequately 
 instructed by you in the nature of piety or holiness, and their 
 opposites. 
 
 Buth. Piety or holiness, Socrates, appears to me to be that part 
 of justice which attends to the gods, as there is the other part of 
 justice which attends to men. 
 
 &0C. That is good, Euthyphro ; yet still there is a little point i, 
 about which I should like to have further information, What is the 
 meaning of ' attention ? ' For attention can hardly be used in the 
 same sense when applied to the gods as when applied to other 
 things. For instance, horses 'are said to require attention, and not 
 every person is able to attend to them, but only a person skilled in 
 horsemanship. Is not that true ? 
 
 Euth. Quite true. 
 
 Soc. I should suppose that the art of horsemanship is the art of 
 attending to horses ? 
 
 Buth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Nor is every one qualified to attend to dogs, but only the 
 huntsman. , 
 
 'Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. And I should also conceive that the art of the huntsman is. 
 the art of attending to dogs ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. As the art of the oxherd is the art of attending to oxen ? 
 
 Euth. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And as holiness or piety is the art of attending to the gods? 
 —that would be your meaning, Euthyphro ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And is not attention always designed for the good or 
 benefit of that to which the attention is given ? As in the case 
 of horses, you may observe that when attended to by the horse- 
 man's art they are benefited and improved, are they not ? 
 
 Euth. True. 1 
 
 Soc. As the dogs, are benefited by the huntsman's art, and the 
 oxen by the art of the oxherd, and all other things are tended 
 or attended for their good and not for their hurt ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly, not for their hurt. 
 
 Soc. But for their good ? 
 
 Euth. Of course. 
 
EUTHYPHRO. 315 
 
 Soc. And does piety or holiness, which has been defined as the 
 art of attending to the gods, benefit or improve them ? Would 
 you say that when you do a holy act you make any of the gods 
 better? 
 
 Euth. No, no ; that is certainly not my meaning. 
 
 Soc. Indeed, Euthyphro, I did not suppose that this was your 
 ' meaning j far otherwise. And that was the reason why I asked 
 you the nature of this attention, because I thought that this was 
 not your meaning. 
 
 Euth. You do me justice, Socrates j for that is not my meaning. 
 
 Soc. Good: but I must still ask what is this attention to the 
 gods which is called piety ? 
 
 Euth. It is suchj Socrates, as servants show to their masters. 
 
 Soc. I understand — a sort of ministration to the gods. 
 
 Euth. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. Medicine is also a sort of ministration or service, tending 
 to the attainment of some object — would you not say health ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Again, there is an art which ministers to the ship-builder 
 with a view to the attainment of some result ? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates, with a view to the building of a ship. 
 
 Soc. As there is an art which ministers to the house-builder 
 with a view to the building of a house ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And now tell me, my good friend, about this art which 
 ministers to the gods : what work does that help to accomplish ? 
 For you must surely know if, as you say, you are of all men living 
 the one who is best instructed in religion. 
 
 Euth. And that is true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Tell me then, oh tell me — what is that fair work which the 
 gods do by the help of us as their ministers ? 
 
 Euth. Many and fair, Socrates, are the works which they do. 
 ► Soc. Why, my friend, and so are those of a general. But the 
 chief of them is easily told. Would you not say that victory in 
 war is the chief of them ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Many and fair, too, are the works of the husbandman, if 
 I am not mistaken; but his chief work is the production of food 
 from the earth ? 
 
3i6 EUTHYPHRO. 
 
 Euth. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. And of the many and fair things which the gods do, which 
 is the chief and principal one ? 
 
 Euth. I have told you already, Socrates, that to learn all these 
 things accurately will be very tiresome. Let me simply say that 
 piety is learning how to please the gods in word and deed, by 
 prayers and sacrifices. That is piety, which is the salvation of 
 families and states, just as the impious, which is unpleasing to the 
 gods, is their ruin and destruction. 
 
 SoCi I think that you could have answered in much fewer words 
 the chief question which I asked, Euthyphro, if you had chosen. 
 But I see plainly that you are not disposed to instruct me : else 
 why, when we had reached the point, did you turn aside ? Had you 
 only answered me I should have learned of you by this time the 
 nature of piety. Now, as the asker of a question i§ necessarily 
 dependent on the answerer, whither he leads I must follow; and 
 can only ask again, what is the pious, and what is piety ? Do you 
 mean that they are a sort of science of praying and sacrificing? 
 
 Euth. Yes, I do. 
 
 Soc. And sacrificing is giving to the gods, and prayer is asking 
 of the gods ? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Upon this view, then, piety is a science of asking and 
 giving? 
 
 Euth. You understand me capitally, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Yes, my friend ; the reason is that I am a votary of your- 
 science, and give my mind to it, and therefore nothing which you 
 say will be thrown away upon me. Please then to tell me, what is 
 the nature of this service to the gods? Do you mean that we 
 prefer requests and give gifts to them ? 
 
 Euth. Yes, I do. 
 
 Soc. Is not the right way of asking to ask of them what we want ? 
 
 Euth. Certainly, 
 
 Soc. And the right way of giving is to give to them in return 
 what they want of us. There would be no meaning in an art 
 which gives to any one that which he does not want. 
 
 Euth. Very true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Then piety, Euthyphro, is an art which gods and men have 
 of doing business with one another ? 
 
EUTHYPHRO. 317 
 
 Euth. That is an expression which you may use, if you like. 
 . Soc. But I have no particular likii% for anything but the 
 truth. I wish, however, that you would tell me what benefit 
 acCTues to the gods from our gifts. That they are the givers of 
 ; every good to us is clear ; but how we can give any good thing 
 to them in return is far from being equally clear. If they give 
 everything and we give nothing, that must be an affair of business 
 in -which we have very greatly the advantage of them. 
 
 'Euth. And do you imagine, Socrates, that any benefit accrues 
 to the gods from what they receive of us ? 
 
 Sm. But if not, Euthyphro, what sort of gifts do we confer upon 
 the gods ? 
 
 Euth. What should we confer upon them, but tributes of honour ; 
 and, as I was just now saying, what is pleasing to them ? 
 
 Bfic. Piety, then, is pleasing to the gods, but not beneficial or 
 dear to them ? 
 
 Euth. I should say that nothing could be dearer. 
 
 Soc. Then once more the assertion is repeated that piety is 
 dear to the gods ? 
 
 Euth. No doubt. 
 
 Soc. And when you say this, can you wonder at your words not 
 standing firm, but walking away ? Will you accuse me of being 
 the Daedalus who makes them walk away, not perceiving that 
 there is another and far greater artist than Daedalus who makes 
 rthem go round in a circle; and that is yourself: for the argument, 
 as you will perceive, comes round to the same point. I think 
 that you must remember our saying that the holy or pious was 
 not the same as that which is loved of the gods. Do you 
 remember that ? 
 
 Euth. I do. 
 
 Soc. And do you not see that what is loved of the gods is holy, 
 and that this is the same as what is dear to them ? 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. Then either we were wrong in that admission; or, if we 
 were right then, we are wrong now. 
 
 Euth. I suppose that is the case. 
 
 Soc. Then we must begin again and ask. What is piety ? That 
 is an inquiry which I shall never be weary of pursuing as far as 
 in me lies; and I entreat you not to scorn me, but to -apply your 
 
3i8 EUTHYPHRO. 
 
 mind to the utmost, and tell me the truth. For, if any man knows 
 you ard he ; and therefore I shall detain you, like Proteus, unti 
 you tell. For if you had not certainly known the nature of piet] 
 and impiety, I am -confident that you would never, on behalf a 
 a serf, have charged your aged father with murder. You would nol 
 have run such a risk of doing wrong in the sight of the gods, anc 
 you would have had too much respect for the opinions of men 
 I am sure, therefore, that you know the nature of piety anc 
 impiety. Speak out then, my dear Euthyphro, and do not hid« 
 your knowledge. 
 
 'Euth. Another time, Socrates j for I am in a hurry, and musi 
 go now. 
 
 Soc. Alas! my companion, and will you leave me in despair! 
 I was hoping that you would instruct me in the nature of pietj 
 and impiety, so that I might have cleared myself of Meletus and 
 his indictment. Then I might have proved to him that I had 
 been converted by Euthyphro, and had done with rash innovations 
 and speculations, in which I had indulged through ignorance, and 
 was about to lead a better life. 
 
APOLOGY. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In what relation the Apology of Plato stands to the real defence of 
 Socrates, there are no means of determining. It certainly agrees in tone 
 and character with the description of Xenophan, who says in the Memo- 
 rabilia (iv. 4, 4) that Socrates might have been acquitted ' if in any 
 moderate degree he would have conciliated the favour of the dicasts ; ' 
 and who informs us in another passage (iv. 8, 4), on the testimony of 
 Hermogenes, the friend of Socrates, that he had no wish to live ; and that 
 the divine sign refused to allow him to prepare a defence, and also that 
 Socrates himself declared this to be unnecessary, on the ground that all 
 his life long he had been preparing against that hour. For the speech 
 breathes throughout a spirit of defiance, ' ut non supplex aut reus sed 
 magister aut dominus videretur esse judicum ' (Cic. de Orat. i. 54) ; and 
 the loose and desultory style is an imitation of the ' accustomed manner ' 
 in which Socrates spoke in ' the agora and among the tables of the money- 
 changers.' The allusion in the Crito (45 B) may, perhaps, be adduced 
 as a further evidence of the literal accuracy of some parts (37 C, D). 
 But in the main it must he regarded as the ideal of Socrates, according to ( 
 Plato's conception of him, appearing in th e greatest and most public/ 
 scene of his life , and in the height_ofhis^trium2lv,jvl^^ 
 and_Y et his mastery over mankind is greatest, and Jh e habitual iro ny qf 
 his life ac quires a new meaning and a sort of.tr afT'f: patlins in thp farp of 
 deathr~The fa^'ts of his life are, summed up, andjhe Jeatures of his 
 character are brnught ffut^sjf byjgc ident in the cours e of the def ence. 
 The looseness of the style, the seeming want of arrangement of the 
 topics, is found to result in a perfect work of art, which is the portrait of 
 Socrates. 
 
 Yet some of the topics may have been actually used by Socrates ; and 
 the recollection of his very words may have rung in the ears of his dis- 
 ciple. The *4'"''^CT ^f TP'^^o ""^y ^^ compared generally with those 
 
322 APOLOGY. 
 
 Ififly rharart-pr gnH prtHry nf th(; great Pericle s, and which at the .^^ojip 
 time juraish aoommmiajgjjoiL^^ 
 
 vieB£,o£-the-fei9torian. So in the Apo l pgy, there^ jg_an ideal rather -t hasi 
 a Hteral^trjith ; TTviii£tT_ig ^^\i\ \}c\-^\, miprht tn havfi been said hut wa^jnnt{ij).iji^j 
 and-ir-only-Pla to'B view of the a ituatio n. And we may perhaps even in- 
 dulge in the fancy that the actual defence of Socrates was as much gre|,ter 
 than the Platonic defence as the master was greater than the disciple.. 
 But in any case, aom&_Qf .the words actually used have probablx _been 
 preseiKed. It is significant that Pla tgis said to have been present at 
 thejiefence (38 B), as he is adso said to have been absent at the, last 
 scene in the Phaedo (59 B). Is it fanciful to suppose that he meant fo 
 give the stamp of authenticity to the one and not to the other? — 
 especially when we remember that these two passages are the only one§ 
 in which Plato makes mention of himself. Moreover, the Apqlggr 
 appears to combine the conynon characteristics both of the Xenophqntean 
 and Platonic Socrates, while the Phaedo passes into a region of thought 
 which is very characteristic of Plato, but not of his master. , 
 
 There is not much in the other Dialogues which can be compared 
 with the Apology. The same recollection of his master may have been 
 present to the mind of Plato when depicting the sufferings of the Just ijj 
 the Republic (ii. 361 foil., vi. 500 A). The Crito may also be regarded 
 as a sort of appendage to the Apology, in which Socrates, who has defied 
 the judges, is nevertheless represented as scrupulously obedient , to., tbl 
 laws. Thejde^jsatipn of the sufferer is carried still further in the 
 Gorgias (47,6 foil.), in which the thesis is maintained, that ' to. suffer,,is 
 better than to do evil ; ' and the art of rhetoric is described as only usefii| 
 for the purpose ef self-a,ccusatiGn. The parallelisms which occur in.the 
 so-called Apology of Xenophon are not worth noticing, because; the 
 writing in which they are cont|jned is manifestly spurious. The state- 
 ments of the Memorabilia (i. 2, iv. 8) respecting, the trial and death. of 
 Sojcrates agree generally with .Plato ; but they have lost the flavots^^of 
 Socratic irony in the narrative of Xenophon. 
 
 The Apohsftyjar. Platonic defence of Socrates is divided ' into tl iK^ 
 partg: i st. The defe nce prop erly so called ; and. The shorter addres?^|i 
 m itigation of the p enalty ; 3rd. The last words of p rophetic rebu^ a nj 
 exhQrtation. ;,|"- 
 
 The first part rnma; M iii i i 1 uill i i iii . n pnlnQ - fnr hi" rnllnqniq? ^^j^" ') he 
 
INTRODUCTION. 323 
 
 k; ^-tifi hns a lways been, the enemy of rhetori c^ and k nows o f no 
 ^' gtbric but trut h ; he ^11 nnt fakify lij^ rh^raoter hy m ajcing a speech. 
 Tlifeii he proceeds to divide his accuse rs into two ., classes ; first, there is 
 the nam^^ss Etccus^r— pTiblic opinion. All tha -.wrtrlrl from their earliest 
 years had he^dJliaiJie was_3„carriiptcu:-ii£_yj2Uth, and had seen him 
 :feitatiiEeiirLthe.Clouds^.of 4ristQgMnes. Secondly, there are the pjjcb 
 fgssed acsttsefSy^whe-itt-o b u t t h e mo uth pie c e of t h e o feCTS. The accusa- 
 tions of both might be summed up in a formula. The first say, ' SocrateS 
 is an evil-doer and a curious person, searching into things under the 
 earth and above the heaven ; and making the worse appear the better 
 cause, and teaching all this to others.' The second, ' Socrates is. an 
 evil-doer Snd cOrruptpr of the youth, who does not receive the gods 
 whom the staite receives, but introduces other new divinities.' These 
 last appear to have been the words of the actual indictment (cp. Xen. 
 Mem. i. i), of which the previous formula is a parody. 
 '' The answer begins by clearing up a confusion. In the representations 
 of the comic poets, and in the opinion of the multitude, he had been 
 confounded with the teachers of physical science and with the Sophists. 
 But this was an error, For both of them he professes a respect in the 
 bpeft court, which contrasts with his manner of speaking about them 
 in other places. (Cp. for Anaxagoras, Phaedo 98 B, foil., and for the 
 Sophists passim^ But at the' same time he shows that he is not one 
 of them. Of natiKal_EhilQS0phyJie_kno3fs_nodung; not that he despises 
 such pursuits, but the fact is that he is ignoranf of them, and never 
 says a word about them. No r does he re ceive mo ney for te aching;, 
 that is' another mistaken notioii,'for he has nothing to teach. But he 
 tommends Evenus for teaching virtue at such a moderate rate. Some- 
 thing of the ''accustomed irony,' which may perhaps be expected to 
 sleep in the ear of the multitude, is lurking here. 
 
 He {h^-~ffoes..o n to exp lain the reason why he is in such an evil 
 narnSr—y hat had aT Jae n out of a p cL- uliiTm ission' which he had taken 
 ttpoii himself. The enthusiastic Chaerephon (probably in anticipation 
 of the answer which he received) had gone to Delphi and asked the 
 oracle if there was any man wiser than Socrates ; and the answer was, 
 that there was no man wiser. What could be the meaning of this— 
 that he who knew nothing, and knew that he knew nothing, should be 
 declared by the oracle to be the wisest of men? Reflecting upon this, 
 he determined to refute the oracle by finding 'a. wiser;' jnd ffrst he 
 
334 APOLOGY. 
 
 went to the politicians, and then to the poets, and then to the crafts- 
 men, but always with the same result^he foundJiiat.Aex Jcnewjiot^j^, 
 or haxdly_anything-more-t ha n him s elf; and-liiat_dxeJUtJle_ad38iitei^ 
 which-in-some-cases they possessedjatas morp, than romoterbalaneed by 
 th§ir_SQB£eit-efknoi«4edge. I^ _knew nothing , a nd knew that h ckneHf 
 nothin-g : th ey knew little or nothing, and imagin ed_.that-th£y_kn£M^ all 
 things, ThusJie-iiad-passed--his-life--as--a-sort-of missieaa^^n-d e t ect iflg 
 the ..prptpnded wisdom nf -taamkind ; and this occupation had quite 
 absorbed him and taken him away both from public and private affairs. 
 Young men of the rich er sort had- made a pastime of the same pu rsuit. 
 ' whi^ was not unamusing.' And hence bitter enmities had aris en : tlje 
 Miofessofs of knowledge had revenged themselves by calling him ,a 
 /illainous corrupter of the youth, and by repeating the commonplaces 
 ibout atheism and materialism and sophistry, which are the stock- 
 accusations against all phi|psophers when there is. nothing else to be 
 /said of them. ~ .1 
 
 ^ The seco jid accusation he meets, by in terrogating Meletus,, ^ho , Js 
 present and can be interrogated, 'If he is the corruptcffjiwho is the 
 improver of the citizens?' 'All mankind.' But how absurd,, how 
 contrary to analogy is this! How inconceivable too, that he should 
 make the citizens worse when he has to live with them. This surely 
 cannot be intentional ; and if unintentional, he ought to have been 
 instructed by Meletus, and not accused in the court. 
 
 But there is another part of the indictment which says that he 
 teaches men not to receive the gods whom the city receives, and has 
 other new gods. ' Is that the way nx which he is supposecl to corrupt 
 the youth?' 'Yes, that is the way.' 'Has he only new gods, or nong 
 at all?' 'None at all,' 'What, not even the sup and moon?' 'No; 
 why, he says that the sun is a stone, and the moon earth.' That, repji^ 
 Socrates, is the old confusion about-Anaxaforas ; the Athenian people 
 are not so ignorant as to attribute to the influence of Socrates notions 
 which have found their way mto the drama, and may be learned at the 
 theatre. Socrates undertakes lo show that Meletus (rather unjustifiably) 
 has been compounding a riddle in this part of the indictment: 'There 
 are no gods, but Socrates believes in the existence of the sons of gods, 
 which is absurd.' . \ 
 
 Leaving Meletus, ,vho has had enough words spent upon him, he 
 returns to his original accusers. The question may be asked, Why 
 
INTRODUCTION. 325 
 
 -Wfil he persist in following a profession which leads him to death ? 
 .l?%^^-'because he must remain at his pott where the god has placed 
 him, as he remained at Potidaea, and Amphipolis, and Delium, where the 
 generals placed him. Besides, he is not j£_o verwise as to imapfi ne tha t. 
 he kno ws whether death is a good or an evil; and he is certain th at 
 d esertion of \ (^ duty is_an^ evil. Anytus is quite right in saying that 
 they should never have indicted him if they meant to let him go. For 
 he will certainly obey God rather than man ; and will continue to preach 
 to all men of all ages the necessity of virtue and improvement ; and if 
 they refuse to listen to him he will- still persevere and repirove them. 
 This is his way of corrupting the youth, which he will not cease to 
 follow in obedience to the god, even if a thousand deaths await him. 
 
 He is desirous that they should not put him to death — not foi:his_Qwn 
 sake, but for theirs ; because he is their heaven-sent friend (and they 
 will never have such another), or, as he may be ludicrously described, 
 the gadfly who stirs the generous steed into motion. Wh y then ha s 
 he nev5r4a ken part in pubhc aiFairs ? Because the'familiar divine voice 
 has hindered him ; if he; had been a public- man. and fought for the 
 tig ht, as he w-ould certainly have, fought against-the many. Jie. would not 
 havp IjvpH, ia,n(;] rmilA-ther-fefore ha:Ve done HO good. Twice in public 
 matters he has risked his life for the sake of justice — once at the trial 
 of the 'generals ; and again in resistance to the tyrannical commands 
 of the Thirty. 
 
 But, though not a public man, he has passed his days in instructing 
 
 the citizens without fee or reward ; this was his mission. Whether his 
 
 disciples have turned out well or ill, he cannot justly be charged with 
 
 the result, for he never promised to teach them anything. They might 
 
 come if they liked, and theyjnight stay away if they liked : and they did 
 
 ^come, because they found an amusement in hearing the pretenders to 
 
 ^wisdom detected. If they have been corrupted, their elder relatives 
 
 (if not themselves) might-surdy appear in court and witness against 
 
 him, and there is an opportunity still for them to do this. But their 
 
 'fathers and brothers all appear in court (including 'this' Plato), to 
 
 witness on his behalf; and if their relatives are corrupted, at least they 
 
 are uncorrupted; 'and they are my witnesses. For they know that 
 
 I am speaking the truth, and that Meletus is lying.' 
 
 ■'^ This-is ahniit all tha t he has to sav. He will not entreat the jud ges to 
 
 '^4^e. his life : neither will he present a spectacle of weaping children, 
 
326 / AFOLOGK 
 
 although he, too, is not made of ' rock or oak.' Some of the judg«s 
 themselves may have complied with this practice on similar occasioiH,^ 
 and he trusts that they will not be angry with him for not following' 
 their example. But he feels that such conduct brings discredit on the 
 name of Athens : he feels, too, that the judge has sworn not to" give 
 away justice ; and he cannot be guilty of the impiety of asking the judge 
 to forswear himself, when he is himself being tried for impiety. 
 
 As he expected, and probably intended, he is convicted. And- now 
 the tone of the speech, instead of being more conciliatory,' becomes 
 more lofty and commanding. Anytus proposes death as the penalty :" 
 and what counter-proposition shall he make ? He, the benefactor of 
 the Athenian people, whose whole life Fas been spent in doing them 
 good, should at- least-hav e^ the O lympic victor's reward of maintenance^ 
 in. thft, prjrtun^um. Or whj iil:ir>uld... ^e propose "lY ''"""'^"'"-IifTia.ltr 
 wheD^'e-(^«e s nnt Irnniir MrhptV i ftr HpatVi^ which AnytUS proposes, 4S_a. 
 good' 01 an evil? affd he is certain that impriso nment is an evil, eXife 
 isjm-^evil. Loss of money might be no evil, but then he has none to" 
 give ; perhaps hevcan make up a mina. Let that then be the penalty, 
 or, if his friends wish, thirty minae; for this they will be excellent - 
 securities. ' i 
 
 [He is condemned to deathJ] 
 
 He is an old man already, and the Athenians will gain nothings but. 
 disgrace by depriving him of a few years of life. Perhaps he could 
 .have .escaped, if he had chosen to throw down his arms and entreat for: 
 his life. But he does not at aU repent of the manner of his defence.;; 
 he would rather die in his own fashion than r live in theirs. For the; 
 penalty of , unrighteousness is swifter than death, and that has already 
 overtaken his accusers as death will soon overtake him. 
 
 ,And now, as one who is about to die, he will prophesy to them. 
 They have put him to death in order to escape the necessiQi' of giving 
 an account of their lives. But his death 'will be the seed' of many 
 disciples who will convict them of their evil ways, and will come forth 
 to reprove them in harsher terms, because they are younger and 
 rhore inconsiderate. 
 
 He would like to say a few words, while there is time, to those who 
 
INTRODUCTION. ' ^27 
 
 vould have acquitted him. He wishes them to know that the divine 
 lign never interrupted him in the course df his defence; the reason of 
 vhich, as he conjectures, is that the death to which he is going is 
 I, good and not an evil. For either death is a long sleep, the best of/1 
 leeps, or a journey to another world in which the souls of the dead^i 
 ire gathered together, and in which there may be a hope of seeing, the |j 
 leroes of old — in which, too, there are just judges; and as all are'| 
 mmortal, there can be no fear of any one being put to death forji 
 lis opinions. 
 
 JJothing evil can happen to the goj^ man either in Ufe or death, and 
 lis own death has been permitted by the gods, because it was better 
 or him to depart; and therefore he forgives his judges because they 
 lave done him no harm, althbugh they never meant to do hiih any 
 fopd. 
 
 He has a last request to make to them — that they will trouble his sons 
 .s he has troubled them, if they appear to prefer riches to virtue, or to 
 hiuk themselves something when they are nothing. • 
 
 '.Few persons will be found to wish that Socrates should have defended 
 limself otherwise,' — if, as we must add, his defence was that with which 
 'lato has provided him. But leaving this question, which does not 
 idmit of a precise solution, we may go on to ask what was the im- 
 Hession which Plato in the Apolog yjnten ded to le ave of the character 
 .hd^conduct~ff^ &is master in t he last great scene ? . ,|Did he intend__to 
 epresent.him_44-afi-fimployingH)pMstrieSi^j(^.as_jdesiga^ 
 he judges? Or are these sophistries to be regarded as belonging to 
 he age in which he lived and to his personal character, and this apparent 
 faiiiightiness as flowing from the natural elevation of his position ? 
 
 For example, when he says that it is absurd to suppose that one man 
 i the corrupter and all the rest of the world the improvers of the youth ' 
 r, when he argues that he never could have corrupted the men with 
 thorn he had to live ; or, when he proves his belief in the gods because 
 e xbelieves in the sons of, gods, is he serious or jesting ? It may be 
 bserved that these sophisms all occur in his cross-examination of 
 Metus, who is easily foiled and mastered in the hands of the great 
 ialectician. Perhaps he regarded these answers as all of thehl good 
 nough for his accuser (he makes very light of him throughout).. Also 
 
328 APOLOGY. 
 
 it may be noted that there is a touch of irony in all of them, which taias 
 them out of the category of sophistry. ■ .-j- -s^ni^lo K -wq 
 
 That the manner in which he defends himself about the lives of Iijs 
 disciples is not satisfactory, can hardly be denied. Fresh in the menioSji 
 of the Athenians, and detestable as they deserved to be to the newly re- 
 stored democracy, were the names of Alcibiades, Critias, Charmides.;t It 
 is obviously not a sufficient answer that Socrates had never professedtto 
 teach them anything, and is therefore not justly chargeable with their 
 crimes. Yet the defence, when taken out of this ironical form, is doubts 
 less sound: that his teaching had nothing to do with their evil lives. 
 Here, then, the sophistry is rather in form than in substance, though we 
 might desire that to such a serious charge Socrates had given. a more 
 setioiis answer. j j la'it.-^ '• Itaf 
 
 Truly cha,racteristic of Socrates is another point in his answerj whici 
 may also" be regarded as sophistical. He says that 'if he has corrupt^ 
 the youth, he must have corrupted them involuntarily.' In these wor^ 
 the Socratic doctrine of. the involuntariness of evil is clearly intended 
 to be conveyed. But if> as Socrates argues, all evil is involuntary, then 
 all criminals ought to be admonished and not punished. Here again, as 
 in the former instance, the defence of Socrates, which is untrue prac- 
 tically, may yet be true. in some ideal or transcendental rsense. nThe 
 commonplace repAy, that if he had been guilty of corrupting iflieiyouth 
 their relations would surely have witnessed against him, with which he 
 concludes this part of his defence, is more satisfactory-. '.««,')■!; on d 
 
 i^f, Again, when. Saeitates argues that he must believe in the gods because 
 1 he believes in the sons of gods, we must remember that this is a refufll* 
 \ tion not of J;he original indictment, which is consistent enough — ' Socrat® 
 does not "receive the gods whom the city receives, and has other new 
 divinities' — ^but of the interpretation put upon the. words by Meletusj 
 who has affirmed that he is a downright atheist. To this SocrgteSi faidyi 
 answers^ in , accordsaice with the ideas of the time, that a downis^toi 
 atheist cannot believe in the sons of gods or in divine, things. The 
 notion that demons or lesser divinities are the sons of gods is not to be 
 regarded as ironical or sceptical. But the love of argument may certaiiB^ 
 have led Plato to relapse into the mythological point of view, and' pres 
 vented him from observing that the reasoning is only formally correct, jjq 
 "?. The. second question, whether Plato meant to represent Socrates f as 
 needlessly braving Or irritating his judges, must also be answered intlJO 
 
INTRODUCTION. 329 
 
 §aliveilv/ His- irony, his superiority, his audacity,"'-' rfegarding not the 
 rson of man,' necessarily flow out of the iSftiness of his situation. He 
 not acting a part upon a great occasion, but he is what he has been 
 his life long, -' a king of men.' He would rather not appear insolentj 
 lie could avoid this (ovx *>? aidaSu^^nevos toSto Xeym), He is not desirous 
 hastening his own end, for life and death are simply indifferent to him. 
 It neither will he say or do anything which might avert the penalty ; he 
 tmot have his tongue bound, even in the ' throat of death :' his natural 
 aracter must appear. He is quite willing to make his defence to 
 sterity and to the world, for that is a true defence. > But such a 
 fence as would be acceptable to his judges and might procure an 
 quittal, it is not in his nature to make. With his actual accusers he 
 11 only fence and play. The singularity of the mission which he 
 :ribes to himself is a great reason for believing that he is serious in 
 i account of the motives which actuated him. The dedication of his ' 
 ; to the improvement of his fellow-citizens is not so remarkable as 
 ; ironical spirit in which he goes about doing good to all inen only in 
 idication of the credit of the oracle, and in the vain hope of finding a> 
 ser man than himself. Yet this singular and almost accidental cha- 
 cter of his mission agrees with the divine sign which, according to our 
 itions, is equally accidental and irrational, and is nevertheless accepted 
 him as the guiding principle in his life. Nor must we forget that 
 )crates is nowhere represented to us as a freethinker or sceptifc. There 
 no reason whatever to doubt his sincerity when he implies his belief in 
 5 divinity of the sun and moon, or when he speeulates*on the possibility 
 'seeing and knowing the heroes of the Trojan war in another world, 
 ti the other hand, his hope of immortality is uncertain ; — ^he also con- 
 ives of death as a long sleep (in this respect differing from the Phaedo), 
 d at last falls back on resignation to the divine will, and the certainty 
 It no evil can happen to the good man either in life or death. His 
 solute truthfulness seems to hinder him from asserting positively more 
 m this. The irony of Socrates is not a mask which he puts on at will, 
 t flows necessarily out of his character and out of his relation to man- 
 id. This, which is true of him generally, is especially true of the last 
 jmorable act in which his life is summed up. Such irony is not im- 
 ired but greatly heightened by a sort of natural simplicity. 
 It has been remarked that the prophecy at the end of a new generation 
 teachers who would rebuke and exhort the Athenian people in harsher 
 
330 APOLOGY. 
 
 and more violent terms, as far as we know, was never fulfilled. No 
 inference can be drawn from this circumstance as to the probability of 
 their having been actually uttered. They express the aspiration of the 
 first martyr of philosophy, that he would leave behind him many 
 followers, accompanied by the not unnatural feeling that they would 
 be fiercer and. more inconsiderate in their words when emancipated 
 from his control. 
 
 The above remarks must be understood as applying with any degree 
 of certainty to the Platonic Socrates only. For, however probable it may 
 be that these or similar words may have been spoken by Socrates him- 
 self, we cannot exclude the possibility, that like so much else, e.g. the 
 wisdom of Critias, the poem of Solon, the virtues of Charmides, they may 
 have been due only to the imagination of Plato. 
 
^' APOLOGY. 
 
 -ft:'. '. 
 
 3ft ' 
 
 ■ TT OW you have felt, O men of Athens, at hearing the speeches 
 of my accusers, I cannot tell; but I know that their per- 
 suasive words almost made me forget who I was : — such was the 
 effect of them ; and yet they have hardly spoken a word of truth. 
 But many as their falsehoods were, there was one of them which 
 quite amazed me ;-— I mean when they told you to be upon your 
 guard, and not to let yourselves be deceived by the force of my 
 eloquence. They ought to have been ashamed of saying this, 
 because they were sure to be detected as soon as I opened niy lips 
 and displayed my deficiency : they certainly did appear to be most 
 shameless in saying this, unless by the force of eloquence they mean 
 the force of truth ; for then I do indeed admit that I am eloquent. 
 But in how different a way from theirs ! Well, as I was saying, 
 they have hardly uttered a word, or not more than a word, of truth ; 
 but you shall hear from me the whole truth : not, however, deli- 
 vered after their manner, in a set oration duly ornamented with 
 words and phrases. No, indeed} but I shall use the words and 
 arguments which occur to me at the moment; for I am certain 
 that this' is right, and that at my time of life I ought not to 
 be appearing before you, O men of Athens, in the character of 
 a juvenile orator — let no one expect this of me. And I must beg 
 of you to grant me one favour^ which is this — If you hear me 
 using the same words in my defence which I have been in the 
 habit of using, and which most of you may have heard in the 
 agora, and at the tables of the money-changers, or anywhere else, 
 I would ask you not to be surprised at tliis, and not to interrupt 
 
332 APOLOGY. 
 
 me. For I am more than seventy years of age, and this is< 
 the first time that I have ever appeared in a court of law, and 
 I am quite a stranger to the ways of the place; and thereftffe 
 I would have you regard me as if I were really a strang^^ 
 whom you would excuse if he spoke in his native tongue, and 
 after the fashion of his country; — that \ think is,' not an unfair 
 request. Never mind the manner, which may or may not 
 be good; but think only of the justice of my cause, , and give 
 heed to that: let the judge decide justly and the speaker speak 
 truly. 
 
 A nd first, I have to reply to the older charges and to my first 
 I accusers, and then I will go on to the later ones. For I have 
 » had many accusers, who accused me of old, and their false 
 charges have continued during many years ; and I am more afraid 
 of them than of Anytus and his associates, who are dangerous^ 
 too, in their own way. But far more dangerous are these, who 
 began when you were children, and took possession of your minds 
 with their falsehoods, telling of one Socrates, a wise man, who 
 speculated about the heaven above, and searched into the earth 
 beneath, and made the worse appear the better cause. These are 
 the accusers whom I dread ; for they are the circulators of this 
 rumour, and their hearers at-e too apt to fancy that speculators 
 of this sort do not believe in the gods. And they are many, and 
 their charges against me are of ancient date, and thejuaad^Jliein 
 in days. when ynii .j:gr gj[mpressible — in childhoo d, or perhaps ) 
 in youth— and the cause when heard went by default, for there 
 was none to answer. And hardest of all, their na mes I do n ot 
 know and cannot tell ; unless in the chance case of a comic poet. 
 But the main body of these slanderers who from envy and malice 
 have wrought upon you— and there are some of them who are 
 convinced themselves, and impart their convictions to others— 
 jail these, I say, are most difficult to deal with;, for I cannot have 
 I them up here, and examine them, and therefore I must simply 
 I fight with shadows in my own defence, and examine when there 
 is no one who answers. I will ask you then to assume with me, 
 as I was saying, that my opponents are of two kinds; one recent, 
 the other ancient: and I hope that you will see the propriety of 
 my answering the latter first, for these accusations you heard long* 
 before the others, and much oftener. 
 
APOLOGY. ,^ 333 
 
 Nd\, then, I will make my defence, and I will endeavour in 
 short time which is allowed to flo away with this evil 
 Jnion of me which you have held for such a long time j and I 
 )e : that. I may succeed, if this be well for you and me, and 
 t my words may find favour with you. But I know that to 
 omplish this is not easy — I quite see the nature of the task. 
 t the event be as God wills : in obedience to the law I make 
 defence. 
 
 i will begin at the beginning, and ask what the accusation is 
 ich has given rise to this slander of me, and which has en- 
 iraged Meletus to proceed against me. W hat do the d antoefs 
 i^They shall be my prosecutors, and I wilT sum up their words 
 an affidavit. 'Socrates is an evil-doer, and a curious person,'' 
 
 searches into things under the earth and in heaven, and he 
 kes the worse appear the better cause ; and he teaches the afore- 
 d doctrines to others/ That is the nature of the accusation,^ 
 i that is what you have seen yourselves in the comedy of Aristo- 
 meSj who has introduced a man whom he calls SoGrate-S.j^oing 
 >ut .and ,.sayi ng JMt-he_i:anjjvaik .jji.J3ie-^ir,..and- talking a deal 
 a0Hseii se concerning matters of whidt-I-rlajiot pretend to know 
 ber_much-or little — not that I mean to say anything disparaging 
 any one who is a student of natural philosophy. I should be 
 y sorry if Meletus could lay that to my charge. But the simple 
 th is, O Athenians, that I have nothing to do with these studies, 
 ry many of those here present are witnesses to the truth of this, 
 
 1 to them I appeal. Speak then, you who have heard me,- and 
 your neighbours whether any of you have ever known me hold 
 
 th in few words or in many upon matters of this sort. . . . You 
 .r their answer. And from what they say of this you will be 
 e to judge of the truth of the rest. 
 
 ^s little foundation is there for the repOTtthat I am a^acher, 
 ljtak g_money ; that is no mo re true than thc-other. Although, 
 I man is able to teach, I honour him for being paid. There is 
 rgias of LeOntium, and Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis, 
 J go the round of the cities, and are able to persuade the young 
 n to leave their own citizens, by whom they might' be taught for 
 hing, and come to them, whom they not only pay, but are 
 nkfiil if they may be allowed to pay them. There is actually 
 *arian philosopher residing in Athens, of whom I have heard ; 
 
334 APOLOGY. 
 
 and I came to hear of him in this way : — I met a man who has 
 spent a world of money on the sophists, Callias, the son of 
 Hipponicus, and knowing that he had sons, I asked him : 'Callias,? 
 I said, ' if your two sons were fo^ or calves, there would be no 
 difficulty in finding some, one to put over them; we should hire a 
 trainer of horses, or a farmer probably, \yho would improve and 
 perfect them in their own proper virtue and excellence; but as 
 they are human beings, whom are you thinking of*'placing over 
 them ? Is there any one who understands human and political 
 virtue ? You must have thought about this as you have sons ; is 
 there any one ? ' ' There is,' he said. ' Who is he ?' said I ; ' and of 
 what country ? and what does he charge ?' ' Evenus the Parian,' he 
 replied; 'he is the man, and his charge is five minae.' Happ 
 Evenus, I said to myself, if he really has this wisdom, and teaches/ 
 at such a modest charge. Had I the same, I should have been 
 very proud and conceited ; but the truth is that I have no know/' 
 ledge of the kind, O Athenians. 
 
 I dare say that some one will ask t)ie question, ' Why is this, 
 Socrates, and what is the origin of these accusations of you:, for 
 there must have been something strange which you have been 
 doing ? All thi s great fame a ndjalk_ about you would n ever teve 
 ariaeo_j£jbuJiad_bfien-like other men : tell us, then, why this is, 
 as we should be sorry to judge hastily of you.' Now I regard this 
 as a fair challenge, and I will endeavour to explain to you the 
 origin of this name of ' wise', and of this evil fame. Please to 
 attend then. And although some of you may think that I am 
 joking, I declare that I will tell you the entire truth. Men 
 of Athens, this reputation of mine has come -of -a.-certaLo_§ortj3f 
 wisdom which I possess. If^ou ask me what kind of wisdoiri,^! 
 reply, such wisdom as is attainable by ma^for to that extent I 
 am inclined to believe that I am wise; wchereas the persons of 
 whom I wag^speaking have a superhuman wisdom, which I may 
 fail_ to describe, because T have it nof myself; and he who says 
 that I have, sp e il ifrlSIliEi^and is .taking a^^Sy my dl gggtep - And' 
 here, O men of Athens, I must beg you not to interrupt me, even 
 if I seem to say something extravagant. For the word which I will 
 speak is not mine. I will refer you to a witness who is worthf'of 
 credit^'lunE~vS^ilt tefryOO' abouFTtry wisdom — T^fhether I have any, 
 and of what sort — and that witness shall be the God of Delphi. 
 
APOLOGY. 335 
 
 !i Ypu .must have jcnown Chaerephon; he was early a friend of 
 mine, and also a friend of yours,, for he«hared in the exile of the 
 people, and returned with you. Wellj Chag r ephon , as , you- know, 
 was very impetuous in all hi^ doings, and he weatJto_^Delphi and 
 boldiy asked t he-oradg to \fW him whether — as I was saying, I 
 must beg you not to interrupt — he asked the oracle to tell- him 
 lififhether thergjvas a ny one wiser than IjyaSj._gjadJth£-Eythian pro- 
 p}7Pt''s's-ajiswprc<j^_J]Ti at there w as nn mg.r^ wiser. Chaerephon is 
 d;ead himself; but his brother, who is in court, will confirm the 
 truth of this, story. 
 
 Why do I mention this ? Because I am going to explain to you 
 why I have such an evil name. When I he^rd the answer, I said 
 to myself, What can the god mean ? and whajjs the jnterpreta- 
 « ticm^ this riddle ? for I know that_^ .haAa.jaQ2sdsdQili,_snjall.,.or 
 I great. What theifcah he meim"when he says that I am the wisest 
 I of men? And yet he .is a god, and cannot lie; that would be 
 I against his nature. After long consideration, I at last thought of 
 ,a jnethod of trying the- question. I reflected that if I could only 
 / find a man wiser than myself, then 1 might go tothe god with a 
 l-jg^jtation in my hand. I should ?ayto him, ' Here is a man who is 
 Twiser than I am ; but you saidihat I was the wisest.' Accordingly I 
 went to one who had the reputation of wisdom, and observed him — 
 his name I need not mention ;: he was a politician whom I selected 
 for examination — and the result was as follows : When. I began, to 
 talk with him, I could not help thinking that he was not really 
 wise, although he was thought wise' by many, and wiser stiU by 
 himself; and I went and tried to explain , to. JiimjtMJi^^ 
 ' hipiself wise, butjEas-Jiet-reaiiy-wise ; and the consequence was 
 thailie hated nie, and . i iis_£m iitY was shared by several who were 
 • ^^ ^[anJcTE^ j ipe. So I lefthim, saying to myself, asTwent 
 ' away : Well, althoughl do not suppose that either of us^knowsv. 
 anydiing really beautiful aar-go5dp;:aEMtera£ gian he is,- ^for \ 
 ,. lig:in£fflg&.nQiJiing," and "BiillJMbat..lk J^pows. I jneither kagsg nor j 
 r think that J know. In this latter particular, then, I seem to have 
 ^ slightly the advantage of him. Then I went to another who had 
 still higher philosophical pretensions, and my condition was 
 exactly the same. I made another enemy of him, and of mapy 
 \ others besides him. 
 ' ' 'After this I went to ~efte~^Ban-after~anOther, being not uncon- 
 
336 APOLOGY, 
 
 Scious of the enmity which I, provoked, and I lamented and feared 
 this: but Necessity was laid upon me, — the word of God, I 
 thought, ought to be considered first. And I said to myself, iGo 
 I must to all who appear to know, and find out the meaning of the 
 oracle. And I swear to you, Athenians, by the dog I swear ! — for 
 I must tell you the truth — the result of my mission was just this : 
 1 1 found that the men most in repute were all but the most foolish ; i 
 tend that some inferior men were really wiser and better. I will tell 
 you the tale of my wanderings and of the 'Herculean' labours, 
 as I may call them, which I endured oi;ly-te-feid-^itJast_the-o!facle 
 irrefutable. When I left the pgljticiaajs, I went to the ^oetS; 
 tragic, dithyrambic, and all sorts. And there, I said to myself, 
 you will be detected ; now you will find out that you are more 
 ignorant than they are. Accordingly, I took them some of the 
 most elaborate passages in their own' writings, and asked what 
 was the meaning of them— thinking that they would teach me 
 something. Will you believe me ? I am almost ashamed to speak 
 of this, but still I must say that there is hardly a person present 
 "Who would not have talked better about their poetry than they 
 ^id themselves. That showed me in an instant that not by 
 wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and 
 Inspiration- they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say 
 many fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them. 
 And the poets appeared to me to be much in the same case ; and 
 I fiirther observed that u gpn the strength of their poetry they 
 believed themselves to be the wisest of in enjn other things in 
 ■w^^^;;^&!^-^^f^ie^^r wise: So I departed, conceiving myself 
 to be superior to them for the same reason that I was superior to 
 the politicians. , - 
 
 At last I went to the artisans , for I was conscious that I knew 
 nothing at all, as I may say, and I was sure that they knew many 
 fine things; and in this I was not inistaken, for tHey Hid ^nMt 
 iS^n2Jiiiags_rfjdiichIwasjg^ and in this they certainly 
 
 were wiser thairXwas. But I observed that even the good- 
 artisans fell into the same error as the poets j — because they were 
 good workmen they thought that they also knew all sorts of high 
 matters, and this defect in them oversjiadowed their wisdom*-^ 
 therefore I asked myself on behalf of the oracle, whether I would \ 
 like to be as I was, neither having their knowledge nor their \ 
 
APOLOGY. 337 
 
 norance, or like them in both; and I made answer to myself 
 id the oracle that I ,waB better ofF as kwas. 
 
 lyesdgation has led t o my haYmg„jaaay^ng^mies of the 
 orst and most dangerpus kind, and. has_^jven nrcasinn also to 
 %aB^ calnxnyaies. Anid I am called wise, for my hearers always 
 nagine that I myselt possess thejeisdoiiLWhich 1 fand wanting ir 
 j^er s TBut the truthlST ^ men of Athens, thaF^ SdlohTy is miis,.; 
 id in-- this or acle hp mpans to say that t he_wisdom of men 
 ttle_ornothing ; he is not speaking of Socrates, he is only 
 iing my name as an illustration, as if he said. He, O men, is 
 le wisest, who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth | 
 orth nothing. , And so I go my way, o bedient to ^Jl:h.e_gQd,.,and i 
 ia^e_inquisition into the wisdom of any one, whether citizen 
 ' strangerrwh o appears to be wigS ; 'and if iie" is not wise, th en 
 i^indication of the oracle I show him that he is j iot_wi§.e; and 
 ds occupation quite absorbs me, and I have no time to give I 
 :ther to any public matter of interest or to any concern of my 
 ivn, but I am in utter _poverty__by:_reason of my devotion to 
 IB-god. ' — "^"T . 
 
 There is another thing: — ^young men of the richer classes, who / 
 ive not much to do, come about me of their own accord; they 
 ke to hear the pretenders examined, and they often imitate me, 
 ad examine others themselves ; there are plenty of persons, as 
 ley soon enough discover, who think that they know something, 
 it really know little or nothing; and then those who are 
 samined by them instead of beiiig angry with themselves are 
 igry with me : This confounded Socrates, they say ; this villainous 
 lisleader of youth!— and then if gom ebody asks J Jiem, Wliy, 
 hat evil does he practise or teach? they do not .know, and 
 mnot tell; but in order that they may not appear to be at a loss, I -yj 
 ley repeat the ready-made charges which are used against all J/ 
 lilosophers -about teaching things up in the clouds and under the I 
 irth, and having no gods, and making the worse appear thej 
 jtter cause ; for they do not likeJo_confessjdiat_tbeiJ:-fr-etence 
 yaiosKledgeJi^^beeh detected=::^^^which is the truth; and as they 
 ■e numerous and ambitious and energetic, and are all in battle 
 ■ray and have persuasive tongues, they have filled your ears 
 ith their loud and inveterate calumnies. And this is the^ason 
 hy my^three accusers, Meletus3ndj^ayitos_an0.jco^^e set 
 " z 
 
338 APOLOGY. 
 
 bpon me j Meletus, who has a quarrel with me on behalf of the 
 |)oets J Anytus, on behalf of the craftsmen ; Lycon, on behalf ol 
 •the rhetoricians : and as I said at the beginning, I cannot expect 
 to get rid of this mass of calumny all in a moment. And this, 
 
 men of Athens, is the truth and the whole truth; I have 
 concealed nothing, I have dissembled nothing. And yet, I know 
 that this plainness of speec h rn3Vrs_them bate me. and w hat is 
 Jheir hatred but a proof that I am speaki ng the truth P^—thjs^s 
 the occasion and reason of t^^^^*" 'jlanH ^p-cri^-mp^ a^ynn will find 
 out either in this or in any future inquiry. 
 
 I have said enough in my defence against the first class of my 
 accusers ; I turn to the seco nd cla ss wlin ar^ y\pat]p(\ hy MplAtjK, 
 that good and patriotic man, as he calls himself. And now I will 
 try to defend myself against them : these new accusers must also 
 have their affidavit read. What do they say ? Something of this 
 port : — That Socrates is a_dQer-iaE- evil, and -corjupt&F-of-the- youth, 
 
 jfanid^ he does not be lieve in t he gods of the state, and ha^«ther 
 ^dmnities of his own. That is the sort of charge ; and now 
 let us examine the particular counts. He says that I am a doer 
 of evil, who corrupt the youth ; but I say, O men of Athens, that 
 Meletus. J g a doer of ev il, and the eyjl js_ tlmt_he_make&_a joke 
 
 ^ ^a serious ma tter, and ia. tnn^ce ady^ at hri rT^vng other men to 
 trial ,iiixmi_ a pretended zeal and interest about mattersj n which 
 h e really never had the smalles t_ijiterest. And the truth of this 
 
 1 will endeavour to prove. 
 
 Come hither, Meletus, and let me ask a question of you. You 
 think a great deal about the improvement of youth ? 
 
 Yes I do. 
 
 Tell the judges, then, who is their improver; for you must 
 know, as you have taken the pains to discover their corruptor, and 
 are citing and accusing me before them. Speak, then, and t^l-the 
 yj dges who their^iml^Svgl- i s. Observe, Meletus, that you are 
 silent, and have nothing to say. But is not this rather disgraceful, 
 and a very considerable proof of what I was saying, that ya^JaSSS 
 tin .jjitprpst ip tVip mati-f>T ? Speak up, friend, and tell us who their 
 improver is. 
 
 Xbfi-laa^s. 
 
 But that, my good sir, is not my meaning. I want to know 
 wb a the person i£. -3dio, inthe first place, knows the laws. 
 
APOLOGY. 339 
 
 The judgffi, gocrates, who are p rpsen t in c ourt. 
 
 What, :do you mean to say, Meletus, that they are able to instruct 
 
 1 improve youth ? 
 
 Zlertainly they are. 
 
 WhaX, all of them, or some only and not others ? 
 
 AUoftiiem. 
 
 By the gSaHess Here, that is good news ! There are plenty of 
 
 provers, then. And what do you say of the audience, — do they 
 
 prove them ? 
 
 Y'es, they do. 
 
 And the senators ? 
 
 Y'es, the senators improve them. 
 
 But perhaps the ecclesiasts corrupt them ? — or do they too im- 
 
 )ve them ? 
 
 They improve them. 
 
 Then every Athenian improves and elevates them ; all with the 
 
 :eption of myself j and I alone am their corruptor ? Is that what 
 
 I affirm? 
 
 That is what I stoutly affirm. 
 
 [ am very unfortunate if that is true. But suppose I ask you 
 
 [uestion : Would you say that this also holds true in the case of 
 
 rses ? Does one man do them harm and all the world good ? Is 
 
 t the exact opposite of this true ? One man is able to do them 
 
 )dj or at least not many ; — ^the trainer of horses, that is to say, 
 
 ;s them good, and others who have to do with them rather 
 
 ure them ? Is not that true, Meletus, of horses, or any other 
 
 mals? Yes, certainly. Whether you and Anytus say yes or no, 
 
 t is no matter. Happy indeed wouldie_thexosdition.X>Ly2uth | _^ 
 
 he y had one corruptor o nl y, and all th e ri^ of the w orld w erej 
 
 if-ifflprovers. A nd you, Meletus^ have sttfijcient hLshowtr-thatl' 
 
 I never hada_thou ^ ab D at -4hft_^gHSg • your carelessness is 
 
 Q in your not caring about the matters spoken of in this very 
 
 ictment. 
 
 ^nd now, Meletus, I must ask you another question : 'WTiichJs 
 
 ^gr jto live a mongba d citizens, or_a mQng^C)od'Ones? Answer, 
 
 nd/l sayj ToT^^^s a"qdestion which may be easily an- 
 
 !red. Do not the good do their neighbours good, and the bad 
 
 them evil ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 •Li 
 
340 APOLOGY. 
 
 And is there any one who would rather be injured tha 
 benefited by those who live with him? Answer, my goo 
 friend, the law requires you to answer — does any one .like to b 
 injured ? 
 ' Certainly not. 
 
 And when you accuse_ me of corruptin^ L-and^eteripratrng th 
 youth, do you allege thati c orrupt them int entionally or uninten 
 tionaliy? 
 
 Lntentionally, I say. 
 
 B ut you have _ju§L ndmittpd thnt thf grr^d Ho thgir n^jgV'hnnr. 
 good, and the evil do them evil. Now, is that a truth which you 
 superior wisdom has recognized thus early in life, and am I, at m; 
 age, in such darkness and ignorance as not to know th at if a m en 
 with who m_I hav e to live is i^nrriiptgdb y me, I am very l ikely to b( 
 l^ ^med by him , and yet I corrupt him, and j ntentionally, tQQ ;— 
 that is what you are saying, and of that you will never persuade 
 me or any other human being. But either I do not corrupt them 
 or I corrupt them unintentionally, so that oh either view of the 
 case you lie. If my offence is unintentional, the law has nc 
 cognizance of unintentional offences : you ought to have taken mf 
 privately, and warned and admonished me; for if I had beer 
 , better advised, I should have left off doing what I only did unin- 
 tentionally — no doubt I should; whereas you hated to converse 
 with me or teach me, but you indicted me in this court, which i; 
 a place not of instruction, but of punishment. 
 
 I have shown, Athenians, as I was saying, that Meletus has nc 
 care at all, great or small, about the matter. But still I should 
 like to know, Meletus, in what I am affirmed to corrupt the young, 
 /I suppose you mean, as I infer from your indictment, that I teach 
 /them not to acknowledge the gods which the state acknowledge?; 
 \but some other new divinities or spiritual agencies in their stead 
 These are the les«jn^. which corrupt the youth, as you say. 
 
 Yes, that I say emphatically. 
 
 Then, by the gods, Meletus, of whom we are speaking, tell rat 
 and the court, in 'somewhat plainer terms, what you mean ! for 1 
 fin nnf flg^ yet understa nd whether yo u affirm th at I teach others tc 
 cu^nm^rU^^f '""I" gods^T^tTT T ther"^orej ohelieve iri gnrig^jid am 
 not an ^X\^'^rp afh^'"^ — ^this you do not layloThy charge ; — bjjtoijj) 
 th at they are not t h^ same gnds wKirhthf» city recognizes — the 
 
APOLOGY. 341 
 
 irge is that they are diiFerent gods. Qtj do you mean to say 
 
 i ^ am an atheist sim ply, and a teachSr of atheism ? " ^ 
 
 [ mean-thEjafctef — th at you are a comple te atheist. 
 
 That is an extraordinary statement, MeTetus. Why do you say 
 
 it? Do you mean that Ido not believe in the godhead of the sun 
 
 moon, which is the common creed of all men ? 
 
 ['^s ure you, jiid^e =j thrlt hf d"?s nTft h^iW^ir them; for he 
 
 a that the sun is stone. 3p f^ thp mnnn^arth- 
 
 Friend Meletus, you think that you are accusing Anaxagoras : 
 d you have but a bad opinion of the judges, if you fancy them 
 torant to such a degree as not to know that these-doctrines 
 L^fniifiH in the hnnks -of Anavagnra^ the ClazomeniaO, who is 
 r of them. And these are the docHiii:Es-^(»ydi_the-70uth are 
 d to learn of Socrates, when there are not unfrequently ex- 
 )itions of them at the theatre ' (price of admission one drachma 
 the most); and they might cheaply purchase them, and laugh 
 Socrates if he pretends to father such eccentricities. And so, 
 ;letus, you really think that I do not believe in any god ? 
 I swear by Zeus that you believe absolutely in none at all. 
 You are a liar, Meletus, not believed even by yourself For 
 ;annot help thinking, O men of Athens, that Meletus is reckless 
 d impudent, and that he has written this indictment in a spirit-of 
 !re wantonness and youthful bravado. Has he not compounded 
 iddle, thinking to try me? He said to himself: — I shall see 
 lether this wise Socrates will discover my ir^enious contra- 
 ;tion, or whether I shall be able to deceive him and the rest 
 them. For he certainly does appear to me to contradict 
 nself in the indictment as much as if he said that Socrates is 
 ilty of not believing in the gods, and yet of believing in them 
 but this surely is a piece of fun. ^-^ 
 
 [ should like you, O men of Athens, to join me in examining 
 at I conceive to be h^_injco»6i6teiicy; and do you, Meletus, 
 5wer. And I must femind you that you are not to interrupt 
 •• if I speak in my accustomed manner. 
 
 Did ever man, Meletus, bejUeve in the existence of human 
 ngs, and not of human beings ? . . . I wish, men of Athens, that 
 would answer, and not be always trying to get up an inter- 
 Probably in allusion to Aristophanes who caricatured, and to Euripides 
 9 borrowed the notions of Anaxagoras, as well as to other dramatic poets. 
 
342 APOLOGY. 
 
 ^uption. Did ever any man believe in horsemanship, and n 
 in horses? or in flute-playing, and not in flute-players? Ni 
 my friend ; I will answer to you and to the court, as you refu 
 to answer for yourself. There is no man who ever did. B 
 now please to answer the next question : C an a man believ e : 
 spiritual and divine agencies, and not in spirits or demigods ? 
 
 He ca nnoE ' """ 
 
 I am glad that I have extracted that answer, by the assistani 
 of the court i nevertheless ynn sweaji— la— the - inHi f;|;menfc : th: 
 I ieaelrgnd:±!iJJi£a£^,^vine gx spirituS j ggncies (new or oL 
 no matter for that) ; at any rate, I believe in spiritual agencie 
 as you say and swear in the affidavit j but if I believe-ia-divir 
 bei ngs, I mustl ieltevt; in s^itw^s-ftti-damignds ; — is not that true 
 Yes, that is true, for I may assume that your silence gives assei 
 to that. N ow what are spirits or demigods ? are thg jmat eith( 
 gods .nr the_ sons of gods ? Is that true ? 
 
 Yes, that is true. 
 
 But this is just the ingenious riddle of which I was speaking 
 the demigods or spirits are gods, and y^u say first that I don 
 believe in gods, and then again that I do believe in gods j that ii 
 if I believe in demigods. F or if the demig ods-are the ille gitimat 
 sd Qs of g ods, whether by the nymphs or by any other mother! 
 as is thought, that, as all men will allow, necessarily ifflpiiesui 
 ea iatence of their parents . You might as well affirm the existenc 
 of mules, and deny that of horses and asses. Such nonsense 
 Meletus, could only have been intended by you as, a trial of me 
 You have put this into the indictment because you had nothin 
 real of which to accuse me. But no one who has a particle c 
 understanding will ever be convinced by you that the same mei 
 can believe in divine and superhuman things, and yet not believ 
 ^hat there are gods and demigods and heroes. 
 
 I have said enough in answer to the charge of Meletus : an; 
 elaborate defence is unnecessary ^ but as I was saying before 
 I certainly have many enemies, ari d this is what will he nr 
 destruction if T am dpstrnypH • r.f that I am certain ;— not Meletus 
 nor yet Anytus, but tbe.CQyy.3nH dftractkitt-c)f^i£jistoriA) which ha 
 been the death of many good men, and will probably be the deat! 
 ^many more; theraj^jiajdangep^fjn^yjigjjilfijast of them. 
 Some one will say : And are you not ashamed, Socrates, of a coursi 
 
APOLOGY. 343 
 
 of life which is likely to bring you to an untimely end ? To him 
 I may fairly answer : There you are mistaken : a man who is go od 
 fog-aaytirmg-ought jiot to calculate the ch ance ofHv in^ or d ying ; 
 hsjQU ght only to consider w liff^T iq— 4^'i?g ^^p^rfiiiiT^ha is doing 
 righ t or wron g — acting the part of a good man or of a bad. Whereas, 
 according to your view, the heroes who fell at Troy were not good 
 for much, and the son of Thetis above all, who altogether despised 
 danger in comparison with disgrace ; and when his goddess mother 
 said to him, in his eagerness to slay Hector, that if he avenged his 
 •companion Patroclus, and slew Hector, he. would die himself — 
 ' Fate/ as she said^ ' waits upon you next after Hector ; ' he, hear- 
 ing this, utterly despised danger and death, and instead of fearing 
 them, feared rather to live in dishonour, and not to avenge his 
 Mend. 'Let me die next,' he replies, ' and be avenged of my enemy, 
 rather than abide here by the beaked ships, a scorn and a burden 
 of the earth.' Had Achilles any thought of death and danger? 
 F or jffherever a man's placejs^ wVigthpr th^ p1are which ^^^.h^^ 
 chosen ,3 1^ that in which he h as been placed by a commander, there 
 he oupi 'ht to remain in the hm])- nf Hangpr^ he should not think 
 o£ d eath or of anything, but of disgra ce. And this, O men of 
 Athens, is a true saying. 
 
 « Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of Athens, if I 
 who, when I was ordered by the generals whom you chose to cqm- 
 mand me at Potidaea and Amphipolis and Delium, remained where 
 they placed me, like any other man, facing death ; if, I say, now, 
 when, as I conceive and imagine, Qod^orders m e-l n fiilfil thf ; ph ilo- 
 sopher's mission. of sear ching into myself and other men, I were 
 I to desSfTmyposFlirough fear of death, or any -other fear; that 
 would~in5eea"^e~sBfajige7ahd I riiigtir justly be arraigned in court 
 for denyingfce_gxjstence "ff"liT""^ i^ if t disobeyed the oralcle 
 fecausejwas afraid of death : then I should be fa.ncying th at 
 I was wise when I was not wise^ For this fear^dgaj:hjsjjid:eed 
 the~pccetence of Wisdom, and not real" wisdom, being the appear- 
 a nce of lijiowi ng the unknown j sincej io one kno w s whether de ath, 
 wbi€h-Aey4a-i*eiF-feai:-appreh£ndJ;aieJh^^^ 
 be t he grea test good, Is there not here conceit of knowledge, 
 Which is a disgraceful sort of ignorance ? Andthis is the_pQiiit 
 in which, as I thin k, I am superioi^o_jnen_in_general3L and in 
 which I might perhaps faricy~myseIF wyser than other men, — ^that 
 
344 APOLOGY. 
 
 whereas I know but little of the world below, I do not suppose 
 that I know : but I do know that injustice and disobediehcfe. to 
 a better, whether God or man, is evil and dishonourable^' and 
 I will never fear or avoid a possible good rather than a certaiw 
 evil. And therefore if you let me go now^ and reject the counsels 
 of Anytus, who said that if I were not put to death I ought not 
 to have been prosecuted, and that if I escape now, your sons will 
 all be utterly ruined by listening, to my words — if you say to me, 
 Socrates, >this time we will not mind Anytus, and will let you off, 
 but upon one condition, that you are ilot to inquire and speculatev 
 in this way any more, and that if you are caught doing this again 
 you shall die ; — if this was the condition on which you let me go, I 
 should reply : Men of Athene, I honour and love you j but I shall 
 ob^God rather than you, and while I have life and strength I 
 shall never cease tronLtfie— practice and teaching of philos(^y, > 
 ' ;xhorting any one whom I meet after my manner, and convincing 
 lim, saying : O my friend, why do you, who are a citizen of the 
 .jreat and mighty and wise city of Athens, care so much about 
 flaying up the greatest amount of money and honour and' repu- 
 /tation, and so little about wisdom and truth and the greatest 
 i4mprovement of the soul, which you never regard or heed at all? 
 Are you not ashamed of this? And if the^ person with whom 
 I am arguing, says : Yes, but I do care j I do not depart or let 
 him go at once; I interrogate and examine and cross-examine 
 him, and if I think that he has no virtue, but only says that 
 he has, I reproach him with undervaluing the greater, and over^ 
 valuing the less. And this I should say' to every one whom = 
 I meet, young and old, citizen and alien, but especially to the 
 citizens, inasmuch as they are my brethren. For this is the 
 .h command to God, as I would have you know ; and I believe that 
 fw> -tji is day no greater g ood has ever happened in the state than 
 /mjjg^v iceto th e God. For I do nothir^ but golibout persuading. 
 j you all,old and young alike, not to take thought for your persons 
 I or your pr^erties, but first and chiefly to care about the greatest, 
 improvement of the soul. I tell you that virtue is not given by 
 money, but that from virtue come money and every other good of 
 man, public as well as private. This is my teaching, and if this 
 is the doctrine which corrupts the youth, my influence is ruinous* 
 indeed. But if anyo ne says that this ?,« n"t "'y t^afhing; >"• is 
 
APOLOGY. 345 
 
 sg eaking an untruth. Wherefore, O men of Athens, I say to you, 
 do as AnyHTs bids or not as Anytus 6ids, and either acquit me 
 or not; but whatever you do, kn ow that T s^iall never alter my 
 wayjS, iTOt_gYen_iLLhaye to die many ^imes. ' 
 
 : Men of Athens, do not interrupt, but hear me ; there was an 
 ^reement between us that you should hear me out. And I think 
 that what I am going to say will do you good: for I have some- 
 thing more to say, at which you may be inclined to cry out ; but 
 I beg that you will not do this. I would have you 'know, t hq.t if 
 VQlL kill such an one as I am^ you will injure yourselves- Jiore \ 
 than__you_will injure me. Melptnj; and Any |-ii<^ will nnl;. injure { 
 me : they canaolpfQr.it is iwt in the nature of things that a bad 
 man-sh0uld-i»JMre-^.bettei_thaJi.-himself. ~r3o~notlIeny that he ■ 
 may, perhaps, kill him, or drive him into exile, or deprive him 
 of civil rights ; and he may imagine, and others may imagine, 
 that he is doing him a great injury: but in that I do not agree 
 with him; fnc-tha-^vil of dp ing as An ytim ig Hning — nf nn jnstly 
 taking avyay anoth er man' s l ife — is gre ater far. And noWj 
 Athenians, I am' not going to argue for my own sake, as you may 
 think, but for yours, that you may not sin against the God, or, 
 lightly reject his boon by condemning me. For if you kill_ jHe | 
 you~wilLiiQt-easil Y_find another like me, w ho, if I may use such | 
 a ludicrous figure of speech, am a .sort of gadfl y, given to the stat e \ 
 by the God; and the Rta±e-,.is likp a, great and tinhlp pt^pd^whn / 
 is itaE£tgjA_his motions owing to his very size, and requires to 
 be-stirred-into life. I am that gadfly which God has given the 
 31 state, and all day long and in all places am always fastening, upon '- 
 you, arousing and persuading and reproaching you. And as you 
 will not easily find another like me, I would, advise you to g^pare - 
 iJigi I dare say that you may feel irritated at being suddenly 
 awakened when you are caught napping ; and you may think that 
 if you were to strike me dead as Anytus advises, which you easily 
 might, then you would, sleep on for the remainder of your lives, 
 unless God in' his care of you gives you another gadfly. And that 
 I a m given to you by God is proved by this ; — ^that if I had been , 
 like other men, I should not have neglected jdl my own c jaxcerns j 
 ojL jatiently seen the neglect of thgm during all these years, i 
 Jand have been 3oing"yours, coming to you individually like a 
 father or elder brother, exhorting you to regard virtue ; this, I say. 
 
 #: 
 
346 APOLOGY. 
 
 would not be like human nature. And had I gained anything, 
 or if my exhortations had been paid, there would have been some 
 sense in tlaat; but now, as you will perceive, not even the 
 impudence of my accusers dares to say that I have ever exacted 
 or sought pay of any one; they have no witness of that. And 
 I have a witness of the truth of what I say; my poverty is a 
 sufficient witness. 
 
 Some one may wonder why I go about in private giving advice 
 and hufiyingjn yself with the concerns of others, but do not venture 
 to come forward-4Hr-p nblic and advi sethe state. I will tell you the 
 reason of this. You have often heard me speak of an oracle or 
 sign which comes to me, and is the divinity which Meletus ridi- 
 cules in the indictment. This sign I have had ever since I was 
 
 / a child. The sign is a voice which comes to me and always. 
 
 ' /forbids me to do something which I am going to do, but never 
 commands me to do anything, and this is what stands in the way 
 (ofmy being a politician. And rightly, as I think. For I am cer- 
 tain, O men of Athens, that if I had engaged in politics, I should 
 have perished long ago, and done no good either to you or to 
 myself. And don't be offended at my telling you the truth: for 
 the truth is, that no man who goes to war with you or any other 
 /multitude, honestly struggling against the commission of un- 
 /righteousness and wrong in the state, will save his life ; he-sscho 
 / will really..iigbtJ:Qr t he right, if he w ould livt; even for a little 
 ^^y.?3j™gl.l^'!:y ^ ^ private station an d not a publi c one. 
 
 I can give you as proofs of this, not words only, but deeds, 
 which you value more than words. Let me tell you a passage of 
 my own life which will prove to you that I should never have 
 yielded to injustice from any fear of death, and that if I had not 
 yielded I should have died at once. I will tell you a story — taste- 
 less perhaps and commonplace, but nevertheless true. The-only 
 office of state which I ever held, O men of Athens, was that of 
 senator : the tribe Antiochis, which is my tribe, had the presidency 
 at the trial of the generals who had not taken up the bodies of the 
 slain after the battle of Arginusae ; and you proposed to try them 
 all together, which was illegal, as you all thought afterwards j^but at 
 the time I was the only one of the Prytanes who was opposed to the 
 illegality, and I gave my vote against you ; and when the orators 
 threatened to impeach and arrest me, and have me taken away, 
 
) APOLOGY. ■ 347 
 
 and you called and shouted, I made up my mind that I would run r 
 the risk, having law and justice with m*, rather than take part iii 
 your injustice because I feared imprisonment and death. This 
 happened in the days of the democracy.. But when the oligarchy 
 of the Thirty was in power, they sent for me arid four others into 
 the rotunda, and bade us bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamjs, 
 as they wanted to execute him^^ This was a specimen of the sOrt of 
 commands which they were always giving with the view of im- 
 plicating as many as possible in their crimes ; and then I showed, _ 
 not in word only but in deed, that, if I may be allowed to use such i 
 an expression, I cared not a straw for death, and that my only fear 
 was the fear of doing an unrighteous or unholy thing. For the , 
 strong arm of that oppressive power did not frighten me into doingj 
 
 , wtbngj and when we came out of the rotunda the other four went 
 to SaJamis and fetched Leon, but I went quietly home. For which 
 I might have lost my life, had not the power of the Thirty shortly 
 afterwards come to an end. And to this many will witness. 
 
 Now. do you really imagine that I could have survived all these 
 years, if I had led a public life, supposing that like a good man I 
 had .alwa.ys supported the right and had made justice, as I ought, 
 the first thing? No indeed, men of Athens, neither I nor any 
 
 33 other. But I have been always the same in all my actions, public 
 as well as private^ and never have I yielded any base compliance 
 to those who are slanderously termed my disciples, or to any other. 
 For the truth is that I have no regular disciples: but if any 
 one likes to come and hear me while I am pursuing my mission, 
 whether he be young or old, he may freely come. Nor do I co nvers e 
 with those who pay only, and not with those who do not pay ; but 
 q BY_on e, whetb gr he be rich or poor, may a sk and answe r me 
 ainA Jjstpn -tfi i xi y yc^cds; and wh ether |ie turns: out to be a bad 
 maa or a good one^ that cannot &T justly laid to my charge, as T 
 ne^ef-taa ght him anything . And if any one says that he has ever 
 learned or heard anything from me in private which all the world 
 has not heard, I should like you to know that he is speaking an^> 
 untruth. ^' 
 
 ;, But I shall be asked. W hy do people delJ E^ht in rnntiniifrlly 
 
 ^ rnnvfTPinc with y"iP I have told you already, Athenians, the 
 whole truth about this: they-Jik.e_ to hear the cross^xamination 
 of the preten ders to wisdom; there is amt^ement in t tns. And 
 
348 ' • APOLOGY. 
 
 this is a duty which. Ihe God4ias-impe9e4-up0n me, as I am assured 
 by oracles, visions, and in every sort of way in which the will of 
 divine power was ever signified to any one. This is true^ O 
 Athenians ; or, if not true, would be soon refuted. For jf Wvn 
 reaUjL-e9ffH|> tiug the youth, and have corrupted some of them 
 already, thQse_ .of_theni_wjio ha ve grown up and— haijee— become 
 
 should rnmp fnrw^rfj gg grrngprg gnH tglrg tVipir rpvpngp • and if 
 
 they, do nQtJike-4 o com e themselve s , s ome of their , r elatives, 
 fathers, brothers, or other kinsmen, should say what evil their 
 families suffered at my hands. Now is their time. Many of 
 them I see in the court. There is Crito, who is of the same age 
 and of the same deme with myself, and there is Critobulus his 
 son, whom I also see. Then again there is Lysanias of SphettUS, 
 who is the father of Aeschines — he is present ; and also there is 
 Antiphon of Cephisus, who is the father of Epigenfes ; and there 
 are the brothers of several who have associated with me. Thete'is 
 Nicostratus the son of Theosdotides, and the brother of Theodotus 
 (now Theodotus himself is dead, and therefore he, at any rate,' will 
 not seek to stop him) ; and there is Paralus the, son of Demodocus, 
 who had a brother Theages ; and Adeimantus the son of Ariston, 3 
 whose brother Plato is present; and Aeantodorus, who is the, 
 brother of Apollodorus, whom I also see. I might mention a 
 great many others, any of whom Meletus should have produced as 
 witnesses in the course of his speech; and let him still product 
 them, if he has forgotten — I will m.ake way for him." And let hiffl! 
 . say, if he has any testimony of the sort which he can produce. Nay,'? 
 Athenians, the very opposite is the truth. For all these are ready^ 
 to witness on behalf of the corruptori, of the destroyer of their 
 kindred, as Meletus and Anytus call me ; notlhexomipted-yeHtisfl 
 o rjy— there might have been a motive for that— b ut their uncQt<j| 
 niptfid eldgrjrelatives. Why shnnlH ^py tnr> giipp nrt me with t heir 
 test imon y ? AAHTyyiriflpeH^ pyrppi- fnr ^\^P salcp of tru th aad just ice, 
 aji 4 because they know that I am speaking the truth, and that 
 Mel etus is ly ing. 
 
 Well, Athenians, this and the like of this is nearly all the 
 defence which I have to offer. Yet a word more. A Perhaps there 
 may be some one whp is offended at me, when he calls to mind 
 how he himself on a similar, or even a less serious occasion, had 
 
APOLOGY. 349 
 
 recourse to prayers and supplications with many tears, and how he 
 produced his children in court, whict^ was a moving spectacle, 
 together with a posse of his relations and friends j whereas I, who 
 am probably in danger of my life, will do none of these things,. 
 Perhaps this may come into his mind, and he>fcay be set against 
 me, and vote in anger because he is dispieSsed at thi^-Now if 
 there be such a person among you, whijK I am far from affirming, 
 I may fairly reply to him : My fri^ad,' I am a man, and like other 
 men, a creature of flesh and blebd, and not of wood or stone, as 
 Homer says; and I have a^mily, yes, and sons, O Athenians, 
 three in number, one of/^hom is growing up, and the two others 
 are still your^j and^ I will not bring any of them hither in order 
 to petition you fw/an acquittal. And why not? Not from any 
 self-will or disr^ard of you. \ Whether I am or am not afraid of 
 death is ||||||||g^ question, of which I v/ill not now speak. ■ But my 
 is, that I feel such conduct to be discreditable to 
 and the whole state. One who has reached my 
 has a name for wisdom, whether deserved or not, 
 fdemean himself. At any rate, the world has decided 
 is in some way superior to other men. And if those 
 who are said to be superior in wisdom and courage, 
 Iher virtue, demean themselves in this way, how shame- 
 is their conduct ! I have seen men of reputation, when they 
 ive been condemned, behaving in the strangest manner : they 
 Isetmed to fancy that they were going to suffer something dreadful 
 if they died, and that they could be immortal if you only allowed 
 f them to live ; and I think that they were a dishonour to the state, 
 and that any stranger coming in would say of them that the most 
 eminent men of Athens, to whom the Athenians themselves give 
 honour and command, are no better than women. And I say that 
 these things ought not to be done by those of us who are of reputa- 
 tion j and if they are done, you ought not to permit them; you ought 
 rather to show that you are more inclined to condemn, not the 
 man who is quiet, but the man who gets up a doleful scene, and 
 makes the city ridiculous. 
 ^ jBu t^ setting aside the question of dishonour, there seem s to he 
 s omething wrong in petition inp ; a \ nde^e^ and thus pron iri.n ff ...an\ 
 arquittal instead o f informing and convincing him, f ^r hi'i duty iPj ' 
 not to make a present of justice, but to give judgment ; and he has 
 
350 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 sw prn that he will judge a ccord ing to the lawSj andj iot-aeeerding 
 to his own good pleasure;! and^^dther he norweshould get into the 
 
 "Eabit 
 
 then require me 
 and wrong, espec 
 indictment of ] 
 suasion and entreat 
 
 jives — thqre^c an Selio^pietv in tha t. Do not 
 what I 93:Tsider dishonourable and impioiB 
 len I am being tried for impiety on the 
 if, O men of Athens, by force of per- 
 ;oj Id overpower your oaths, then I should 
 
 be teaching you to belie /e that Jhere are no gOds, and convict 
 myself, in my own defence, of not believfa^ in them. But that is 
 
 d in a far highe r 
 
 ye in them. And 
 
 ; ou as 
 
 not the case ; for I dp bslieve^thai 
 senssjthanthat in which any of my 
 to yo u and" to God I commit my ri 
 i s best for ynn aj xj me. 
 
 nysKl^SHbEye 
 
 men 
 
 id am I 
 
 There are many reasons^why I am not ^iev«S^X> 
 Athens, at the vote_QfxondeiQaation. I 
 surprise d that the votes are so nearly equa l j for I had tho3 
 the majority against me would havC been far larger ; but 
 thirty votes gone over to the other side, I should ha?! f 
 acquitted. And I may say that I have escaped Meletus.S-;!"' 
 may say more ; for without the assistance of Anytus and ' 
 would not have had a fifth part of the votes, as the law ri. 
 in which case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand ckael«aa3 
 as is evident. 
 
 And so he proposes death as the penalty. And what shall I 
 propose on my part, O men of Athens ? Clearly that which is-^^jl 
 due. And what is that which I ought to pay-or to receive ? WhoP 
 shall be done to the man who has never had the wit to be idl£, 
 during his whole life ; but' has been cajgless of what the many 
 
 care about — wealth, and family interests, and" military offices, 
 and speaking in the assembly, and magistracies, and plots, and 
 parties. Reflectin g that I was really t ff" hnnp^t ? "^^" ^" fn1)nnf in 
 tljis way and liv e, I did not gowhere_ I could do no go od to you 
 or to myself; but where 1 could do the greatg st_good_ privately -to 
 evej^one c3^ou^~tHitherT"went, and sought tQ4)e rsuade ever^" 
 man among you, tlmtJiejnusLlQQliJXLhixasd4-3Jid,-sedc_virtue and 
 wisdom be^OTg heJ onk s tn h is pi :- ivate - int e re stS;^and look to the state 
 before he boks to t he inter est§.^'Tte-state ; anJthaTtHffi^ould 
 
APOLOGY. 351 
 
 be the order which he observes in all his actions. What shall be , 
 done to such an one ? Doubtless sonit good thing, O men of 
 Athens, if he has his reward; and the good' should be of a kind 
 suitable to him. What would be a reward suitable, to a poor man 
 who is your benefactor, who desires leisure that he may instruct 
 you ? There can be no more fitting reward than maintenance in 
 the Prytaneum^ O men of Athens, a reward which he^^serves far 
 more than the citizen who has won the prize atT Olympia in 
 the horse or chariot race, whether the chariots were drawn by two 
 horses or by many. FotJLaaL4*5tffiantyaBd4»e4ias-eaougii4_a3id he] 
 
 only gives you_th£ appearajy^ nf happinpc;i;^ and T ^ivp_yaii thei 
 
 rea^yr_An d if I am to^^'lstimate the penalty iustly. I say t hat 
 iTiaint^to##^aJiie-Pryfanpiim-i s-thd just retu rn. 
 
 'Perf^s you may think that I am braving you in saying this, as 
 in wfet 1 s;ucl fae;fore about the tears and prayers. But that is not 
 the/easttei^^a k:^ffifcer because I am convinced that I nev er 
 intent iori^ ^teMge d any one, although I cannot convince you of 
 tWat— ?OTp^^^liad a short conversation only ; but if there were 
 !j. law at'^ljPns, such as there is in other cities, that a capital 
 cau^ diouia not be decided in one day, then I believe that I 
 ,'sbi^' havejbonvinced you j but now the time is too short. I can- 
 tnot^n a|j»ment refute great slanders; and, as I am convinced 
 (?hajt I never wronged another, I will ass uredly not wron gjnyself. 
 .IjSiil-JBS^-Say^QL-raysdtibatJUksexsseJ^^vil, or propose any 
 ^nalty. #Why should I ? Because I am afraid of the penalty of 
 l[eath wMch Meletus proposes ? When I do not know whether 
 j^eath is a good or an evil, why should I propose a penalty which 
 Ifwould (iertainly be an evil? Shall I say imprisonment? And 
 11 lUI should I live in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates of 
 ij ^he y^r— of the eleven ? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and im- 
 s, jprisooment until the fine is paid ? There is the same objection. 
 Id have to lie in prison, for money I have none, and can- 
 pay. -And if I say exile (and this may possibly be the penalty 
 ■hich you will affix), I must indeed be blinded by the love of life, 
 f I do not consider that when you, who are my own citizens, can- 
 , nc»t"*endure my discourses and words, and have found them so 
 1] ericTOUs and odious that you would fain have done with them, 
 .jithjs are likely to endure me. No indeed, men of Athens, that 
 j is not very likely. And what a life should I lead, at my age, wan- 
 
352 APOLOGY. 
 
 dering from city to city, living in ever-changing exile, and alway: 
 being driven out ! For I am quite sure that into whatever place . 
 go, as here so also there, the young men will come to me ; and i 
 I drive them Siway, their elders will drive me out at their desire 
 and if I let theiH.come, their fathers and friends will drive me oui 
 for their sakes. 
 
 Some one will say r Yes, Socrates, but c annot you hold y om 
 tongue, and t hen you maf" .go^ Uay foreig n city, and no one wil 
 interfere with you? Now I Mv^ great difficulty in making, yoi 
 understand my answer to this. I'or if I tell you that this wouk 
 be a disobedience_to a divi4£_jayj3«nand, and therefore that I 
 jjlpannot hold my tongue, youlwill notiielieve that I am serious 
 find if T^gay_gga'" *^^* ^^^ JUg^^^"^ g"''^^ "^ "^'"^ ^"^ ^'^'^Y' ^ 
 >.|f:QaY.gr se about vir .tue, and all that concerning which you heai 
 me examining m.yself and others^ and that the \\fe which i: 
 UnesaniJaiaiJ.SJKJ±ljiKQi±Lii^^ are still less likely t( 
 
 believe. And yet what I say is true, although a thspg of whiql 
 it is hard for me to persuade you. MoreiJNfer, I ani\not accus 
 tomed to think that I deserve any punishmHt. Had ,1 mone; 
 I might have proposed to give you what I had, and haVe beei 
 none the worse. But you see that I have none, and cai^ oni'] 
 ask you to proportion the fine to my means. However, I -thinl 
 that I could afford a mina, and therefore I propose that^pepa Ity 
 Plato, Crito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus, my friends hef%|fei« 
 me say thirty minae, and they will be the sureties. Well, thefl 
 say4hirty- minae j jet that be the penalty; for that they will W 
 ample security to you. 
 
 Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return foi 
 the evil name which you will get from the detractors of the city 
 who will say that you killed Socrates, a wise man ; for thpy ^yil 
 call me ,wise-e ven although I am not wise whea - 4:hey want t( 
 reproach- you. If you had waited a little while^ y our desire wouk 
 havp hppn fn)fiiiH 1" thp fniirgp nf nature. For I am far advancet 
 in years, as you may perceive, and not far from death. I an 
 speaking now only to those of you who have condemned m< 
 to death. And I have another thing to say to them : You thinJ 
 that I was convicted through deficiency of wqrds— I mean, that i: 
 
APOLOGY. 353 
 
 I had thought fit to leave nothing undone, nothing unsaid, I might 
 have gained an acquittal. Not so ; tfte deficienqL.sfhidi..JecUto 
 my tonviction was not of words — certainly not. But I had no t 
 th e_boldness or impudence or inclination to address you _as.you 
 wou ld have liked me to address y ou, weeping__and waiUng and 
 lamefiting, and saying and doing many things which you Have 
 been accustomed to. hear from others, and which, as I say, are 
 unworthy of me. But I thought that I ought not to do anything 
 common or mean in the hour of danger : nor do I now repent of 
 39 the manner of my defence, and I would„jathfirjiie-Jiavi ng spok e^ 
 after m y manner^ than speak in yo ur manne r a nd live. V^ 
 neither in war nor yet at law ought any man to use every 
 of escaping death. For often in battle there is no doubt that if 
 a man will throw away his arms, and fall "on his knees before 
 his pursuers, he may escape death; and in other dangers there are 
 other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do 
 / anything. The difficu lty^ my friends, is not in avoiding dea th, |/ 
 but in avoiding ur^right pnnsnpRs ; .fir^r that runs faster than d eath, j 
 ff am old and move slowly,_^d Jb.e_5laff er_£unne£ h^^ 
 jmcj anJlnyaccuserT ar e kee n and quick,^andJ;lieiagterj:unner, 
 lasjija is unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And now I depart 
 hence conde mned by you to suflFer the penalty of death, and theV 
 t on ^n th ri r w a y n rnndrmnr ri hy thr tnit l \ _t o suiFer the penalty/ 
 oFvilfariay-and. wrang ; and I must ab ide bymy aw ard-^iet them 
 atedc-by-theirs. I suppose that these things may be regarded 
 as fated, — and I think that they are well. 
 
 And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain pro- 
 phesy to you; for I am about to die, and that is the hour in 
 which men are gifted with prophetic power. AndT prnphf^sy tO you 
 whcL ^e my mur derers, that immed ia tely" after my death pm^is h- 
 ment ..far heavier than you have inflicted on me will surely a wait 
 yoB— Me you have killed b pransp ymi y/antpfl to psrape the accuser, 
 aodnot to give a n account of your lives. But that will not be as 
 you^uppose: far othennrise. For I say that therf! will-bfejjore 
 an ciisprs of you tha^? t h ci ? ii rc ""^ '■> accusers whom hitherto I have 
 restrained : and as J:h"ey are younger they will be more severe with 
 you, and you will be more oflfended at them. For4f-you-^think 
 f-haUay -killing mpn ynn ran aviiid-tbe-aeeUSeF^eaSUfil^n'^Ul livcS, 
 
 you are-mistakeni^that is not a way of escape which is either 
 
 \ ^ A a 
 
354 APOLOGY. 
 
 possible or honourable j the e^fijgst and thf nnhlfst WR,y i,!i notto 
 hr r.ni^-hin]i [i l lii r ,^ l iiil Id l ie iinpinYJnc y ou rrirlvf-J- Thisis the 
 prophecy which I utter before my departure to the judges who 
 have condemned me. 
 
 Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk 
 with you about this thing which hasJiappened, while the magistrates. Jl 
 are busy, and before I go to the place at which I must diej Stay ^ 
 then awhile, for we may as well talk with one another while there 
 js J;ime. You are my friends, and I should like to show you the 40 
 meaning of this event whiph has happened to me. O my judges— 
 for you I may truly call judges — I should like to tell you of a 
 wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the familiar oracle within- me 
 has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, 
 if I was going to make a slip or error about anything 5 and now as 
 you see there has come upon me that which may be thought, and 
 is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil. But the oracle 
 made no sign of opposition, either as I was leaving my house and 
 going out in the morning,- or when I was going up into this court, 1 
 or while I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and " 
 yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now 
 in nothi ng I eith er said or did touching this matter has liie oracl e 
 JREESSfid-jne. What do I takf to be the explanation of this ? jl 
 |will tell you. I regard this as a proof that wh at has happetji^dto 
 le is a good, and that those of us who think that death isMii eYil . 
 ^re in error. This is a great proof to me of what I am saying,, for 
 the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I been going 
 to evil and not to good. 
 
 Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is ■ 
 gBeat reason to hope that deat h is a good, for one of two things. :^ i 
 
 4-eitla er death is a gt^ti f rif nnth^ngnpcr inH iittar nnrnriffinii gnPTOj.^ 
 
 |)]%-as men say, there is a c hange and migration nf the snul f rom 
 fhi s world to an other. NoMMf_yoH,_suppose-4hat-thjereJajQa-Con- 
 sci ousne ss, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed 
 even by the sight of dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. 
 For if a person were to select the night xn whicn his sleep" was 
 undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare with this the 
 other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us how 
 many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better ' \ 
 and more pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will 
 
APOLOGY. 355 
 
 not say a private man, but even the great king will not find many 
 such days or nights, when compared #ith the others:. Now if 
 death is like this, I say that to die is ga in ■ fr.^- Ptprrvify <« tVipr, ^nly 
 ajigglenight. But^f dea th is the journey to another place ^nd 
 there, as men say,' all the. Ae-aA arp^ wV.at gnnH O my friends and 
 f 41 judges, can be greater than this ? If indeed when the pilgrim 
 
 arrives in the world below,.lie ig rIflivprpH frnm thp pi-pfpt!»;nr<; of p 
 
 justice in this wo rld, and finds the true jud^ pg whn are, said-to/ 
 «< give judgment there, Minos and Rhadamanthus and Aeacus an^ 
 Triptolemus, anduithfr-s ons of God who w o re righteous in th eir 
 own life»J;hRt pilgrimagp \m\\ W vrorth making. What would not 
 a man give if he might converse with Orpheus f and Musaeus and 
 Hesiod and Homer ? Nay, if this be true, let me die again and 
 again. I, too, shall have a wonderful interest in a place where I can 
 converse with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and other 
 heroes of old, who have suflFered death through an unjust judgment ; 
 and there will be no small pleasure, as I think, in comparing my 
 own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall be able to continue] 
 
 j£l 
 
 my st arch into true and false knowledge : as in this world, so al so 
 in that.; T ah;|ll finH nut wVirt is wigp anH wVin pi-ptpnHg tn hp wigf^ 
 and is not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be able to 
 examine the leader of the great Tfojan expedition j or, Odysseus 
 or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men and women too! What 
 infinite delight would there be in conversing with them and asking 
 them questions ! For in that world they do not put a man to 
 death for this j certainly not. For besides being happier in that 
 world than in this, they will be immortal, if what is said is true. 
 
 Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and-know 
 this^of a truth — t ha|^no eyjl ran happpn 1-r) a. grind rpan. either in 
 li£e nraltpvVpgth H e and his are not neglected bv the gods ; nor 
 
 has- my own approaching end happened by mrrp rhanrp . But-I 
 
 see-j clearly that to die and be released was better for me ; , and 
 thefefctre Jiie oracle^ flv "" °<g" F^'^^'^i'-'^ xf^mv,, ^'""j T '^TP ^f* | 
 ai^grjc ^ith my accusers or my co ndeiBners ; they have done me no 
 Aarm, although neither of them meant to do me any good ; and 
 foF-this I may gently blame them. 
 
 Still I have a favour te-ask of them. When my sons are grow n 
 up, I would ask you, O my friends, to puiai sh them; and I would 
 have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care 
 
 A a 3 
 
356 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 about riche s, or anything, more than about virt ue ; or4£-&ey-prc- 
 Tpato be someth ing wh gp thfy njf rf ally nothing ., — then reprove 
 bienl, as I have reproved you, for not caring about that for which 
 they ought to care, and thinking that they are something when 
 [they are really nothing. And if you do this, I and my sons will 42 
 Slave received justice at youi;-hands. t 
 
 hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways— I to 
 die, and you to live. Which is better God only knows. 
 
CRITO. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in 
 one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and 
 trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who 
 having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in 
 obedience to the laws of the state. 
 
 The days of Socrates are drawing to a close ; the fatal ship has been 
 seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary 
 Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken ; he himself has been 
 warned in a dream that on the third day he must depart. Time is 
 precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to 
 a plan of -escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who 
 will incur no danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be 
 disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his 
 duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money 
 is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, and 
 he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other 
 places. 
 
 Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions 
 of the many : whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates 
 of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There 
 was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. 
 And although some one will say 'the many can kill us,' that makes 
 no difference ; but a good life, that is to say a just and honourable life, 
 is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or 
 injury to his children should be dismissed : the only question is whether 
 he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested 
 person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this 
 for him. Before he was condemned they l\ad often held discussions. 
 
36o CRITO. 
 
 in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, or return evil 
 for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because 
 the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they 
 remain the same. Then is his escape consistent with the maintenance 
 of them ? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply. 
 
 Socrates proceeds: — Suppose the laws of Athens to come and 
 remonstrate with him : they will ask ' Why does he seek to overturn 
 them?' and if he replies, 'they have injured him,' will not the lawsi 
 answer, 'Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection 
 to make to them which would justify him in overturning them ? Was. 
 he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they 
 not his parents? He might have left Athens and gone where h?, 
 pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly 
 than any other citizen.' Thus he has ^clearly shown that he acknow- 
 ledged the ig^reement which he cannot now break without dishonour 
 to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course , of the trial 
 he might have proposed exile as the penaltjr, but then he declared that 
 he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps ? 
 In any well-ordered state the laws will consider him as an enemy.^ 
 Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at 
 first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape regarded by. the inha- 
 bitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to . 
 learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in 
 virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children 
 be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of 
 Athenian citizenship? Or if he leaves them behind, does he expeCt 
 that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in 
 Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he 
 is alive or dead ? 
 
 Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and 
 children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, 
 a suflferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and 
 returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and 
 their brethren the laws of the world below will receive him as an 
 enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in 
 his ears. I 
 
 That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against 
 
INTRODUCTION. 36.1 
 
 him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. 
 The crimes of Alcibiades, . Critias, and Cflbrmides, who had been his 
 pupils, were still recent in the memory, of the now restored democracy. 
 The feet that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was 
 not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato> writing probably in 
 the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master 
 in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and 
 the world at large. 
 
 Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito 
 and the proposal of escape is uncertain : Plato could easily have invented 
 far more than that (Phaedr. 275 B) ; and,in the selection of Crito, the aged 
 friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem 
 to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been 
 subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in 
 attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. 
 Shelley (Prose Works, p. 78) is of opinion that Socrates ' did well to 
 die,' but not for the 'sophistical' reasons which Plato has put into 
 his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing, that Socrates 
 should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which 
 he might still be able to perform. 'A skilful rhetorician would- have 
 had much to say about that' (50 C). It may be remarked hpwever 
 that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only 
 to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil 
 in . order to avoid the greatest, and to show Socrates, his master, main- 
 taining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not 
 'the world,' but the 'one wise man,' is still the philosopher's paradox 
 in his last hours. 
 
CRITO. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 Socrates. Crito. 
 
 Scene : — The Prison of Socrates. ^ 
 
 t 
 Socrates. Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be 
 
 quite early.? 
 
 Crito. Yes, certainly. 
 
 See, What is the exact time ? 
 
 Cr. The dawn is breaking. 
 
 Soc. I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in. 
 
 Cr. He knows me, because I often come, Socrates ; moreover, I 
 have done him a kindness. f 
 
 Soc. And are you only just come .' 
 
 Cr. No, I came some time ago. 
 
 Soci Then why did you ?it and say nothing, instead of awaken 
 ing me at once } 
 
 Cr. Why, indeed, Socrates, I myself would rather not have all 
 this sleeplessness and sorrow'. But I have been wondering at your 
 peaceful slumbers, and that was the reason why I did not awaken 
 you, because I wanted you to be out of pain. I have always 
 thought you happy in the calmness of your temperament; but 
 never did I see the like of the easy, cheerful way in which you 
 bear this calamity. 
 
 Soc. Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not 
 to be repining at the prospect of death. 
 
 Cr. And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfor- 
 tunes, and age does not prevent them froni repining. 
 
364 CRITO. 
 
 Soc. That may be. But you have not told me why you come at 
 this early hour. Ji:. 
 
 Cr. I come to bring you a message which is sad and painiul ; 
 not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, 
 and saddest of all to me. 
 
 Soc. What ! I suppose that the ship has come from Delos, on the 
 arrival of which I am to die ? 
 
 Cr. No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably 
 be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me 
 that they left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will, be 
 the last day of your life. 
 
 Soc. Very well, Crito ; if such is the will of God, I am willing j 
 but my belief is that there will be a delay ,of a day. 
 
 Cr. Why do you say this ? 
 
 Soc. I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of 
 the ship ? 
 
 Cr. Yes j that is what the authorities say. 
 
 Soc. But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-rmor- 
 row J this I gather from a vision which I had last night, or rathei 
 only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep. 
 
 Cr. And what was the nature of the vision ? 
 
 Soc. There came to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, 
 clothed in white raiment, who called to me and said : O Socraies, 
 ' The third day hence to Phthia shalt thou go.' 
 
 Cr. What a singular dreatn, Socrates ! ^ 
 
 Soc. There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think. 
 
 Cr. Yes ; the meaning is only too clear. But, Oh ! my beloved 
 Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and 
 escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can 
 never be replaced, but there is another evil : people who do not 
 know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had 
 been willing to give money, but that I did not care. NoWj can 
 there be a worse disgrace than this — that I should be thought to 
 value money more than the life of a friend ? For the many will not 
 be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused. 
 
 Soc. But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion 
 of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are 
 worth considering, will think of these things truly as they happenedi 
 
 Cr. But do you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the' many must 
 
CRITO. 365 
 
 'i be regarded, as is eyideiiit in your own case, because they can do 
 
 the very greatest evil to any one who has Tost their good opinion. 
 * Soc. I only wish, Crito, that they could ; for then they could also 
 ' do the greatest good, and that would be well. But the truth is, 
 
 that they can do neither good nor evil : they cannot make a man 
 ■• wise or make him foolish ; and whatever they do. is the result of 
 
 chance. 
 " Cr. Well, I will not dispute about that j but' please to tell me, 
 
 '1 Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your 
 « other friends : are you not afraid that if you escape hence we may 
 
 get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and 
 
 ^ lose either the whole or a great part of our property ; or that even 
 
 45 a worse evil may happen to us ? Now, if this is your fear, be at 
 
 ease ; for in order to save you, we Ought surely to run this, or even 
 ' agreater risk ^ be persuaded, then, and do as I say. 
 
 Soc. Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no 
 
 means the only one. ^ 
 
 » Cr. Fear not. There are persons who at no great cost are will- 
 
 i ing to save you and bring you out of prison • and as for the 
 
 informers, you may observe that they are far from being exorbitant 
 
 in their demands ; a little money will satisfy them. My means, 
 ■i which, as I am sure, are ample, are at your service, and if you have 
 i a scruple about spending all mine^ here are strangers who will give 
 
 you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has 
 
 brought a sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and 
 m many others are willing to spend their money too. I say therefore, 
 ^ do not on that account hesitate about making your escape, and do 
 (I not say, as you did in the court, that you will have a difficulty in 
 (I knowing what to do with yourself if you escape. For men will 
 III love you in other plaqes to which you may go, and not in Athens 
 [Ij only ; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to 
 i, them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give 
 g you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are justified, Socrates, 
 ^- in betraying your own life when you might be ^ saved; this is play- 
 I ing into the hands of your enemies and destroyers ; and moreover 
 ^ I, should say that you were betraying your children; for you might 
 [ bring them up and educate them ; instead of w;hich you go away 
 
 and leave them, and they will have to take their chance ; and if 
 '* they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be 
 
366 CRITO. 
 
 small' thanks to you. No man should bring children into the 
 world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and 
 education. But you are choosing the easier part, as I think, not 
 the better and manlier, which would rather have become one who 
 professes virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indee^ 'I 
 am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, w&jb^ 
 I reflect that this entire business of yours will be attributed to our 
 want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or migift T 
 have been brought to another issue ; and the end of all, which is 
 the crowning absurdity, will seem to have been permitted by us, 
 through cowardice and baseness, who might have saved you, as 4 
 you might have saved yourself, if we had been good for anything 
 (for there was no difficulty in escaping) j and we did not se« how 
 disgraceful, Socrates, and also miserable all this will be to us as 
 well as to you. Make your mind up then, or rather have your mind 
 already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is 
 only one thing to be done, which must -be done, if at all, this very 
 night, and which any delay will render all but impossible; I 
 beseech you therefore, Socrates, to be persuaded by me, and to do 
 as I say. ^ 1 
 
 Soc. Dear Crito, your Zeal is invaluable, if a right one ; but if 
 wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the evil ; and therefore we 
 ought to consider whether these things shall be done or not. For 
 I am and always have been one of those natures who must be 
 guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon- reflec- 
 tion appears to me to be the^best; and now that this fortune has 
 come upon me, I cannot put away the reasons which I have before 
 given: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered 
 I still honour, and unless we can find other and better principles 
 on the instant, I am certain not to agree with you ; no, not even 
 if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprison- 
 ments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with 
 hobgoblin terrors. But what will be the fairest way of consider^ 
 ing the question ? Shall I return to your old argument about the 
 opinions of men ? some of which are to be regarded, and others, 
 as we were saying, are not to be regarded. ' Now we^e we right 
 in maintaining this before I was condemned ? And has the argu- 
 ment which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of 
 talking ; — in fact an amusement only, and altogether vanity ? That 
 
CRITO. 367 
 
 is what I want to consider with your help, Crito : — whether, under 
 my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any 
 way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disaUowed. 
 That .argument, which," as I believe, is maintained by many who 
 assume to be authorities, was to the effect, as I was saying, that 
 the ctpinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men 
 not to be regarded. Now you,' Crito, are a disinterested person 
 \ who are not going to die to-morrow — at least, there is no human 
 probability of this, and you are therefore not liable to be deceived 
 by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, 
 jiyhether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions 
 of some men only, are to be valued, and other opinions, and the 
 opipions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether 
 I was right in maintaining this ? 
 , Cr. Certainly. 
 ?J Soc. The good are to be regarded," and not the bad ? 
 
 Cr. Yes. 
 
 Sm. And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of 
 the unwise are evil ? 
 
 Cr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And what was said about another matt©:? Was the dis- 
 ciple in gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame 
 •and opinion of every man, or of one man only — his physician or 
 trainer, whoever that was ? ' 
 
 Cr. Of one man only. 
 
 Soc. And he ought to fear the censure dnd welcome the praise of 
 that one only, and not of the many ? 
 
 Cr. That is clear. 
 
 Soc. And he ought to live and train, and eat and drink in the 
 way which seems good to his single master who has understand- 
 ing, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put 
 together ? 
 
 Cr. True. 
 
 Soc. And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval 
 of the one, and regards the opinion o£ the many who have no un- 
 derstanding, will he not suffer evil ? 
 
 Cr. Certainly he will. 
 
 Soc. And what will the evil be, whither tending and what 
 aflfecting, in the disobedient person ? 
 
368 CRITO. 
 
 Cr. Clearly, affecting the body ; that is what is destroyed by the 
 evil. 
 
 Soc. Very goodj and is not this true, Crito, of other things 
 which we need not separately enumerate ? In the matter of just 
 and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects" of 
 our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the 
 many and to fear them ; or the opinion of the one man who has 
 understanding, and whom we ought to fear and reverence more 
 than all the rest of the world: and whom deserting we shall 
 destroy and injure that principle^in us which may be assumed to ; 
 be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice ; — is there not 
 such a principle ? 
 
 Cr. Certainly there is, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Take a parallel instance: — if, acting under the advice 
 of men who have no understanding, we destroy that which is 
 improvable by health and deteriorated by disease — when tiiat has 
 been destroyed, I say, would life be worth having? And that is — 
 the body? 
 
 Cr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body ? 
 
 Cr. Certainly not, 
 
 Soc. And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man 
 be depraved, which is improved by justice and deteriorated by 
 injustice ? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be~ in 
 man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior 
 to the body ? 
 
 Cr. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. More honoured, then? 
 
 Cr. Far more honoured. 
 
 Soc. Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say 
 of us : but what he, the one man who has understanding of just 
 and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore 
 you begin in error when you suggest that we should regard the 
 opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, 
 honourable and dishonourable. — Well, some one will say, 'but 
 the many can kill us.' 
 
 Cr. Yes, Socrates ; that will clearly be the answer. 
 
 Soc. That is true: but still I find with surprise that the old 
 argument is, as I'conceive, unshaken as ever. And I should like 
 
CRITO. 369 
 
 -w" " ' ^ — ' ■- ' ■■■ — •• • • • - ■ ■ ^^ ■ 
 
 to know whether I may say the same of another proposition — 
 that not life, but a good life, is to be chieSy valued ? 
 , i Cr. Yes, that also remains. 
 
 Soc. And a good life is equivalent to a just and honourable one 
 —that holds also ? 
 
 Cr. Yes, that holds. 
 
 5oi:. From these premiS^es I proceed to argjie the question 
 W'hether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the 
 consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, 
 then I will make the attempt j but if not, I will abstain. The 
 other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of 
 character and the duty of educating children, are, as I fear, only 
 the doctrines of the multitjide, who would be as ready to call people 
 to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death — and 
 with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far 
 prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, 
 whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering 
 others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, 
 or whether we shall not do rightly j and if the latter, then death 
 or any other' calanfity which may ensue on my remaining here 
 must not be allowed to enter into the calculatioi* ' 
 
 C/. I think that you are right, Socrates j how then shall we 
 proceed ? 
 
 Soc. Let us consider the matter together, and do you either 
 refute me if you can, and I will be convinced ; or else ce^se, my 
 dear jfriend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against 
 the wishes of the Athenians: for I am extremely desirous to 
 be persuaded by you, but not against my own better judgment. 
 ) And now please to consider my first position, and do your best 
 to answer me. 
 
 Cr. I will do my best. 
 
 Soc. Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, 
 or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not 
 to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonourable, 
 as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged 
 by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within 
 a few days to be thrown away ? And have we, at our age, been 
 • earnestly discoursing with one' another all our life long only to 
 ' discover that we are no better than children.? . Or are we to rest 
 
370 CRITO. 
 
 assured, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of 
 consequences whether better or worse, of the truth of what was 
 then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him 
 who acts unjustly ? Shall we affirm that ? 
 
 Cr. Yes. 
 '"'^ Soc. Then we must do no wrong ? 
 
 Ct.. Certainly not. 
 
 ^oc. Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine j 
 for we must injure no one at all ? 
 
 Cr. Clearly not. 
 
 Soc. Again, Crito, may we do evil ? 
 
 Cr. Surely not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the 
 miorality of the many — is that j«st or not ? 
 
 Ct. Not just. 
 
 Soc., For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him ? 
 
 Cr, Very true. 
 
 Sot. Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to 
 any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But 
 I would have yon consider, CritOj whether you really mean what 
 you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never 
 will be held, by any considerable number of persons ; and those 
 who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point 
 have no common ground, and can only despise one another when 
 they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then^. whether jou \ 
 agree with and assent to my first principle,, that neither injury 
 nor retaliation nor warding off^ evil by evil is ever right. And 
 shall that be the premise of our argument ? Or do you decline 
 and dissent from this ? For this has been of old and is still my 
 opinion ; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what 
 ■you have to, say. If, however, you remain of the same mind 
 as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. 
 
 Cr.. You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind» 
 
 Soc, Then I will proceed to the next step, which may be put 
 in the form of a question :-r^Qught a man to do what he admits 
 to he right, or ought he to betray the right ? J 
 
 Cr. He ought to do what he thinks right. "^ 
 
 Soc. But if this is true, what is the application? In leav|flg5° 
 the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong ^any ? or 
 
CRITO. 371 
 
 - ' ■ 
 
 rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong ? Do 
 I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be 
 just? What do you say? 
 
 Cr. I cannot tell, Socrates j for I do not know. 
 
 Soc. Then consider the matter in this way : — Imagine that I am 
 about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name 
 which you like), and the laws and the government come and 
 interrogate me: 'Tell us, Socrates,' they say; 'what are you 
 about? are you going by an act of yours to overturn us — ^the 
 laws and the whole state, as far as in you lies ? Do you imagine 
 that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the 
 decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and overthrown 
 by individuals?' What will be our answer, Cfito, to these and 
 the like words ? Any one, and especially a ckver rhetorician, will 
 have a good deal to urge about the evil of setting aside the law 
 which requires a sentence to be carried out ; and we might reply, 
 ' Yes ; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.' 
 Suppose I say that ? 
 
 Cr. Very good, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. 'And was that our agreement with you?' the law would 
 say ; ' or were you to abide by the sentence of the state ?' And 
 if I were to express astonishment at their saying this, the law 
 would probably add : ' Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your 
 eyes: you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. 
 Tell us what complaint you have to make against us which 
 justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the 
 first place did we not bring you into existence ? Your father 
 married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you 
 have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate 
 marriage?' None, I should reply. 'Or against those of us 
 who regulate the system of nurture and education of children 
 in which you were trained? Were not the laws, who have 
 the charge of this, right in commanding your father to train you 
 in music and gymnastic ?' Right, I should reply. ' Well then, 
 since you were brought into the world and nurtured arid educated 
 by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child 
 and slave, as your fathers were before you ? And if this is true 
 you are not on equal terms with us ; nor can you think that you 
 have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you 
 
372 CRITO. 
 
 have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to a father 
 or to your master, if you had one, when you have been strudc 
 or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands ? — you 
 would not say this? And because we think right to destroy- you, 
 do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return^ and 
 your country as far as in, you lies? And will you, O professor of 
 true virtue, say that you are justified in this ? Has a philosopher 
 like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued 
 and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, 
 and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men 
 of understanding ? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently 
 entreated when angry, even more than a father, and if not pei^ 
 suaded, obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether 
 with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured 
 in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or <leath in battle, 
 thither we follow as is right j neither may any one yield or 
 retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court 
 of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and hig 
 country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: 
 and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less 
 may he do violence to his country.' What answer shall we 
 make to this, Crito ? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not ? 
 
 Cr. I think that they do. 
 
 Soc. Then the laws will say: 'Consider, Socrates, if this is-truCj 
 thait in your present attempt you are going to do us wrong. 
 For, after having brought you into the world, and nurtured and 
 educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in 
 every good that we had to give, we further proclaim and giye 
 the right to every Athenian, that if he does not like us when he 
 has come of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our 
 acquaintance, he may go where he please^ and take his goods 
 with him; and none of us laws will forbid him or interfere with 
 him. Any of you who does not like us and the city, and who 
 wants to go to a colony or to any other city, may go where he 
 likes, and take his goods with him. But he who has experience 
 of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, 
 and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he 
 will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we 
 maintain, thrice wrong; first, because- in disobeying us he is 
 
 
CRITO. 373 
 
 r ■■■■ - . ' ^ 
 
 disobeying his parents j secondly, because we are the authors of 
 his education ; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with 
 us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys 
 52 them nor convinces us that our commands are wrong ; and we do 
 not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying 
 or .'Convincing us; — that is what we offer, and he does neither. 
 These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, 
 you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions ; 
 you, above all other Athenians.' Suppose I ask, why is this.', 
 they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have, 
 acknowledged the agreement. ' There is clear proof,' they will 
 say, 'Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. 
 Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the 
 city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love. For 
 you never went out of the city either to see the games,Lexcept 
 once when you went to the Isthmusjor to any other place unless 
 when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other 
 men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their 
 laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we 
 were your special favourites, and you acquiesced in our governr 
 ment of you; and this is the state in which you begat your chil- 
 dren, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might, 
 if you had liked, have- fixed the penalty at banishment in the 
 course of the trial — the state which refuses to let you go now 
 would have let you go then. But you ^pretended that you pre- 
 ferred death to exile, and that you were not grieved at death. 
 And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no 
 I respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer ; and are 
 doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and 
 I turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you 
 I made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question : 
 I Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according 
 I to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?' ^-jj- 
 ( How shall we answer that, Crito? Must we not agree? ^^ ^ 
 
 , r Cr. There is no help, Socrates. 
 
 , Soc. Then will they not say; 'You, Socrates, are breaking the 
 
 |v covenants and agreements which you made with us at ypur leisure,. 
 ,1 not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception^ but having 
 I had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at 
 
 *s&.- 
 
374 CRITO. 
 
 liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our 
 covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and 
 might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, which you often 
 praise for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or 53 
 foreign state. Whereas you, above all othef Athenians, seemed to 
 be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (for who J 
 would like a state that has no laws), that you never stirred out of ^ 
 her; the halt, the blind, the maimed were not more stationary in 
 her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your 
 agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice ; do not 
 make; yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 
 
 ' For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of wayj 
 what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends ? That 
 your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenshij), 
 or will lose their property, is tolerably certain ; and you yourself, if . 
 you fly to one of the neighbourii^ cities, as, for example, Thebes or 
 Megara, both Of which are well-governed cities, will come to them 
 as an enemy,Socrates, and their government will be against you, 
 and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a sub- 
 verter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges 
 the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a 
 corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be corruptor of the 
 young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from 
 well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth 
 having on these terms ? Or will you go to them without shame, 
 and talk to them, Socrates ? And what will you say to them ? 
 What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and 
 laws being the best things among men. Would that be decent of 
 you ? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states 
 to Crito's friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and 
 licence, they will be charmed to have the tale of your escape from 
 prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which 
 you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and meta- 
 morphosed as the fashion of runaways is — that is very likely j but 
 will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you violated 
 the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life. 
 Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper j but if they are 
 out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, 
 but how ? — as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men ; 
 
CRITO. 375 
 
 and doing what ? — eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone 
 
 abroad in order that you may get a dinnftr. And where will be 
 
 54 your fine sentiments about justice and virtue then ? Say that you 
 
 wish to live for the sake of your children, that you may bring them 
 
 up and educate them — will you take them into Thessaly and 
 
 deprive them of Athenian citizenship ? Is that the benefit which 
 
 you would confer upon them ? Or are you under the impression 
 
 that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still 
 
 alive, although absent from them ; for that your^friends will take 
 
 care of them ? Do you fancy that if you ar'e an inhabitant of 
 
 Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant 
 
 1 of the other world they will not take care of them ? Nay ; but if 
 
 I they who call themselves friends are truly friends, they surely will. 
 
 I < Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think 
 
 i not of life and children 'first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice 
 
 I first, tliat you may be justified before the princes of the world 
 
 I below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier 
 
 I or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as 
 
 I Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a- 
 
 I doer of evil ; a victim, not of the laws, but of men. But if you go 
 
 i" forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the 
 
 1 covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and 
 
 I wronging those whom you ought least to wrong, that is to say, 
 
 I yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with , 
 
 I you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, 
 
 , will receive you as an enemy ; for they will know that you have 
 
 I done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to 
 
 Grito.' 
 I This is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, 
 
 I like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I 
 , say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any 
 I other. And I know that anything more which you may say will 
 , be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say. 
 I , Cr. I^J^gvejaatlung to say, Socrates. 
 
 ; Soc. TheirkTmeSlloWTHeTntimations of the will of God. 
 
PHAEDO. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 After an interval of some months or years, and at Phlius a town of 
 Sicyon, the tale of the last hom-s of Socrates is narrated to Echecrates 
 and other Phliasians by Phaedo the 'beloved disciplef.' The Dialogue 
 necessarily takes the form of a narrative, because Socrates has to be 
 described- acting as well as speaking. The minutest particulars of the 
 event are interesting to distant friends, and the narrator has an equal 
 interest in them. 
 
 During the voyage of the sacred ship to and from Delos, which has 
 occupied thirty days, the execution of Socrates has been deferred. 
 (Cp. Xen. Mem. iv. 8. 2.) The time has been passed by him in con- 
 versation with a select company of disciples. But now the holy season 
 is over, and the disciples meet earlier than usual in order that they may 
 converse with Socrates for the last time. Those who were present, and 
 those who might have been expected to be present, are specially men- 
 tioned; There are Simmias and Cebes (Crito 45 B), two disciples 
 of Philolaus whom Socrates 'by his enchantments has attracted from 
 Thebes' (Mem. iii. ii. 17), Crito the aged friend, -the attendant of 
 the prison, who is as good as a friend — these take part in the conversa- 
 tion. There are present also, Hermogenes, from whom Xenophon 
 derived his information about the trial of Socrates (Mem. iv. 8. 4), 
 the 'madman' Apollodorus (Symp. 173 D), Euclid and Terpsion from 
 Megara (cp. Theaet. sub. init.), Ctesippus, Antisthenes, Menexenus, 
 and some other less-known members of the Socratic circle, all of whom 
 are silent auditors. Aristippus and Plato are noted as absent. Soon 
 the wife and children of Socrates are sent away, under the direction 
 of Crito ; he himself has just been released from chains, and is led by 
 this circumstance to make the natural remark that 'pleasure follows 
 
38o PHAEDO. 
 
 pain.' (Observe that Plato is preparing the way for his doctrine of 
 the alternation of opposites.) 'Aesop would have represented them in 
 a fable as a two-headed creature of the gods.' The mention of 
 Aesop reminds Cebes of a question which had been asked, by Evenus; 
 the poet (cp. Apol. 20 A): 'Why Socrates, who was not a poet, while 
 in prison had been putting Aesop into verse?' — ' Because several times 
 in his life he had been warned in dreams that he should make music; 
 and as he was about to die and was not certain what was the meaning, 
 of this, he wished to fulfil the admonition in the letter as well as 
 in the spirit, by writing verses as well as by cultivating philosophyi 
 Tell- Evenus this and bid him follow me in death.' ' He is not the 
 sort of man to do that, Socrates.' 'Why, is he not a philosopho:?' 
 ' Yes.' 'Then he will be willing to die, although he will not take his 
 own life, for that is held not to be right.' 
 
 Cebes asks why men say that suicide is not right, if death is to be 
 accounted a good? Well, (1) according to one explanation, because 
 man is a prisoner, and is not allowed to open the door of his prison 
 and run away — this is the truth in a 'mystery.' Or rather, perhaps, 
 (2) because man is not his own property, but a possession of the gods, 
 and he has no right to make away with that which does not belong 
 to him. But why, asks Cebes; if he is a possession of the gods, will 
 he wish to die and leave them ? for he is under their protection ; and 
 surely he cannot take better care of himself than they take of him. 
 Simmias explains that Cebes is really referring to Socrates, whom they 
 think too unmoved at the prospect of leaving the gods and his friends.^ 
 Socrates answers that he is going to other gods who are wise and good, 
 and perhaps to better friends; and he professes that he is ready to 
 defend himself against the charge of Cebes. They shall be his judgesy. 
 and he hopes that he will be more successful in convincing them than 
 he had been in convincing the court. 
 
 The philosopher desires death — which the wicked world will insinuate, 
 that he also deserves : and perhaps he does, but not in any sense which 
 they are capable of understanding. Enough of them: the real question 
 is, What is the nature of that death which he desires? Death is the 
 separation of soul and body — and the philosopher desires such a separa- 
 tion. He would like to be freed from the dominion of bodily pleasures 
 and of the senses, which are always perturbing his mental wsion. He 
 wants to get rid of eyes and ears; and with the light of themind^onlys 
 
INTRODUCTION. ^81 
 
 to behold the light of truth. All the evils and impurities and ftecessitieg 
 of men come from the body. And deatlf separates him from these 
 evils, which in this life he cannot wholly cast aside. Why then should 
 he repine when the hour of separation arrives? Why, if he is dead 
 while he lives,, should he fear that Other death, through which alone he 
 can behold wisdom in her purity ? 
 
 Besides, the philosopher has notions of good and evil unlike those 
 of other men. For they are coxu-ageous because they are afraid of 
 greater dangers, and temperate because they desire greater pleasures. 
 But he disdains this balancing of pleasures and pains; he knows no 
 virtue but that which is the companion of wisdom. All the virtfles, 
 including wisdom, are regarded by him only as purifications of -the 
 soul. And this was the meaning of the founders of the mysteries when 
 they said, 'Many are the wand-bearers but few are the mystics.' (Cp. 
 Matt. xxii. 14 : 'Many are called, but few are chosen.') And in the h6pe 
 that he is one of these mystics, Socrates is now depditing. This is 
 his answer to those who charge him with indifference at the prospect 
 of leaving the gods and his friends. 
 
 Still, a fear is expressed that . the soul upon leaving the body, 
 may vanish away like smoke or air. Socrates in answer appeals first 
 of all to the old Orphic tradition that the souls of the dead are in the 
 world below, and that the living come from them. This he attempts 
 to found on a philosophical assumption that all opposites— e.g. less, 
 greater; weaker, stronger; sleeping, waking; life, death — are generated 
 out of each other. Nor can this process of generation be only a passage 
 from living to dying, for then all would end in deaths The perpetual 
 sleeper (Endymion) would be no longer distinguished, for all the world 
 would sink in rest. The circle of nature is not complete unless the 
 living come from the dead as well as pass to them. 
 
 The favourite Platonic doctrine of reminiscence is then adduced as 
 a confirmation of the pre-existence of the soul. Some proofs of this 
 doctrine are demanded. One proof given is the same as that of the 
 Meno (82 foil.), and is derived from the latent knowledge of mathe- 
 matics, 5vhich may be elicited from an unlearned person when a diagram 
 is presented to him. Again, there is a power of association, which 
 from seeing Simmias may remember Cebes, or from seeing a picture 
 of Simmias may remember Simmias. The lyre may recall the player 
 Of the lyre, and_equal pieces of wood or stone may be associated with 
 
382 PHAEDO. 
 
 the higher notion of absolute equality. But here observe that matcml 
 equalities fall short of the conception of absolute equality with, whiitfj 
 they are compared, and which is the measure of them. And the measiWe 
 or standard must be prior to that which is measured, the idea of equalkj! 
 prior to the visible equals. And if prior to them, then prior, also to 
 the perceptions of the senses which recall them, and therefore either 
 given before birth or at birth. But all men have not this knowted^ 
 nor have any without a process of reminiscence; and this is a proof 
 that it is not innate or given at birth (unless indeed it was given and 
 taken away at the same instant, which is absurd). But if not given 
 to men in birth, it must have been given before birth — ^this is the 
 only alternative which remains. And if we had ideas in a former state, 
 then our souls must have existed and must have had intelligence in a 
 former state. The pre-existence of the soul stands or falls vy itii the 
 dofitrine of ide^s. 
 
 It is objected by Simmias and Cebes that these arguments only prove 
 a former and not a future existence. Socrates answers this objeetfe* 
 by -recalling the previous argument, in _which he had shown that the 
 living had come from the dead. But the fear that the soul at departing 
 may vanish into air (especially if there is a wind blowing at the time) 
 has not yet been charmed away. He proceeds : When we fear that 
 the soul will vanish away, let us ask ourselves what is that which we 
 suppose to be liable to dissolution ? Is it the simple or the compound^ 
 the unchanging or the changing, the invisible idea or the visible object 
 of sense? Clearly the latter and not the former; and therefore not 
 the soul, which in her own pure thought is unchangeable, and only 
 when using the senses descends into the Tegion of change. AgaJi, 
 the soul commands, the body serves : in this respect too the soul-'is 
 akin to the divine, and the body to the mortal. And in every poiW? 
 of view the soul is the image of divinity and immortalaty, and the locty 
 of the human and mortal. And whereas the body is liable to spee^ 
 dissolution, the soul is almost if not quite indissoluble. (Cp. Tim. 41 A.) 
 Yet even the body may be preserved for ages by the embalmer's- art; 
 how much more the soul retiu-ning into herself on her way- to the -good 
 and wise God! She has been practising death all her life long, and 
 is now finally released from the errors and follies and passions of men, 
 
 rd for ever dwells in the company of the gods. 
 But the soul which is polluted and engrossed by the corporeal, and 
 
INTMQDUCTION. 383 
 
 has no eye exeept-that. of the senses, and is weighed down by the bodily 
 appetites, cannot attain to this abstraction? In her fear of the world 
 betow ihe lingers about her sepulchre, a ghostly apparition, saturated 
 with sense, and therefore visible. At length she enters iiito the body 
 of some animal of a nature congenial to her former life of sensuaUty 
 or TOlence, and becomes an ass or a wolf or a kite. And of these 
 earthy SiQuIs. the happiest are those who have practised vhtue without 
 philosophy; they are allowed to pass into gentle and civil natures, 
 such as bees and ants. (Cp. Rep. 619 C, Meno 100 A.) But only the 
 jtoilosopher who departs pure is permitted to enter the company of' 
 the gods. This is the reason why he abstains from fleshly lusts, and 
 not from the fear of loss- or disgrace, which are the motives of other 
 men. He too has been a captive, and the willing agent of his own 
 captivity. But philosophy has, spoken to him, and- he has heard, her 
 TOice ; she has gently entreated him, and brought his soul out of the 
 'miry clay,' and purged away the mists of passion and the illusions 
 of sense which envelope her, and taught her to resist the influence of 
 pleasures and pains, which are like nails fastening her to the body. 
 To! that prison-house she will not return; and therefore she abstains 
 from bodily pleasures — not from a desire of having more or greater 
 ones, which is the exchange of commerce and not of virtue, but because 
 she knows that only in the calm of pleasures, and passions she will 
 behold the light of truth. 
 
 ... Simmias and Cebes remain in doubt; but they are unwilling to raise 
 objections at such a time. Socrates wonders at this. Let them regard 
 him.rather as the swan, who, having sung the praises, of Apollo all 
 his life long, sings at bis death more lustily than ever. (Cp. 60 D.) 
 Simmias acknowledges that there is cowardice in not probing truth 
 to the bottom. 'And if truth divine and -inspired is not to be had, 
 then let a man take the best of human notions, and- upon this frail 
 hajrk let him sail through life.' He proceeds to state his difficulty i 
 It has been argued that the soul is invisible and incorporeal, and there- 
 fore immortal, and prior to the body. But is not the soul acknowledged, 
 to be a harmony,, and has she not the same relation to the body, as 
 the harmony — which like her is invisible — ^has to the lyre ? And yet 
 the harmony does not survive the lyre. Cebes has also an objection,- 
 which like Simmias he expresses in a figure. He is willing to admit 
 that the soul is more lasting than the body. But the. more lasting 
 
384 PHAEDO. 
 
 nature of the soul does not prove her immortality; for after having 
 . worn out many bodies in a single life, and many more in successive 
 '^ births and deaths, she may at last perish, or, as Socrates afterwards: 
 restates the objection, the very act of birth may be the beginning of her 
 death, and the last body may survive the last soul, just as the coat of an 
 old weaver is left behind him after he is dead, although a man is more 
 lasting than his coat. And he who would prove the immortality of the 
 soul, must prove not only that the soul outlives one or many bodies, but 
 that she outlives them all. 
 
 The audience, like the chorus in a play, for a moment interpret the 
 feelings of the actors ; there is a temporary depression, and then the 
 inquiry is resumed. It is a melancholy reflection that arguments, like 
 men, are apt to be deceivers ; and those who have been often deceived^ 
 become distrustful both of arguments and of friends. But this unfor- 
 tunate experience should not make us either haters of men or haters of 
 arguments. The hatred of -arguments is equally mistaken, whether we 
 are going to live or die. At the approach of death Socrates desires to 
 be impartial, and ypt he cannot help feeling that he has too great an 
 interest in the truth of his own argument. And therefore he wishes his 
 friends to examine and refute him, if they think that he is not speaking 
 the truth. 
 
 Socrates requests Simmias and Cebes to state their objections again. 
 They do not go to the length pf denying the pre-existence of ideas. 
 Simmias is of opinion that the soul is a harmony of the body. But t he 
 admission of the pre -existence of id eas, and therefore of the soul, is at 
 va riance with this. (Gp. a parallel difficulty in Theaet. 203, 204.) J"or 
 a harmony is an effect, whereas the soul is not an effect, but a cause ; 
 a harmony follows, but the soul leads; a harmony admits of degrees,'^ 
 and the soul has no degrees. Again, upon the supposition that the soul 
 is a harmony, why is one soul better than another ? Are they more or 
 less harmonized, or is there one harmony within another ? But the soul 
 does not admit of degrees, and cannot therefore be more or less har- 
 monized. Further, the soul is often engaged in resisting the affections of 
 the body, as Homer describes Odysseus 'rebuking his heart.' Could he 
 have written this under the idea that the soul is a harmony of the body? 
 Nay rather, are we not contradicting Homer and ourselves in affirming 
 anything of the sort ? 
 
 The goddess- Harmonia,. as Socrates playfully terms the argument of 
 
INTRODUCTION. 385 
 
 Sitnmias, has been happily disposed of; and now an answer has to be 
 afiven to the Theban Cadmus. Socrates recapitulates the argument of 
 Cebes, which, as he remarks, involves the whole question of natural 
 growth or causation ; about this he proposes to narrate his own mental 
 experience. When he was young he had puzzled himself with physics : 
 he had inquired into the growth and decay of animals, and the origin of 
 thought, until at last he began to doubt the self-evident fact that growth 
 is the result of eating and drinking, and thus he arrived at the conclusion 
 that he was not meant for such inquiries. Nor was he less perplexed 
 with notions of comparison and number. At first he had imagined him- 
 self to understand differences of greater and less, and to know that ten is 
 two more than eight, and the like. But now those very notions appeared 
 to him to contain a contradiction. For how can one be divided into 
 two? or two be compounded into one? These are difficulties which 
 Socrates cannot answer. Of generation and destruction he knows 
 nothing. But he has a confused notion of another method in which 
 matters -of this sort are to be investigated. (Cp. Rep. iv. 435 D ; 
 ™- 533 A; Char. 170 foil.) ' 
 
 Then he heard some one reading out of a book of Anaxagoras, that 
 mind is the cause of all things^ And he said to himself : If mind is the 
 cause of all things, mind must dispose them all for the best. The' new 
 teacher will show me this ' order of the best ' in man and nature. How 
 great had been his hopes and how great his disappointment ! For he 
 found that his. new friend was anything but consistent in his use of mind 
 as a cause, and that he soon introduced winds, waters, and other eccen: 
 trie notions. It was as if a person had said that Socrates is sitting here 
 because he is made up of bones and muscles, instead of telling the .true 
 reason — ^that he is here because the Athenians have thought good to 
 sehtence him to death, and he has thought good to await, his sentence. 
 Had his bones and muscles been left by him to their own ideas of right, 
 they would long ago have taken themselves off. But surely there is a 
 great confusion of the cause and condition in all this. And this con- 
 fusion also leads people into all sorts of erroneous theories about the 
 position and motions of the earth. None of them know how much 
 stronger than any Atlas is the power of the best. But this ' best ' is_ 
 still undiscovered ; and in inq uiring after the cause, w e c an only hope to _ 
 attain the second best. 
 
 Now there is a danger in the contemplation of the nature of things. 
 
386 PHAEDO. 
 
 as there is a clanger in looking at the sun during an eclipse, unless the 
 precaution is taken of looking only at the image reilected in the water, 
 or in a glass. (Cp. Laws, 897 D; Rep. 516 foil.) And I was afraid, says 
 Socrates, that I might injure the eye of the soul. I thought that I had 
 better return to the old and safe method of ideas. Though I do not 
 mean to say that he who contemjplates existence through the medium of 
 ideas sees only through a glass darkly, any more than he who contem- 
 plates actual effects. 
 
 If the existence of ideas is granted to him, Socrates is of opinion that 
 he will then have no difficulty in proving the immortality of the soul. He 
 will only ask for a further admission :-^that beauty is the cause of the 
 beautiful, greatness the cause of the great, smallness of the small, and so 
 on of other things. Thus he avoids the contradictions of greater _and 
 less (greater by reason of that which is smaller!), of addition and sub- 
 traction, and the other difficulties of relation. These subtleties he is for 
 leaving to wiser heads than his own ; he prefers to test ideas by their 
 cionsequence s,_aBd^if asked_to^ give an Recoun t of them , goes back to 
 some higher idea or hypothesis which appears to him to be the best, 
 until at last he arrives at a resting-place. (Rep. vi. 510 foil.; Phil. 16 foil.) 
 
 The doctrine of ideas, which has long ago received the assent of the 
 Socratic circle, is now affirmed by the Phliasian auditor to command the 
 assent of any men of sense. The narrative is continued ; Socrates is 
 desirous of explaining how opposite ideas may appear to co-exist but do 
 not really co-exist in the same thing or person. For example, Simmias 
 may be said to have greatness and also smallness, because he is greater 
 than Socrates and less than Phaedo. And yet Simmias is not really 
 great and also small, but only when compared to Phaedo and Socrates. 
 I use the illustration, says Socrates, because I want to show youjiot 
 only that ideal opposites exclude one another, but also the opposites in 
 us. I, for example, having the attribute of smallness remain small, and 
 cannot become great : the smallness in me drives out greatness. 
 
 One of the company here remarked that this was inconsistent with 
 the old assertion that opposites generated opposites. But that, replies 
 Socrates, was affirmed, not of opposite ideas either in us or in nature, 
 but of opposite things— not of life and death, but of individuals living and 
 dying. When this objection has been removed, Socrates proceeds : This 
 doctrine of the mutual exclusion of opposites is not only, true of the 
 opposites themselves, but of things which are inseparable from them. ,| 
 
INTRODUCTION. 387 
 
 \ 
 
 For example, cold and heat are opposed ; and fire, which is inseparable 
 from heat, cannot co-exist with cold, or* snow, which is inseparable 
 from cold, with heat. ,Again, the number three excludes the number 
 four, because three is an odd number and four is an even number, 
 and the odd is opposed to the even. Thus we are ?ible to prpceed 
 a step beyond ' the safe and simple answer.' We may say, not 
 only that the fldd excludes the even, but that the number three, which 
 participates in oddness, excludes the even. And in like manner, not 
 only does life exclude death, but the soul, of which life is the in- 
 separable attribute, also excludes death. And that of which life is the 
 inseparable attribute is by the force of the terms imperishable. If 
 the odd principle were imperishable, then the number three would 
 not perish, but remove on the approach of the even principle. But 
 the immprtal is imperishable; and therefore the soul on the ap- 
 p;roach of death does not perish but removes. 
 
 Thus all abjections appear to be ftnally silenced. And now the 
 application has to be made: If the soul is immortal, 'what manner 
 of persons ought -we to be ?' having i;egard not ontly to time but to 
 eternity. !Fpr death is not the end of all, and the wicked is not 
 released from his evU ^iy death; but every one carries with him into 
 .the world below th3,t which he is and that .which he becoines, and 
 that only. 
 
 For after death the soul is carried away to judgment, and when she 
 has received her punishment returns to earth in the course of ages. 
 The- wise .soul is conscious of her situation, and follows the attendant 
 angel who guides her through the windings of the world below ; but 
 the impure soul wanders hither and thither without a g^ide, and is 
 carried at last to her own place, as the pure soul is also carried away 
 to hers. ' In order that you may understand this, I must first describe 
 to you the nature and conformation of the earth.' 
 
 Now the whole earth is a globe placed in the centre of the heavens, 
 and is maintained there by the perfection of balance. That which 
 we call the earth is only a small hollow, of which there are many ; but 
 the true earth is above, and is a finer and subtler element, and is 
 full of precious stones and bright colours, of which .the stones and 
 colours in our earth are but fragments and reflexions, and the earth 
 itself is corroded and crusted over just as the shore is by the sea. 
 And if, like birds, we could fly to the surface of the air, in the same 
 
 CC2 
 
388 PHAEDO. 
 
 manner that fishes come to the top of the sea, then we should behold 
 the true earth and the true heaven and the true stars. This heavenly 
 earth is of divers colours, sparkling with jewels brighter than gold 
 and whiter than any snow, having flowers and fruits innumerable. 
 And the inhabitants dwell some on the shore of the sea of air, others 
 in 'islets of the blest,' and they hold converse with the gods, and 
 behold the sun, moon ahd stars as they truly are, and their other 
 blessedness is of a piece with this. 
 
 But the interior of the earth has other and deeper hollows, and one 
 huge chasm or opening called Tartarus, into which vast streams of . 
 water and fire are ever flowing to and fro, of which small portions 
 find their way to the surface and form seas and rivers and volcanoes. 
 There is a perpetual inhalation and exhalation of the air rising and 
 falling as the waters pass into the depths of the earth and return 
 again, in their course forming lakes and rivers,- but never descending j 
 below the centre of the earth, ^he opposite side of which is a precipice 1. 
 to the rivers on both sides. These rivers are many and mighty, and 
 there are four principal ones, Oceanus, Acheron, Pyriphlegethon, and 
 Cocytus. Oceanus is the river which encircles the earth; Acheron 
 takes an opposite direction, and after flowing under the earth and 
 in desert places at last reaches the Acherusian lake, and this is the 
 river at which the dead await their return to earth. Pyriphlegethon is 
 a stream of fire, which coils around the earth and flows into the depths 
 of Tartarus. The fourth river (Cocytus) is that which is called by the 
 poets the Stygian river, and falls into, and forms the lake Styx, receiving ^ 
 strange powers in the waters. This river, too, falls into Tartarus. ' 
 
 The dead are first of all judged according to their deeds, and those 
 who are incurable are thrust into Tartarus, from which they never 
 come out. Those who have only committed venial sins are first 
 purified of them, and then rewarded for the good which they have 
 done. Those who have committed crimes, great indeed, but not un- 
 pardonable, are thrust into Tartarus, but are cast forth at the end of 
 the year on the shores of the rivers, where they stand crying to their 
 victims to let them come out, and if they prevail, then they are let I 
 out and their sufferings cease; if not, they are' borne in a ceaseless 
 whirl along the rivers of Tartarus. The pure souls also receive their 
 reward, and have their abode in the upper earth, and a select few 
 in still fairer ' mansions.' 
 
INTRODUCTION. 389 
 
 Socrates is not prepared to insist on the literal accuracy of this 
 description, but he is confident that soirPething of the . kind is true. 
 He who has sought after the pleasures of knowledge and rejected 
 the pleasures of the body, has reason to be of good hope at the 
 approach of death, whose voice is already heard caUing to him, and 
 will be heard calling by all men. 
 
 The hour has come at which he must drink the poison, and not 
 much remains to be done.- How shall they ' bury him ? That is a 
 question which he refuses to entertain, for they are not burying him, 
 but his dead body. His friends had once been sureties that he would 
 remain, and they shall now be sureties that he has run away. Yet 
 he would not die without the customary ceremonies of washing and 
 burial. Shall he make a libation of the poison ? In the spirit he 
 will, but not in the letter. One request he utters in the very act of 
 death, which has been a puzzle to after ages. ,The puzzle has. been 
 occasioned by the simplicity of. his words, for there is no reason to 
 suppose that they have any hidden meaning. With a sort of irony 
 he remembers that a trifling religious duty is still unfulfilled, just as 
 above (60 E) he is represented as desirous before he departs to make 
 a few verses in order to satisfy a scruple about the meaning of a 
 dream^ 
 
 1. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul has such a great 
 interest for all mankind that they are apt to rebel, against any exami- 
 nation 0/ the nature of their belief. They do not like to acknowledge 
 that this, as well as the other ' eternal ideas' of man, has a history in 
 time, which may be traced in Greek poetry or philosophy, and also in 
 the Hebrew Scriptures. They convert feeling into reasoning, and 
 throw a network of dialectics over that which is really a deeply-rooted 
 instinct. In the same temper which Socrates reproves in himself (91 B) 
 they are disposed to think that even bad arguments will clo no harm, 
 for they will die with them, and while they live they will gain by the 
 delusion. But there is a better and higher spirit to be gathered from 
 the Phaedo, as well as from the other writings of Plato, which says 
 
 g, that first principles should be most constantly reviewed (Phaed. 107 B), 
 and that the highest subjects demand of us the greatest accuracy 
 (Rep. vi. 504 E). 
 
 2. Modern philosophy is perplexed at this whc^e question, which 
 is sometimes fairly given up and handed over to the realm of faith. 
 
390 PHAEDO. 
 
 The perplexity should not be forgotten by us when we attempt to 
 submit the Phaedo of Plato to the requirements of logic. For what 
 idea can we form of the soul when separated from the body? Of 
 how can the soul be united with the body and still be independent? 
 Is the soul related to the body as the ideal to the real, or as the 
 whole to the parts, or as the subject to the object, or as the cause to 
 the effect, or as the end to the means? Shall we say with Aristotle, 
 that the soul is the entelechy or form of an organized living body? 
 or with Plato, that she has a life of her own? Is the Pythagorean 
 image of the harmony, or of the monad, the truer expression f Is the 
 soul related to the body as sight to the eye, or as the boatman to his 
 boat? (Arist. de Anim. ii. i, ii, 12.) And in another state of being is 
 the soul to be conceived of as vanishing into infinity, hardly possessing 
 an existence which she can call her own, as in the pantheistic sys- 
 tem of Spinoza and others ? or as an individual spirit informed with 
 another body and retaining the impress of her former character? 
 (Cp. Gorgias, 524 B, C.) Or is the opposition of soul and body a mere 
 illusion, and the true self neither soul nor body, but the union of the two 
 in the 'I' which is above them? And is death the assertion of this 
 individuality in the higher nature, and the falling away into nothingness 
 of the lower? Or are we vainly attempting to pass the boundaries 
 of human thought ? The body and the soul seem to be inseparable, 
 not only in fact, but in our ctSiiceptions of them ; and any philosophy 
 which too closely unites them, or too widely separates them, either in 
 this life or in another, disturbs the balance of human nature. Neither 
 Plato nor any other philosopher has perfectly adjusted them, or been 
 perfectly consistent with himself in describing their relation to one 
 another. 
 
 3. Again, believing in the immortality of the soul, we must still ask 
 the question of Socrates, '.what is that which we suppose to be immortal ?' 
 Is it the personal and individual element in us, or the Spiritual and 
 universal ? Is it the principle of knowledge or of goodness, or the union 
 of the two ? Is it the mere force of life which is determined to be, or 
 the consciousness of self which cannot be got rid of, or the fire of genius 
 which refuses to be extinguished ? Or is there a hidden being which 
 is allied to the Author of all existence, who is because he is perfect, 
 and to whom our ideas of perfection give us a tide to belong ? What- 
 ever answer is given by us to these questions, there still remains the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 391 
 
 necessity of allowing the permanence of evil, if not for ever, at any 
 rate for a time, in order that the wickedi ' may not have too good 
 a bargain.' For the annihilation of evil at death, or the eternal 
 duration of it, seem to involve equal diflficulties in the moral order of 
 the u|>iverse. Sometimes we are led by our feelings, rather than by 
 our reason, to think of the good and wise only as existing in another 
 life. Why should the mean, the weak, the idiot, the infant, the herd 
 of men who have never in any proper sense the use of reason, re- 
 appear with blinking eyes in the light of another world? But our 
 second thought is that the hope of humanity is a common one, and 
 that all or none have a right to immortality. Reason does not allow 
 us to suppose that we have any greater claims than others, and ex- 
 perience sometimes reveals to us unexpected flashes of the higher 
 nature in those whom we had despised. Such are some of the 
 distracting thoughts which press upon us when we attempt to assign 
 any form to our conceptions of a future state. 
 
 4. Again, ideas must be given through something ; and we are always 
 prone to argue about the soul from analogies of outward things which 
 may serve to embody our thoughts, but are also partly delusive. For 
 we cannot reason from the natural to the spiritual, or from the outward 
 to the inward. The progress of physiological science, without bringing 
 us nearer to the great secret, has perhaps tended to remove some 
 erroneous notions respefeting the relations of body and mind, and in 
 this we have the advantage of the ancients. But no one imagines that 
 any seed of immortality is to be discerned in our mortal frames. The 
 result seems to be that those who have thought most deeply on the 
 immortality of the soul, have been content to rest their belief on the 
 agreement of the more enlightened part of mankind, and on the in- 
 separable connection of such a doctrine with the existence of a God, 
 and our ideas of divine justice — also in a less degree on the impos- 
 sibility of thinking otherwise of those whom we reverence in this world. 
 And after all has been said, the figure, the analogy, the argument, 
 are felt to be only approximations in different forms to the expression 
 of the common sentiment of the human heart. 
 
 5. The Phaedo of Plato may also be regarded as a dialectical 
 approximation to the truth of immortality. Beginning m mystery,, 
 Socrates, in the intermediate part of the Dialogue, attempts to bring 
 the doctrine of a future life into connection with his theoiy of 
 
392 PHAEDO. 
 
 knowledge. In proportion as he succeeds in this,- the individual seems 
 to disappear in a more general notion of the soul ; the contem- 
 plation of ideas 'under the form of eternity' takes the place of 
 past and future states of existence. His language may be compared 
 to that of some modern philosophers, who speak of eternity, not irr 
 the sense of perpetual duration of time, but as an ever-present qualify 
 of the soul. Yet at the conclusion of the Dialogue, having 'arrived 
 at the end of the intellectual world' (Rep. vii. 532 B), he replaces the 
 veil of mythology, and describes the soul and her attendant genius in 
 the language of the mysteries or of a disciple of Zoroaster. Nor 
 can we fairly demand of Plato a consistency which is wanting among 
 ourselves, who acknowledge that another world is beyond the range 
 of human thought, and yet are always seeking to represent the mansions 
 of heaven or hell in the colours of the painter, or in the descriptions 
 of the poet or rhetorician. 
 
 6. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul was not new to the 
 Greeks in the age of Socrates, but, like the unity of God, had a foun- 
 dation in the popular belief. The old Homeric notion of a gibbering 
 ghost flitting away to Hades ; or of a few illustrious heroes enjoying 
 the isles of the blest ; or of an existence divided between the two ; or 
 the Hesiodic, of righteous spirits, who become guardian angels, — had 
 given place in the mysteries and the Orphic poets to representations, 
 partly fanciful, of a future state of rewards and punishments. (Laws, ix. 
 870.) The reticence of the Greeks on public occasions and in some 
 part of their literature respecting this ' underground' religion, is not to 
 be taken as a measure of the diffusion of such beliefs. If Pericles in 
 the funeral oration is silent on the consolations of immortality, the 
 poet Pindar and the tragedians on the other hand constantly assume 
 the continued existence of the dead in an upper or under world. 
 Darius and Laius are still alive ; Antigone will be dear to her brethren 
 after death ; the way to the palace of Cronos is found by those who 
 ' have thrice departed from evil.' The tragedy of the Greeks is not 
 • rounded ' by this hfe, but is deeply set in decrees of fate and mys- 
 terious workings of powers beneath the earth. In the caricatui^ of 
 Aristophanes there is also a witness to the common sentiment. The 
 Ionian and Pythagorean philosophies arose, and some new elements 
 were a:dded to the popular belief The individual must find an ex- 
 pression as well as the world. Either the soul was supposed to exist 
 
INTRODUCTION. 393 
 
 in the form of a magnet or of a .particle of firCj or light, or air, or 
 water; or of a number or of a harmony of number; or to be or have, 
 like the stars, a principle of motion (Arist. de Anim. i. i, 2, 3). At length 
 Ariaxagoras, hardly distinguishing between life and mind, or between 
 mind human and divine, attained the pure abstraction ; and this, 
 like the other abstractions of Greek philosophy, sank deep into the 
 human intelligence. The opposition of the intelligible and the sen- 
 sible, and of God to the world, supplied an analogy which assisted 
 in the separation of soul and body. If ideas were separable from 
 phenomena, mind was also separable from matter; if the ideas were 
 eternal, the mind that conceived them was eternal too. As the unity 
 of God was more distinctly acknowledged the conception of the human 
 soul became more developed. The succession, or alternation of life and 
 death, had occurred to Heracleitus. The Eleatic Parmenides had stum- 
 bled upon the modern thesis, that ' thought and being are the same.' 
 The eastern belief in transmigration defined the sense of individuality ; 
 and some, like Empedocles, fancied that the blood which they had 
 shed in another state of being was crying against them, and that for 
 thirty thousand years they were to be ' fugitives and vagabonds upon 
 the earth.' The desire of recognizing a lost love or friend in the world 
 below (Phaedo 68) is a natural feeling which, 'in that age as well 
 as in every other, has given distinctness to the hope of immortality. 
 Nor were ethical considerations wanting, partly derived from the ne- 
 cessity of punishing the greater sort of criminals, whom no avenging 
 power of this world could reach. The voice of conscience, too, was 
 heard reminding the good man that he was not altogether innocent. 
 (Rep. i. 330.) To these indistinct longings and fears an expression 
 was given in the mysteries and Orphic poets : a ' heap of books' 
 (Rep. ii. 364 E), passing under the names of Musaeus and Orpheus 
 in Plato's time were filled with notions of an under world. 
 
 7. Yet probably the belief in the individuality of the soul after death 
 had but a feeble hold on the Greek mind. Like the personality of 
 God, the personality of man in a future state was not inseparably 
 bound up with the reality of his existence. For the distinction be- 
 tween the personal and impersonal, and also between the divine and 
 human, was far less marked to the Greek than to ourselves. And 
 as Plato readily passes from the notion of the good to that of God, 
 he also passes almost imperceptibly to himself and his reader from 
 
394 PHAEDO. 
 
 the future life of the individual soul to the. eternal being of the 
 absolute soul. There has been a clearer statement and a clearer 
 denial of the belief in modern times than is found in early Greek 
 philosophy, and hence the comparative silence on the whole subject which 
 is often remarked in ancient writers, and particularly in Aristotie. For 
 Plato and Aristotle are not further removed in their teaching about 
 the immortality of the soul than they are in their theory of knowledge, 
 
 8. That in an age when logic was beginning to mould human 
 thought, Plato should have cast his beUef in immortality into a logical 
 form, is not surprising. And when we consider how much the docr. 
 trine of ideas was also one of words, we cannot wonder that he should 
 have fallen into verbal fallacies : early logic is always mistaking the 
 truth of the form for the truth of the matter. It is easy to see 
 that the alternation of opposites is not the same as the generation of 
 them out of each other ; and that the generation of them out of each 
 other, which is the first argument in the Phaedo, is at variance with 
 their mutual exclusion of each other, whether in themselves or in us, 
 which is the last. For even if we admit the distinctioQ. which he draws at 
 p. 103, between the opposites and the things which have the opposites, 
 still individuals fall under the latter class ; and we have to pass out of 
 the region of human hopes and fears to a conception of an abstract 
 soul which is the impersonation of the ideas. Such a conception, which 
 in Plato himself is but half expressed, is unmeaning to us, and relative 
 only to a particular stage in the history of thought. The doctrine of 
 reminiscence is also a fragment of a former world, which has no place 
 in the philosophy of modern times. But Plato had the wonders of 
 psychology just opening to him," and he had not the explanation of 
 them which is supplied by the analysis of language and the history of 
 the human mind. The question, ' Whence come our abstract ideas f ' 
 he could only answer by an imaginary hypothesis. Nor is it difficult 
 to see that his crowning argument is purely verbal, and is but the 
 expression of an instinctive confidence put into a logical form : — 'The 
 soul is immortal because it contains a principle of imperishableness.' 
 Nor does he himself seem at all to be aware that nothing is added 
 to human knowledge by his ' safe and simple answer,' that beauty 
 is the cause of the beautiful; and that he is merely reasserting 
 the Eleatic being ' divided by the Pythagorean numbers,' against the 
 Heracleitean doctrine of perpetual generation. The answer to the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 395 
 
 '^eiy serious quest-ion' of generation and destruction is really the 
 denial of thefti. For this he would substitute, as in the Republic, a 
 sy'stem of ideaSj tested not by experience, btit by their consequences, 
 and not exjplained by actual causes, but by a higher, that is, more 
 general notion: consistency with themsdves is all that is required of 
 them. (Rfep-. vi. 510 foil., and PhaedOj loi foil.) 
 
 9. To deal fairly with such arguments they should not only not be 
 sepstfated from the age to which they belong, but they Should be trans- 
 lated as far as possible into their modern equivalents. ' If the ideas of 
 men are eternal, their souls are eternal, and if not the ideas, then not 
 the souls,' Such an argument stands nearly in the same relation to 
 Plato and his age, as the argument from the existence of God to 
 iftlHiortality- among ourselves. ' If God exists, then the soul exists 
 after death; and if there is no God, there is no existence of the soul 
 after death.' For the ideas are to his mind the reality, the truth, the 
 principle of permanence, as well as -of mind and order in the world. 
 When Siflimias and Cebes say that they are more strongly persuaded 
 of the existence of ideas than they are of the immortality of the soul, 
 they represent fairly enough the order of thought in Greek philosophy. 
 And we might say in the same way that we are rnore certain of the 
 estistence of God than we are of the immortalits^ of the soiil, and are 
 led by the belief in the one to a belief in the other. The parallel, 
 as Socrates would say, is not perfect, but agrees in as far as the 
 mind in either case is regarded, as dependent on something above 
 and beyond herself. Nor need we shrink from ptesSing the analogy 
 one step further : ' We are more certain of t)ui' ideas of truth and 
 right than we are of the existence of God, and are led oh in the 
 order of thought from one to the other.' 
 
 10. The main arguttient of the Phaedo is derived frott the existence 
 of eternal ideas of which the soul is a partaker ; the othel- argument of 
 the alternation of opposites^is replaced by this. And there have hot been 
 Wanting philosophers of the idealist school Who iave imagined that the 
 dde&ine of the immortality of the soul is a theory of knowledge only, 
 and that in all that precedes Plato is preparing for this. Such a view is 
 far from lying on the surface of the Phaedo, and seems to be inconsistent 
 wi^ the Gorgias and the Republic. Those who maintain it are im- 
 mediately compelled to. renounce the shadow which they have' grasped, 
 as a' play of words only. But the truth is, that Plato in his argument for 
 
396 PHAEDO. 
 
 the immortality of the soul has collected many elements of proof or 
 persuasion, ethical and mythological as well as dialectical, which are not 
 easily to be reconciled with one another ; and he is as much in earnest 
 about his doctrine of retribution, which is repeated in all his more 
 ethical writings, as about his theory of knowledge. And while we may 
 fairly translate the dialectical into the language of Hegel, and the 
 religious and mythological into the language of Dante or Bunyan, the 
 ethical speaks to us still in the same voice, reaching across the ages. 
 
 11. Two arguments of this sort occur in the Phaedo. The first may 
 be described as the aspiration of the soul after another sort of being. 
 Like the Oriental or Christian ascetic, the philosopher is seeking to 
 withdraw from impurities of sense, to leave the world and the things 
 of the world, and to find his higher self. Plato recognizes in these 
 aspirations the foretaste of immortality; as Butler and Addison in 
 modern times have argued, the one from fhe moral tendencies of man- 
 kind, the other from the progress of the soul towards perfection. In 
 using this argument Plato has certainly confused the soul which has 
 left the body, with the sovd of the good and wise. (Cp. Rep. x. 6ii C.) 
 Such a confusion was natural, and arose partly out of the antithesis of 
 soul and body. The soul in her own essence, and the soul ' clothed 
 upon' with virtues ahd graces, were easily interchanged with one an- 
 other, because on a subject which passes expression the distincticsis 
 of language can hardly be maintained. - " 
 
 12. The other ethical proof of the immortality of the soul is derived 
 from the necessity of retribution. The wicked would be too well off if 
 their evil deeds came to an end. It is 'not to be supposed that an 
 Ardiaeus, an Archelaus, an Ismenias could ever have suffered the penalty 
 of their crimes in this world. The manner in which this retribution is 
 accomplished Plato represents under the-figure of mythology. Doubtless 
 he felt that it was easier to improve than to invent, and that in religion 
 especially the traditional form was required in order to give verisimili- 
 tude to the myth. Th^ myth too is far more probable to that age than 
 to ours, and may fairly be regarded as ' one guess among many ' about 
 the nature of the earth, which he cleverly supports by the indications of 
 geology. Not that he insists on the absolute truth of his own particular 
 notions : ' no man of sense will be confident of that ; but he will be con- 
 fident that something of the kind is true ' (i 14 D). As in other passages 
 (Gorg. 537 A, Tim. 29 D; cp. Crito 107 B), he wins belief for his 
 
INTRODUCTION. 397 
 
 fictions by the moderation of his statements ; he does not, like Dante or 
 Swedenborg, allow himself to be deceived byliiis own creations. 
 
 The Dialogue must be read in the light of the situation. And first of 
 all we are struck by the calmness of the scene. Like the spectators at 
 the time, we cannot pity Socrates ; his mien and his language are so noble 
 and fearless. He is the same as he -ever was, but milder and gentler, 
 and he has in no degree lost his interest in dialectics ; the arg^ument is 
 the greatest gain to him, and he will not forego the delight of it in com- 
 pliance with the jailer's intimation that he should not heat himself with 
 talking. Some other traits of his character may be noted ; for example, 
 the courteous manner in which he inclines his head to the last objector, 
 or the ironical touch, 'Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the 
 voice of fate calls ;' or the depreciation of the arguments with which ' he 
 comforted himself and them ;' or the allusion to the possibility of finding 
 another teacher among barbarous races (cp. Polit. 262 D); or the mys- 
 terious reference to another science (mathematics?) of generation and 
 destruction for which he is vainly feeling. There is no change in him ; 
 only now he is invested with a sort of sacred character, as the prophet 
 or priest of Apollo the God of the festival, in whose honour he first of 
 all composes a hymn, and then like the swan pours forth his dying lay. 
 Perhaps the extreme elevation off Socrates above this- own situation, and 
 the ordinary interests of life (compare his jeu d' esprit^ about his burial) 
 create in the mind of the reader an impression stronger than could be 
 derived from arguments that such an one, in his own language, has in 
 him ' a principle which does not admit of death.' 
 
 The other persons of the Dialogue may be considered under two 
 heads : (i) private friends ; (2) the respondents in the argjument. 
 
 First there is Crito, who has been already introduced to us in the 
 Euthydemus and the Crito; he is the equal in years of Socrates, and 
 stands in quite a different relation to him from his younger disciples. 
 He is a man of the world who is rich and prosperous (cp. the jest in 
 the Euthydemus 304 C), the best friend of Socrates, who wants to know 
 his last commands, in whose presence he talks to his family, and who 
 performs the last duty of closing his eyes. It is observable too that, as 
 in the Euthydemus, Crito shows no aptitude for philosophical discussions. 
 Nor among the friends of Socrates must the jailer be forgotten, who 
 seems to have been introduced by Plato in order to show the impression 
 made by the extraordinary man on the conjmon. The gentle nature of 
 
39^ PHAEDO, 
 
 the man is indicated by his weeping at the announcement of his errand 
 and then turning away, and also by the words of Socrates to his dis- 
 ciples : ' How charming the man is ! since I have been in prison he was 
 always coming to me, and has been as good as could be to me ' We 
 are reminded too that he has retained this gentle nature amid scenes 
 of death and violence by the contrasts which he draws between the 
 behaviour of Socrates and of others whep about to die. 
 
 AAOther person who takes no part in the philosophical discussion .is 
 the excitable Apollodorus, the same who, in the Symposium, of which he 
 is the narrator, is called ' the madman,' and who testifies his grief by the 
 most violent emotions. Phaedo is also present, the 'beloved disciple' as he 
 may be termed, who is described, if iiot ' leaning on his bosom,' as seated 
 jiext to Socrates, who is playing with his hair. At a particular point ^thg 
 argument is described as fa.lling before the attack of Simmias. A sort 
 of ,desp,air is introduced in the ininds of the company. The eflfect 
 of this is heightened by the description of Phaedo, who has been t|ie 
 •eye-witness of the scene, and by tjhe sympathy of Ws Phliasian au- 
 ditors who are beginning to think 'that they too can never trust an 
 argument again.' Like ApoUodorus, Phaedo himself takes no part in 
 the .argument. But the calmnes.s of ;his behaviour, ' -veiling his face ' 
 when he can no longer contain his tears, contrasts with the passionate 
 cries of the other. 
 
 The two principal intedoQUtors are Simmias and Cebes, the disciples 
 of Philolaus the Pythagorean philosopher of Thebes. Simmias is 
 described in the Phaedrus (242 B) as fpnder of an argument than any 
 man Uving; and Cebes, although filially persuaded by Socrates,, iS said 
 to be the most incredulous of human beings.- It is Cebes who at the 
 commencement of the Dialogue raises the question why ' suicide is un- 
 lawful,' and who first supplies the doctrine of recollection as a con- 
 firmation of the argument of the pre-existence of the soul. It is Cebes 
 who urges that the pre-existence does not necessarily involve the future 
 existence of the soul, and who brings forward the argimient of the 
 weaver and his coat. To Simmias, on the other hand, is attributed .the 
 fiotion that the soul is a harmony, which is naturally put into the mouth 
 of a Pythagorean disciple. ' It i^ Simmias, too, who first remarks oh the 
 uncertainty of human knowledge, and only at last coiicedes to the argu- 
 ment such a qualified apprpval as is consistent with the, feebleness of the 
 human faculties. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 399 
 
 There is no proof that the conversation was ever actually held, 
 ind the place of the Dialogue in the series is doubtful. The doctrine 
 Df ideas is certainly carried beyond the Socratic point of view ; in no 
 other of the writings of Plato is the theory of them so completely 
 developed. Whether the belief in immortality can be attributed to 
 Socrates or not is uncertain; the silence of the Memorabilia, and of 
 the earlier Dialogues of Plato, is an argument to the contrary. Yet in 
 the Cyropaedia Xenophon (viii. 7, 19 foil.) has put language into the 
 mouth of the dying Cyrus which recalls the Phaedo, and may perhaps 
 have been derived from the teaching of Socrates. 
 
 The Phaedo, as has been already intimated, is not one of the Socratic 
 Dialogues of Plato ; nor, on the other hand, can it be assigned to that 
 later period of the Platonic writings at which the ideas appear to be 
 forgotten. Without pretending to determine the real time of compo- 
 sition, the Meno, Euthyphro, Apology, Phaedo, Symposium may be con- 
 veniently read by us in this order as illustrative of the life of Socrates. 
 Another chain may be formed of the Meno, Phaedo, Phaedrus in which 
 the immortality of the soul is connected with the doctrine of ideas. In 
 the Meno the theory of ideas is based on the ancient beUef in trans- 
 migration, which reappears again iij the Phaedrus as well as in the 
 RepubUc and Timaeus, and in all of them is coniiexited with a doctrine 
 of retribution. In the Phaedrus the immortality of the soul is supposed 
 to rest on the conception of the soul as a principle of motion, whereas 
 in the Republic the argument turns on the natural continuance of the 
 soul, which, if not destroyed by her own proper evil, can hardly be 
 destroyed by any other. The soul of man in the Timaeus (42 foil.) ^^ 
 is derived from the Supreme Creator, and either returns after death 
 to her kindred star, or descends into the lower life of an animal. 
 The Apology expresses the same view as the Phaedo, but with less 
 confidence ; the probability of death being a, long sleep is not excluded. 
 The Theaetetus also describes, in a digression, the desire of th^ soul 
 to fly away and be with God — ' and to fly to him is to be like him ' 
 (176 B). Lastly, the Symposium may be observed to resemble as well 
 as to differ from the Phaedo. While the first notion of immojtality is 
 only in the way of natural procreation or of posthumous fame and glory, 
 the higher vision of beauty, like the good in the RepubUc, is the vision 
 of the eternal idea. So deeply rooted in Plato's mind is the beUef in 
 immortality ; so various are the forms of expression which he employs. 
 
400 PHAEDO. 
 
 Some elements of the drama may be noted in all the Dialogues 
 of Plato. The Phaedo is the tragedy of which Socrates is the pro- 
 tagonist and Simmias and Cebes the secondary performers. No 
 Dialogue has a greater unity of subject and feeling. Plato has cer- 
 tainly fulfilled the condition of Greek, or rather of all art, which requires 
 that scenes of death and suffering should be clothed in beauty. The 
 gathering of .the friends at the commencement of the Dialogue, the 
 dejection of the audience at the temporary overthrow of the argument, 
 the picture of Socrates playing with the Hair of Phaedo, the final scene 
 in which Socrates alone retains his composure—- are masterpieces of art. 
 The chorus at the end might have interpreted the feeling of the play : 
 ' There can no evil happen to a good man in Ufe or death.' 
 
PHAEDO. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Fhaedo, 'wi>o is the narrator of APOLLODORUS. 
 
 the Jiialogue to SiMMIAS. 
 
 ECHECR-lTES o/Phlius. CeBES. 
 
 Socrates. 'jBixar- 
 
 Attendant of the Prison. 
 
 Scene : — The Prison of Socrates, 
 Place of the Narration : — Phlius. 
 
 I. Echecrates. Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with 
 Socrates on the day when he drank the poison ? 
 Phaedo. Yes, Echecrates, I was. 
 
 Ech. I wish that you would tell me about his death. What did he 
 say in his last hours ? We were informed that he died by taking 
 poison, but no one knew anything more ; for no, Phliasian ever 
 goes to Athens now, and a long time has elapsed since any 
 -Athenian found his way to Phlius, and therefore we had no clear 
 account. ' 
 I Phaed. Did you not hear of the proceedings at the trial ? 
 
 Ech. Yes ; some one told us about the trial, and we could not 
 understand why, having been condemned, he was put to deathj as 
 appeared, not at the -time, but long afterwards. What was the 
 reason of this ? 
 
 Phaed. An accident, Echecrates. The reason was that the stern 
 of the ship which the Athenians send to Delos happened to have 
 be^ crowned on the day before he was tried. 
 Eeh. What is this ship ? 
 
 Phaed. This is the ship in which, as the Athenians say, Theseus 
 went to Crete when he took with him the fourteen youths, and 
 
 Dd 
 
402 PHAEDO. , I 
 
 was the saviour of them and of himself. And they were said to have 
 vowed to Apollo at the time, that if they were saved they; would 
 make an annual pilgrimage to Delos. Now this custom still con- 
 tinues, and the whole period of the voyage to and from Delos, 
 beginning when the priest of Apollo crowns the stern of the ship, 
 is a holy season, during which the city is not allowed to be 
 polluted by. public executions ; and often, when the vessel is 
 detained by adverse winds, ther£ may be a very considerable delay. 
 As I was saying, the ship was crowned on the day before the trial, 
 and this was the reason why Socrates lay in prison and was not 
 put to deatb until long after he was condemned. 
 
 Bch. What was the manner of his death, Phaedo ? What was. 
 said or done ? And which of his friends had he with him ? Or 
 were they not allowed by the authorities to be present? And did 
 he die alone ? 
 
 Fhaed. No ; there were several of his friends with him. 
 
 Ech. If you_^ ve not hing: to d o. I wish that you would tell me 
 what passed, as exacHy as you can- 
 
 Fhaed. I have nothing to do, and will try to gratify your wish. 
 For to me too there is no greater pleasure than to have Socrates 
 brought to my recoll^tionj whether I speak myself or hear 
 another speak of him. 
 
 Ech. You will have listeners who are of the same mind with j 
 you, and I hope that you will be as exact as you can. ' \ 
 
 Fhaed. I femember the strange feeling which came over me at 
 being with him. ' For I could hardly believe that I was present at 
 the death of a friend, and therefore I did not pity him, Echecratesj 
 his mien and his language were so noble and fearless in the hour 
 of death that to me he appeared blessed. I thought that in going 
 to the other world he could not be without a divine call, and that 
 he would be happy, if any man ever was, when he arrived there j 59 
 and therrforfe I did hot pity him as might seem natursd at such 
 a, time. But neither could I feel the pleasure which I usually felt in 
 philosophi-Cal discourse (for philosophy was the theme of which we 
 spefce). I was pleased and I was also pained, because I knew that 
 he was soon to die, and this strange mixture of feeling was shared 
 by us all ; we were laughing and weeping by turhs, especially the 
 excitable ApoUodorus^-you know the sort of man ? 
 
 Ech. Yes. 
 
PHAEDO. 403 
 
 Phaed, He was quite overcome; and I mySelf, and all of us 
 »rere greatly moved. * 
 
 Ech. Who were present ? 
 
 Phaed. Of native Athenians there were, besides ApoUodoruSj 
 Critobulus and his father Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, 
 md *Antisthenes j likewise Ctesippus of the deme pf Paeania, 
 Menexenus, and some others j but Plato, if I am not mistaken, 
 was ill. 
 
 £ft&. Were there any strangers ? 
 
 Phaed. Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and Cebes, and 
 Phaedondes ; Euclid and Teipsion, who came from Megara. 
 
 Ech. And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus? 
 
 Phaed- No, they were said to be in Aegiha. 
 
 Ech. Any one else ? 
 
 Phaed. I think that these were about all. 
 
 Ech. And what was the discourse of which you spoke ? 
 
 Phaed. I will begin at the beginning, and endeavour to repeat 
 the entire conversation. You must understand that we had been 
 previously in the habit of assembling early in the morning at the 
 court in which the trial was held, and which is not far from the' 
 prison. There we remained talking With one another until the 
 opening of the prison doors (for they were not opened very early), 
 and then went in and generally passed the day with Socrates. On 
 the last morning the meeting was earlier than usual ; this was 
 owing to our having heard on the previous evening that the sacred 
 ship had arrived from Delos, and therefore we agreed to meet very 
 early at the accustomed place. On our going to the prison, the jailer 
 who answered the door, instead of admitting us, caine out and 
 bade us wait and he would call us. ' For the eleven,^ he said, 
 ' are now with Socrates ; they are taking ofF his chains, and giving 
 orders that he is to die to-day.' He soon returned and said that 
 we might come in. On entering we found Socrates 'just released 
 from chains, and Xanthippe, whom you know, sitting by him, and 
 holding his child in her arms. When she saw us she uttered a cry 
 and said, as women will : ' O Socrates, this is the last time that 
 either you will converse with your friends, or they with you.' 
 Socrates turned to Crito and said : ' Crito, let some one take her 
 home,' Some of Crito's people accordingly led her away, crying 
 out and beating herself. And when she was gone, Socrates, sitting 
 
404 PHAEDO. 
 
 up on the couch, began to bend and rub his leg, saying; as he 
 rubbed : How singular is the thing called pleasure, and how curi- 
 ously related to pain, which might be thought to ,be the opposite of 
 it J for they never come to a man together, and yet he who pursues 
 either of them is generally compelled to take the other. They are 
 two, and yet they grow together out of one head or stem; and I 
 cannot help thinking that if Aesop had noticed them, he would 
 have made a fable about God trying to reconcile their strife, and 
 when he could not, he fastened their heads together ; and this is 
 the reason why when ohe comes the other followSj as I find in ray 
 own case pleasure comes following after the pain in my leg which 
 was caused by the chain. 
 
 Upon this Cebes said : I am very glad indeed, Socrates, tfcat you 
 mentioned the name of Aesop. For that reminds me of a question 
 which has been asked by others, and was asked of me only the 
 day before yesterday by Evenus the poet, and as he will be sure to 
 ask again, you may as well' tell me what I should say to him, if 
 you would like him to have an answer. He wanted to know why 
 you who never before wrote a line of poetry, now that you are in 
 • prison are putting Aesop into verse, and also composing that hymn 
 in honour of Apoljo. 
 
 Tell him, Cebes, he replied, that I had no idea of rivalling him 
 or his poems j which is the truth, for I knew that I could not do 
 that. But I wanted to see whether I could purge away a scruple 
 which I felt about certain dreams. In the course of my life I have 
 often had intimations in dreams 'that I should make music' 
 The same dream came to me sometimes in one form, and some- 
 times in another, but always saying the same or nearly the same 
 words: Make and cultivate music, said the dream. And hitherto 
 I had imagined that this was only intended to exhort and encourage 
 me in the study of philosophy, which has always been the pursuit 6i 
 of my life, and is the noblest and best of music. The dream was 
 bidding me do what I was already doing, in the same way that 
 the comp'etitor in a race is bidden by the spectators to run when 
 he is already running. But I was not certain of this, as the dream 
 might have meant music in the popular sense of the word, and 
 being under sentence of death, and the festival giving me a respite, 
 I thought that I should be safer if I satisfied the scruplpj and, in 
 obedience to the dream, composed a few verses before I departed. 
 
PHAEDO. 405 
 
 And first I made a hymn in honour of Jfie god of the festival, and 
 then considering that a poet, if he is really to be a poet or maker, 
 should not only put words together but make stories, arid as I have 
 no invention, I took some fables of Aesop, which I had ready at 
 hand and knew, and turned them into verse. Tell Evenus this, 
 and bid him be of good cheer j say that I would have him come 
 ' after me if he be a wise man, and not tarry j and that to-day I am 
 likely to be going, for the- Athenians say that I must. 
 
 Simmias said : What a message for such a man ! having been a 
 frequent companion of his I should say that, as far as I know him, 
 he will never take your advice unless he is obliged. 
 
 Why, said Socratfes. Is not Evenus a philosopher ? 
 
 I think that he is, said Simmias. 
 
 Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be 
 willing to die, though he will not take his own life, for that is held 
 not to be right. 1 
 
 Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on 
 to the ground, and during the rest of the conversation he remained 
 sitting. 
 
 Why do you say, inquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his " 
 own life, but that the philosopher will be ready to follow the dying ? 
 
 Socrates replied : And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are 
 acquainted with Philolaus, never heard him speak of this ? , 
 
 I never understood him, Socrates. . 
 " My words, too, are only an echo ; but I am very willing to say ■ 
 what I have heard: and indeed, as I am going to another place, I- 
 ought to be thinking and talking of the nature of the pilgrimage ' 
 which I am about to make. What can I do better in the interval 
 between this and the setting of the sun ? 
 ' Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held not to be right ? as I ' 
 have certainly heard Philolaus affirm when he was staying with us . 
 at Thebes j a;nd there are others who say the same, although none 
 62 of them has ever made me understand him. 
 
 But do your best, replied Socrates, and the day may come when 
 you will understand. I suppose that you wonder -why, as most 
 things which are evil may be accidentally good, this is to be the 
 only exception (for may not death, too, be better than life in some 
 cases?), and -why, when a man is better dead, he is not permitted, 
 to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the hand of another. 
 
4o6 PHAEDO. 
 
 By Jupiter ! yes, indeed, said Cebes laughing, and speaking^ in his 
 native Doric. . 
 
 I admit the appearance of inconsistency, replied Socrates ; but 
 there may not be any real inconsistency after all in this. There 
 is a doctrine uttered in secret that man is a prisoner who has no 
 right to open the door of his prison and run away j this is a great 
 mystery which I do not quite understand. Yet I too believe that 
 the gods are our guardians, and that we are a possession of theirs. 
 Do you not agree ? 
 
 Yes, I agree to that, said Cebes. 
 
 And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example, 
 took the liberty of putting himself out of the way when you had 
 given no intimation of your wish that he should die, would you 
 not be angry with him, and would you not punish him if you 
 could ? 
 
 Certainly, replied Cebes. 
 
 Then there may be reason in saying that a man should wait, and 
 not take his own life until God summons him, as he is now sum- 
 moning me. 
 
 Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there is surely reason in that. And 
 yet how can you reconcile this seemingly true belief that God is 
 our guardian and we his possessions, with that willingness to die 
 which we were attributing to the philosopher ? That the wisest of 
 men should be willing to leave this service in which they are ruled 
 by the gods who are the best of rulers, is not reasonable, for surely 
 nowise man thinks that when set at liberty he can , take better 
 care of himself than the gods take of \i\m. A fool may perhaps 
 think this — he may argue that he had better run away from 
 his master, not considering that his duty is to remain to the end, 
 and not to run away from the good, and that there is no sense in 
 his running away. But the wise man will want to be ever with him 
 who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse of 
 what was just now said ; for upon this view the wise man should 
 sorrow and the fool rejoice at passing out of life. 
 
 The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, 63 
 said he, turning to us, is a man who is always inquiring, and is 
 not to be convinced all in a moment, nor by every argument. 
 
 And in this case, added Simmias, his objection does appear to 
 me to halve some force. For what can be the meaning of a truly 
 
PHAEDO. 407 
 
 y ~ ■ ~ 
 
 wise man wanting to fly away and lightly leave a master who 
 is better than himself. And I rather imagine that Cebes is re- 
 ferring to you; he thinks that you are too ready to leave us, 
 and too ready to leave the gods who, as you acknowledge, are 
 our good rulers. / 
 
 Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in that. And this in- 
 dictment you think that I ought to answer as if I were in 
 court ? 
 
 That is what we should like, said Simmias. 
 _ Then I must try to make a better impression upon you than 
 ' I did when defending myself before the judges. For I am 
 quite ready to acknowledge, Simmias and Cebes, that I ought 
 to be grieved at death, if I were not persuaded that I am 
 going to other gods who are wise and good (of this I am 
 as certain as I can be of anything of the sort), and to men 
 departed (though I am, not so certain of this) who are better 
 than those whom I leave behind; and therefore I do not grieve 
 as I might have done, for I have good hope that there is yet 
 something remaining for the dead, and as has been said of old, 
 some far better thing for the good than for the evil. 
 
 But do you mean, to take away your thoughts with you, 
 Socrates, said Simmias? Will you not communicate them to 
 us ? — the benefit is one in which we too may hope to share. 
 Moreover, if you succeed in convincing us, that will be an 
 answer to the charge against yourself. 
 
 Iwill do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let 
 me hear what Critd wants; he was going to say something 
 to me. 
 
 Only this, Socrates, replied Crito:— the attendant who is, to 
 give you the poison has been telling me that you are not to 
 talk much, and he wants me to let you know this; for that 
 by talking, heat is increased, and this interferes with the action 
 of the poison; those who excite themselves are sometimes 
 obliged to drink the poison'two or three times. ;^..''■'V• 
 I Then, said Socrates, let him m ind his busij ipss and be prepared 
 to give the poison two or three times, if necessary ; that is alli, 
 
 I was almost certain that you would say that, replied Crito; 
 but I was obliged to satisfy him. 
 
 Never mind him, he said. 
 
4o8 PHAEDO. 
 
 And now I will make answer to you, O my judges, and 
 show that he who has lived as a true philosopher has reason to 
 be of good cheer when he is about to die, and- that after 64 
 death he may hope to receive the greatest good in the other, 
 world. And how this may be, Simmias and Cebes, I will en- 
 deavour to explain. For I deem' that the true disciple of philo- 
 sophy is likely to be misunderstood by other men ; they do not 
 perceive that he is ever pursuing death and dying; and if this 
 is true, why, having had the desire of death all his life long, 
 should he repine at the arrival of that which he has been always 
 pursuing and desiring ? 
 
 Simmias laughed and said : Though not in a laughing humour, 
 I swear that I cannot help laughing, when I think what the 
 wicked world will say when they hear this. They will say 
 that this is very true, and our people at home will agree with 
 them in saying that the life which philosophers desire is truly 
 death, and that they have found them out to be deserving of 
 the death which they desire. 
 
 And they are right, Simmias, in saying this, with the ex- 
 ception of the words 'they have found them out;' for they 
 have not found out what is the nature of this death which the 
 true philosopher desires, or how he deserves or desires death. 
 But let us leave them and have a word with ourselves: Do 
 we believe that there is such a thing as death ? 
 
 To be sure, replied Simmias. 
 
 And is this anything but the separation of soul and body? 
 And being dead is the attainment of this separation when the 
 soul exists in herself, and is parted from the body and the body 
 is parted from the soul — that is death ? 
 
 Exactly : that and nothing else, he replied. 
 
 And what do you say of another question, my friend, about 
 which I should like to have your opinion, and the answer to 
 which will probably throw light on our present inquiry: Do 
 you think that the philosopher ought to care about the pleasures 
 — if they are to be called pleasures — of eating and drinking ? 
 
 Certainly not, answered Simmias. 
 
 And what do you say of the pleasures of love — should he care 
 about them ? 
 
 By no means. 
 
PHAEDO. 409 
 
 ' ' !v 1 
 
 And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the 
 body, for example, the acquisition of (f»stly raiment, or sandals 
 or Qther adornments of the body? Instead of caring about them, 
 does he not rather despise anything more than nature needs ? 
 What do you say ? jfgt' 
 
 I should say that the true.philfisfpher would despise them. 
 
 Would you not say that he is i^tirely concerned with the soul 
 and not with the body? He would like, as far as he can, to. 
 be quit of the body and turn to the soul. 
 
 That is true. 
 
 In matters of this sort philosophers, above all other men, may 
 be observed in every sort of way to dissever the soul from the body. 
 Ig That is true. 
 
 Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of opinion that 
 a life which has no bodily pleasures and no part in them is not 
 worth having j but that he who thinks nothing of bodily pleasures 
 is almost as though he were dead. 
 
 That is quite true. 
 
 What again shall we say of the actual acquirement of know- 
 ledge ? — 'is the body, if invited to share in the inquiry, a hinderer 
 or a helper? I mean to. say, have sight and hearing any truth 
 in them? Are they not, as the poets are always telling us, in- 
 accurate witnesses? and yet, if even they are inaccurate and 
 indistinct, what is to be said of the other senses ? — for you will 
 allow that they are the best of them ? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 Then when does tiie soul attain truth ? — for in attempting to con- 
 sider anything in company with the body she is obviously deceived. 
 
 Yes, that is true. 
 
 Then must not existence be revealed to her in thought, if at all ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Andthought is Jbest when the mind is gathered into herself and 
 
 none of these things trouble her — neither, sounds nor sights nor 
 
 pain nor any pleasure, — rwhen she has as little as possible to do 
 
 I with the body, and has no bodily sense or feeling, but is aspiring 
 
 after being? , . .,j.,s,!,. 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And in this the philosopher dishonours the bodyj his soul runs 
 away from the body and desires to be alone and by herself? 
 
4IO PHAEDO. 
 
 That is true. 
 
 Well, but there is another thing, Simmias : Is there or is there 
 not aa^absolute justice ? 
 
 Assuredly there is. 
 
 And an absolute l^eauty and absolute good ? 
 
 Of course. v 
 
 But did you ever behold any of them with your eyes ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily sense ? (and 
 I speak not of these alone^ but of absolute greatness, and health, 
 and strength, and of the essence or true nature of everything). 
 Has the reality of them ever been perceived by you through the 
 bodily organs? or rather, is not the nearest approach to the 
 knowledge of their several natures made by him who so orders 
 his intellectual vision as to have the most exact conception of 
 the essence of that which he considers ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And he attains to the knowledge of them in their highest 
 purity who goes to each of them with the mind alone, not allow- 
 ing when in the act of thought the intrusion or introduction of 66 
 sight or any other sense in the company of reason, but with the 
 very light of the mind in her clearness penetrates into the very 
 light of truth in each; he has got rid, as far as he can, of 
 eyes and ears and of the whole body, which he conceives of 
 only as a disturbing element, hindering the soul from the ac- 
 quisition of knowledge when in company with her — ^is not 
 this the sort of man who, if ever man did, is likely to attain 
 the knowledge of existence ? 
 
 There is admirable truth in that, Socrates, replied Simmias. ,_ 
 
 And when they consider all this, must not true philosophers 
 make a reflection, of which they will speak to one another in 
 such words as these : We have found, they will say, a path of 
 speculation which seems to bring us and the argument to the 
 conclusion, that while we are in the body, and while the soul 
 is mingled with this mass of evil, our desire will not be satisfied, 
 arid our desire is of the truth. For the body is a source of endless 
 trouble to us by reason of the mere requirement of food ; and 
 also is liable to diseases which overtake and impede us in 
 the search after- truth: and by filling us as* full of loves, and 
 
PHAEDO. 411 
 
 lusts, and fears, and fancies, and idols, and every sort of folly, 
 prevents our ever having, as people say,* so much as a thought. 
 For whence come wars, and fightings, and factions ? when^g but 
 from the body and the lusts of the body ? For wars are occasioned 
 by the love of money, and money has to be acquired for the sake 
 and in the service of the bodyj and in consequence of all these 
 things the time which ought to be given to philosophy is lost. 
 Moreover, if there is time and an inclination towards philosophy, 
 yet the body introduces a turmoil and confusion and fear into 
 the course of speculation, and hinders us from seeing the truth j 
 and all experience shows that if we would have pure knowledge 
 of anything we must be quit of the body, and the soul in her- 
 self must behold all things in themselves : then, I suppose, that 
 we shall attain that which we desire, and of which we say that 
 we are lovers, and that is wisdom j not while we live, but after 
 death, as the argument shows; for if while in company with 
 the body, the soul cannot have pure knowledge, one of two 
 things seems to follow — either knowledge is not to be attained 
 at all, or, if at all, after death. For then, and not till then, the 
 soul will be in herself alone and without the body. In this 
 present life, I reckon that we make the nearest ^approach to 
 knowledge when we have the least possible concern or interest 
 in the body, and are not saturated with the bodily nature, but 
 remain pure until the h6ur when God himself is pleased to re- 
 lease us. And then the foolishness of the body will be cleared 
 away and we shall be pure and hold converse with other pure 
 souls, and know of ourselves the clear light everywhere ; and this 
 is surely the light of truth. For no impure thing is allowed to 
 approach the pure. These are {he sort of words, Simmias, which 
 the true lovers of wisdom cannot help saying to one another, 
 and thinking. You will agree with me in that ? 
 
 Certainly, Socrates. 
 
 But if this is true, O my friend, then there is great hope that, 
 going whither I go, I shall there be satisfied with that which has 
 been the chief concern of you and me in our past lives. And now 
 that the hour of departure is appointed to me, this is the hope 
 with which I depart, and not I only, but every man who believes 
 that he has his mind purified. 
 
 Certainly, replied Simmias. 
 
412 PHAEDO. 
 
 And what is purification but the separation of the soul from the 
 body, as I v/as saying before ; the habit of the soul gathering and 
 collecting herself into herself, out of all the courses of the body j 
 the dwelling in her own place alone, as in another life, so also in 
 this, as far as she can j — the release of the soul from the chains of 
 the body ? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 And what is that which is termed death, but this very separaticJa 
 and release of the soul from the body? 
 
 To be sure, he said. 
 
 And the true philosophers, and they only, study and are eager 
 to release the soul. Is not the separation and release of the soul 
 from the body their especial study ? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And, as I was saying at first, there would be a ridiculous con- 
 tradiction in men studying to live as nearly as they can in a state 
 of death, and yet repining when death comes. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Then Simmias, as the true philosophers are ever studying death, 
 to them, of all men, death is the least terrible. Look at the 
 matter in this way : — ^how inconsistent of them to have been always 
 enemies of the body, and wanting to have the soul alone, and 
 when this is granted to them, to be trembling and repining; 
 instead of rejoicing at their departing to that place where, when 
 they arrive, they hope to gain that which in life they loved (and 68 
 this was wisdom), and at the same time to be rid of the company 
 of their enemy. Many a man has been willing^to go to the world 
 below in the hope of seeing there an earthly love, or wife, or son, 
 and conversing with them. AniJ will he who is a, true lover. of 
 wisdom, and is persuaded in like manner that only in the woiM 
 below he can worthily enjoy her, still repine at death? Will he 
 not depart with joy ? Surely, he will, my friend, if he be a true 
 philosopher. For he will have a firm conviction that there only, 
 and nowhere else, he can find wisdom in her purity. And if this be ,, 
 true, he would be very absurd, as Iwas saying, if he were to fear , 
 death. ' • | 
 
 He would indeed, replied Simmias. 
 
 And when you see a man who is repining at the approach of 
 death, is not his reluctance a sufficient proof that he is- not a lover 
 
PHAEDO. . 413 
 
 )f wisdom, but a lover of the body, and probably at the same 
 ime a lover of either money or poiyer, or Both ? 
 
 That is very true, he replied. 
 
 There is a virtue, Simmias, which is named courage. Is not 
 hat a special attribute of the philosopher ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Again, there is temperance. Is not the calm, and control, and 
 lisdain of the passions which even the many call temperance, a 
 luality belonging only to those who despise the body, and live in 
 jhilosophy ? 
 
 That is not to be denied. 
 
 For the courage and temperance of other men, if you will 
 consider them, are really a contradiction. 
 
 How is that, Socrates ? 
 
 Well, he said, you are aware that death is regarded by men in 
 general as a great evil. 
 
 That is true, he said. 
 
 And do not courageous men endure death because they are 
 afraid of yet greater evils ? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 Then all but the philosophers are courageous only from fear, 
 and because they are afraid j and yet that a man should be 
 courageous from fear, and because he is a coward, is surely a 
 strange thing. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And are not the temperate exactly in the same case ? They are 
 temperate because they are intemperate — which may seem to be 
 a contradiction, but is nevertheless the sort of thing which 
 happens with this foolish temperance. For there are pleasures 
 which they must have, and are afraid of losing ; and therefore they 
 abstain from one class of pleasures because they are overcome by 
 another: and whereas intemperance is defined as 'being under 
 the dominion of pleasure,' they overcome only because they are 
 overcome by pleasure. And that is what I mean by saying that 
 they are temperate through intemperance. 
 
 That appears to be true. 
 
 Yet the exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain for another 
 fear or pleasure or pain, which are measured like coins, the 
 greater with the less, is not the exchange of virtue. O my 
 
414 . PHAEDO. 
 
 dear Simmias, is there not one true coin for which all thin^ 
 ought to exchange ?— and that is wisdom j and only in exchai^e^M' 
 this, and in company with this, -is anything truly bought or sold, 
 whether courage or temperance or justice. And is not all true virttte 
 the companion of wisdom, no matter what fears or pleasures or 
 other similar goods or evils may or' may not attend her? But 
 the virtue which is made up of these goods, when they are severed 
 from wisdom and exchanged with one another, is a shadow of 
 virtue only, nor is there any freedom or health or truth in her; 
 but in the true exchange there is a purging away of all these 
 things, and temperance^ and justice, and courage, and wisdom 
 herself, are a purgation of them. And I conceive that the founders 
 of the mysteries had a real meaning and were not mere triflers 
 when they intimated in a figure long ago that he who passed 
 unsanctified and uninitiated into the world below will live in 
 a slough, but that he who arrives there after initiation and puri- 
 fication will 'dwell with the gods. For 'many,' as they say in 
 the mysteries, ' are the thyrsus-bearers, but few are the mystics,' 
 — meaning, as I interpret the words, the true philosophers. In 
 the number of whom I have been seeking, according to my 
 ability, to find a place during my whole life; — whether I have 
 sought in a right way or not, and whether I have succeedalror 
 not, 1 shall truly know in a little while, if God will, when I 
 myself arrive in the other world : that is my belief. " And now 
 Simmias and Cebes, I have answered those who charge me with 
 not grieving or repining at parting from you and my masters 
 in this world; and I am right in not repining, for I believfc 
 that I shall find other masters and friends who are as good in 
 the world below. But all men cannot receive this, and I shall 
 be glad if my words have any more success with you than 
 with the judges of Athenians. 
 
 Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, in the greater part' of 
 what you say. But in what relates to the soul, men are apt; 
 to be incredulous; they fear that when she leaves the body her 
 place may be nowhere, and that on the very day of death 
 she may be destroyed and perish — immediately on her release 
 from the body, issuing forth like smoke or air and vanishing 
 away into nothingness. For if she could only hold together and 
 be herself after she. was released from ' the evils of the body, 
 
PHAEDO, ^ 415 
 
 tjiere would be good reason to hope, Socrates, that what you 
 say is true. But much persuasion and iffany arguments are re- 
 quired in order to prove that when the man is dead the soul 
 yet exists, and has any force or intelligence. 
 ., . True, Cebes, said Socrates ; , and shall I suggest that we talk 
 a little of the probabilities of these things ? 
 
 I aj^ sure, said Cebes, that I should greatly like to know , 
 your opinion about them. 
 
 I reckon, said Socrates, that no one who heard me now, not 
 even if he were one of my old enemie^, the comic poets, could 
 accuse me of idle talking about ijiatters in which I have no 
 concern. Let us then, if you please, proceed with the inquiry. 
 (Whether the souls of men after death are or are not in the 
 world below, is a question which may be argued in this man- 
 ner: — The ancient doctrine of which I liave been speaking 
 affirms that they go from hence into the other world, and return 
 hither, and are born from the dead. ■ Now if this Ise true, and 
 the living come from the dead, then our souls mi^t be in the 
 other world, for if not, how could they be born again? And 
 this would be conclusive, if there were any real evidence that 
 the living are only born from the deadj but if there is no 
 evidence of this, then "other arguments will have to be adduced. 
 
 That is very true, replied Cebes. 
 
 Then let us consider this question, not in relation to man 
 only, but in relation to animals generally, and to plants, and 
 to everything of which there is generation, and the proof will 
 he easier. Are not all things which have opposites generated 
 out of their opposites? I mean yich things as good and evil, 
 just and unjust — and there are innumerable other opposites which 
 are generated out of opposites. And I want to show that this 
 holds universally of all opposites j I mean to say, for example, 
 Itiat anything which becomes greater must become greater after 
 j.. being less. 
 
 True. • 
 
 I And that which becomes less must have been once greater 
 
 and then become less. 
 . 1 Yes. 
 
 And the weaker is generated from the stronger, and the 
 I swifter from the slower. 
 
4i6 PHAEDO. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And the worse is from the better, and the more just is from 
 the more unjust ? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 And is this true of all opposites ? and are we convinced that 
 all of them are generated out of opposites ? 
 
 Yes. ' ^ 
 
 And in this universal opposition of all things, are there not 
 also two intermediate processes which are ever going on, from 
 one to the other, and back again j where there is a greater and 
 a less there is also an intermediate process of increase and 
 diminution, and that which grows is said to wax, and that 
 which decays to wane ? 
 
 YeSj he said. 
 
 And there are many other processes, such as division and com- 
 position, cooling and heating, which equally involve a passage 
 into and out of one another. And this holds of all opposites, 
 even though^not always expressed in words — they are generated 
 out of one another, and there is a passing or process from one 
 to the other of them ? 
 
 Very true, he replied. 
 
 Well, and is there not an opposite of life, as sleep is the 
 opposite of waking ? 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 And what fs that ? 
 
 Death, he answered. 
 
 And these then are generated, if they are opposites, the one from 
 the other, and have there the^two intermediate processes also? 
 
 O^ course, 
 
 *Now, said Socrates, I will analyze one of the two pairs of 
 opposites which I have mentioned to you, and also, its inter- 
 mediate processes, and you shall analyze the other to me. , The 
 state of sleep is opposed to the state of waking, and out of 
 sleeping waking is generated, and out of wakingf sleeping j and 
 the process of generation is in the one case falling asleep, s 
 and in the other waking up. Are you agreed about that ? 
 
 Quite agreed. 
 
 Then, suppose that you analyze life and death to me in the 
 same manner. Is not death opposed to life ? 
 
PHAEDO. 417 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And they are generated one from the Aher ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 What is generated from, life ? 
 
 Death. ' n 
 
 And what from death ? 
 
 I can only say in answer — life. 
 
 Then the living, whether things or persons, Cebes, are gene- 
 rated from the dead ? 
 
 That is clear, he replied. * 
 
 Then the inference is that Our souls are in the world below ? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And one of the two processes or generations is visible — for 
 surely the act of dying is visible ? 
 
 Surely, he said. 
 
 And may not the other be inferred as the complement of 
 nature, who is not to be supposed to go on one leg only ? And 
 if not, a corresponding process of generation in death must also 
 be assigned to her ? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 And what is that process ? 
 
 Revival. 
 ! And revival, if there be such a thing, is the birth of the 
 dead into the world of the living ? 
 
 Quite true. 
 
 Then here is a new way in which we arrive at the inference 
 that the liVing come from the dead, just as the dead come from 
 the living- and if this is true, then the souls of the dead must 
 be in some place out of which they come again. And this, as 
 I think, has been satisfactorily proved. 
 
 Yes, Socrates, he saidj all this seems to flow necessarily out 
 of our previous admissions, ~ ^ ' 
 
 And that these admissions were not unfair, Cebes, he said, 
 may be shown, as I think, in this way : If generation were in 
 a straight line only, and there were no compensation or circle 
 in nature, no turn or return into one another, then you know 
 that all things would at last have the same form and pass into 
 the same state, and there would be no more generation of 
 them. 
 
 E e 
 
41 8 PHAEDO. 
 
 , ■ ■ ■ 
 
 What do you mean ? he said. 
 
 A simple thing enough, which I will illustrate by the case of 
 sleep, he replied. You know that if there were no compensation 
 of sleeping and waking, the story of the sleeping Endymion would 
 in the end have -no meaning, because all other things would be 
 asleep too, and he would not be thought of. Or if tliere were 
 composition only, and no division of substances, then the chaos 
 of Anaxagoras would come again. And in like manner, my dear 
 Cebes, if all things which partook of life were to die, and after 
 they were dead remained in the form of death, and did not 
 come to life again, all would at last die, and nothing would be 
 alive — how could this -be otherwise? For if the living spring 
 from any others who are not the dead, and they die, must not 
 all things at last be swallowed up in death? 
 
 There is no escape from that, Socrates, said Cebes; and I 
 think that what you say is entirely true. 
 
 Yes, he said, Cebes, I entirely think so too ; and we are not 
 walking in a vain imagination: but I am confident in the 
 belief that there truly is such a thing as living again, and- that 
 the living spring from the dead, and that the souls of the dead 
 are in existence, and that the good souls have a better portion 
 than the. evil. 
 
 Cebes added : Your favourite doctrine, Socrates, that know- 
 ledge is simply recollection, if true, also necessarily implies a 
 previous time in which we learned that which we now recollect. 
 But this would be impossible unless our soul was in some place 
 before existing in the liuman form ; here then is another argu- 73 
 ment of the soul's immortality. 
 
 But tell me, Cebes, said Simmias, interposing, what proofs 
 are given of this doctrine of recollection? I am not very sure 
 at this moment that I remember them. 
 
 One excellent proof, said Cebes, is afforded by questions. If 
 you put a question to a person in a right way, he will give 
 a true answer of himself, but how could he do this unless there 
 were knowledge and right reason already in him? And this is 
 most clearly shown when he is taken to a diagram or to any- 
 thing of that sort. 
 
 But if, said Socrates, you are still incredulous, Simmias, I would 
 ask you whether you may not agree with me when you look at 
 
PHAEDO. 419 
 
 he matter in another way ; — I mean, if vpu are still incredulous 
 IS to -whether knowledge is recollection ? 
 
 Incredulous^ I am not, said Simmias ; but I want to have this 
 loctrine of recollection brought to my own recollection, and, from 
 fhat Cebes has said, I am beginning to recollect and be con- 
 vinced: but I should still like to hear what more you have 
 ;o say. 
 
 This is what I should say, he replied : — We should agree, if I am 
 lot mistaken, that what a man recollects he must have known at 
 some previous time. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And what is the nature of this recollection? And, in asking 
 this, I mean to ask, whether when a person has already seen 
 Dr heard or in any way perceived anything, and he knows not 
 anly that, but something else of which he has not the same but 
 mother knowledge, we may not fairly say that he recollects that 
 which comes into his mind. Are we agreed about that ? 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 I mean what I may illustrate by the following instance : — ^The 
 knowledge of a lyre is not the same as the knowledge of a man ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And yet what is the feeling of lovers when they recognize 
 a lyre, or a garment, or anything else which the beloved has been 
 in the habit of using ? Do not they, from knowing the lyre, form in 
 the mind's eye an image of the youth to whom the lyre belongs ? 
 And this is recollection : and in the same way any one who sees 
 Simmias may remember Cebes. ; and there are endless other things 
 of the same nature. 
 
 Yes, indeed, there are, — endless, replied Simmias. 
 
 And this sort of thing, he said, is recollection, and is most 
 commonly a process of recovering that which has been forgotten 
 through time and inattention. 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 Well ; and may you not also from seeing the picture of a horse 
 or a lyre remember a man ? and from the picture of Simmias, 
 you may be led to remember Cebes ? 
 
 True. 
 
 Or you may also be led to the recollection of Simmias himself? 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 if. 
 
 ■n t» n 
 
420 PHAEDO. 
 
 And in all these cases, the, recollection may be derived from 
 things either like or unlike ? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And when the recollection is derived from like things, then 
 there is sure to be another question, which is — whether the like- 
 ness of that which is recollected is in any way defective . or 
 not? 
 
 Very true, he said 
 
 And shall we proceed a step further, and aiSrm that there 
 is such a thing as equality, not of wood with wood, or of stone 
 with stone, but that, over and above this, there is equality in 
 the abstract ? Shall we affirm this ? 
 
 Affirm, yes, and swear to it, replied Simmias, with all the con- 
 fidence in life. 
 
 And do we know the nature of this abstract essence ? 
 
 To be sure, he said. 
 
 And whence did we obtain this knowledge ? Did we not see 
 equalities of material things, such as pieces of wood and stones, 
 and gather from them the idea of an equality which is different 
 from them ? — you will admit that ? Or look at the matter again in 
 this way : — Do not the same pieces of wood or stone appear at one 
 time equal, and at another time unequal ? 
 
 That is certain. 
 
 But are real equals ever unequal ? or is the idea of equality ever 
 inequality ? 
 
 That surely was never yet known, Socrates. 
 
 Then these (so-called) equals are not the same with the idea of 
 equality? 
 
 I should say, clearly not, Socrates. 
 
 And yet from these equals, although differing from the idea of 
 equality, you conceived and attained that idea ? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 WhicK might be like, or might be unlike them ? 
 
 Yes. .^ 
 
 But that makes no difference : whenever from, seeing one thing 
 you conceived another, whether like or unlike, there must surely 
 have been an act of recollection ? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But what would you say of equal portions of wood and stone, 
 
PHAEDO, 421 
 
 I, ■ \ 
 
 or other material equals ? and what is the^mpression produced by 
 
 them ? Are they equals in the same sense as absolute equality ? 
 
 or do they fall short of this in a measure ? 
 
 Yes, he said, in a very great measure too. 
 
 And must we not allow, that when I or any one look at any 
 
 *' object, and perceive that the object aims at being some other 
 
 thing, but falls short of, and cannot attain to it, — he who makes 
 
 this observation must have had a previous knowledge of that to 
 
 '' which, as he says, the other, although similar, was inferior? 
 
 * Certainly. 
 
 ^' And has not this been our own case in the matter of equals 
 and of absolute equality ? 
 
 «' Precisely. 
 75 Then we mijst have known absolute equality previously to the 
 time when we first saw the material equals, and reflected that all 
 these apparent equals aim at this absolute equality, but fall short 
 
 "' of it? 
 
 '^ That is true. 
 
 * And we recognize also that this absolute equality has only been 
 f known, and can only be known, through the medium of sight or 
 "' touch, or' of some other sense. And this I would affirm of all 
 
 such conceptions. 
 Yes, Socrates, as far as the argumerit is concerned, one of them 
 ^ is the same as the other. 
 
 And from the senses then is derived the knowledge that all 
 sensible things aim at an idea of equality of which they fall 
 »i short — is not that true ? 
 Yes. 
 
 Then before we began to see or hear or perceive in any way, 
 i'i' we must have had a knowledge of absolute equality, or we could 
 not have referred to that the equals which are derived from the 
 senses ? — ^for to that they all aspire, and of that they fall short ? 
 
 That, Socrates, is certainly to be inferred from the previous 
 statements. 
 (#' And did we not see and hear and acquire our other senses 
 iiit> as soon as we were born ? 
 Certainly. 
 
 Then we must have acquired the knowledge of the ideal equal 
 nlJ at some time previous to this ? 
 
422 
 
 PHAEDO. 
 
 Yes.- 
 
 That i& to say, before we were born, I suppose ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And if we acquired this knowledge before we were born, and 
 were born having it, then we also knew before we were born 
 and at the instant of birth not only the equal or the greater 
 or the less, but all other ideas j for we are not speaking only 
 of equality absolute, but of beauty, good, justice, holiness, and 
 all which we stamp with the name of essence in the dialectical 
 process, when we ask and answer questions. Of all this we may 
 certainly affirm that we acquired the knowledge before birth ? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 But if; after having acquired, we have not forgotten that 
 which we acquired, then we must always have been born with 
 knowledge, and shall always continue to know as long as life 
 lasts — for knowing is the acquiring and retaining knowledge 
 and not forgetting. Is not forgetting, Simmias, just the losing 
 of knowledge ? 
 
 Quite true, Socrates. 
 
 But if the knowledge which we acquired before birth was 
 lost by us at birth, and if afterwards by the use of the senses 
 we recovered that which we previously knew, will not that which 
 we call learnir^ be a process of recovering oiir knowledge, and 
 may not this be rightly termed recollection by us? 
 ^ Very true. > 
 
 For this is clear — that when we perceived something, either by 
 the help of sight, or hearing, or some other sense, there was no y6 
 difficulty in receiving from this a conception of some other thing 
 like or unlike which had been forgotten and which was associated 
 with this ; and therefore, as I was saying, one of two alternatives 
 follows : — either we had this knowledge at birth, and continued 
 to know through life ; or, after birth, those who are said to learn 
 only remember, and learning is recollection only. 
 
 Yes, that is quite true, Socrates. 
 '- And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer ? Had we the 
 knowledge at our birth, or did we remember afterwards the things 
 which we knew previously to our birth ? 
 
 I cannot decide at flie moment. 
 
 At any rate you can decide whether he who has knowledge 
 
PHAEDO. 423 
 
 ought or ought not to be able to give a reason for what he 
 knows. * 
 
 Certainly, he ought. 
 
 ^i But do you, think that every man is able to give a reason about 
 
 li these very matters of which we are speakiiig ? 
 
 t I wish that they could, Socrates, but I greatly fear that to- 
 
 I morrow at this time there will be no one able to give a reason 
 
 ii worth having. 
 
 i Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men know 
 
 1 these things ? 
 
 I Certainly not. 
 
 Then they are in process of recollecting that which they 
 
 i learned before ? 
 
 ( ' Certainly. 
 
 ij But when did our souls acquire this knowledge ? — not since 
 
 \ we were born as men ? 
 
 \ Certainly not. 
 
 And therefore, previously ? 
 Yes. 
 
 I Then, Simmias, our souls must have existed before they were in 
 
 J the form of man — without bodies, and must have had intelligence. 
 
 \ Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these notions were 
 
 I given us at the moment of birth j for this is the only time that 
 remains. 
 Yes, my friend, but when, did We lose them ? for they are not 
 
 , in us when we are born — that is admitted. Did we lose them at 
 
 P* the moment of receiving them, or at some other time ? 
 
 j No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously talking nonsense. 
 
 j Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are always 
 
 j repeating, there is an absolute beauty, and goodness, and essence 
 
 , in general, and to this, which is now discovered to be a previous 
 
 I condition of our being, we refer all our sensations, and with this 
 compare them — assuming this to have a prior existence, then our 
 souls must have had a prior existence, but if not, there would be 
 no force in the argument. There can be no doubt that if these 
 absolute ideas existed before we were born, then our souls must 
 have existed before we were born, and if not the ideas, then 
 not the souls. 
 Yes, Socrates ; I am convinced that there is precisely the same 
 
424 PHAEDO. 
 
 necessity for the existence of the soul before birth, and of the 77 
 essence of which you are speaking: and the argument arrives 
 at a result which happily agrees with my own notion. For 
 there is nothing which to my mind is so evident as that beauty, 
 good, and other notions of which you were just now speakiaig, 
 have a most real and absolute existence; and I am satisfied 
 with the proof. 
 
 Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied ? for I must convince him 
 too. 
 
 I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: although he is 
 the most incredulous of mortals, yet I believe^ that he is convinced 
 of the existence of the soul before birth. But that after death 
 the soul will continue to exist is not yet proven even to my own 
 satisfaction. I cannot get rid of the feeling of the many to 
 which Cebes was referring — the feeling that when the man dies 
 the soul may be scattered, and that this may be the end of 
 her. For admitting that she may be generated and created in 
 some other place, and may have existed before entering the 
 human body, why after having entered in and gone out again 
 may she not herself be destroyed and come to an end ? 
 
 Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; that our soul existed before 
 we were born was the first half of the argument, and this appears 
 to have been proven; that the soul will exist after death as 
 well as befiDre birth is the other half of which the proof is still 
 wanting, and has to be supplied. 
 
 But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been already given, , 
 said Socrates, if you put the two arguments together — I mean 
 this and the former one, in which we admitted that every- 
 thing living is born of the dead. For if the soul existed before 
 birth, and in coming to life and being born can be born only 
 from death and dying, must she not after death continue to exist, 
 since she has to be born again? surely the proof which you 
 desire has been already furnished. Still I suspect that you and 
 Simmias would be glad to probe the argument further: like 
 children, you are haunted with a fear that when the soul leaves 
 the body, the wind may really blow her away and scatter her; 
 especially if a man should happen to die in stormy weather and 
 not when the sky is calm. 
 
 Cebes answered with a smile : Then, Socrates, you must argue 
 
PHAEDO. 425 
 
 L us i out of our -fears — and yet, strictly speaking, they are not our 
 
 I fears, but there is a child within us to whom death is a sort of 
 
 i hobgoblin ; him too we must persuade not to be afraid when he 
 
 I is alone with him in the dark. 
 
 \ . Socrates said ; Let the voice of the charmer be applied daily 
 
 i until you have charmed him away. 
 
 " And where shall we find a good charmer of our fears, Socrates, 
 
 ; when you are gone ? 
 
 78 Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has many good 
 
 :i men, and there are barbarous races not a few : seek for him among 
 
 B them all, far and wide, sparing neither pains nor money j for 
 
 t there is no better way of using your money. And you must not 
 
 » forget to seek for hi™ among yourselves too j for he is nowhere- 
 
 i more likely to be found. 
 
 i The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. And now, 
 
 ! if you please, let us return to tlie point of the argument at which 
 
 i we digressed. 
 
 i By all means, replied Socrates ; what else should I please ? 
 
 ^ Very good, he said. 
 
 Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves some question of this 
 
 \ sort ? — What is that which, as we imagine, is liable to be scat- 
 
 I tered away, and about which we fear ? and what again is that about 
 
 II which we have no fear ? And then we may proceed .to inquire 
 ! whether that which suffers dispersion is or is not of the nature of 
 
 soul— our hopes and fears as to our own souls will turn upon 
 
 B that. 
 
 ( That is true, he said. 
 
 I ■> Now the compound or composite may be supposed to be 
 
 \ naturally capable of being dissolved in like manner as of being 
 
 j* compounded; but that which is uncompounded, and that only, 
 
 j must be, if anything is, indissoluble. 
 
 r Yes J that is what I should imagine, said Cebes. 
 
 |, And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the same and 
 
 I unchanging, whereas the compound is always changing and never 
 
 J the same ? 
 
 j That I also think, he said. 
 
 , Then now let us return to the previous discussion. Is that 
 
 idea or essence, which in the dialectical process we define as essence 
 
 . or true existence— whether essence of equality, beauty, or anything 
 
426 PHAEDO. 
 
 else — are these essences, I say, liable at times to some degree 
 of change? or are they each of them always what they are, 
 having the same simple self-existent and unchanging forms, 
 and not admitting of variation at all, or in any way, or at any 
 time ? 
 
 They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes. 
 
 And what would you say of the many^beautiflil — whether men or 
 horses or garments or any other things which may be called equal 
 or beautiful, — are they all unchanging and the same alwaySj or 
 quite the reverse ? May they not rather be described as almost 
 always changing and hardly ever the same, either with themselves 
 or with one another ? 
 
 The latter, replied Cebes ; they are always in a state of change. 
 
 And these you can touch and see and perceive with the senses, 79 
 but the unchanging things you can only perceive with the mind — 
 they are invisible and are not seen ? 
 
 That is very true, he said. 
 
 Well then, he added, let us suppose that there are two sorts of 
 existences — one seen, the other unseen. 
 
 Let us suppose them. 
 
 The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the unchanging? 
 
 .That may be also supposed. 
 
 And, further, is not one part of us body, and the rest of us 
 soul ? 
 
 To be sure. 
 
 And to which class may we say that the body is more alike and 
 akin ? ~ 
 
 Clearly to the s^ : no one can doubt that. 
 And is the soul seen or not see n ? 
 Not by man, Socrates. 
 
 And by 'seen' and 'not seen' is meant by us that which, is 
 or is not visible to the eye of man ? 
 Yes, to the eye of man. 
 
 And what do we say of t he sou l ? — is that seen or not seen ? 
 Not seen. 
 
 tjnseen then ? 
 
 YesT 
 
 Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the body to the 
 seen ? 
 
PHAEDO. 427 
 
 . That is most certain, Socrates. ^ 
 
 And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using the 
 ! body as an instrument of perception, tliat is to say, when using 
 ! the sense of sight or hearing or some other sense (for the mean- 
 ing of perceiving through the body is perceiving through the 
 senses) — were we not saying that the soul too is then dragged by 
 ' the body into the region of the changeable, and wanders and is 
 ' confused ; the world spins round her, and she is like a drunkard 
 ' when under their influence ? 
 
 ' Very true. \ 
 
 ' But when returning into herself she reflects; then she passes into 
 
 the realm of purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchange- 
 S ableness, which are her kindred, and with them she ever lives, 
 ' when she is by herself and is not let or hindered;, then she ceases 
 i- from her erring ways, and being in communion with the unchang- 
 ing is unchanging. And thi s s tate of the soul is call ed wisdom? 
 That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied. 
 if And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and akin, as 
 
 far as may be inferred from this argument, as well as from the 
 preceding one ? 
 ! I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of every one who follows 
 
 the argument, the soul will be infinitely more like the unchange- 
 li able — even the most stupid person will not deny that. 
 And the body is more like the changing ? 
 Yes. 
 ^1 Yet once more consider the matter in this light: When the 
 
 ■' soul and the body are united, then nature orde rs the soul to rule 
 80 an d govern., an d th e body to obey an d serve. Now which of 
 these two functions is akin to the divine? and which to the 
 mortal ? Does not the divine appea r to you to be that which 
 \\ naturally orders and rules, and the mortal that which is subject 
 and servant ? 
 True. 
 1 ' And which does the soul resemble ? 
 
 The gr.nl t-fpf- m^'''"' ^-'-i^ rHv in»^ ?nr^ thp hnHy thp mortal — there 
 can be no doubt of that, Socrates. 
 
 Then reflect, Cebes : is not the conclusion of the whole matter 
 
 ji this — that the soul is in the very likeness of the divine, and 
 
 immortal, and intelligible, and uniform, and indissoluble, and 
 
428 PHAEDO. 
 
 unchangeable j and the body is in the very likeness of the human, 
 and mortal, and unintelligible, and multiform, and dissoluble, and 
 changeable. Can this, my dear Cebes, be denied ? 
 . No indeed. 
 
 But if this is true, then is not the body liable to speedy disso- 
 Vlution ? and is not the soul almost or altogether indissoluble ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the body, 
 which is the visible part of man, and has a visible framework, 
 which is called a corpse, and which would naturally be dissolved 
 and decomposed and dissipated, is not dissolved or decomposed 
 at once, but may remain for a good while, if the constitution be 
 sound at the time of death, and the season of the year favourable ? 
 For the body when shrunk and embalmed, as is the custom in 
 Egypt, may remain almost entire through infinite ages; and 
 even in decay, still there are some portions, such as the bones and 
 ligaments, w hich are practically indestructible. You allow that ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And are we to suppose that the soul, which is invisible, in 
 passing to the true Hades, which like her is invisible, and pure, 
 and noble, and on her way to the good and wise God, whither, 
 if God will, my soul is also soon to go, — that the soul, I repeat, 
 if this be her nature and origin, is blown away and perishes 
 immediately on quitting the body, as the many say? That can 
 never be, my dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth rather is, that 
 the soul which is pure at departing draws after her no bodily 
 taint, having never voluntarily had connection with the body, 
 which she is ever avoiding, herself gathered into herself; (for 
 such abstraction has been the study of her life. And what does 
 this mean but that she has been a true disciple of philosophy, 
 and has practised how to die easily ? And is not philosophy the 
 practice of death ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the invisible 
 world — to the divine and' immortal and rational : thither arriv- 
 ing, she lives in bliss and is released from the error and folly 
 of men, their fears and wild passions and all other human ills, 
 and for ever dwells, as they say of the initiated, in dompany 
 with the gods ? Is not this true, Cebes ? 
 
PHAEDO. 429 
 
 Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt. 
 
 But the soul which has been polluted, and is impure at the time 
 of her departure, and is the companion and servant oF the body 
 always, and is in love with and fascinated by the body and by the 
 desires and pleasures of the body, until she is led to believe that 
 the truth only exists in a bodily form, which a man may touch 
 and see and taste and use for the purposes of his lusts, — -the soul, 
 I mean, accustomed to hate and fear and avoid the intellectual 
 principle, which to the bodily eye is dark and invisible, and can 
 be attained only by philosophy ; — do you suppose that such a soul 
 as this will depart pure and unalloyed ? 
 
 That is impossible, he replied. 
 
 She is engrossed by the corporeal, which the continual associa- 
 tion and constant- care ©f the body have made natural to her. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And this, my friend, may be conceived to be that heavy, weighty, 
 earthy element of sight by which such a soul is depressed and 
 dragged down again into the visible world, because she is afraid 
 of the invisible and of the world below — prowling about tombs 
 and sepulchres, in the neighbourhood of which, as they tell us, are 
 seen certain ghostly apparitions of souls which have not departed 
 pure, but are cloyed with sight and therefore visible '. 
 
 That is very likely, Socrates. 
 
 Yes, that is very likely, Cebes j and these must be the souls, 
 not of the good, but of the evil, who are compelled to wander 
 about such places in payment of the penalty of their former evil 
 
 ' Compare Milton; Comus, 463 foil.: — 
 
 , ' 'But when lust, 
 
 By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk. 
 
 But most by lewd and lavish act of sin, 
 
 Lets in defilement to the inward parts, 
 
 The soul grows clotted by contagion, 
 
 Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose 
 
 The divine property of her first being. 
 
 Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp 
 
 Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchres, 
 ,\; Lingering,^ and sitting by a new made grave, 
 
 , As loath to leave the body that it lov'd, 
 
 And linked itself by carnal sensuality 
 
 To a degenerate and degraded state.' 
 
430 ' PHAEDO. 
 
 way of life ; and they continue to wander until the desire whick 
 haunts them is satisfied and they are imprisoned in another body. 
 And they may be supposed to be fixed in the same natures which 
 they had in their former life. 
 
 What natures do you mean, Socrates ? 
 
 I mean to say that men who have followed after gluttony, and 
 wantonness, and drunkenness, and have had no thought of avoiding 
 them, would pass into asses and animals of that sort. What do 
 you think? • | 
 
 I think that exceedingly probable. 
 
 And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and tyranny, 8 
 and violence, will pass into wolves, or hawks and kites; — whither I 
 else can we suppose them to go ? -^ 
 
 Yes, said Cebes j that is doubtless the place of natures such as 
 theirs. 
 
 And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to all of them - 
 places answering to their several natures and propensities ? 
 
 There is not, he said. 
 
 Even among them some are happier than others ; and the 
 happiest both in themselves and their place of abode are those 
 who have practised the civil and social virtues which are called 
 temperance and justice, and are acquired by habit and attention 
 without philosophy and mind. 
 
 Why are they the happiest ? 
 
 Because they may be expected to pass into some gentle social 
 nature which is like their own, such as that of bees or ants, or 
 even back again into the form of man, and just and moderate 
 men spring from them. 
 
 That is not impossible. 
 
 But he who is a philosopher or lover of learning, and is en- 
 tirely pure at departing, is alone permitted to reach the gods. 
 And this is the reason, Simmias and Cebes, why the true votaries 5 
 of philosophy abstain from all fleshly lusts, and endure and 
 fuse to give themselves up to them, — not because they fear 
 poverty or the ruin of their families, like the lovers of money, and 
 the world in general; nor like the lovers of power and honour, 
 because they dread the dishonour or disgrace of evil deeds. 
 
 No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes. ' 
 
 No indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have a care 
 
PHAEDO. 431 
 
 of their souls, and do not merely live in the fashions of the 
 body, say farewell to all this; they will^ot walk in the ways 
 of the blind : and when philosophy oiFers them purification and 
 release from evil, they feel that they ought not to resist her in- 
 fluence, and to her they incline, and whither she leads they 
 follow her. 
 
 What do you mean, Socrates ? 
 
 I will tell you, he said. The lovers of knowledge are con- 
 scious that their souls when philosophy receives them, are simply 
 fastened and glued to their bodies : the soul is only able to 
 view existence through the bars of a prison, and not in her own 
 nature ; she is wallowing in. the mire of all ignorance j and 
 philosophy, seeing the terrible nature of her confinement, and 
 ithat the captive through desire is led to conspire in her 
 own captivity (for the lovers of knowledge are aware that this 
 was the original ■ state of the soul, and that "when she was iu- 
 this state philosophy received and gently counselled her, and 
 wanted to release her, pointing out to her that the eye is full 
 of deceit, and also the ear and the other senses, and persuading 
 her to retire from them in all but the necessary use of them, 
 and to be gathered up and collected into herself, and to trust 
 only to herself and her own intuitions of absolute existence, and 
 mistrust that which comes to her through others and is subject to 
 vicissitude) — philoso|)hy shows her that this is visible and tangible, 
 but that what she sees in her own nature is intellectual and in- 
 visible. And the soul of the true philosopher thinks that she 
 ought not to resist Jjais deliverance, and therefore abstains from 
 pleasures and desires and pains and fears, as far as she is able ; 
 reflecting that when a man has great joys or sorrows or fears or 
 desires, he suffers from them, not the sort of evil which might be 
 anticipated — as for example, the loss of his health or property 
 which he has sacrificed to his lusts — but he has suffered an evil 
 greater far, which is the greatest and worst of all evils, and 
 one of which he never thinks. 
 
 And what is that, Socrates ? said Cebes. 
 
 Why this : When the feeling of pleasure or pain in the soul 
 is most intense, all of- us naturally suppose that the object of 
 this intense feeling is then plainest and truest : but this is not 
 the case. 
 
432 PHAEDO. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And this is the state in which the soul is most enthralled- b 
 the body. 
 
 How is that ? 
 
 Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail whicl 
 nails and rivets the soul to the body, and engrosses her and make 
 her believe that to be true which the body affirms to be true 
 and from agreeing with the body and having the same delight 
 she is obliged to have the same habits and ways, and is no 
 likely ever to be pure at her departure to, the world below, bu 
 is always saturated with the bodyj so that she soon sinks int( 
 another body and there germinates and grows, and has therefon 
 no part in the communion of the divine and pure and simple. 
 
 That is most true, Socrates, answered 'Cebes. , 
 
 And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of know 
 ledge are temperate and brave; and not for the reason whicl 
 the world gives. 
 
 Certainly not. 
 - Certainly not ! For not in that way does the soul of a philo 
 sopher reason j she will not ask philosophy to release her ii 
 order that when released she may deliver herself up again t( 
 the thraldom of pleasures and pains, doing a work only to bi 
 undone again, weaving instead of unweaving her Penelope' 
 web. \ But she will make herself a calm of passion, and follm; 
 reason, and dwell in her, beholding the true and divine (whicl 
 is not matter of opinion), and thence derive nourishment 
 Thus she seeks to live while she lives, an4 after death she hope 
 to go to her own kindred and to be freed from human ills 
 Never fear, Simmias and Cebes, that a soul which has beei 
 thus nurtured and has had these pursuits, will at her departur 
 from the body be scattered and blown away by the winds am 
 be nowhere and nothing. 
 
 When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable tim- 
 there was silence; he himself and most of us appeared to b 
 meditating on what had been said; only Cebes and Simmia 
 spoke a few words to one another. And Socrates observing thi 
 asked them what they thought of the argument, and whethe 
 there was anything wanting ? For, said he, much is still opei 
 to suspicion and attack, if anyone were disposed to sift th 
 
PHAEDO. 433 
 
 matter thoroughly. If you are talking of something else I would 
 rather not interrupt you, but if you "are still doubtful about 
 the argument do not hesitate to say exactly what you think, 
 and let us have anything better which you can suggest j and 
 if I am likely to* be of any use, a:llow me to help you. 
 
 Simmias said : I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did arise 
 in our minds, and each of us was urging and inciting the other 
 to put the question which we wanted to have answered and 
 which neither of us liked to ask, feariiig that our importunity 
 might be troublesome under present circumstances. 
 
 Socrates smiled, and said : O jSimmias, how strange that is ; 
 I am not very likely to persuade other men that I do not regard 
 my present situation as a misfortune^ if I am unable to persuade 
 you, and you wilj keep fancying that I am at all more troubled 
 now than at any other time. Will you not allow that I have as 
 much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the swans ? For they, 
 when they perceive that they must die, having sung all their life 
 
 5 long, do then sing more than ever, rejoicing in the thought that 
 they are about to go away to the god whose ministers they are. 
 But men, because they are themselves afraid of death, slanderously 
 affirm of the swans that they sing a lament at the last, not con- 
 sidering that no bird sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not 
 even the nightingale, nor the swallow, nor yet the hoopoe ; which 
 are said indeed to tune a lay of sorrow, although I do not believe 
 this to be true of them any more than of the swans. But because 
 they are sacred to Apollo, and have the gift of prophecy, and 
 anticipate the good things of another world, therefore they sing 
 and rejoice in that day more than ever they did before. And I 
 too, believing myself to be the consecrated servant of the same 
 God, and » the fellow-servant of the swans, and thinking that I 
 
 / have received from my master gifts of prophecy which are not 
 inferior to theirs, would not go out of life less merrily than the 
 swans. Cease to mind then about this, but speak and ask anything 
 which you like, while the eleven magistrates of Athens allow. 
 
 Well, Socrates, said Simmias, then I will tell you my difficulty, 
 and Cebes will tell you his. For I dare say that you, Socrates, feel as 
 I do, how very hard or almost impossible is the attainment of any 
 
 i certainty about questions such as these in the. present life. And 
 yet I should deem him a coward who did not prove what is said 
 
 '. Ff 
 
434 PHAEDO. 
 
 about them to the uttermost, or whose heart failed him befor^ 
 he had examined them on every side. For he should persever^ 
 until he has attained one of two things : either he should discove^ 
 or learn the truth about them ; or, if this is impossible, I would 
 have him take the best and most irrefragable of human notions, 
 and let this be the raft upon which he sails through life — not with- 
 out risk, as I admit, if he cannot find some word of God which 
 will more surely and safely carry him. And now, as you bid me, I 
 will venture to question you, as I should not like to reproach myself, 
 hereafter with not having said at the time wrhat I think. For 
 when I consider the matter, either alone or with Cebes, the argu- 
 ment does certainly appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient. 
 
 Socrafes answered : I dare say, my friend, that you may be 
 right, but I should like to know in what respect the argument 
 is not sufficient. 
 
 In this respect, replied Simmias: — might not a person use 
 the same argument about harmony and the lyre — might he not 
 say that harmony is a thing invisible, incorporeal, fair, divine, 
 abiding in the lyre which is harmonized, but that the lyre i 
 and the strings are matter and material, composite, earthy, and 
 akin to mortality ? And when some one breaks the lyre, or cuts 
 and rends the strings, then he who takes this view would argue 
 as you do, and on the same analogy, that the harmony survives 
 and has not perished ; for you cannot imagine, as he would say, 
 that the lyre without the strings, and the broken strings them- 
 selves remain, and yet that the harmony, which is of heavenly and 
 immortal nature and kindred, has perished — and perished too 
 before the mortal. That harmony, he would say, certainly exists 
 somewhere, and the wood and strings will decay before that 
 decays. For I suspect, Socrates, that the notion of the soul which 
 we are all of us inclined to entertain, would also be yours, and 
 that you too would conceive the body to be strung up, and held 
 together, by the elements of hot and cold, wet atid dry, and the 
 like, and that the soul is the harmony or due proportionate, 
 admixture of them. And, if this is true, the inference clearly is, 
 that when the strings of the body are unduly loosened or over- 
 strained through disorder or other injury, then the soul, .though^, 
 most divine, like other harmonies of music or of works of art, of 
 course perishes at oncej although the material remains of the 
 
PHAEDO. 435 
 
 .body may last for a considerable time, until they are either 
 ! decayed or burnt. Now if any one ma?iitained that the soul, 
 ■heing the harmony of the elements- of the body^ first perishes in 
 that which is called death, how shall we answer him ? 
 
 "Socrates looked round at us as his manner was, and said with 
 a smile : Simmias has reason on his side j and why does not some 
 one of you who is abler than myself answer him ? for there is force 
 in his attack upon me. But perhaps, before we answer him, we 
 had better also hear what Cebes has to say against the argument— 
 this will give us time for reflection, and when both of them have 
 spoken, we may either assent to them, if their words appear to be 
 in consonance with the truth, or if not, we' may take up the other 
 side, and argue with them. {^Please to tell me then, Cebes, he 
 'said, what was the difficulty which troubled you ? 
 . Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the argument is still 
 iin the same position, and open to the same objections which were 
 purged before ; for I am ready to admit that the existence of the 
 isoul before entering into the bodily form has been very ingeniously, 
 'and, as I may be allowed to say, quite sufficiently proven ; but the 
 I existence of the soul after death is still, in my judgment, un- 
 proven. Now my objection is not the same as that of Simmias ; 
 for I am not disposed to deny that the soul is stronger and more 
 lasting than the body, being of opinion that in all such respects 
 the soul very far excels the body. Well then, says the argument 
 to me, why do you remain unconvinced ? — When you see that the 
 (veaker is still in existence after the man is dead, will you not 
 idmit that the more lasting must also survive during the same 
 
 Eeriod of time ? Now I, like Simmias, must employ a figure ^ 
 nd I shall ask you to consider whether the figure is to the point, 
 'he parallel which I will suppose is that of an old weaver, who 
 lies, and after his death somebody says : — He is not dead, he must 
 3e alive ; and he appeals to the coat which he himself wove and 
 vofe, and which is still whole and undecayed. And then he pro- 
 ceeds to ask of some one who is incredulous, whether a man lasts 
 onger, or the coat which is in use and wearj and when he is 
 inswered that a man lasts far longer, thinks that he has thus 
 ;ertainly demonstrated the survival of the man, who is the more 
 asting, because the less lasting remains. But that, Simmias, as 
 [ would beg you to observe, is not the truth ; every one sees that 
 
 Ff 2 ^ 
 
436 PHAEDO. 
 
 he who talks thus is talking nonsense. For the truth is, that thi 
 weaver, having worn and woven many such coats, though he oul 
 lived several of them, was himself outlived by the last j but thi 
 is surely very far from proving that a man is slighter and weake 
 than a coat. Now the relation of the body to the soul may b 
 expressed in a similar figure ; for you may say with reason that th 
 soul is lasting, and the body weak and shortlived in comparisor 
 And every soul may be said to wear out many bodies, especiall 
 in the course of a long life. For if while the man is alive th 
 body deliquesces and decays, and yet the soul always weaves he 
 garment anew and repairs the waste, then of course, when the sou 
 perishes, she must have on her last garment, and this only wil 
 survive her j but then again, when the soul is dead, the body wi] 
 at last show its native weakness, and soon pass into decay. An 
 therefore this is an argument on which I would rather not rely a 
 proving that the. soul exists after death. For suppose that w 
 grant even more than you affirm as within the range of possibilit) 
 and besides acknowledging that the soul existed before birtt 
 admit also that after death the souls of some are existing still 
 and will exist, and will be born and die again and again,, an 
 that there is a natural strength in the soul which will hold ou 
 and be born many times — for all this, we may be still inclined t 
 think that she will weary in the labours of successive births, an 
 may at last succumb in one of her deaths and utterly perish ; an 
 this death and dissolution of the body which brings destruction t 
 the soul may be unknown to any of us, for no one of us can hav 
 had any experience of it : and if this be true, then I say that h 
 who is confident in death has but a foolish confidence, unless h 
 is able to prove that the soul is altogether immortal and imperist 
 able. But if he is not able to prove this, he who is about to di 
 will always have reason to fear that when the body is disunitec 
 the soul also may utterly perish. 
 
 All of us, as we afterwards remarked to one another, had a 
 unpleasant feeling at hearing them say this. When we had bee 
 so firmly convinced before, now to have our faith shaken seeme 
 to introduce a confusion and uncertainty, not only into the pri 
 vious argument, but into any future one ; either we were not goc 
 judges, or there were no real grounds of belief. 
 
 Ech. There I feel with you — indeed I do, Phaedo, and whe 
 
PHAEDO. 437 
 
 % yorwere speaking, I was beginning to ask myself the same ques- 
 1<( tion 5. What argument can I ever trust afain ? For what could be 
 1*1 more convincing than the argument of Socrates, which has now 
 lis! faUen. into discredit ? That the soul- is a harmony is a doctrine 
 ■ai! which: has always had a wonderful attraction for me, and, when 
 tt mentioned, came back to me at once, as my own original con- 
 ipt viction. And now I must begin again and find another argument 
 5pi which will assure me that when the man is dead the soul dies not 
 ill with him. 'Tell. me, I beg, how did Socrates proceed? Did he 
 fJiBl appear to share the unpleasant feeling which you mention ? or did 
 lit! he receive the interruption calmly and give a sufficient answer? 
 ^ Tell us, as exactly as you can, what passed. 
 
 W]P I Fhaed. Often, Echeaates, as I have admired Socrates, I never 
 jj, I89 admired him more than at that moment. That he should be able 
 lotKJ to answer was nothing, but what astonished me was, first, the 
 liili gentle and pleasant and approving manner in which he regarded 
 dsi' the words of the young men, and then his quick sense of the 
 oitif wound which had been inflicted by the argument, and his ready 
 jijjj application of the healing art. He might be compared to a general 
 Ml rallying his defeated and broken army, urging them to follow him 
 1 )^ and return to the field of argument. 
 jjliK Ech, How was that ? 
 
 j^M : Vhaed. You shall hear, for I was close to him on his right hand, 
 [jiljll seated on a sort of stool, and he on a couch which was a good deal 
 jittf" higher. Now he had a way of playing with my hair, and tlien he 
 ja,| ;;.smoothed my head, and pressed the hair upon my neck, and said: — 
 jjU, r To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose that these fair locks of yours will 
 pljS be severed. 
 
 jjl^Tj;, Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied. 
 0.V:-. Not SO, if you will take my advice. 
 iirfS ■ What shall I do with them ? I said.. 
 ?' To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argument dies 
 
 Ijl and cannot be brought to life again by us, you and I will both 
 'Jjjf shave our locks : and if I were you, and could not maintain my 
 ^jjj ground against Simmias and Cebes, I would myself take an 
 
 J oath, like the Argives, not to wear hair any more until I had 
 
 jlj-«, renewed the conflict and defeated them. 
 
 ' Yes, I said; but Heracles him.self is said not to be a match 
 .jM for two. 
 
438 PHAEDO. 
 
 Summon me then, he said, and I will be your lolaus until the sun 
 goes down. 
 
 I summon you rather, I Said, not as Heracles summoning 
 lolaus, but as lola^s might summon Heracles. 
 
 ~ That will be all the same, he said. But first let us take care 
 that we avoid a danger. '' 
 
 And what is that ? I said. 
 
 The danger of becoming misologists, he replied, which is 
 one of the very worst things that can happen to us. For as 
 there are misanthropists or haters of men, there are also miso- 
 logists" or haters of ideas, and both spring from the same cause, 
 which is ignorance of the world. Misanthropy arises from the 
 too great confidence of inexperience; — ^you trust a man and 
 think him altc^ether true and good and faithful, and then in 
 a little while he turns out to be false and knavish; and then 
 another and another, and when this has happened several times 
 to a man, especially within the circle of his own most trusted 
 friends, as he deems them, and he has often quarrelled with them, 
 he at last hates all men, and believes that no one has any good 
 in him at all. I dare say that you must have observed this. 
 
 Yes, I said. 
 
 And is not this discreditable ? The reason is,' that a man, 
 having to deal with other men, has no knowledge of them ; for 
 if he had knowledge, he would have known the true state of < 
 the case, that few are the good and few the evil, and that the 
 great majority are in the interval between them. 
 
 How do you mean ? I said. | 
 
 I mean, he replied, as you might say of the very large and 
 very small — that nothing is more uncommon than a very large 
 or very small man; and this applies generally to all extremes, 
 whether of great and small, or swift and slow, or fair and fpu^ 
 or black and white: and whether the instances you select be 
 men or dogs or anything else, few are the extremes,, but many 
 are in the mean between them. Did you never observe this ? 
 
 Yes, I said, I have. 
 
 And do you not imagine, he said, that if there were a com- 
 petition of evil, the first in evil would be found to be very few ? 
 
 Yes, that is very likely, I said. 
 
 Yes, that is very likely, he replied; not that in this respect 
 
PHAEDO. 439 
 
 ™' arguments are like men — there I was led on by you to say more 
 
 than I had intended ; but the point of comparison was, that whai 
 * a simple man who has no skill in dialectics believes an argument 
 
 to be tr^ie which he afterwards imagines to be false, whether really 
 ''" false or not, and then another and another, he has no longer any 
 
 faith left, and great ^isputers, as you know, come to think at last 
 
 that they have grown to be the wisest of mankind ; for they alone 
 '"'' perceive the utter unsoundness and instability of all arguments, 
 " or indeed, of all things, which, like liie currents in the Euripus, 
 """ are going up and down in never-ceasing ebb and flow. 
 ■"^ That is quite true, I said. 
 
 '"'' Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and very melancholy too, if there 
 ™' be such a thing as truth or certainty or power of knowing 
 ^^ at all, that a man should have lighted upon some argument or 
 "" other which at first seemed true and then turned out to be false, 
 tnli and instead of blaming himself and his own want of wit, because 
 ostts he is annoyed, should at last be too glad to transfer the blame 
 lili from himself to arguments in general; and for ever afterwards 
 BUI! should hate and revile them, and lose the truth and knowledge of 
 tliiii existence. 
 
 Yes, indeed, I said ; that is very melancholy. 
 Bti' Let us then, in the first place, he said, be careful of admitting 
 
 toil into our souls the notion that there is no truth or health or 
 It Ski soundness in any arguments at all; but let us rather say that there 
 idllil! is as yet no health in us, and that we must quit ourselves like 
 
 men and do our best to gain health — ^you and all other men 
 91 with a view to the whole of your future life, and I myself with 
 , laiyi a view to death. For at this moment I am sensible that I have 
 iwji not the temper of a philosopher; like the vulgar, I am only a 
 I (lUi partisan. For the partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares 
 jjiil nothing about the rights of the question, but is anxious only to 
 , jdiji convince his hearers of his own assertions. And the difference 
 \^i between him and me at the present moment is only this — that 
 ,t|jj! whereas he seeks to convince his hearers that what he says is true, 
 
 I am rather seeking to convince myself; to convince my hearers 
 jjjj is a secondary matter with me. And do but see how much I 
 lii! gain by this. For if what I say is true, then I do well to be 
 
 persuaded of the truth; but if there be noticing after death, still, 
 ,(i|i during the short time that remains, I shall save my friends from 
 
 IJ 
 
440 PHAEDO. 
 
 Jamentations, and my ignorance will not last, and therefore no 
 harm will be done. This is the state of mind, Simmias and Cebes, 
 in which I approach the argument. And I would ask you ta' be 
 thinking of the truth and not of Socrates : agree with me, if I seem- 
 to you to be speaking the truth j or if not, withstand me might 
 and main, that I may not deceive you as well as myself in my 
 enthusiasm, and like the bee, leave my sting in you before I die. 
 
 And now let us proceed, he said. And first of all let me be 
 sure that I have in my mind what you were saying. Simmias, 
 if I remember rightly, has fears and misgivings whether the soul, 
 being in the form of harmony, although a fairer and diviner 
 thing than the body, may not perish first. On the other hand, 
 Cebes appeared to grant that the soul was more lasting than 
 the body, but he said that no one could know whether the soul, 
 after having worn out many bodies, might not perish herself and 
 leave her last body behind her ; and that this is death, which is 
 the destruction not of the body but of the soul, for in the body 
 the work of destruction is ever going on. Are not these, Simmias 
 and Cebes, the points which we have to consider ? < 
 
 They both agreed to this statement of them. 
 
 He proceeded : And did you deny the fisrce of the whole pre- 
 ceding argument, or of a part only ? 
 
 Of a part only, they replied. 
 
 And what did you think, he said, of that part of the argument 
 in which we said that knowledge was recollection only, and 
 inferred from this that the soul must have previously existed 
 somewhere else before she was enclosed in the body ? Cebes said 9' 
 that he had been wonderfully impressed by that part of the ar- 
 gument, and that his conviction remained unshaken. Simmias 
 agreed, and added that he himself could hardly im^ine the ;< 
 possibility of his ever thinking differently about that. 
 
 But, rejoined Socrates, you will have to think diflferently, my 
 Theban friend, if you still maintain that harmony is a compound,, 
 and that the soul is a harmony which is made out of strings set in 
 the frame of the body; for you will surely never allow yourself to 
 say that a harmony is prior to the elements which compose -the 
 harmony. 
 
 No, Socrates, that is impossible. % 
 
 But do you not see that you are saying this when you say that the 
 
PHAEDO. 441 
 
 soul existed before she took the form and body of maiij and was 
 made up of elements which as yet had no existence ? For harmony 
 is not a sort of thing like the soul, as you suppose j but first the 
 lyre, and the strings, and the sounds exist in a state of discord, and 
 then harmony is made last of all, and perishes first. And how can 
 such a notion of the soul as this agree with the other ? 
 
 Not at all, replied Simmias., 
 
 And yet, he said, there surely ought to be harmony when 
 harmony is the theme of discourse. 
 /There ought, replied Simmias. 
 
 But there is no harmony, he said, in the two propositions that 
 knowledge is recollection, and that the soul is a harmony. Which 
 of them then will you retain ? 
 
 I think, he replied, that I have a much strongef faith, Socrates, 
 in the first of the two, which has been fully demonstrated to me, 
 than in the latter, which has not been demonstrated at all, but 
 rests only on probable and plausible grounds 5 and I know too well' 
 that these arguments from probabilities are impostors, and unless 
 great caution is observed in the use of them, they are apt to be 
 deceptive — in geometry, and in other things too. But the doctrine 
 of ; knowledge and recollection has beea^prqven to me on trust- 
 worthy grounds ^ and the proof was that the soul must have existed 
 before she came into the body, because to her belongs the essence 
 of which the very name implies existence. Having, as I am con- 
 vinced, rightly accepted this conclusion, and on sufficient grounds, 
 I must, as I suppose, cease to argue or allow others to argue that 
 the soul is a h&mony. 
 
 Let me put the matter, Simmias, he said, in another point of 
 view : Do you imagine that a harmony or any other composition 
 I can be in a state other than that of the elements, out of which it 
 is compounded ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Or do or suffer anything other than they do or suffer ? 
 
 He agreed. 
 
 Then a harmony does not lead the parts or elements which 
 make up the harmony, but only follows them. 
 
 He assented. 
 
 For harmony cannot possibly have any motion, or sound, or 
 other quality which is opposed to the parts. 
 
44^ PHAEDO. 
 
 That would be impossible^ he replied. 
 
 And does not every harmony depend upon the manner in whidi 
 the elements are harmonized ? 
 
 I do not understand you, he said. 
 
 I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees, and is more of 
 a harmony, and more completely a harmony, when more completely 
 harmonized, if that be possible j and less of a harmony, and less 
 completely a harmony, when less harmonized. 
 
 True. 
 
 But does the soul admit of degrees ? or is one soul in the very 
 least degree more or less, or more or less completely, a soul than 
 another ? 
 
 Not in the least. 
 
 Yet surely one soul is said to have intelligence and virtue, and 
 to be good, and another soul is said to have folly and vice, and to 
 be an evil soul : and this is said truly ? 
 
 Yes, truly. 
 
 But what will those who maintain the soul to be a harmony say 
 of this presence of virtue and vice in the soul ?— will they say 
 that here is another harmony, and another discord, and that the 
 virtuous soul is harmonized, and herself being harmony has an- 
 other harmony within her, and that the vicious soul is inharmonical 
 and has no harmony within her ? 
 
 I cannot say, replied Simmias; but I suppose that something 
 of that kind would be asserted by those who take tliis view. 
 
 And the admission is already made that no soul is more a sou! 
 than another J and this is equivalent to admitting that harmony is 
 not more or less harmony, or more or less completely a harmtMiy? 
 
 Quite true. 
 
 And that which is not more or less a harmony is not more or 
 less harmonized ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And that which is not more or less harmonized cannot have 
 more or less of harmony, but only an equal harmony ? 
 
 Yes, an equal harmony. 
 
 Then one soul not being more or less absolutely a soul than 
 another, is not more or less harmonized ? 
 
 Exactly. 
 
 And therefore has neither more nor less of harmony or of discordi? 
 
PHAEDO. 443 
 
 She has not. 
 
 And having neither more nor less or harmony or of discord, 
 one soul has no more vice or virtue than another, if vice be discord 
 and virtue harmony ? 
 
 Not at all more. 
 
 Or speaking more correctly, Simmias, the soul, if she is a 
 14 harmony, will never have any vice j because a harmony, being 
 absolutely a harmony, has no part in the inharmonical. 
 
 No. ' 
 
 And therefore a soul which is absolutely a soul has no vice ? 
 
 How can she have, consistently with the preceding argument ? 
 
 Then, according to this, if the souls of all animals are equally 
 and absolutely souls, they will be equally good ? 
 
 I agree with you, Socrates, he said. 
 
 And can all this be true, think you ? he said j and are all these 
 consequences admissible — which nevertheless seem to follow from 
 the assumption that the soul is a harmony ? 
 , Certainly not, he said. 
 
 Once more, he said, what ruling principle is there of human 
 thirds other than the soul, and especially the wise soul ? Do you 
 know of any ? 
 
 In^ed| I 4» not. 
 
 And is the soul in agreement with the affections of the body ? 
 or is she at variance with them ? For example, when the body is 
 hot and thirsty, does not the soul incline us against drinking? and 
 when the body is hungry, against eating ? And this is only one 
 instance out of ten thousand of the opposition of the soul to the 
 things of the body. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But we have already acknowledged that the soul, being a 
 
 harmony, can never utter a note at variance with the tensions 
 
 ' and relaxations and vibrations and other affections of the strings 
 
 out of which she is composed j she can only follow, she cannot 
 
 lead them ? 
 
 Yes, he said, we acknowledged that, certainly. 
 . And yet do we not now discover the soul to be doing the exact 
 opposite — leading the elements of which she is believed to be 
 composed j almost always opposing and coercing them in all sorts 
 ofways throughout life, sometimes more violently with the pains 
 
444 PHAEDO. 
 
 of medicine and gymnastic ; then again more gently; — threateirilg:'* 
 and also reprimanding the desires, passions, fears, as if talking, to 
 a thing which is not herself, as Homer in the Odyssee represeOlS 
 Odysseus doing in the words : — 
 
 'He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart: 
 Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou endured!' 
 
 Do you think that Homer could have written this under the 
 idea that the soul is a harmony capable of being led by the 
 affections of the body, and not rather of a nature which leads and 
 masters themj and herself a far diviner thing than any harmony? 
 
 Yes, Socrates, I quite agree to that.' 
 
 Then, my friend, we can never be right in saying that the soul 
 is a harmony, for that would clearly contradict the divine Homp 9 
 as well as ourselves. 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 Thus much, said Socrates, of Harmonia, your Theban godde^, 
 Cebes, who has not been ungracious to us, I think ; but what shall s 
 I say to the Theban Cadmus, and how shall I propitiate him ? 
 
 I think that you will discover a way of propitiating hiii), said 
 Cebes J I am sure that you have answered the argument about 
 harmony in a manner that I could never have expected. For 
 when Simmias mentioned his objection, I quite imagined that no 
 answer cduld be given to him, and therefore I was surprised at 
 finding that his argument could not sustain the first onset of yours, 
 and not impossibly the other, whom you call Cadmus, may share 
 a similar fate. 
 
 Nay, my good friend, said Socrates, let us not boast, lest some 
 evil eye should put to flight the word which I am about to speak. 
 That, however, may be left in the hands of those above j while 
 I draw near in Homeric fashion, and try the mettle of your words. 
 Briefly, the sum of your objection is as follows :— You want to 
 have proven to you that the soul is imperishable and immortdi, 
 and you think that the philosopher who is confident in death has 
 but a vain and foolish coilfidence, if he thinks that he will fare 
 better than one who has led another sort of life, in the world 
 below, unless he can prove this : and you say that the demonst!»ar/ 
 tion of the strength and divinity of the soul, and of her existenee 
 prior to our becoming men, does not necessarily imply her im- 
 
PHAEDO. 445 
 
 mortality. Granting that the soul is longlived, and has known 
 and done much in a former state, still sH6 is not on that account 
 immortal j and her entrance into the human form may be a 
 sort of disease which is the beginning of dissolution, and may at 
 last, after the toils of life are over, end in that which is called 
 death. And whether the soul enters into the body once only or 
 many times, that, as you would say, makes no difference in the 
 fears of individuals. For any man, who is not devoid of natural 
 feeling, has reason to fear, if he has no knowledge or proof of the 
 soul's immortality. That is what I suppose you to say, Cebes, 
 which I designedly repeat, in order that nothing may escape us, 
 and that you may, if you wish, add or subtract anything. 
 
 But, said Cebes, as far as I see at present, I have nothing to add 
 orsubtract j you have expressed my meaning. 
 
 Socrates paused awhile, and seemed to be absorbed in reflection. 
 At length he said : This is a very serious enquiry which you are 
 raising, Cebes, involving the whole question of generation and 
 i corruption, about which I will, if you like, give you my own 
 experience j and you can apply this, if you think that anything 
 which I say will avail towards the solution of your difficulty. 
 
 I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what you have 
 to say. » 
 
 Then I will tell you, said Socrates; When I was young, Cebes, 
 I had a prodigious desire to know that department of philosophy 
 which is called Natural Science j this appeared to me to have 
 lofty aims, as being the science which has to do with the causes 
 of things, and which teaches why a thing is, and is created 
 and destroyed ; and I was always agitating myself with the con- 
 sideration of such questions as these : — Is the growth of animals 
 the result of some decay which the hot and cold principle 
 contract, as some have said? Is the blood the element with 
 which we think, or the air, or the fire? or perhaps nothing of 
 this sort — but the brain may be the originating power of the 
 ■perceptions of hearing and sight and smell, and memory and 
 opinion may come from them, ahd^cience may be based on 
 memory and opinion when no longer in motion, but at rest. 
 And then I went on to examine the decay of them, and ,then 
 to the things of heaven and earth, and at last I concluded that 
 I was wholly incapable of these inquiries, as I will.satisfactorily 
 
^46 PHAEDO. 
 
 prove to you. For I was fascinated by them to such a degree 
 that my eyes grew blind to things that I had seemed to myself,* 
 and also to others, to know quite well; and I forgot what I had ' 
 before thought to be self-evident, that the growth of man is 
 the result of eating and drinking; for when by the digestioii 
 of food flesh is added to flesh and bone to bone, and whenever 
 there is an aggregation of congenial elements, the lesser bulk 
 becomes larger and the small man greater. Was not that a 
 reasonable notion ? 
 
 Yes, said Cebes, I think so. * 
 
 Well; but let me tell you something more. There was a 
 time when I thought that I understood the meaning of greater 
 and less pretty well ; and when I saw a great man standing by 
 a little one, I fancied that one was taller than the other by a 
 head; or one horse would appear to be greater than another 
 horse: and still more clearly did I seem to perceive that ten 
 is two more than eight,- and that two cubits are more than 
 one, because two is twice one. 
 
 And what is now your notion of such matters ? said Cebes. 
 
 I should b^ far enough from imagining, he replied, that I 
 knew the cause of any of them, indeed I should, for I cannot 
 satisfy myself that when one is added to one, the one to which ' 
 the addition is made becomes two, or that the two units added 97 
 together make two by reason of the addition. For I cannot un- 
 derstand how, when separated from the other, each of them was 
 one and not two, and now, when they are brought together, the 
 mere juxtaposition of them can be the cause of their becoming 
 two : nor can I understand how the division of one is the way 
 to make two ; for then a different cause would produce the same ^ 
 eflPect, — as in the former instance the addition and juxtaposition 
 of one to one was the cause of two, in this the separation and ' 
 subtraction of one from the- other would be the cause. Nor am I 
 any longer satisfied that I understand the reason why one or 
 anything else either is generated or destroyed or is a£'' all, but 
 I have in my mind some confused notion of another method, ''• 
 and can never admit this. 
 
 Then I heard some one who had a book of Anaxagoras, as he said, " 
 out of which he read that mind was the disposer and cause of 
 all, and I was quite delighted at the notion of this, which appeare^ 
 
PHAEDO. 447 
 
 a^irable, and I said to myself: If mind is the disposer, mind 
 will dispose all for the , best, and put eftch particular in the 
 best place; and I argued that if any one desired to find out 
 the cause of the generation or destruction or existence of any- 
 thing, he must find out what state of being" or suffering or doing 
 was best for that thing, and therefore a man had only to consider 
 the best for himself and others, and then he would also know 
 the worse, for that the same science comprised both. And I 
 rejoiced to think that I had found in Anaxagoras a teacher of 
 the causes of existence such as I desired, and I imagined that 
 he would tell me iirst whether the earth is flat or round ; and then 
 he would further explain the cause and the necessity of this, 
 and would teach me the nature of the best and show that 
 this was best ; and if he said that the earth was in the centre, 
 he would explain that this position was the best, and I should 
 be satisfied if this were shown to me, and not want any other 
 sort of cause. And I thought that I would then go on and ask 
 him about the sun and moon and stars, and that he would explain 
 to me their comparative swiftness, and their returnings and 
 varioiis states, and how their several affections, active and passive, 
 were all for the best. For I could not imagine that when he 
 spoke of mind as the disposer of them, he would give any other 
 account of their being as they are, except that this was best; 
 and r thought that when he had explained to me in detail the 
 cause of each and the cause of all, he would go on to explain to 
 me what was best for each and what was best for all. I had hopes 
 which I would not have sold for much, and I seized the books and 
 read them as fast as I could in my eagerness to know the better 
 and the worse.,- -- - - . - , 
 
 What hopes I had formed, and how grievously was I disap- 
 pointed! As I proceeded, I found my philosopher altogether- 
 forsaking mind or any other principle of order, but having 
 recourse to air, and ether, and water, and other eccentricities. 
 I might compare him to a person who began by maintaining 
 generally that mind is the cause of the actions of Socrates, but 
 Who, tVhen he endeavoured to explain the causes of my several 
 *ttions in detail, went on to show that I sit here because my 
 body is made up of bones and muscles; and the bones, as he 
 would say, are hard and have ligaments which divide them, and 
 
448 PHAEDO. 
 
 the muscles are elastic, and they cover the bones, which have also 
 a covering or environment of flesh and skin which contains them ; 
 and as the bones are lifted at their joints by the contraction or 
 relaxation of the muscles, I am able to bend my limbs, and this 
 is why I am sitting here in a curved posture j — that is what he 
 would say, and he would have a similar explanation of my talkii^ 
 to you, which he would attribute to sounc£,-and air, and hearing,,, 
 and he would assign ten thousand other causes of the same sort, 
 forgetting to mention the irue cause, which is, that the Athenians 9 
 have thought fit to condemn me, and accordingly I have thought 
 it better and more right to remain here and undergo my sentence; 
 for I am inclined to think that these muscles and bones of mine 
 would have gone off to Megara or Boeotia — by the dog of Egypt 
 they would, if they had been guided only by their own idea of 
 what was best, and if I had not chosen as the better and nobler 
 part, instead of playing truant and running away, to undergo any 
 punishment which the state inflicts. There is surely a strange 
 confusion of causes and conditions in all this. It may be said, 
 indeed, that without bones and muscles and the other parts of 
 the body I cannot execute my purposes. But to say that I do as 
 I do because of them, and that this is the way in which mind acts, 
 and not from the choice of the best, is a very careless and idle 
 mode of speaking. I wonder that they cannot distinguish the 
 cause from the condition, which the many, feeling about in the 
 dark, are always mistaking and misnaming. And thus one man 
 makes a vortex all round and steadies the earth by the heaven; 
 another gives the air as a suppWt to the earth, which is a sort of 
 broad trough. Any power which in disposing them as they are 
 disposes them for the best never enters into their minds, nor do 
 they imagine that there' is any superhuman strength in that ; they 
 rather expect to find another Atlas of the world who is stronger 
 and more everlasting and more containing than the good is, and 
 are clearly of opinion that the obligatory and containing power 
 of the good is as nothing; and yet this is the principle which 
 I would fain learn if any one would teach me. But as I haye 
 failed either to discover myself, or to learn of any one else, th6 
 nature of the best, I will exhibit to you, if you like, what I have 
 found to be the second best mode of inquiring into the cause. 
 I should very much like to hear that, he replied. 
 
PHAEDO. 449 
 
 'Socrates proceeded:-^! thought that as I had failed in the con- 
 templation of true existence, I ought to be carefiil that I did not 
 lose the eye of my soulj as people may injure their bodily eye by 
 observing and gazing on the sun during an eclipse, unless 
 they take the precaution of only lookingat the image reflected in 
 the ^ater, or in some similar medium. That occurred to me, and 
 of was afraid that my soul might be blinded altogether if I looked 
 at things with my eyes or tried by the help of the senses to appre- 
 ^ hend them. And I thought that I had better have recourse to 
 \ ideas, and seek in them the truth of existence. I dare say that 
 j^ the simile is not perfect — for I am very far from admitting that 
 ! he who contemplates existences through the medium of ideas, sees 
 them only < through a glass darkly,' any more than he who Sees 
 them in their working and effects. However, this was the 
 fliethod which I adopted f I first assumed some principle which 
 I judged to be the strongest, and then I affirmed as true whatever 
 seemed to agree with this, whether relating to the cause or to 
 anything else ; and that which disagreed I regarded as untrue. 
 But I should like to explain my meaning clearly, as I do not think 
 that you understand me. 
 No indeed, replied Cebes, not very well. 
 
 There is nothing new, he said, in what I am about to tell you ; 
 but only what I have been always and everywhere repeating in the 
 previous discussion and on other occasions : I want to show you 
 the nature of that cause which has occupied my thoughts, and 
 I shall have to go back to those familiar words which are in the 
 mouth of every one, and first of all assume that there is an 
 absolute beauty and goodness, and greatness, and the like ; grant 
 me this, and I hope to be able to show you the nature of the 
 cause, and to prove the immortality of the soul. 
 
 Cebes said: You may proceed at once with the proof, as I readily 
 grant you this. 
 
 Well, he said, then I should like to know whether you agree 
 with, me in the next stepj for I cannot help, thinking that if there 
 be anything beautiful other than absolute beauty, that can only be 
 beautiful in as far as it partakes of absolute beauty— and this I 
 should say of everything. Do you agree in this notion of the cause ? 
 Yes, he said, I agree. 
 He proceeded : I know nothing and can understand nothing of 
 
 Gg 
 
/ 
 
 450 » PHAEDO. 
 
 any othei^ of those wise causes which are alleged j and if ^. persojio 
 says to me that the bloom of colour, or forip, or anything else>of 
 that sort is a source of beauty, I leave all that, •v^^hich is only con- 
 fiising to me, and Simply and singly, and perhaps foolishly, hold, 
 a,nd am assured in my- own ,niind that nothing makes a thing 
 beautiful but the presence and participation of beauty in whatev^o 
 way or manner obtained ; for as to the manner I am uncertaiq^p 
 but I stoutly contend that by beauty all beautiful things becomfti 
 beautiful. That appears to ine to be the only safe answer that, 
 I can give, either to myself or to any other, and to that I cUng, 
 iij the persuasion that I shall never b? overthrown, and that I may- 
 safely answer to myself or any other, that by beauty beautiful-, 
 things b^ome beautifiiL Do you not agree to that ? 
 
 Yes, I agree. 
 
 And that by greatness only great things become great and- 
 greater greater, and by smallness the less become less. 
 
 True. 
 
 T^en if a peijson, remarks that A is taller by. a head than B, '^'■ 
 ajid B less by. a head than A, you would refuse to admit thjs, 
 and would stoutly contend that what you mean is only that 
 the greater is greater by, an(d by reason of, greatness, and the 
 less is le§s only by, or by reason of, smallness \ and thus you would 
 avoid the danger of saying that the. greater is greater and the 
 less l^ss by the measure of the head, which is the same in both, 
 and would also avoid the monstrous a,bsurdity of supposing that 
 the greater man is greater by. reason of the head, which is small.- 
 Would you not be afraid of that? 
 
 Indeed, I should, said Cebes, laughing. 
 
 In like manner you would be afraid to say that ten exceeded 
 eight by, and by reason of, two ; but would say by, and by reason 
 of, number; or that two cubits exceed one cubit by a half, but . 
 by magnitude? — that is what you would say, for there is the- 
 same danger in both cases. 
 
 V^ry true, he said. 
 
 Again, would you, not be cautious of affirming that the addition! \ 
 of one to one, or the division of one, is, the cause of two? And 
 you would loudly asseverate that you know of no way in wh^ch 
 anything comes into existence except by participation in its 
 own proper essence, and consequently, as far as you. know, the 
 
PHAEDO. 451 
 
 only cause of two is the participation in duality j that is, the 
 way to make two, and the participation in one is the way to 
 make one. You would say: I will let alone puzzles of division 
 and addition — wiser heads than mine may answer them; inex- 
 perienced as I am, and ready to start, as the proverb says, at my 
 own shadow, I caimot afford to give up the sure ground of a 
 principle. And if any one assails you there, you would not mind 
 him, or answer him, until you had seen whether the consequences 
 which follow agree with one another or not, and when you are 
 further required to give an explanation of this principle, you 
 would go on to assume a higher principle, and the best of the 
 hi^er ones until you found a resting-place; but you would not 
 confuse the principle and the consequences in your reasoning, 
 like the Eristics — at least if you wanted to discover real exist- 
 ence. Not that this confiision signiiies to them who never care 
 or think about the matter at all, for they have the wit to be 
 well pleased with themselves however great may be, the turmoil 
 of their ideas. But you, if you are a philosopher, will, I be- 
 lieve, do as I say. 
 
 What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, both 
 speaking at once. 
 
 Ech. Yes, Phaedo ; and I don't wonder at their assenting. Any 
 one who has the least sense will acknowledge the wonderful 
 clearness of Socrates' reasoning. 
 
 Vhaed. Certainly, Echlecrates j and that was the feeling of the 
 whole company at the time. 
 
 'Ech. Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not of the com- 
 pany, and are now listening to your recital. But what followed? 
 
 Vhaed. After all this was admitted, and they had agreed about 
 the existence of ideas and the participation in them of the 
 other things which derive their names from them, Socrates, if 
 I remember rightly, said : — 
 
 This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say that 
 Simmias is greater than Socrates, and less than Phaedo, do you 
 not predicate of Simmias both greatness and smallness ? 
 Yes, I do. 
 
 But still you allow that Simmias does not really exceed Socrates, 
 as the words may seem to imply, because he is Simmias, but by 
 reason of the size which he has ; just as Simttiias does not ex- 
 
 Gga 
 
 \ 
 
455t PHAEDO. 
 
 cped Socrates because he is SimmiaSj any more than because 
 Socrates is Socrates, but because he has smallness when compared 
 with the greatness of Simmias ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And if Phaedo exceeds him in size, this is not because Phaedo 
 is Phaedo, but because Phaedo has greatness relatively to Simmias, 
 who is comparatively smaller ? 
 
 That is true. I 
 
 And therefore Simmias is said to be great, and is also said to J 
 be small, because he is in a mean between them, exceeding, the 
 smallness of the one by his greatness, and allowing the greatness | 
 of the other to exceed his smallness. He added, laughing, I am 
 speaking like a book, but I believe that what I am saying is true. 
 
 Simmias assented to this. 
 
 The reason why I say this, is that I want you to agree with 
 me in thinking, not only that absolute greatness will never be 
 great and also small, but that greatness in us or in the concrete 
 will never admit the small or admit of being exceeded: in- I 
 stead of this one of two things will happen, either the greater 
 will fly or retire before the opposite, which is the less, or at 
 the advance of the less will cease to exist; but will not, if 
 allowing or admitting smallness, be changed by that; even as 
 I, having received and admitted smallness when compared with 
 Simmias, remain just as I was, and am the same small person. 
 And as the idea of greatness cannot condescend ever to be or 
 become small, in like manner the smallness in us cannot be 
 or become great ; nor can any other opposite which remains 
 the same ever be or become, its own opposite, but either passes 103 
 away or perishes in the change. 
 
 That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion. 
 
 One of the company, though I do not exactly remember which 
 of them, on hearing this, said : By heaven, is not this the direct 
 contrary of what was admitted before — that out of the greater 
 came the less and out of the less tlie greater, and that opposites 
 were simply generated from opposites; whereas now this Seems 
 to be utterly denied. 
 
 Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and listened. I like 
 your courage, he said, in reminding us of this. But you do not 
 observe that there is a diflFerence in the two cases, for then we 
 were speaking of opposites in the concrete, and now of the 
 
PHAEDO. 453 
 
 J. essential opposite which, as is affirmed, neither in us nor in 
 nature can ever be at variance with itself: then, my friend, we 
 were speaking of things in which opposites are inherent and which 
 |, are called after them, but no\y about the opposites which are 
 inherent in them and which give their name to themj these 
 essential opposites will never, as we maintain, admit of genera- 
 tion into or out of one another. At the same time, turning to 
 , CebeSj he said: Were you at all disconcerted, Cebes, at our 
 friend's objection? 
 
 That was not my feeling, said Cebes j and yet I cannot deny 
 that I am apt to be disconcerted. 
 
 Then we are agreed after all, said Socrates, that the opposite 
 will never in any case be opposed to itself ? 
 To that we are quite agreed, he replied. 
 " '-, Yet once more let me ask you to consider the question from 
 another point of view, and see whether you agree with me :■ — 
 There is a thing which you term heat, and another thing which 
 ■ _ you term cold ? 
 "f" " Certainly. 
 
 " But are they the same as fire and snow ? < 
 
 ^ Most assuredly not. 
 ' Heat is not the same as fire, nor is cold the same as snow ? 
 
 '^' No^ 
 
 ''' And yet you will surely admit, that when snow, as was before 
 
 '" said, is under the influence of heat, they will not remain snow and 
 
 * heat ; but at the advance of the heat, the snow will either retire 
 
 ^^ or perish? 
 
 •"r Very true, he replied* 
 
 And the fire too at the advance of the cold will either retire or 
 
 perish j and when the fire is under thte influence of the cold, they 
 il"' will not remain as before, fire and colcU 
 I'*' That is true, he said* 
 
 l«? And in some cases the name of the idea is not confined to the 
 !# • ideaj but anything else which, not being the idea, exists only in the 
 lii' form of the idea, may also lay claim to it. I will try to make this 
 
 dearer by an example : — The odd number is always called by the 
 si ' name of odd ? - ~ 
 
 i«*»4 Very true. 
 til'' " But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are there not 
 
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 m 
 
454 ■ PHAEDO. 
 
 because, although not the 'same as oddness, they are never without 
 oddness ?— that is what I mean to ask — whether numbers such as 
 the number three are not of the class of odd. And there are many 
 other examples : would you not say, for example, that three may 
 be called by its proper name, and also be called odd, which is not 
 the same with three ? and this may be said not only of three but 
 also of five, and every alternate number — each of them without 
 being oddness is odd, and in the same way two and four, and the 
 whole series of alternate numbers, has every number even, without 
 being evenness. Do you admit that ? 
 
 Yes, he said, how can I deny that ? 
 
 Then now mark the point at which I am aiming : — not only do 
 essential opposites exclude one another, but .also concrete things, 
 which, although not in themselves opposed, contain opposites; J 
 these, I say, also reject the idea which is opposed to that which is ^ 
 contained in them, and at the advance of that they either perish 
 or withdraw. There is the number three for example ; — will not 
 that ensure annihilation or anything sooner than be converted 
 into an even number, remaining three ? 
 
 Very true, said Cebes. 
 
 And yet, he said, the number two is certainly not opposed to 
 the number three ? 
 
 It is not. j 
 
 Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance of one 
 another, but also there are^ether things which repel the approach 
 of opposites. 
 
 That is quite true, he said. ' 
 
 Suppose, he said, that we endeavour, if possible, to determine 
 what these are. 
 
 By all means. 
 
 Are they not, Cebes, such as compel the things of which they 
 have possession, not only to take their own form, but also the 
 form of some opposite? 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 I mean, as I was just now saying, and have no need to rep^t 
 to you, that those things which are possessed by the number three 
 must not only be three in number, but must also be odd. 
 
 Quite true. 
 
 And on this oddnesg, of which the number- three has the impress, 
 the opposite idea will never intrude ? 
 
PhAEDO. 455 
 
 No. 
 
 And this impress was given by the odd principle ? 
 i Yes. 
 
 ^ And to the odd is ojjposed the even ? 
 I True. 
 
 Then the idea of the even number will never arrive at three ? 
 V No. 
 J Then three has no part in the even ? 
 
 None. 
 
 Then the triad or number three is uneven ? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 To return then to my distinction of natures which are not 
 opposites^ and yet do not admit opposites: as in this instance, 
 , three, although not opposed to the even, does not any the more 
 admit of the even, but always brings the opposite into play on the 
 ; other side j or as two does not receive the odd, br fire the cold — 
 from these examples (and there are many more of them) perhaps 
 you may be able to arrive at the general conclusion, thkt hot only 
 6|>posites will nc3t receive opposites, but also that iiothing which 
 brings the opposite will admit the opposite of that which it brings 
 in that to which it Is brought. And here let.me recapitulate — for 
 there is no harm in repetition. The number five will not admit 
 the nature of the even, any more than ten, which is the double of 
 five, will admit the nature of the odd — the double, though hot 
 strictly opposed to the odd, rejects the odd altogether. Nor again 
 will parts in the ratio of 3 : 2, nor any fraction in which there is 
 a half, nor again in which there is a third, admit the notion of 
 the whole, although they are not opposed to the whole. You 
 will agree to that ? 
 
 Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with you in that. 
 
 And now, he said, I think that I may bSgih again ; and to the 
 question which I am about to ask I Mil beg yoii to give not the 
 old safe answer, but ahother, of which I will offer you an example; 
 and I hope that you -will find in what has been just said ahother 
 foundation which is as safe. I mean that if any one asks you 'what 
 that is, the inherence of which makes the body hot/ you will reply 
 not heat (tliis is what I call the safe and stupid answer), but fire, a 
 far better answer, which We are now in a condition to give. Or if 
 any one asks you ' why a body is diseased,' ycJu will not say from 
 
A 
 
 4S6 . PHAEDO. 
 
 disease, but from fever j and instead of saying that oddness is the 
 cause of odd numbers, you will say that the monad is the cause of 
 them : and so of things in general, as I dare say that you will 
 understand sufficiently without my adducing any further examples. 
 
 Yes, he said, I quite understand you. 
 
 Tell me, then, what is that the inherence of which will render 
 the body ^.live ? ; 
 
 The soul, he replied. 
 
 And is this always the case ? 
 
 Yes, he said, of course. 
 
 Then whatever the soul possesses, to that she comes bearing 
 life ? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 And is there any opposite to life ? 
 
 There is, he said. ~ 
 
 And what is that ? 
 
 Death. 
 
 Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never receive 
 the opposite of what she brings. And now, he said, what did we 
 call that principle which repels the even ? 
 
 The odd. 
 
 And that principle which repels the musical, or the just ? 
 
 The unmusical, he said, and the unjust. 
 
 And what do we call that principle which does not admit of 
 death ? 
 
 The immortal, he said. 
 
 And does the. soul admit of death ? 
 
 No. 
 
 Then the soul is immortal ? 
 
 Yes, he said. » 
 
 And may we say that this is proven ? 
 
 Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates, he replied. 
 
 And supposing that the odd were imperishable, must not three 
 be imperishable ? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 And if that which is cold were imperishable, when the warm 
 principle came attacking the snow, must not the snow hav6= 
 retired whole and unmelted — for it could never have perished, 
 nor could it have remained and admitted the heat ? SQf 
 
PHAEDO. 457 
 
 "i True, he said. 
 
 *i ^ Again, if the uncooling or warm principle were imperishable, 
 " the fire when assailed by cold would not have perished or have 
 ^ been extinguished, but would have gone away unaffected ? 
 
 Certainly, he said. 
 « And the same may be said of the immortal : if the immortal is 
 also imperishable, the soul when attacked by death cannot perish ; 
 for the preceding argument shows that the soul will not admit of 
 death, or ever be dead, any more than three or the odd number 
 will admit of the even, or fire, or the heat in the fire, of the 
 b cold. Yet a person may say: 'But although the odd will not 
 become even at the approach of the even, why may not the 
 odd perish and the even take the place of the odd ?' Now to him 
 who makes this objection, we cannot answer that the odd prin- 
 ciple is imperishable ; for this has not been acknowledged, but 
 if this had been acknowledged, there would have been no dif- 
 ficulty in contending that at the approach of the even the odd 
 [lit principle and the number three took up their departure j and the 
 ilA same argument would have held good of fire and heat and any 
 other thing. 
 Very true. 
 ) . And the same may be said of the immortal : if the immortal is 
 also imperishable, then the soul will be imperishable as well as 
 iM immortal ; but if not, some other proof of her imperishableness 
 will have to be given. 
 
 No other proof is needed, he said ; for if the immortal, being 
 eternal, is liable to perish, then nothing is imperishable. 
 
 Yes, replied Socrates, all men will agree that God, and the 
 essential form of life, and the immortal in general, will never 
 perish. 
 
 Yes, all men, he said — that is true; and what is more, gods, 
 if I am not mistaken, as well as men. 
 jjlj*! ■ - Seeing then that the immortal is indestructible, must not the 
 soul, if she is immortal, be also imperishable ? 
 Most certainly. 
 jjj Then when death attacks .a man, the mortal portion of him may 
 J be supposed to die, but the immortal goes out of the way of death 
 J and is preserved safe and sound ? 
 True. 
 
458 PHAEDO. 
 
 Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and im- 
 perishable, and our souls will truly exist in another world ! i 
 
 I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have nothing mbre : 
 to object ; but if my friend Simmias, or any one else, has any 
 further objection, he had better speak out, and not kfeep silence, 
 since I do not know how there can ever be a more fitting time to 
 which he can defer the discussion, if there is anything which he 
 wants to say or have said. 
 
 But I have nothing more to say, replied Simmias j nor do I see 
 any room for uncertainty, except that which arises necessarily out 
 of the greatness of the subject and the feebleness of man, alid 
 which I cannot help feeling. 
 
 Yes, Simmias, replied Socrates, that is well said: and mori 
 than that, first principles, even if they appear certain, should 
 be carefully considered ; and when they are satisfactorily ascer- 
 tained, then, with a sort of hesitating confidence in human' reason, 
 you may, I think, follow the course of the argumeftt j and if this 
 is clear, there will be no need for any further inquiry. 
 
 That, he said, is true. 
 
 But then, O my friends, he said, if the soul is really immbrtal, 
 what care should ie taken of her, not only in respect of the 
 portion of time which is called life, but of eternity! And the 
 danger of faegleeting her from this point of view does indeed 
 appear to be awful. If death had only been the end of all, the 
 wicked would have had a good bargain in dying, for they would 
 have been happily quit not only of their body, but of their own 
 evil together' with their souls. But now, as the soul plainly 
 appears to be immortal, there is no release or salvatioii from 
 evil except the attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom. 
 For the soul when on her progress to the world below takes 
 nothing with her but nurture and education j which are indeed 
 said greatly to benefit or greatly to injure the departed, at the 
 very beginning of his pilgrimage in the other world. 
 
 For after death, as they say, the genius of each individual, to 
 whom he belonged in life, leads hlln to a certain place in which 
 the dead are gathered together for judgment. Whence they go 
 into the world below, following the guide, who is appoinlied to . 
 conduct them from this world to the other: and when they 
 have there received their due and remained their time, another 
 
PHAEDO. 459 
 
 ,)- guide brings them back "again after m%ny revolutions of ages. 
 I* Now this journey to the other world is not, as Aeschylus says in 
 Hthe Telephus, a single, and straight path — no guide would be 
 wanted for that, and no one could miss a single path; but there 
 are many partings of the road, and windings, as I must infer 
 from the rites and sacrifices which are offered to" the gods be- 
 low in places where three ways meet on earth. The wise and 
 orderly soul is conscious of her situation, and follows in the 
 path; but the soul which desires the body, and which, as I was 
 relating before, has, long' been fluttering about the lifeless frame 
 and the world of sight, is after many struggles and many sufferings 
 hardly and with- violence carried away by her attendant genius, and 
 when she arrives at the place where the other souls are gathered, 
 if she be impure and have done impure deeds, or been concerned 
 in foul murders or other crimes which are the brothers of these, 
 and the works of brothers in crime — from that soul every one 
 flees and turns away; no one will be her companion, no one 
 her guide, but alone she wanders in extremity ■ of evil until 
 certain times are &lfilled, and when they are fulfilled, she is 
 borne irresistibly to her own fitting habitation; as every pure 
 and just soul which has passed through Jife in the company and 
 under the guidance of the gods has also her own proper home. ■ 
 
 Now the earth has divers wonderful regions, and is indeed 
 in nature and extent very unlike the notions of geographers, as 
 I believe on the authority of one who shall be nameless. 
 
 What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I have myself 
 heard many descriptions of the earth, but I do not know in what 
 you are putting your faith, and I should like to know. 
 Well, Simmias, replied Socrates, the recital of a tale does not, 
 •; il think, require the art of Glaucus ; and I know not that the 
 art of Glaucus could prove the truth of my tale, which I myself 
 should never be able to prove, and even if I could, I fear, Simmias, 
 that my life would come to an end before the argument was 
 j completed. I may describe to you, however, the form and regions 
 [, of the earth according to my conception of them. 
 [ v,4 That, said Simmias, will be enough. 
 
 jr^ Well then, he said, my conviction is, that the earth is a round 
 I . body in the centre of the heavens, and therefore has no need 
 j of air or any similar force as a support, but is> kept there and 
 
 4 
 
46o PHAEDO. 
 
 hindered from falling or inclining any way by the equability of i 
 the surrounding heaven and by her own equipoise. For that 
 which, being in equipoise, is in the centre of that which is 
 equably diffused, will not incline any way in any degree, but 
 will always remain in the same state and not deviate. And 
 this is my first notion. 
 'Which is surely a correct one, said Simmias. 
 Also I believe that the earth is very vast, and that we who 
 dwell in the region extending from the river Phasis to the Pillars 
 of Heracles along the borders of the sea, are just like ants or 
 frogs about a marsh, and' inhabit a small portion only, and that 
 many others dwell in many like places. For I should say that 
 in all parts of the earth there are hollows of various forms and 
 sizes, into which the water and the mist and the air collect; 
 and that the true earth is pure and in the pure heaven, in 
 which also are the stars — that is 'the heaven which is com- 
 monly spoken of as the ether, of which this is but the sediment 
 collecting in the hollows of the earth. But we who live in these 
 hollows are deceived into the notion that we are dwelling above 
 on the surface of the earth ; which is just as if a creature who 
 was at the bottom of- the sea were to fancy that he was on the 
 surface of the water, and that the sea was the heaven through 
 which he saw the sun and the other stars, — he having never 
 come to the surface by reason of his feebleness and sluggishness^ 
 and having never lifted up his head and seen, nor ever heard 
 from one who had seen, this other region which is so much 
 purer and fairer than his own. Now this is exactly our case: 
 for we are dwelling in a hollow of the earth, and fancy that we 
 are on the surface ; and the air we call the heaven, and in this 
 we imagine that the stars move. But this is also owinig to 
 our feebleness and sluggishness, which prevent our reaching the 
 surface of the air : for if any man could arrive at the exterior 
 limit, or take the wings of a bird and fly upward, like it ' 
 fish who puts his head out and sees this world, he would see 
 a world beyond ; and, if the nature of man could sustain the 
 sight, he would acknowledge that this was the place of the true 
 heaven and the true light and the true stars. For this earth, i 
 and the stones, and the entire region which surrounds us, are 
 spoilt and corroded, like the things in the sea which are corroded 
 by the brine; for, in the sea too there is hardly any noble or 
 
PHAEDO. 461 
 
 perfect growth, but clefts only, and sand, and an endless slough 
 of mud J and even the shore is not ^ be compared to the 
 fairer sights of this world. And greater far is the superiority 
 of the other. Now of that upper earth which is under the heaven, 
 I can tell you a charming tale, Simmias, which is well worth 
 hearing. 
 
 And we, Socrates, replied Simmias, shall be charmed to listen. 
 
 The tale, my friend, he said, is as follows: — In the first_ place, 
 the earth, when looked at from, above, is like one of those balls 
 which have leather coverings in twelve pieces, and is of divers 
 colours, of which the colours which painters use on earth are 
 only a sample. But there the whole earth is 'made up of them, 
 and they are brighter far and clearer than ours; there is a 
 purple of wonderful lustre, also the radiance of gold, and the white 
 which is in the earth ' is whiter than any chalk or snow. Of 
 these and other colours the earth is made up, and they are 
 more in number and fairer than the eye of man has ever seen ; 
 and the very hollows (of which I was speaking) filled with air and 
 water are seen like light flashing amid the other colours, and 
 have a colour of their own, which gives a sort of unity to the 
 variety of earth. And in this fair region everything that grows — 
 trees, and flowers, and fruits — are in a like degree fairer than 
 any here ; and there are hills, and stones in them in a like 
 degree smoother, and more transparent, and fairer in colour than 
 our highly-valued emeralds and sardonyxes and jaspers, and 
 other gems, which are but minute fragments of them : for there 
 all the stones are like our precious stones, and fairer still. The 
 reason of this is, that they are pure, and not, like our precious 
 stones, infected or corroded by the corrupt briny elements which 
 coagulate among us, and which breed foulness and disease both 
 in earth and stones, as well as in animals and plants. They are 
 the jewels of the upper earth, which also shines with gold 
 I and silver and the like, and they are visible to sight and large 
 and abundant and found in every region of the earth, and 
 blessed is he who sees them. And upon the earth are animals 
 and men, some in a middle region, others dwelling about the 
 air as we dwell about the sea; others in islands which the air 
 flows round, near the continent : and in a word, the air is used 
 by them as the water and the sea are by us, and the ether is 
 to them what the air is to us. Moreover, the temperament of 
 
462 PHAEDO. 
 
 their seasons is such that they have no disease, and live much 
 longer than we do, and have sight and hearing and smell, and 
 all the other senses, in far greater perfection, in the same degree 
 that air is purer than water or the ether than air. Also they 
 have temples and sacred places in which the gods really dwell,, 
 and they hear their voices and receive their answers, and are 
 conscious of them and hold converse with them, and they see 
 the sun, moon, and stars as they really are, and their other 
 blessedness is of a piece with this. 
 
 Such is the nature of the whole earth, and of the things which 
 are around the earth ; and there are divers regions in the hollows 
 on the face of the globe everywhere, some of them deeper and also 
 wider than that which we inhabit, others deeper and with a nar- 
 rower opening than ours, and some are shallower and wider; all 
 have numerous perforations, and passages broad and narrow in the 
 interior of the earth, connecting them with one another; and there 
 flows into and out of them, as into basins, a vast tide of water, and 
 huge subterranean streams of perennial rivers, and springs hot and 
 cold, and a great fire, and great rivers of fire, and streams of liquid 
 mud, thin or thick (like the rivers of mud in Sicily, and the lava 
 streams which follow them), and the regions about which they hap- 
 pen to flow are filled up with them. And there is a sort of swing 
 in the interior of the earth which moves all this up and down. 
 Now the swing is on this wise :— There is a chasm which is the 
 vastest of them all, and pierces right through the whole earth; this 
 is that which Homer describes in the words : — i 
 
 ' Far off, where is the inmost depth beneath the earth ;' 
 
 and which he in other places, and many other poets, have called 
 Tartarus. And the swing is caused by the streams flowing into 
 and out of this chasm, and they each have the nature of the soil 
 through which they flow. And the reason why the streams are 
 always flowing in and out, is that the watery element has no bed 
 or bottom, and is surging and swinging up and down, and the 
 surrounding wind and air do the same ; they follow the water up 
 and down, hither and thither, over the earth— just as in respiring 
 the air is always in process of inhalation and exhalation ;— and 
 the wind swinging with the water in and out produces fearful and 
 irresistible blasts: when the waters retire with a rush into, the 
 
i-: 
 
 PHAEDO. 463 
 
 '* lower parts of the earth, as they are called, they flow through the 
 ■M earth into those regions, and fill them upi*as with the alternate 
 S motion of a pump, and then when they leave those regions and 
 "1 4 rush back hither, they again fill the hollows here, and when these 
 'W are filled, flow through subterranean channels and find their' way to 
 I'l their seyeral places, forming seas, and lakes, and rivers, and 
 V springs. Thence they again enter the earth, some of them making 
 '« a long circuit into many lands, others going to few places and 
 those not distant ; and again fall into Tartarus, some at a point 
 p* a good deal lower than that at which they rose, and others not 
 14 much lower, but all in some degree lower than the point of issue. 
 iili And some burst forth again on the opposite side, and some on the 
 111 same side, and some wind round the earth with one or many folds 
 ifc like the coils of a serpent, "and descend as far as they can, but 
 III always return and fall into the lake. The rivers on either side 
 ■A can descend only to the centre and no further, for to the rivers on 
 mi both sides the opposite side is a precipice. 
 
 p. Now these rivers are many, and mighty, and diverse, and there 
 ;^i| are four principal ones, of which the greatest and outermost is that. 
 IW cajled Oceanus, which flows round the earth in a circle ; and in 
 ^ 'the opposite direction flows Acheron, which passes under the earth 
 (ffS through desert places, into the Acherusian lake i this is the lake to 
 ^i the shores of which the souls of the many go when- they are dead, 
 llil and after waiting an appointed time, which is to some a longer 
 j| I and to some a shorter time, they are sent back again to be born as 
 animals. The third river rises bet ween the two, and near the place 
 of rising pours into a vast region of fire, and forms a lake larger 
 ' than the Mediterranean Sea, boiling with water and mud; and 
 11,^ proceeding muddy and turbid, and winding about the earth, comes, 
 jgj among other places, to the extremities of the Acherusian lake, but 
 j|j,i mingles not with the waters of the lake, and after making many 
 coils about the earth plunges into Tartarus at a deeper level. 
 
 ll This is that Byriphlegethon, as the stream is called, which throws, 
 j^; up jets of fire in all sorts of places. The fourth river goes out on 
 ' the ; opposite side, and falls first of all into a wild and savage 
 ^ region, which is all of a dark blue colour, like lapis lazuli ; and 
 
 I this is that river which is called the Stygian river, and falls into and 
 Jji forms the Lake Styx, and after falling into the lakq and receiving 
 
 pi strange powers in the waters,, passes under the earth, winding 
 
464 PHAEDO. 
 
 round in the opposite direction to Pyriphlegethony and meeting in 
 the Acherusian lake from the opposite side. And the water of 
 this river too mingles with no other, but flows round in a circle 
 and falls into Tartarus over against Pyriphlegethon ; and the name 
 of this river, as the poets say, is Cocytus. 
 
 Such is the nature of the other world; and when the dead arrive 
 at the place to which the genius of each severally conveys them, 
 first of all, they have sentence passed upon them, as they have 
 lived well and piously or not. And those who appear to have lived 
 neither well nor ill, go to the river Acheron, and mount such con- 
 veyances as they can get, and are carried in them to the lake, and 
 there they dwell and are purified of their evil deeds, and sufiFer the 
 penalty of the wrongs which they have done to others, and are 
 absolved, and -receive the rewards of their good deeds according to 
 their deserts. But those who appear to be incurable by reason 
 of the greatness of their crimes — who have committed many and 
 terrible deeds of sacrilege, murders foul and violent,. or the like — ( 
 such are hurled into Tartarus which is their suitable destiny, and 
 they never come out. Those again who have committed crimes, 
 which, although great, are not unpardonable — who in a moment of 
 anger, for example, have done violence to a father or a mother, and i 
 have repented for the remainder of their lives, or, who have taken the 
 life of another under the like extenuating circumstances — these are 
 plunged into Tartarus, the pains of which they are compelled to 
 undergo for a year, but at the end of the year the wave casts them 
 forth — mere homicides by way of Cocytus, parricides and matricides 
 by Pyriphlegethpn — and they are borne to the Acherusian lake, and 
 there they lift up their voices and call upon the victims whom they 
 have slain or wronged, to have pity on them, and to receive them, 
 and to let them come out of the river into the lake. And if they 
 prevail, then they come forth and cease from their troubles ; but if 
 not, they are carried back again into Tartarus and from thence 
 into the rivers unceasingly, until they obtain mercy from those 
 whom they have wronged : for that is the sentence inflicted upon 
 them by their judges. Th6se also who are remarkable for having 
 led holy lives are released from this earthly prison, and go to their 
 pure home which is above, and dwell in the purer earth ; and those 
 who have duly purified themselves with philosophy, live henceforth 
 altogether without the body, in mansions fairer far than these, 
 
PHAEDO. 465 
 
 which may not be described, and of whigli the time would fail me 
 to tell. " 
 
 * -Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what ought not we 
 to do in order to obtain virtue and wisdom in this life ? Fair 
 is the prize, and the hope great ! 
 
 I do not mean to affirm that the description which I have 
 given of the soul and her mansions is exactly true — a man of sense 
 ought hardly to say that. But iNlo say that, inasmuch as the soul 
 is shown tc^be immortal, he may venture to think, not improperly 
 or unworthily, that something of the kind is true. The venture is 
 a glorious one, and he ought to comfort himself with words like 
 these, which is the reason why I lengthen out the tale. Where- 
 fore, I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul, who has cast 
 away the pleasures and ornaments of the body as alien to him, and 
 rather hurtful in their effects, and has followed after the pleasures 
 of kiiowledge in this life ; who has adorned the soul in her own 
 proper jewels, wWch are temperance, and justice, and courage, 
 and nobility, and truth — in these arrayed she is ready to go on her 
 journey to the world below, when her time comes. You, Simmias 
 and Cebes, and all other men, will depart at some time or other. 
 Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls. 
 Soon I must drink- the poison ; and I think that I had better 
 repair to the bath first, in order that the women may not have 
 the trouble of washing my body after I am dead. 
 
 When he had done speaking, Crito said : And have you any 
 commands for us, Socrates — anything to say about your children, 
 or any other matter in "which we can serve you ? 
 
 Nothing particular, he said : only, as I have always told you, 
 I would have you loqk to yourselves ; that is a service which you 
 may always be dding to me and mine as well as to yourselves. 
 And you need hot make professions; for if you take no thought 
 for yourselves, and walk not according to the precepts which I 
 have given yoi;, not now for the first time, the warmth of your 
 gtofessions will be of no avail. 
 
 f We will do our best, said Crito. But in what way would you 
 have us bury you ? 
 
 In any way that you like ; only you must get hold of me, and 
 take care that I do not walk away from you. Then he turned 
 to us, and added with a smile :— I cannot make Crito believe that 
 
466 PHAEDD. 
 
 I am the same Socrates who have been talking and conducting the 
 argument ; he fancies that I am the other Socrates whom he will 
 soon see, a dead body — and he asks. How shall he bury me ? And 
 though I have spoken many words in the endeavour to show that 
 when I have drunk the poison I shall leave you and go to the joys 
 of the blessed, — these words of mine, with which I comforted you 
 and myself, have had, as I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And 
 therefore I want you to be surety for me now, as he was surety for 
 me at the trial : but let the promise be of another sort j. for he was 
 my surety to the judges that I would j-emain, but you must be my 
 surety to him that I shall not remaip, but go away and depart; and 
 then he will suffer less at my death, and not be grieved when he 
 sees my body being burned or buried. I would not have him 
 sorrow at my hard lot, or say at the burial, Thus we lay out 
 Socrates, or. Thus we follow him to the grave or bury him ; for 
 false words are not only evil in themselves,'^ but they infect the 
 soul with evil. Be of good cheer then, my dear Crito, and say 
 that you are burying my body only^ and do with that as is usual, i 
 and as you think best. 
 
 When he had spoken these words, he arose and went into the 
 bath-chamber with Crito, who bid us wait ; and we waited, talk-, 
 ing and thinking of the subject of discourse, and also of the great- 
 ness of our sorrow ; he was like a father of whom we were being 
 bereaved, and we were about to pass the rest of our lives as 
 orphans. When he had taken the bath his children were broughfe 
 to him — (he had two young sons and an elder one) ; and .the women 
 of his family also came, and he talked to them and gave them 
 a few directions in the presence of Crito ; and he then dismissed 
 them and returned to us. 
 
 Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal of time had 
 passed while he was within. When he came out, he sat down 
 with us again after his bath, but not much was said. Soon the 
 jailer, who was the servant of the eleven, entered and stood by 
 him, saying : — To you, Socrates, whom I know to be the noblest 
 and gentlest and best of all who ever came to this place, I will 
 not impute the angry feelings of other men, who rage and swear 
 at me, when, in obedience to the authorities, I bid them drink the 
 poison — indeed, I am sure that you will not be angry with me^ 
 for others, as you are aware, and not I, are the guilty cause. And 
 
PHAEDO. 467 
 
 ^' so fare you well, and try to bear lightly wh^t must needs be ; you 
 ' know my errand. Then bursting into tears he turned away and 
 '•' went out. 
 
 ™' -Socrates looked at him and said :■ I return your good wishes, and 
 % will do as you bid. Then turning to us, he said, How charming 
 ™|: the man is : since I have been in prison he has always been 
 '' I coming to see me, and at times he would talk to me, and was as 
 T good as could be to me, and now see how generously he sorrows 
 "''1, for me. But we must do as he says, Crito j let the cup be 
 •*!> brought, if the poison is prepared : if not, let the attendant 
 rt| prepare some; 
 
 Itf'.i Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and many a 
 tai one has taken the draught late, and after the announcement has 
 tlfl been made to him, he has eaten and drunk, and indulged in 
 ^ sensual delights ; do not hasten then, there is still time. 
 ii Socrates said : Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are 
 ijiili right in doing thus, for they think that they will gain by the 
 Bil delay ; but I am right in not doing thus, for I do not think that 
 . I should gain anything by drinking the poison a little later 5 
 ( id r should be sparing and saving a life which is already gone; I 
 il((" could only laugh at myself for this. Please then to do as I say, 
 'jS^' and not to refuse me. 
 
 iHtll . CritOj "when he heard this, made a sign to the servant ; and the 
 il servant went in, and remained for some time, and then returned 
 igUj with the jailer carrying the cup of poison. Socrates said : You, my 
 lliti) good friend, who are experienced in these matters, shall give me 
 «(1 directions how I am to proceed. The man answered: You have 
 ij^ only to walk about until your legs are heavy, and then to lie down, 
 and the poison will act. At the same time he handed the cup to 
 (j^ Socrates, who in the easiest and gentlest manner, without the least 
 , ^1 fear or change of colour or feature, looking at the man with all 
 ^ his eyes, Echecrates, as his manner was, took the cup aijd said : 
 jj)i What do you say about making a libation out of this cup to any 
 jl,J god? 'May I, or not? The man answered: We only prepare, 
 ijf Socrates, just so much as we deem enough. I understand, he said : 
 jijj yet I may and must pray to the gods to prosper my journey from 
 jij this to that other world— may this then, which is my prayer, be 
 |; granted to me. Then holding the cup to his lips, quite readily 
 and cheerfully he drank ofF the poison. And hitherto most of us 
 
468 PHAEDO. 
 
 had been able to control our sorrow^ but now when we saw him 
 drinking, and saw too that he had finished the draught, we could 
 no longer forbear, and in spite of myself my own tears were flow- 
 ing fast; so that I covered my face and wept over myself, for 
 certainly I was not weeping over him, but at the thought of my 
 own calamity in having lost such a companion. Nor was I the 
 first, for Crito, when he found himself unable to restrain his tears, 
 had got up and moved away, and I followed ; and at that moment, ■ 
 ApoUodorus, who had been weeping all the time, broke out into 
 a loud cry which made cowards of us all. Socrates alone retained 
 his calmness: What is this strange outcry? he said. I sent 
 away the women mainly in order that they might not ofiFend in 
 this way, for I have heard that a man should die in peace. Be 
 quiet then, and have patience. When we heard that, we were 
 ashamed, and refrained our tears ; and he walked about until, as 
 he said, his legs began to fail, and then he lay on his back, accord- 1 
 ing to the directions, and the man who gave him the poison now 
 and then looked at his feet and legs ; and after a while he pressed i 
 his foot hard, and asked hira if he could feel; and he said. No; 
 and then his leg, and so upwards and upwards, and showed us ,that I 
 he was cold and stifl^. And he felt them himself, and said : When n 
 the poison reaches the heart, that will be tiie end. He was be- 
 ginning to grow cold about the groin, when he uncovered his face, 
 for he had covered himself up, and said (they were his last words) 
 — he said : Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius ; will you remember , 
 to pay the debt ? The debt shall be paid, said Crito ; is there i 
 anything else? There was no answer to this question; but in 
 a minute or two a movement was heard, and the attendants un- 
 covered him; his eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes and | 
 mouth. 
 
 Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend, whom I may tnily 
 call the wisest, and justest, and best of all the men whom I have 
 ever known. 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Of all the works of Plato the Symposium ''is the most perfect in form, ) 
 and may be truly thought to contain more than any commentator has 
 ever dreamed of; or, as Goethe said of one of his own writings, more 
 than the author himself knew. For in philosophy as in prophecy 
 glimpses of the future may often be conveyed in words which could 
 hardly have been understood or interpreted at the time when they were 
 uttered. (Cp. Symp. 210 foil. 223 D.) More than any other Platonic 
 work the Symposium is Greek both in style and subject, having a beauty 
 ' as of a statue,' while the companion Dialogue of the Phaedrus is marked 
 by a sort of Gothic irregularity. More too than in any other part 
 of his writings, Plato is emancipated from former phJUsophies. The 
 
 genius of Greek art seems to triumph over the traditions of Pythagorean, 
 Eleatic, or Megarian systems, and ' the old quarrel of poetry and phi- 
 losophy' has at least a superficial reconcilement. (Rep. x. 607 B.) 
 
 An unknown person who had heard of the discourses in praise of love 
 spoken by Socrates and others at the banquet of Agathon, is desirous of 
 having an authentic account of them, which he thinks that he can obtain 
 from Apollodorus, the- same excitable, or rather ' mad ' friend of 
 Socrates, who has already appeared in the Phaedo. He had imagined 
 that the discourses were recent. There he is . mistaken : but they are 
 still fresh in the memory of his informant, who had just been repeating 
 them to Glaucon, and is quite prepared to have another rehearsal of them 
 in a walk from the Piraeus to Athens. He had not indee^een present 
 himself, but he had heard them from the best authori^^^mstodemus, 
 who is described as having been in past times a sort^^iumble but 
 inseparable attendant of Socrates, had reported them to him. 
 
 The narrative which he had heard was as follows: — 
 
 Aristodemus meeting Socrates in holiday attire, is invited by him to a 
 
472 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 banquet at the house of Agathon, who had been sacrificing in thankss 
 giving for histragic victory on the day previous. But no sooner has he 
 entered the house than he .finds that Socrates is missing— he has stayed 
 behind in a fit of abstraction, and does not appear until the banquet is 
 half over. Some raillery passes between him and the host, and then , the 
 question is asked, 'What shall they do about drinking? as they had 
 been all well drunk on the day before, and drinking on two successive , 
 days is a bad thing.' This is confirmed by the authority of Eryximachus: 
 the physician, who further proposes that instead of listening to the flute- 
 girl and her ' noise ' they shall hold discourses in honour of love, one 
 after another, going from left to right as they are sitting at the table.: 
 All of them agree to this, and Phaedrus, who is thp ' father' df~the idea, 
 which he has previously communicated to Eryximachus, begins as 
 follows: — 
 
 He descants first of all upon the antiquity of love, which is proved by . , 
 the authority of the poets, and then upon the benefits which he gives to \ 
 man. The greatest of these is the sense of honour and dishonour. The 
 lover is ashamed to be seen by the beloved doing or suffering any 
 cowardly or mean act. And a state or army, which was made up only of 
 lovers and their loves would be invincible. For love will convert the 
 veriest coward into an inspired hero. 
 
 And there have been true loves not only of men but of women also. 
 Such was the love of Alcestis, who dared to die for her husband, and 
 as a reward was allowed to come again from the dead. But Orpheus, 
 the cowardly harper, who went down to Hades alive, that he might bring 
 back his wife, was mocked with an apparition only, and the gods after- 
 wards contrived his death as a punishment of his impudence. The 
 hero Achilles affords an instance of similar devotion ; for he was willing 
 to avenge his lover Patroclus, although he knew that his own death 
 would inimediately follow : and the gods, who honour the love of the- 
 beloved above that of the lover, rewarded him, and sent him to the 
 islands of the blest. 
 
 Pausanias, who was sitting next, then takes, up the tale. He says that 
 Phaedrus should have distinguished the heavenly love from the earthly, 
 before he praised either. For there are two loves, as there are two 
 Aphrodites— one the heavenly, who has no mother and is the elder, and 
 wiser goddess, and the other, the daughter of Zeus and D.ione, who is 
 popular and common. ^ The first of the two loves has a noble purpose,! 
 
INTRODUCTION. 473 
 
 and;delights only in the intelligent nature of man, and is faithful to the end, 
 and has no shadow of wantonness or lust. The second is the coarser 
 kind of love, which is a love of the body rather than of the soul, and is 
 apt to be a love of women and boys as well as of men. Now actions 
 varyfaccording to the manner of their performance; and this applies to 
 love as well as to every other sort of action. Moreover there is a differ- 
 ence of opinion about the propriety of male loves. Some, like the Boeo- 
 tians, approve of them; others, like the lonians, and most of the barba- 
 rians, disapprove of them ; partly because they are aware of the political 
 'dangers which ensue from them, as may be seen in the instance of 
 Harmodius and Aristogeiton. At Athens and Sparta there is an apparent 
 contradiction about them. For at times they are encouraged, and then 
 the lover is allowed to play all sorts of fantastic tricks ; he may swear and 
 forswear himself (and ' at lovers' perjuries they say Jove laughs ') ; he may 
 be a servant, and lie on a mat at the door of his love, without any loss of 
 character ; but there are also times when elders look grave and guard 
 their young relations, and personal remarks are made. The truth is that 
 some of these loves are disgraceful and others honourable. The vulgar 
 love of the body which takes wings and flies away when the bloom of 
 youth is over, is disgraceful, as is also the interested love of power or 
 wealth ; but the love of the noble mind is lasting.' The lover should be 
 tested, and the beloved should not be too ready to yield. The rule in 
 our country is that the beloved may do the same service to the lover 
 in the way of virtue which the lover may do to him. 
 
 This voluntary service rendered for the sake of virtue and wisdom 
 is permitted among^us \ and when these two customs — one the love 
 of youth, the other the practice of virtue and philosophy — meet in -one, 
 then the lovers may lawfully unite. Nor is there any disgrace to a dis- 
 interested lover in being deceived : but the interested lover is doubly 
 disgraced, for if he loses his love he loses his character ; whereas the 
 noble love of the other remains the same, although the object of his love 
 is unworthy : (for nothing can be nobjer than love for the sake of virtue. 
 This is that love of the heavenly goddess which is of great price to 
 individuals and citi^es, making them work together for their improvement. 
 
 The turn of Aristophanes comes next ; but he has the hiccough, and 
 therefore proposes that Eryximachus the physician shall cure him or 
 speak in his turn. Eryximachus is ready to do both, and speaks as 
 follows : — 
 
474 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 He agrees with Pausanias in maintaining that there are two kinds of 
 love ;'but his art has led him to the conclusion that the empire of this 
 double love extends over all things, and is to be found in animals and 
 plants as well as in man. In the human body also there are two loves ; 
 and the art of medicine shows which is the good and which is the bad 
 love, and persuades the body to accept the good and reject the bad, and 
 reconciles conflicting elements and makes tKem friends. Every art, 
 gymnastic and husbandry as well as medicine, is the reconciliation- of 
 opposites ; and this is what Heracleitus meant, when he spoke of a 
 harmony of opposites : but in strictness he should rather have spoken of 
 a harmony which succeeds opposites, for an agreement of disagreements 
 there cannot be. Music too is concerned with the principles of love 
 in their application to harmony and rhythm. In the abstract, all is 
 simple, and vre are not troubled with the twofold love ; but when they 
 are applied in education with their accompaniments of song and metre, 
 then the discord begins. Then the old tale has to be repeated of fair 
 Urania and the coarse Polyhymnia, who must be indulged sparingly, just 
 as in my own art of medicine care must be taken that the taste of the 
 epicure be gratified without inflicting upon him the attendant penalty of 
 disease. 
 
 There is a similar harmony or disagreement in the course of the 
 seasons and in the relations of moist and dry, hot and cold, hoar frost 
 and blight; and diseases of all sorts spring from the excesses or dis- 
 orders of the element of love. The knowledge of this in relation to the 
 heavenly bodies is termed astronomy, and in relation to the gods 
 is called divination. For divination is the peacemaker of gods and 
 men, and works by a knowledge of the tendencies of merely human 
 .loves to piety and impiety. Such is the power of love ; and that love 
 which is just and temperate has the greatest power, and is the source of 
 all our happiness and. friendship with the gods and with one anotheiv/ 
 I dare say that I have omitted to mention many things which you, 
 Aristophanes, may supply, as I perceive that you are cured of the 
 hiccough. 
 
 Aristophanes, who has been cured of the hiccough, now speaks : — 
 
 He professes to open a new vein of discourse, in which he begins by 
 treating of the origin of human nature. The sexes were originally three, 
 men, women, and the union of the two ; and they were made round, 
 having four hands, four feet, two faces on a round neck, and the rest to 
 
INTRODUCTION. 475 
 
 correspond. Terrible was their strength and swiftness ; and they were 
 essaying to scale heaven and attack the godfe. Doubt reigned in the 
 celestial councils ; the gods were divided between the desire of quelling 
 the pride of man and the fear of losing the sacrifices. At last Zeus hit 
 upon an expedient Let us cut them in two, he said ; theji they will 
 only have half their strength, and we shall have twice as many sacrifices. 
 He spake, and split them as you might split an egg with an hair ; and 
 when this was done, he told ApoUo to give their faces a twist and re- 
 arrange their persons, taking out the wrinkles and tying the skin in a 
 knot about the navel. The two halves went about looking for one 
 another, and were ready to die of hunger in one another's arms. Then 
 Zeus invented an adjustment of the sexes, which enabled them to marry 
 and go their way to the business of life. Now the characters of men 
 differ accordingly as they are derived from the original man or the 
 original woman, or the original man-woman. Those who come from 
 the man-woman are lascivious and adulterous ; those who come from the 
 woman form female attachments ; those who are a section of the male 
 follow the male and ejnbrace him, and in him all their desires centre. 
 They cannot tell what they want of one another, but they live in pure 
 and manly aifection and cannot be separated. If Hephaestus were to 
 come to' them and propose that they shoul^ be melted into one and 
 r«nain one in this world and in the world below, they would acknow- 
 ledge that this was the very expression of their want. For love is the 
 desire of tjie whole, and the pursuit of the whole is called love. There 
 was a time when the two sexes were only one, but now God has halved 
 them,. — much as the Lacedaemonians have cut up the Arcadians, — 
 and if they don't behave themselves he will quarter them, and they 
 will hop about with half a nose and face in basso relievo. Wherefore 
 let us exhort all men to piety, that we may obtain the goods of which 
 love is the author, and be reconciled to God, and find our own true 
 loves, which rarely happens in this world. And now I must beg you 
 not to suppose that I am aUuding to Paus^nias Und Agathon, for my 
 words r^fer to all mankind everywhere. 
 
 Some raillery ensues first between Aristophanes and Eryximachus and 
 then between Agathon and Socrates, which threatens to grow into an 
 argument. This is speedily repressed by Phaedrus, who reminds the 
 disputants of their tribute to the god. Agathon's speech follows. 
 
 He will spe^ of the god first and then of his gifts. He is the fa:irest 
 
476 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 an d blessedest and best of the gods, and also the youngest, having had 
 no existence in the old days of lapetus and Cronos when the gods were 
 at war. vThe things that were done then were done of necessity and 
 not of love.) For love is young and dwells in soft places, — not like Ate 
 in Homer, walking on the skulls of men, but in their hearts and souls^ 
 which are soft enough, (lie is all flexibility and grace, and his habitation 
 is among the flowers, and he cannot do or suffer wrong ; for all men 
 serve and obey him of their own free will, and where there is love there 
 is obedience, and where obedience is, there is justice ; for none can be 
 wronged of his own free will>/ And he is temperate as well as just, for 
 he is the ruler of the desires, and if he rules them he must be temperate. 
 Also he is. courageous, for he is the conqueror of the lord of war. And 
 he is wise too ; for he is a poet, and the author of poesy in others. He 
 created the animals; he is the inventor of the arts ; all the gods are his 
 subjects ; he is the fairest and best in himself, and the cause of what is 
 fairest and best in others; he makes men to be of one mind at a 
 banquet, filling them with affection and emptying them of disaffection; 
 the pilot, helper, defender, saviour of men, in whose footsteps let every 
 maji follow, chanting a strain of love. Such is the discourse, half 
 playful, half serious, which I dedicate to the god. 
 
 The turn of Socrates comes next. He begins by remarking satirically 
 that he has not understood the terms of the original agreement, for he 
 fancied that they meant to speak the true praises of love, but now he 
 finds that they only say what is good of him, whether true or false. He 
 begs to be absolved from speaking falsely, but he is willing to speak the 
 truth, and proposes to begin by questioning Agathon. The result of 
 his questions may be summed up as follows : — 
 
 Love is of something, and that which love desires is not that which 
 love is or has ; for no man desires that which he is or has. ^And love 
 is of the beautiful (cp. Agathon, 196 A, B), and therefore love- has not 
 the beautiful! - And the beautiful is the good, and therefore, in wanting 
 and desiring the beautiful, love also wants and desires the goodJ 
 Socrates professes to have put the same questions and have obtained the 
 same answers from Djotima, a wise woman of Mantinea, who, like 
 Agathon, had spoken first of love and then of his works. SocratKS, like 
 Agathon, had told her that love is a mighty god and also fair, and she 
 had shown him in return that love was neither, but in a mean between 
 fair and foul, good and evil, and not a god at all, but only a great 
 
INTRODUCTION. 477 
 
 demon or intermediate being (cp. Eryximachus, r86D), who conveys to 
 the gods the prayers of men, and to men the commands of the gods. 
 
 Socrates asks: Who are his father and mother? To this Diotima 
 replies that he is the son of Plenty and Poverty, and partakes of the 
 nature of both, arid is full and starved by turns. Like his mother he is 
 poor and squalid, lying on mats at doors (cp. Pausanias, 183 A); like his 
 father he is full of arts and resources, and is in a mean between ignorance 
 and knowledge. And in this he resembles the philosopher who is also 
 in a mean between the wise and the ignorant. Such is the nature of 
 love, who is not to be confused with the beloved. 
 
 But love desires the beautiful; and then arises the question. What 
 does he desire of the beautiful ? He desires, of course, the possession 
 of the beautiful ; — but what is given by that? For the beautiful let us 
 substitute the . good, and we have no diflBculty in seeing that vthe 
 possession of the good is happiness, and that love is the desire of 
 ■this^ ) But the meaning of the term has been too often confined to one 
 sort of love, whereas love, is really co-extensive with the good. And 
 love desires .riot only the good, but the everlasting possession of the 
 good. Why then is there all this flutter and excitement about love ? 
 Because all men and women at a certain age are desirous of bringing 
 to the birth. And love is not of beauty- OHly,<but of birth in beauty ; 
 this is the principle of immortality in a mortal creature. And when 
 beauty approaches, then the conceiving power is benign and diffuse, but 
 when foulness, she is averted and morose. 
 
 But why again does this extend not only to men but also to animals ? 
 Because they too have an instinct of immortality. Even in the same 
 individual there is a perpetual succession as well of the parts of the 
 material body as of the thoughts and desires of the mind ; nay, even 
 knowledge comes and goes. There is no sameness of existence, but the 
 new mortality is always taking the place of the old. This is why parents 
 love their children — ^for the sake of immortality ; and this is why men love 
 the immortality of fame. For the creative soul creates not children, but 
 conceptions of wisdom and virtue, such as poets and other creators have 
 invented. And the noblest creations of all are those of legislators, in 
 honour of whom temples have been raised. Who would not sooner 
 have these childrefl of the mind than the ordinary human ones ? 
 
 I will now initiate you, she said, into the greater mysteries ; for he 
 who would proceed in due course should love first one fair form, and 
 
478 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 iS 
 
 then many, and learn the connexion of them ; and from beautiful bodies 
 he should proceed to beautiful minds, and the beauty of laws and insti- 
 tutions, until he perceives that all beauty is of one kindred ; and from 
 institutions he should go on to the sciences, until at last the vision is 
 revealed to him of a single science of universal beauty, and then he will 
 behold the everlasting nature which is the cause of all, and will be near 
 the end. In the contemplation of that supreme being of love he will be 
 purified of earthly leaven, and will behold beauty, not with the bodily eye, 
 but with the eye of the mind, and will bring forth true creations of virtue 
 and wisdoni, and be the friend of God and heir of immortality. 
 
 Such, Phaedrus, is the tale which I heard from the stranger of Mantinea, ^ 
 
 and which you may call the encomium of love, or what you please. ■ -' 
 
 The company applaud the speech of Socrates, and Aristophanes is ^'■ 
 
 about to say something, when suddenly a band of revellers breaks into ~ 
 
 the court, and the voice of Alcibiades is heard asking for Agathon. He is ^i 
 
 led in drunk, and welcomed by Agathon, whom he has come to crown with 'H 
 
 a garland. He is placed on a couch at his side, but suddenly, on recog- p^ 
 
 nizing Socrates, he starts up, and a sort of conflict is carried on between ^'i 
 
 them, which Agathon is requested to appease. Alcibialdes insists that - 
 
 they shall drink, and has a large wine-cooler filled, which he first empties ffi 
 
 himself, and then fills again and passes on to Socrates. He is informed \ 
 of the nature of the entertainment ; he is willing to join, if only in the 
 
 character of a dnmken and disappointed lover he may be allowed to 'h 
 
 sing the praises of Socrates. s 
 
 He begins by comparing Socrates first to the masks of Silenus, which ia 
 
 have images of the gods inside them; "and, secondly, to Marsyas the <i 
 
 flute-player. For Socrates produces the same effect with the voice which is 
 
 Marsyas did with the flute. He is the great speaker and enchanter who ks 
 
 ravishes the souls of men, the convincer of hearts too, as he has con- is 
 
 vinced Alcibiades, and made him -ashamed of his mean and miserable iji 
 
 Ufe. He has suffered agonies from him, and is at his wit's end. ,• 
 
 He was in hopes that Socrates would fall in love with him ; this as ^ 
 
 he thought would give him a wonderful opportunity of receiving lessons !j 
 
 of wisdom. He narrates the failure of his design. He then proceeds W ijj 
 
 mention some other particulars of the life of Socrates ; how they Were at jj 
 
 Potidaea together, where Socrates showed his superior powers Of endur- ;, 
 
 ing cold and fatigue ; how oft one occasion he had stood for an entire -^ 
 
 day and night absorbed in reflection amid the wonder of the spectators ; \ 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 479 
 
 how on another occasion he had saved Alcibiades' hfe ; how at the battle 
 of Deliiim, after the defeat, he might be seen stalking about like a pelican, 
 rolling his eyes. The sum of all is, that he is the most wonderful of 
 human beings, and absolutely unlike any one but a satyr. Like the 
 Satyr in his language too ; for he uses the commonest words as the out- 
 ward mask of the divinest truths. 
 
 When Alcibiades has done speaking, a dispute begins between him 
 and Agathon and Socrates. Socrates piques Alcibiades by a pretended 
 affection for Agathon. Presently another band of revellers appears, 
 who introduce disorder into the feast ; the sober part of the company, 
 Eryximachus, Phaiedrus, and others, withdraw; and Aristodemus, the 
 follower of Socrates, sleeps during the whole of a long winter's night. 
 When he wakes at cockcrow the revellers are nearly all asleep. Only 
 Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon hold out ; they are drinking out of 
 a large goblet, which they pass round, and Socrates is explaining to the 
 two others, who are half asleep, that the genius of tragedy is the same 
 as that of comedy, and that the writer of tragedy ought to be a writer of 
 comedy also. And first Aristophanes drops, and then, as the day is 
 dawning, Agathon. Socrates, having laid them to rest, goes to his daily 
 avocations until the evening. 
 
 If it be true that there are more things in the Symposium of Plato 
 than any commentator has dreamed of, it is also true that many things 
 have been imagined which are not really to be found there. ' Some writings 
 hardly admit of a more distinct interpretation than a musical composition; 
 and every reader may form his own accompaniment of thought or feeUng 
 to the strain which he hears. The Symposium of Plato is a work of 
 this character, and hardly admits of being rendered in any other words 
 but the writer's, own. There are so many half-lights and cross-lights, so 
 much of the colour of mythology, and of the manner of sophistry, 
 adhering — rhetoric and poetry, the playful and the serious, are so subtly 
 intermingled in it, and vestiges of old philosophy so curiously blend with 
 germs of future knowledge, that agreement among interpreters is not to 
 be expected. The expression ' poema magis putandum quam comi- 
 corum -poetarum,' which has been applied to all the writings of Plato, is 
 especially applicable to the Symposium. 
 
 The power of love is represented in the Symposium as running 
 
-48o THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 through all nature and all being : at one end descending to animals.and 
 plants, and attaining to the highest vision of truth at the other. In an age 
 when man was seeking for an expression of the world around him, the 
 conception of love greatly affected him. One of the first distinctions 
 of language and of mythology was that of gender ; and at a later period 
 the ancient physicist, anticipating modern science, saw, or thought, that 
 he saW, a sex in plants ; there were elective aflBilities among the ele- 
 ments, marriages of earth and heaven. (Aesch. Frag. Dan. 38.) Love 
 became a mythic personage, whom philosophy, borrowing from poetry, 
 converted into an efficient cause of creation. As of number and figfure, 
 the traces of the existence of love were everywhere- discerned ; and in 
 the Pythagorean list of opposites male and female were ranged side by 
 side with odd and even, finite and infinite. 
 
 But Plato seems also to be awai-e that there is a mystery of love not 
 only in nature, but in man, extending far beyond the mere immediate 
 relation of the sexes. He is conscious that the highest and noblest 
 things in the world are not easily severed from the sensual desires, or 
 may even be regarded as a spiritualised form of them.^ We may observe 
 that Socrates himself is not represented as originally unimpassioned, but 
 as one who has- overcome his passions ;^ the secret of his power over 
 others partly lies in his passionate but self-controlled nature. ) Love is 
 with 'Plato not merely the feeling usually so called, but the mystical con- 
 templation of the beautiful and the good. The same passion- which may 
 wallow in the mire is capable of rising to the highest summit — ofpene- 
 trating to the inmost secret of philosophy. The unity of knowledge, the 
 consistency of the warring elements of the world, the enthusiasm of 
 knowledge when first beaming upon mankind, the relativity of ideas to , 
 the human mind, and of the human mind to ideas, are all included, con- 
 sciously or unconsciously, in Plato's doctrine of love. « 
 
 The successive speeches in praise of love are all of them characteristic 
 of the speakers, and contribute in various degrees to the final result-; 
 they are all designed to prepare the way for Socrates, who gathers' up 
 the threads anew, and skims the highest points of each of thein^ 
 But they are not to be regarded as the stages of an idea, rising above one 
 another to a climax. They are fanciful, partly facetious p'erforman^^ 
 ■yet also having a certain degree of seriousness,' which the successive 
 speakers dedicate to the god. All of them are rhetorical and poetical 
 rather than dialectical ; they do not aim at truth, but only at appearance. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 481 
 
 When the turn of Socrates comes round, he cannot be allowed to disturb 
 the arrangement, and therefore he throws his argument into the form of 
 a speech. (Cp. Gorg. 505 E, Protag. 353 B.) And on the occasion of 
 3"banquet, good manners would not allow him to win a victory either 
 over his host or any of the guests. The advantage which he gains over 
 Agathon is ingeniously represented as having been already gained 
 over himself by Diotima. At the same time he maintains his own 
 profession of ignorance. 
 
 ; '. The speeches are attested to us by the very best authority. The mad- 
 man ApoUodorus, who for three years past has made a daily study of the 
 actions of Socrates — to whom the world is summed up in the words 
 'Great is Socrates' — he has heard them from another 'madman' who 
 was the shadow of Socrates in days of old, like him going about bare- 
 footed, and who had been present at the time. Would you desire better 
 witness? We may observe, by the way, (i) how the very appearance of 
 ■^stodemus by himself is a sufficient indication to Agathon that 
 Socrates has been left behind; also, (2) how the courtesy of Agathon 
 anticipates the excuse which Socrates was to have made on Aristodemus' 
 behalf for coming uninvited ; (3) how the story of the fit or trance of 
 Socrates is confirmed by the mention which Alcibiades makes of a 
 similar fit of abstraction occurring when he was ^serving with the army 
 atPotidaea; like (4) the drinking powers of Socrates and his love of the 
 fair, which receive a similar attestation in the concluding scene ; or the 
 attachment of Aristodemus, who is not forgotten when Socrates takes his 
 departure, (g) We may notice the manner in which Socrates himself, 
 regards the first five speeches, not as true, but as fanciful and exagger- 
 ated encomiums of the god Love ; (6) the ruling passion of Socrates for 
 dklectics, who will argue with Agathon instead of making a speech, and 
 will only speak at all upon the condition that he is allowed to speak 
 the truth. We may note also (7) the characteristic Platonic remark 
 which occurs in the speech of Eryximachus, that ' confusion first begins 
 in the concrete ;' and the touch of Socratic irony, (8) which admits of 
 a'wide application and reveals a deep insight into the world; that in 
 speaking of holy things and persons there is a general understanding 
 that you should praise them, not that you should speak the truth of 
 them— this is the sort of praise which Socrates is unable to give. Lastly 
 we may remark that the banquet is a real banquet after all, at which love 
 
 I i 
 
482 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 is the theme of discourse, and huge quantities of wine are drunk 
 (214 A, 223 B.) 
 
 The discourse of Phaedrus is half-mythical, half-ethical ; and he him 
 self, true to the character which is given him in the Dialogue which heari 
 his name, is half-sophist, half-enthusiast. He is the critic of poetr] 
 also, who compares Homer and Aeschylus in the insipid and irrationa 
 manner of the schools of the day, characteristically reasoning about the 
 probability of matters which do not admit of reasoning. The age ol 
 love, the great blessing of having a lover, the incentive which love is 
 to daring deeds, the examples of Alcestis and Achilles, are the chief 
 themes of his discourse. The love of women is regarded by him as 
 almost on an equality with that of men; and he takes occasion to 
 remark that the lover has a diviner being, and that therefore the gods 
 favour the return of love which is made to him more than the original 
 sentiment of the lover. 
 
 There is something of a sophistical ring in the speech of Phaedrus, 
 which recalls the first speech in imitation of Lysias, occurring in the 
 Dialogue called the Phaedrus. This is still more marked in the speech 
 of Pausanias which follows; and which is at once hyperlogical'in form 
 and also extremely confused and pedantic. Plato is attacking the 
 logical feebleness of the sophists and rhetoricians, through their pupils; 
 of course, ' playing both sides of the game,' as in the Phaedrus ; but it 
 is not necessary in order to understand him that we should discuss the 
 fairness of his mode of proceeding. The love of Pausanias for Agathon 
 has already been touched upon in the Protagoras (31 g D), and is 
 alluded to by Aristophanes (193 B). Hence he is naturally the 
 upholder of male loves, which, like all the other affections or actions 
 of men, he regards a'fe varying according to the manner of their 
 performance; thus the question of morals is converted into one 
 of manners. Like the sophists and hke Plato himself, though in a dif- 
 ferent sense, he begins his discussion by an appeal to mythology, and 
 distinguishes between the elder and younger love. The value which he 
 attributes to such loves as motives to virtue and philosophy is greatly 
 at variance with modern and Christian notions, but is in accordance , 
 with Hellenic sentiment. For it is impossible to deny that some of the 
 best and greatest of the Greeks indulged in attachments, which Plata 
 in the Laws, no less than the universal opinion of Christendom, h«8^ 
 stigmatised as unnatural. Pausanias is very earnest in insisting on the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 483 
 
 innocence of such loves, when pursued in a right spirit ; and he speaks of 
 them as generally approved of among the Hellenes and disapproved by 
 the barbarians, the latter for the sophistical reason that they are inimical 
 to tyrants. The speech as a whole is • more words than matter,' such 
 as might certainly have been composed by a pupil of Lysias and.Pro- 
 djcus^ although there is no hint given that Plato is desigxiing to parody, 
 jthem. 
 
 Platotransposes the two next speeches, as in the Republic he would trans- 
 pose the virtues (iv. 430 D) and the mathematical sciences (vii. 528 A). 
 This is done partly to avoid monotony, partly for the sake of making 
 Aristophanes ' the cause of wit in others,' and also in order to bring the 
 comic and tragic poet into juxtaposition, as if by accident. A suitable 
 ' expectation' of Aristophanes is raised by the ludicrous circumstance of 
 his having the hiccough, which is appropriately cured by his substitute, the 
 physician Eryximachus. To Eryximachus Love is the good physician ; 
 he sees everything as an intelligent physicist, and, like many professors 
 of his art in modern times, attempts to reduce the moral to the physical ; 
 or recognises one law of love -which pervades them both. There are 
 loves and strifes of the body as well as of the mind. Like Hippocrates 
 the Asclepiad, he is a disciple of Heracleitus, whose conception of the 
 harmony of opposites he explains in a new waytas the harmony after 
 discord ; to his common sense, as to that of many moderns as well as 
 ancients, the Identity of contradictories is an absurdity. His notion • 
 of- love may be summed up as the harmony of man with himself in soul 
 as well as body, and of all things in heaven and earth with one another. 
 
 Aristophanes is ready to laugh and make laugh before he opens his. 
 mouth, just as Socrates, true to his character, is ready to argue before 
 he begins to speak. He expresses the very genius of the old comedy, 
 its coarse and forcible imagery, and the licence of its language in, 
 speaking about the gods. He has no sophistical notions about love, 
 which is brought back by him to its common-sense meaning of love 
 between intelligent beings. His account of the origin of the sexes 
 has the greatest (comic) probability and verisimiUtude. Nothing in, 
 Aristophanes is more truly Aristophanic than the description of the 
 human monster whirling round on four arms and four legs, eight in all, 
 with incredible rapidity. Yet there is a mixture of earnestness in this 
 jest; three serious principles seem to be insinuated :-Qirst, that man 
 cannot exist in isolation ; he must be reunited if he is to be perfected :. 
 
484 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 secondly, that love is the mediator and reconciler of poor, divided human ' 
 nature : thirdly, that the loves of this world are an indistinct anticipation 
 of an ideal union which is not yet reaUsed. 
 
 The speech of Agathon is conceived in a higher strain, and receives 
 
 the real, if half-ironical, approval of Socrates. It is the speech of the ' 
 
 tragic poet and a sort of poem, like tragedy, moving among the gods of ' 
 Olympus, and not among the elder or Orphic deities. In the idea of the 
 antiquity of love he cannot agree ; love is not of the old time, but 
 present and youthful ever. The speech may be compared with that 
 
 speech of Socrates in the Phaedrus, in which he describes himself as - 
 talking dithyrambs. It is at once a preparation for Socrates and a foil 
 
 to him. The rhetoric of Agathon elevates the soul to ' sunlit heights,' " 
 
 but at the same time contrasts with the natural and necessary eloquence J 
 
 of Socrates. Agathon contributes the distinction between love and the '• 
 
 works of love, and also hints incidentally that love is always of beauty, :: 
 
 which Socrates afterwards elevates into a principle. While the con- ' 
 
 sciousness of discord is stronger in the comic poet Aristophanes, ^ 
 
 Agathon, the tragic poet, has a deeper sense of harmony and reconcilia- ^ 
 tion, and speaks of Love as the creator and artist. 
 
 , All the earlier speeches embody common opinions coloured with a 
 
 a tinge of philosophy. They furnish the material out of which Socrates i; 
 
 proceeds to form his discourse, starting, as in other places, from ^ 
 
 mythology and the opinions of men. From Phaedrus he takes the j 
 thought that love is stronger than death; from Pausanias, that the true 
 
 love is akin to intellect and political activity; from Eryximachus, that t 
 
 love is a universal phenomenon and the great power of nature ; from r^ 
 
 Aristophanes, that love is the child of want, and is not merely the : 
 
 love of the congenial or of the whole, but (as he adds) of the good; ;; 
 
 from Agathon, that love is of beauty — not however of beauty only, but ;, 
 of birth of beauty. 
 
 The speech of the day begms with a short argument which over- ;$ 
 
 throws not only Agathon but all of them, by the help of a distinction j; 
 
 which has escaped them. Extravagant praises have been ascribed to Love i, 
 
 as the author of every good ; no sort of encomium was too high for hiln, ;> 
 
 whether deserved and true or not. But Socrates has no talent for . 
 
 speaking anything but the truth, and if he is to speak the truth of Love . 
 
 he must honestly confess that he is not a good at all : for love is of the ^ 
 
 good, and no man can desire that which he has. This piece of dialectics k 
 
INTRODUCTION. 485 
 
 is ascribed to Diotima, the wise woman of Mantineia, who has already 
 virged upon Socrates the argument which he u%es against Agathon. 
 
 But Diotima, the prophetess of Mantineia, whose sacred and super- 
 human character raises her above the ordinary proprieties of women, has 
 taught Socrates far more than this about the art and mystery of love. 
 She has taught him that love is another aspect of philosophy. The 
 same want in the human soul which is satisfied in the vulgar by the 
 procreation of children, may become the highest aspiration of intellectual 
 desire. ) As the Christian might speak of hungering and thirsting after 
 righteousness ; or of divine loves under the figure of human (cp. Eph. v. 
 32 : ' This is a great mystery, but I speak concerning Christ and the 
 church'); a-s the medieval saint might speak of the 'fruitio Dei,' so the 
 absorption and annihilation of all other loves and desires in the love- of 
 knowledge is a feeling that was at least intelligible to the Greek of the 
 fifth century before Christ. To most men reason and passion appear 
 to be antagonistic both in idea and fact. The union of the greatest 
 comprehension of knowledge and the burning intensity of love is a 
 contradiction in nature, which may have existed in a far-off primeval age 
 in the mind of some Hebrew prophet or other Eastern sage, but has now 
 become an imagination only. Yet this ' passion of ^he reason' is the 
 theme of the Symposium of Plato. And as there is no impossibility in 
 supposing that ' one king, or son of a king, may be a philosopher,' so 
 also there is a probability that there may be some few— perhaps one 
 or two in a whole generation — in whom the light of truth may not lack 
 the warmth of desire. And if there be such natures, no one will be 
 disposed to deny that ' from them flow most of the benefits of individuals 
 and states.' 
 
 Yet there is a higher region in which love is not only felt, but satisfied, 
 in the- perfect beauty of eternal knowledge, beginning with the beauty of 
 earthly things, and at last by regular steps reaching a beauty in which all 
 existence is seen harmonious and one. The limited affection is 
 enlarged, and enabled to behold the ideal beauty of all things. This 
 ideal beauty of the Symposium is the ideal good of the Republic; 
 regarded not with the eye of knowledge, but of faith and desire. The 
 one seems to say to us 'the idea is love,' the other 'the idea is truth.' 
 In both the lover of wisdom is the 'spectator of all time and all 
 existence.' This is a sort of 'mystery' in which Plato also obscturely 
 intimates the interpenetration of the moral and intellectual faculties. 
 
486 ' THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 The divine image of beauty that resides within Socrates has been 
 revealed ; the Silenus mask, or outward man, has now to be exhibited. 
 The description of Socrates is placed side by side with the speech of 
 Socrates ; one is the complement of the other. At the height of divine 
 inspiration, when the force of nature can no further go, as if by way 
 of contrast to this extreme idealism or mysticism, Alcibiades, accom- 
 panied by a troop of revellers, staggers in, and in his drunken state is able 
 to tell of things which he would have been ashamed to mention; if he 
 had been sober. The state of his affections towards Socrates, unin- 
 telligible to us and perverted as they appear, is a perfect illustration of the 
 power ascribed to the loves of men in the speech of Pausanias. Indeed, 
 he is confident that the whole company will sympathise with him ; 
 several of them have been in love with Socrates, and, like himself, have 
 been deceived by him. The singular part of this confession is the 
 combination of the most degrading passion with the desire of virtue and 
 improvement. The pangs of philosophy and of love work together on 
 this abandoned soul. Such an union is not wholly untrue to human 
 nature, in which there is a mixture of good and evil, far surpassing in 
 subtlety any powers of human imagination to conceive. The Platonic 
 Socrates (for of the real Socrates this may be doubted : cp. Xenophon's 
 Mem. I. 2, 29, 30) does not appear to regard the greatest evil of Greek 
 life as a matter of abhorrence, but as a subject for irony, and is far from 
 resenting the imputation of such attachments. Nor does Plato feel any 
 repugnance, such as would be felt in modern times, in bringing his great 
 master and hero into connexion with nameless crimes. He is contented 
 vfith representing him as a sort of saint, who has won ' the Olympian 
 victory' over the temptations of human nature. The fault of taste, 
 which to us appears glaring, and which was recognised by the Greeks 
 of a later age, was not perceived by Plato himself Still more surprising 
 is the fact itself, that the elevation of sentiment, which is regarded by 
 lUato as the first step in the upward progress of the philosopher, is 
 aroused not by female beauty, but by the beauty of youth, which alone 
 seems to have been capable of inspiring the modern feeling of romance 
 in the Greek mind. The passion which was unsatisfied by the love 
 of women, took the spurious form of an enthusiasm for the ideal of 
 beauty — a worship as of some godlike image of an Apollo or Antinous. 
 Thus wide is the gulf which separates a portion of Hellenic sentiment 
 in the age of Plato (for about the Opinion of Plato himself, as of 
 
INTRODUCTION. ^%1 
 
 Socrates, respecting these male loves we are in the same perplexity which 
 he attributes to his countrymen, 182 A, B;*cp. Laws viii. 841 foil.) 
 not only from Christian, but from Homeric feeling. 
 
 The character here attributed to Alcibiades is hardly less remarkable 
 than that of Socrates, and agrees with the picture given of him in the first 
 of the two Dialogues which are called by his name, and also with the 
 slight sketch of him in the Protagoras. He is the impersonation of 
 lawlessness — ' the lion's whelp, who ought not to be reared in the city,' 
 yet not without a certain generosity which gained the hearts of men, — 
 strangely fascinated by Socrates, and possessed,, of a genius which might 
 have been either the destruction or salvation of Athens. The dramatic 
 interest of the character is heightened by the recollection of his after 
 history. He seems to have been present to the mind of Plato in the 
 description of the democratic man of the Republic (viii. 560). 
 
 There is no criterion of the. date of the Symposium, except that which 
 is furnished by the allusion to the division of Arcadia after the destruction 
 of Mantineia. This took place in the year b.c. 384, which is the forty- 
 fourth year of Plato's life. The Symposium cannot therefore be regarded 
 as a youthfijl work. As Mantineia was restored in the year 369, the 
 composition of the Dialogue ^will probably fall between 384 and 369. 
 Whether the recollection of the event is more likely to have been 
 renewed at the destruction or restoration of the city, rather than at some 
 intermediate period, is a consideration not worth raising. 
 
 The Symposium is closely connected with the Phaedrus both in style 
 and matter. They are the only Dialogues of Plato in which the subject 
 of love is considered at length. In both philosophy is regarded as a 
 sort of enthusiasm or madness. Philosophy in the Phaedo might also 
 be described as ' dying for love.' But while the Phaedo and Phaedrus 
 look backwards and forwards to past and future states of existence, the 
 Symposium is bounded by this world. The intellectual and ethical are 
 held in solution with, the physical. Philosophy is not death, or ab- 
 straction from life : in and through the sensible world we rise to the 
 ideal. Nor is the eternity of knowledge asserted ; but only the eternal 
 succession of knowledge. The immortality is not personal, but an im- 
 mortality of the race. The Lysis (sub fin.) may be compared as con- 
 tainmg the first suggestion of the questions finally answered, in the 
 speech of Socrates. 
 
 The Symposium of Xenophon, in whicl^ Socrates describes himself- 
 
488 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 as a pander, and also discourses of the difference between sensual and 
 sentimental love, likewise offers several interesting points of comparisoni 
 But the suspicion which hangs over other writings of Xenophon, and 
 the numerous minute references to the Phaedrus and Symposium, throw 
 \ doubt on the genuineness of the work. The Symposium of Xenophonj 
 if written by him at all, would certainly show that he wrote against Plato, 
 ind was acquainted with his works. Of this there is no trace in the 
 Memorabilia. Such a rivalry is more characteristic of an imitator than 
 5f an original writer. This (so-called) Symposium of Xenophon may 
 herefore have no more title to be regarded as genuine than the con- 
 "essedly spurious Apology. 
 
 There are no means of determining the relative order in time of the 
 Phaedo, Symposium, Phaedrus. The order which has been adopted in 
 his translation rests on no other principle than the desire to bring 
 agether in a series the memorials of the life of Socrates. 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 ApolLODORUS, luho repeats to his ^ ErVXIMACHUS. 
 
 companion the dialogue <which f ARISTOPHANES. 
 
 he had heard from AristodemusA *■ AGATHON. 
 
 and had already once narrated j (, SoCRATES. 
 
 to Glaucon. ALCIBIADES. 
 
 Phaedrus. a troop of Revellers. 
 
 Pausanias. 
 
 Scene : — The House of Agathon. 
 
 'h. T BELIEVE that I am prepared with an answer. For the 
 * -*- day before yesterday I was coming from my own home at 
 Phalerum tb the city, and one of my acquaintance, who had 
 caught a sight of the back of me at a distance, in. merry mood 
 commanded me to halt : ApoUodorus, he cried, O thou man of 
 Phalerum, halt! So I did as I was bid; and then he said, I 
 was looking for you, ApoUodorus, only just now, that I might 
 . hear about the discourses in praise of love, which were de- 
 livered by Socrates, Alcibiades, and others, at Agathon's supper. 
 Phoenix, the son of Philip, told another person who told me of 
 them, and he said that you knew ; but he was himself very 
 indistinct, and I wish that you would give me an account of 
 them. Who but you should be the reporter of the words of 
 your friend ? ^ And first tell me, he said, were you present at 
 this meeting? 
 Your informant, Glaucon, I said, must have been very indis- 
 
490 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 tinct indeed, if you imagine that the occasion was recent, tor 
 that I could have been present. 
 
 Why, yes, he replied, that was my impression. 
 
 But how is that possible ? I said. For Agathon has not been 
 in Athens for many years, (are you aware of that?) and my 
 acquaintance with Socrates, of whose every action and word I 
 now make a daily study, is not as yet of three years' standing, i 
 I used to be running about the world, thinking that I was doii^ 
 something, and would have done anything rather than be a 
 philosopher ; I was almost as^ miserable as you are now. 
 
 Well, he said, cease from jesting, and tell me when the 
 meeting occurred. \ 
 
 In our boyhood, I replied, when Agathon won the prize with 
 his first tragedy, on the day after that on which he and his chorus 
 offered the sacrifice of victory. 
 
 That is a long while ago, he said ; and who told you — did 
 Socrates ? » 
 
 No indeed, I replied, but ,the same person who told Phoenix j 
 — ^he was a little fellow, who never wore any shoes, AristodemuS, 
 of the deme of Cydathenaeum. He had been at this feast ; and 
 I think that there was no one in those days who was a more 
 devoted admirer of Socrates. Moreover, I asked Socrates about 
 the truth of some parts of his narrative, and he confirmed 
 them. Then, said Glaucon, let us have the tale over again; is 
 not the road to Athens made for conversation? And so we 
 walked, and talked of the discourses on love ; and therefore, as I 
 said at first, I am prepared with an answer, and will have another - 
 rehearsal, if you like. For I love to speak or to hear others 
 speak of philosophy- there is the greatest pleasure in that, to 
 say nothing of the profit. But when I hear any other discoursesj 
 especially those of you rich men and traders, they are irksome to 
 me J and L pity you who are my companions, because you always 
 think that you are hard at work when really you are idling. 
 And I daresay that you pity me in return, whom you regard 
 as an unfortunate wight, which I perhaps am. But I certainly > 
 know of you what you only think of me — there is the differ- 
 ence. 
 
 Companion. I see, Apollodorus, that you are just the same— always 
 speaking evil of yourself, and of others; and I do believe that 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 491 
 
 you pity all mankind, beginning with yourself and including 
 everybody else with the exception of Sdlrates^ true in this to 
 your old name, which, however deserved, I know not how you 
 acquired, of Apollodorus the madman ; for your humour is always 
 to be .out of humour with yourself and with everybody except 
 Socrates. 
 
 •.Apollodorus. Yes, friend, and I am proved to be mad, and 
 out of my wits, because I have these notions of myself and you ; 
 no other evidence is required. 
 
 Com. I have no wish to dispute about that, Apollodorus ; but 
 let me renew my request that you would repeat the tale of love. 
 
 Apoll. Well, the tale of love was on this wise : — But perhaps 
 I had better begin at the beginning, and endeavour to repeat 
 to you the words as Aristodemus gave them. 
 
 He said that he met Socrates fresh from the bath and sandalled j 
 and as the sight of the sandals was unusual, he asked him whither 
 he was going that he was so fine. 
 
 To a banquet at Agathon's, he replied, whom I refused yester- 
 day, fearing the crowd that there would be at his sacrifice, but 
 promising that I would come to-day instead ; and I have put on 
 my finery because he is a fine creature. What say you to going 
 with me unbidden ? 
 
 Yes, I replied, I will go with you, if you like. 
 
 Follow then, he said, and let us demolish the proverb that 
 
 ' To the feasts, of lesser men the good unbidden go ;' 
 
 instead of which our proverb will run that ' 
 
 ' To the feasts of the good unbidden go the good ;' 
 
 and this alteration may be supported by the authority of Homer, 
 who not only demolishes but literally outrages this proverb. 
 For, after picturing Agamemnon as the most valiant of men, he 
 makes Menelaus, who is but a soft-hearted warrior, come of 
 his own accord' to the sacrificial feast of Agamemnon, the worse 
 to the better. 
 
 I am afraid, Socrates, said Aristodemus, that I shall rather be 
 the inferior person, who, like Menelaus in Homer, 
 
 ' To the feasts of the wise unbidden goes.' 
 jte;/. ' Iliad, xvii. 588. 
 
^92 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 But I shall say that I was bidden of you, and then you wiJl have 
 :o make the excuse. 
 
 ' Two going together,' 
 
 le replied, in Homeric fashion, may invent an excuse by the 
 ;^ay'. 
 
 This was the style of their conversation as they went along • 
 ind a comical thing happened — Socrates stayed behind in a fit 
 )f abstraction, and desired Aristodemus, who was waiting, to go 
 )n before him. When he reached the house of Agathon he found 
 ;he doors wide open, and a servant coming out met him, and 
 ed him at once into the banqueting-hall in which the guests 
 vere reclining, for the banquet was about to begin. Welcome, 
 Aristodemus, said Agathon, you are just in time to sup with 
 IS ; if you come on any other errand put that off, and make one ■. 
 rf us, as I was looking for you yesterday and meant to have 
 isked you,-if I could have found you. But -what have you done 
 ivith Socrates ? 
 
 I turned round and saw that Socrates was missing, and I had 
 lO explain that he had been with me a moment before, and that 
 I came by his invitation. 
 
 You were quite right in coming, said Agathon ; but where is 
 le himself? 
 
 He was behind me just now, as I entered, he sai^ and I cannot i^ 
 think"what has become of him. 
 
 Go and look for him, boy, said Agathon, and bring him in ; 
 do you, Aristodemus, meanwhile take the place by Eryximachus. 
 
 Then he said that the attendant assisted him to wash, and 
 that he lay down, and presently another servant came in and 
 said that our friend Socrates had retired into the . portico of 
 the neighbouring house. 'Thei;e he is fixed, and when I call %n 
 him,' said the servant, ' he will not stir.' 
 
 How strange, said Agathon j then you must call him agaia, 
 and keep calling him. 
 
 Let him alone, said my informant; he has just a habi^ of 
 stopping anywhere and losing himself without any reason ; don?t 
 disturb him, as I believe he will soon appear. 
 
 Well, if you say that,-I will not interfere with him, said Agathon* 
 
 ' Iliad, X. 224. 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 493 
 
 [y domestics, who on these occasions become my masters, shall 
 itertain us as their guests. ' Put on the table whatever you like,' 
 ; said to the servants, 'as usual when there is no one to give 
 )u orders, which I never do. Imagine that you are our hosts, 
 id that I and the company are your guests ; and treat us well, 
 id then we shall commend you.' After this they supped; 
 id during the meal Agathon several times expressed a wish 
 1 send for Socrates, but Aristodemus would not allow him ; and 
 'hen the feast was half over— for the fit, as usual, was not of 
 mg duration— Socrates entered. Agathon, who was reclining 
 lone at the end of the table, begged that he would take the 
 lace next to him; that I may touch the sage, he^aid, and get 
 3me of that wisdom which came into your mind in the portico, 
 'or I am certain that you would not have left until you had 
 3und what you were seeking. 
 
 How I wish, said Socrates, taking his place as he was desired, 
 hat wisdom could be infused through the medium of touch, out 
 f the full into the empty man, like the water which the wool 
 ucks out of the full vessel into an empty one; in that case 
 low much I should prize sitting by you ! For you wOuld have 
 illed me foil of gifts of wisdom, plenteous and fair, in comparison 
 )f which my own is of a very mean and questionable sort, no 
 )etter than a dream; but yours is bright and only beginning, 
 ind was manifested forth in all the splendour of youth the day 
 )efore yesterday, in the presence of more than thirty thousand 
 Hfellenes. 
 
 You are insolent, said Agathon ; and you and I will have to 
 lettle hereafter who bears off the palm of wisdom, and of this 
 Dionysus shall be the judge; but at present you are better occupied 
 with the banquet. 
 
 Socrates took his place on the couch; and when the meal was 
 :nded, and the libations offered, and after a hymn had been sung 
 ;o the god, and there had been the usual ceremonies,— as they were 
 ibout to commence drinking, Pausanias reminded them that they 
 lad had a bout yesterday, from which he and most of them were 
 itill suffering, and they ought to be allowed to recover, and not go 
 3n drinking to-day. He would therefore ask. How the drinking 
 X)uld be made easiest ? 
 
 I entirely agree, said Aristophanes, that we should, by all means, ^ 
 
494 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 get ofFthe drinking, having been myself one of those who were 
 yesterday drowned in drink. 
 
 I think that you are right, said Eryximachus, the son of 
 Acumenus; but I should like to hear one oher person speak. 
 What are the inclinations of our host ? 
 
 I am not able to drink, said Agathon. 
 
 Then, said Eryximachus, the weak heads like myself, Aristo- 
 demus, Phaedrus, and others who never can drink, are fortunate in 
 finding that the stronger ones are not in a drinking mood. (I^ 
 not include Socrates, who is an exceptional being, and able either 
 to drink or to abstain.) Well, then, as the company seem indi^ 
 posed to drink much, I may be forgiven for saying, as a physician, 
 that drinking is a bad practice, which I never, if I can help, follow, 
 and certainly do not recommend to another, least of all to any one 
 who still feels the effects of yesterday's carouse. 
 
 I always follow what you advise, and especially what you prei 
 icribe as a physician, rejoined Phaedrus the Myrrhinusian, and 
 the rest of the company, if they are wise, will do the same. 
 
 All agreed that drinking was not to be the order of the day. Then, 
 said Eryximachus, as you are all agreed that drinking is to be 
 voluntary, and that there is to be no compulsion, I move, in the 
 next place, that the flute-girl, who has just made her appearance, 
 be to]d to go away ; she may play to herself, or, if she has a mind, 
 to the women who are within'. But on this day let us have con- 
 versation instead ; and, if you will allow me, I will tell you what 
 sort of conversation. This proposal having been accepted, Eryxi- 
 machus proceeded as follows : — •' 
 
 I will begin, he said, after the manner of Melanippe in Euri- 
 pides, 
 
 , ' Not mine the word ' 
 
 which 1 am about to speak, but that of Phaedrus. For he is in the 
 habit of complaining that, whereas other gods have poems and 
 hymns made in their honour by the poets, who are so many, the 
 great and glorious god, Love, has not a single panegyrist or enco- > 
 miast. Many sophists also, as for example the excellent Prodicus, 
 have descanted in prose on the virtues of Heracles and other 
 heroes ; and, what is still more extraordinary, I have met with a ' 
 philosophical Work in which the utility of salt has been made the 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 495 
 
 theme of an eloquent discourse ; and many other like things have 
 had, a like honour bestowed upon them. And only to think tha^ 
 there should have been an eager interest created about them, and 
 yet that to this day, as Phaedrus well and truly says, no one has 
 ever dared worthily to hymn Love's praises. This mighty deity has 
 been neglected wholly ! Now I want to offer Phaedrus a contri- | 
 bution to his feast ; nor do I see how the present company can, at ' 
 this moment, do anything better than honour .the_gQd„Laye. And 
 if you agree to this, there will be no lack of conversation ; for I 
 mean to propose that each of us in turn shall make a discourse in 
 •abnour of Love. Let us have the best which he can make j and 
 Phaedrus, who is sitting first on the left hand, and is the_ father of 
 the thought, shall begin. 
 
 L >R) one will oppose that, Eryximachus, said Socrates; I certainly 
 cannot refuse to speak- on the only subject of which I profess to 
 have any knowledge, and Agathon and Pausanias will surely assent ; 
 and there can be no doubt of Aristophanes, who is always in the 
 company of Diooysus and Aphrodite ; 'nor will any one disagree of 
 those whom I see around me. The proposal, as I am aware, may 
 seem hard upon us whose place is last ; but that does not matter if 
 we he^ some good speeches first. Let Phaedrus begin the praise 
 of Love, and good luck to him. All the company expressed their 
 assent, and desired him to do as Socrates bade him. 
 
 Aristodemus did not recollect all that was said, nor do I recol- 
 lect all that he related to me; but I will tell you what I thought 
 most worthy of remembrance, and what the chief speakers said. 
 
 Phaedrus began by affirming that Love is a mighty god, and won- 
 derful among gods and men,Cbut especially wonderful in his birth. 
 For that he is the eldest of the gods is an honour to him ; and a 
 proof of this is, that of his parents there is no memorial ; neither 
 poet nor prose-writer has ever affirmed that he had any. As Hesiod 
 says :— . j. 
 
 ' First Chaos came, and then broad-bosomed Earth, 
 ^ "■ The everlasting seat of all that is, VJ|,J. 
 
 And Love.' 
 
 In_other words, after Chaos, the Earth and Love, these two came 
 into being. Also Parmenides sings of the generation of the gods : 
 
 ' First in the train of gods, he moulded Love.' 
 
496 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 And Acusilaus agrees with Hesiod. Thus numerous are the witnesses 
 which acknowledge Love to be the eldest of the gods. And not 
 only is he the eldest, he is also the source of the greatest benefits 
 to us. For I know not any greater blessing to a young man begin- 
 ning life than a virtuous lover, or to the lover than a beloved 
 youth. For the principle which ought to be the guide of men who 
 would nobly live — that principle, I say, neither kindred, nor honour, 
 nor wealth, nor any other motive is able to implant as surely as 
 love. Of what am I speaking ? Of the sense of honour and dis- 
 honour, without which neither states nor individuals ever do any 
 good or great work. And I say that a lover who is detected in 
 doing any dishonourable act, or submitting through cowardice when 
 any dishonour is done to him by another, will be more pained at 
 being detected by his beloved than at being seen by his father, ot 
 his companions, or any one else. And the beloved has the same 
 feeling about his love, when he again is seen on any disgraceful 
 occasion. And if there were only some way of contriving that 
 a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves, 
 they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstain- 
 ing from all dishonour, and emulating one another in honour ; and 
 when fighting at one another's side, although a mere handful, they i 
 would overcome all men. For what lover would not choose rather 
 to be seen by all mankind than by his beloved, either when aban*' 
 doning his post or throwing away his arriis ? He would be ready to 
 die a thousand deaths rather than endure this. Or who would desert 
 his beloved or fail him in the hour of danger? The veriest coward 
 would become an inspired hero, equal to the bravest, at such a time; 
 Love would inspire him. That courage which, as Homer says, the 
 god breathes into the soul of heroes, Love of himself infuses into 
 the lover. 
 
 Love will make men dare to die for their beloved ; and women 
 as well as men. Of this, Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, is a 
 monument to all Hellas; for she was willing to lay down her 
 life on behalf of her husband, when no one else would, although 
 he had a father and mother; but the tenderness of her love so 
 far exceeded theirs, that they seemed to be as strangers to their 
 own soHj having no concern with him; and so noble did this 
 action of hers appear, not only to men but also to the gods, 
 that among the many who have done virtuously she was one 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 497 
 
 of die very few to whom the gods have granted the privilege 
 of returning to earth, in admiration of her virtue ; such exceeding 
 •honour is paid by them to the devotion and virtue of love. But 
 OrpheuSj the son of Oeagrus, because he appeared to them to be 
 a cowardly harper, who did not dare to die for love, like Alcestis, 
 but contrived to go down alive to Hades, was sent back by them 
 Tjdthout effecting his purpose ; to him they showed an apparition 
 only of her whom he sought, but herself they would not give up; 
 moreover, they afterwards caused him to suffer death at the hands 
 of women, as the punishment of his intrusiveness. Far other 
 was the reward of the true love of Achilles towards his lover 
 Patroclus — ^his lover and not his love (the notion that Patroclus 
 was the beloved one is a foolish error into which Aeschylus has 
 fallen, for Achilles was surely the fairer of the two, fairer also 
 than all the other heroes j and he was much younger, as Homer 
 informs us, and he had no beard). And greatly as the gods 
 honour the virtue of love, still the return of love on the part of the 
 beloved to the lover is more admired and valued and rewarded by 
 them, for the lover has a nature more divine and more worthy of 
 worship. Now Achilles was quite aware, for he had been told by 
 his mother, that he might avoid death and return home, and live to 
 a good old age, if he abstained from slaying Hector. Neverthe- 
 less he gave his life to revenge his friend, and dared to die, not 
 only on his behalf, but after his death. Wherefore the gods 
 honoured him even above Alcestis, and sent him to the Islands of 
 the Blest. These are my reasons for affirming that Love is the 
 eldest and noblest and mightiest of the gods, and the chiefest 
 author and giver of happiness and virtue, in life and after death. 
 
 This, or something like this, was the speech of Phaedrus ; and 
 some other speeches followed which Aristodemus did not remem- 
 ber j the next which he repeated was that of Pausanias, who- 
 observed that the proposal of Phaedrus was too indiscriminate, 
 and that Love ought not to be praised in this unqualified manner. 
 If there were only one Love, then wh^t he said would be well 
 enough; but since there are more Loves than one, he should 
 have begun by determining which of them was to be the theme 
 of our praise^. I will amend this defect, he said; and first of all 
 I will tell you which Love is worthy of praise, and then try to 
 hymn the praiseworthy one in a manner worthy of the god. For 
 
498 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 we all know that Love is inseparable from Aphrodite, and if there 
 
 were only one Aphrodite there would be only one Love ; but as 
 
 therejaretw;o goddesses there must be two^^es. For am I not 
 
 right in asserting that there are two goddesses ? The elder one, 
 
 having no mother, who is called the heavenly Aphrodite — she is 
 
 the daughter of Uranus ; the younger, who is the daughter of Zeus 
 
 and Dione, whom we call common; and the other Love who is her*| 
 
 I fellow-worker may and must also have the name of common, as 
 
 the other is called heavenly. All the gods ought to have praise 
 
 given to them, but still I must discriminate the attributes of the 
 
 two Loves. For actions vary according to the manner of their i8 
 
 performance. Take for example, that which we are now doing, 
 
 drinking, singing and talking — these actions are not in them- 
 
 / selves either good or evil, but turn out in this or that way 
 
 '/ according to the mode of performing them; and when well 
 
 done they are good, and when wrongly done they are evil; and 
 
 in like manner no^ every love, but only that MdiidiJiaS-a-aobk, 
 
 purpose, is_ noble and worthy of praise. But the Love who is 
 
 ; the son of the common Aphrodite is essentially common, and 
 
 ii has no discrimination, being such as the meaner sort of men 
 
 ^ feel, and is apt to be of women as well as of youths, jsdjs. of 
 
 tiie body rather than of the soul — the most foolish beings are ' 
 
 the objects of this love which desires only to gain an end, but 
 
 never thinks of accomplishing the end nobly, and therefore daes 
 
 good and evil quite indiscriminately. The goddess who is his 
 
 mother is far younger, and she was born of the union of the 
 
 male and female, and partakes of both sexes. But the son of 
 
 ' the heavenly Aphrodite is sprung from a mother in whose birth 
 
 the female has no partj but she is from the male only; this is 
 
 that love which is of youths only, and the goddess beiixg older 
 
 ipias nothing of wantonness. Those who are inspired by this 
 
 love turn to the male, and delight in him who is the more 
 
 valiant and intelligent nature; any one may recognise the pure 
 
 enthusiasts in the very charactef. of their attachments. For they 
 
 love not boys, but intelligent beings whose reason is beginning to 
 
 be developed, much about the time at which their beards begin to 
 
 grow. And in choosing them as their companions!, they meaa 
 
 to be faithful to them, and to pass their whole life with then^ and . 
 
 be with them, and not to take them in theirjlnexperience, and i 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 499 
 
 deceive them, and play the fool with them, or rua away from one to 
 another of them. But the love of young Bbys should be forbidden 
 by law, because their future is uncertain ; they may turn out good 
 or bad, either in body or soul, and the affection which is devoted 
 to them may be thrown away; in this the good are a law to 
 themselves, and the coarser sort of lovers ought to be restrained 
 by force, as we restrain or attempt to restrain them from fixing 
 their affections on women of free birth. For the abuse of a 
 thing brings discredit on the lawful use, and this has led some 
 to deny the lawfulness of love when they see the impropriety , 
 atd.,evil of attachments of this sortj for surely nothing that is 
 decorously and lawfully done can justly be censured. Now in 
 most cities the practice about love, is determined by a simple 
 rule, and is easily intelligible. But here and in Lacedaemon 
 there is a perplexity, — in Elis and Boeotia, having no gifts of 
 eloquence, they are very straightforward ; the universal sentiment 
 is simply in favour of these connexions, and no one, whether 
 young or old, has anything to say to their discredit. The reason 
 is, as I suppose, that they are men of few words in those parts, 
 and therefore the lovers do not like the trouble of pleading their 
 suit. But in Ionia and other places, and generally in countries 
 which are subject to the barbarians, loves of youths share the 
 evil repute of philosophy and gymnastics, because they are 
 inimical to tyranny ; for the interests of rulers require that their 
 subjects should be poor in spirit, and that there should be no 
 strong bond of friendship or society among them, and love, above 
 all other motives, is likely to inspire this, as our Athenian tyrants 
 learned by experience; for the love of Aristogeiton and the 
 constancy of Harmodius had a strength which undid their power. 
 And, therefore, the ill-repute into which these attachments have 
 feUen is to be ascribed to the evil condition of those who mak^ 
 them to be ill-reputed j that is to say, to the rapacity of the 
 governors and the cowardice of the governed j on the other hand, 
 the indiscriminate honour which is given to them in some 
 Eountries is attributable to the laziness of those who hold this 
 Dpimon of them. There is yet a more excellent way of legislating 
 ibout aiem, which is our own way; but this, as I was saying, is 
 rather perplexing. Eor, observe that open loves are held to be 
 nore honourable than secret ones, and tha^ the love of the 
 
 K k^ 
 
500 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 noblest and highest, even if their persons are less beautiful 
 than others, is especially honourable. Consider, too, how great 
 is the encouragement which all the world gives to the lover ^ 
 neither is he supposed to be doing anything dishonourable ^ but if 
 he succeeds he is praised, and if he fail he is blamed. And in the 
 pursuit of his love the custom of mankind allows him to do many 
 strange things, which philosophy would bitterly censure if they 
 were done from any motive of interest, or wish for office or power. 
 He may pray, and entreat, and supplicate, and swear, and be a 
 servant of servants, and lie on a mat at the door j in any other 
 case friends and enemies would be equally ready to prevent him, 
 but now there is no friend who will be ashamed of him and 
 admonish him, and no enemy will charge him with meanness or 
 flattery ; the actions of a lover have a grace which ennobles them ; 
 and custom has decided that they are highly commendable and 
 that there is no loss of character in them j and, what is yet more 
 strange, he only may swear and forswear himself (this is what 
 the world says), and the gods will forgive his transgression, 
 for there is no such thing as a lover's oath. Such is the entire 
 liberty which gods and men allow the lover, and which in our 
 part of the world the custom confirms. And this is one side 
 of the question, which may make a man fairly think that in 
 this city to love and to be loved is held to be a very honourable 
 thing. But when there is a new regime, and parents forbid their 
 sons to talk with their lovers, and place them under a tutor's 
 care, and their companions and equals are personal in their re- 
 marks when they see anything of this sort going on, and their 
 elders refuse to silence them and do not reprove their words ; any 
 one who reflects on this will, on the contrary, think that we hold 
 these practices to be disgraceful. But the truth, as I imagine, and 
 as I said at first, is, that whether such practices are honourable or 
 whether they are dishonourable is not a simple question ; rthey are 
 honourable to him who follows them honourably, dishonourable to 
 him who follows them dishonourably, ' There is dishonour in 
 yielding to the evil, or in an evil manner; but there is honour 
 in yielding to the good^ or in an honourable manner. Evil is 
 the vulgar lover who loves the body rather than the soul, and 
 who is inconstant because he is a lover of the inconstant, :#nd 
 therefore when the bloom of youth which he was desiring is over, 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 501 
 
 he takes wings and flies away, in spil« of all his words and 
 promises j whereas the love of the noble mind, which is in union 
 with the unchangeable, is everlasting. The custom of our country 1 
 would have them both proven well and truly, and would have 
 
 4 us yield to the one sort of love and avoid the other j testing them 
 in contests and trials, which will show to which of the two classes 
 the lover and the beloved respectively belong. And this is the 
 reason why, in the first place, a hasty attachment is held to be 
 dishonourable, because time is the true test of this as of most 
 other things ; and then again there is a dishonour in being over- 
 come by the love of money, wealth, or of political power, whether 
 a man suffers and is frightened into surrender at the loss of them, 
 or is unable to rise above the advantages of them. For none of 
 
 ! these things are of a permanent or lasting nature j not to mention 
 that no generous friendship ever sprung from them. There re- 
 mains, then, only one way of honourable attachment which 
 custom allows in the beloved, and this is the way of virtue j any 
 service which the lover did was not to be accounted flattery or 
 dishonour^ and the beloved has also one way of voluntary service 
 Ayhich is not dishonourable, and this is virtuous service. 
 
 For we have a custom, and according to our custom any one 
 who does service to another under the idea that he will be im- 
 proved by him either in wisdom, or in some other particular of 
 virtue— such a voluntary service as this, I say, is not regarded as 
 a dishonour, and is not open to the charge of flattery. And these 
 two customs, (one the love of youth, and the other the practice of 
 philosophy and virtue in general, ought to meet in one, and then 
 the beloved may honourably indulge the lover. For when the 
 lover and beloved come together, having each of them a law, and 
 the lover on his part is ready to confer any favour that he rightly 
 can on his gracious loving one, and the other is ready to yield any 
 compliance that he rightly can to him who is to make hini wise 
 and good ; the one capable of communicating wisdom and virtue, 
 the other seeking after knowledge, and making his object education ^ 
 
 • and wisdom j when the two laws of love are fulfilled and meet in 
 one-^then, and then only, may the beloved yield with honour to the 
 
 I lover. Nor when love is of this disinterested sort is there any 
 disgrace in being deceived, but in every other case there is equal 
 
 ■ disgrace in being or not being deceived. For he who is gracious 
 
502 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 to his lover under the impression that he is rich, and is disap- igi 
 pointed of his gains because he turns out to be poor, is disgrace^ i 1 
 all the same : for he has done his best to show that he would turn 
 himself to any one's uses base for the sake of money, and this is 
 not honourable. But on the same principle he who lives for the 
 sake of virtue, and in the hope that he will be improved by his 
 lover's company, shows himself to be virtuous, even though the 
 object of his aiFection be proved to be a villain, and to have no 
 virtue j and if he is deceived he has committed a noble error. For 
 he has proved that for his part he will do anything for anybody for 
 the sake of virtue and improvement, and nothing can be nobler 
 than this. Thus noble in every case is the acceptance of another 
 for the sake of virtue.7 This is that love which is the love of the 
 heavenly goddess, and is heavenly, and of great price to individuals ■ 
 and cities, making the lover and the beloved alike eager in the 
 work of their own improvement. But all other loves are the off- 
 spring of the common or vulgar goddess. To you, Phaedrus, I offer 
 this my encomium of love, which is as good as I could make on'^ 
 the sudden. _ 
 
 When Pausanias came to a pause (this is the balanced way in 
 which I have been taught by the wise to speak), Aristodemus said 
 that the turn of Aristophanes was next, but that either he had eaten 
 too much, or from some other cause he had the hiccough, and was 
 obliged to change with Eryximachus the physician, who was reclin- 
 ing on the couch below him. Eryximachus, he said, you ought 
 either to stop my hiccough, or to speak- in my turn until I am 
 better. 
 /l will do both, said Eryximachus : I will speak in your turn, and , 
 do you speak in mine ; and while I am speaking let me recommend ' 
 you to hold your breath, and if this fails, then to gai^le with a 
 little water j and if the hiccough still continues, tickle your nose 
 with something and sneeze ; and if you sneeze once or twice, even 
 the most violent hiccough is sure to go. In the meantime I will 
 take your turn, and you shall take mine. \ will do as you pre- 
 scribe, said Aristophanes, and now get on. 
 
 Eryximachus spoke as follows : Seeing that Pausanias made a 
 I fair beginning, and but a lame ending, I will endeavour to supply i8l 
 his deficiency. I think that he has rightly distinguished two kinds 
 of love. But my art instructs me that this double love is to be 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 503 
 
 found in all animals and plants, and I may say in all that is ; and 
 is not merely an aiFection of the soul of ifian towards the fair, or 
 towards anything; that, I say, is a view of the subject which I 
 seem to have gathered from my own art of .medicine, which shows 
 me how great and wonderful and universal is this deity, whose 
 einpire is over all that is, divine as well as human. And from 
 medicine I will begin that 1 may do honour to my art. For there 
 are in the human body two loves, which are confessedly different 
 and unlike, and being unlike, have loves and desires which are 
 unlike j and the desire of the healthy is one, and the desire of the 
 diseased is another ; and, as Pausanias says, the good are to be 
 accepted, and the bad are not to be accepted ; and so too in the 
 body the good and healthy elements are to be indulged, and the 
 bad elements and the elements of desire are not to be indulged, 
 but discouraged. And this is what the physician has to do, and in 
 this the art of medicine consists : for medicine may be regarded 
 generally as the knowledge of the loves and desires of the body, 
 and how to fill or empty them ; and the good physician is he who 
 is able to separate fair love from foul, or to convert one into the 
 other J and if he is a skilful practitioner, he knows how to eradi- 
 cate and how to implant love, whichever is required, and he can 
 reconcile the most hostile elements in the constitution, and make 
 them friends. Now the most hostile are the most opposite, such 
 as hot and cold,' moist and dry, bitter and sweet, and the like. 
 And my ancestor, Asclepius, knowing how to implant friendship 
 and accord in these elements, was the creator of our art, as our 
 friends the poets here tell us, and I believe them ; and not only 
 medicine in every branch, but the arts of gymnastic and husbandry 
 are under his dominion. Any one who pays the least attention 
 will also perceive that in music there is the same reconciliation of 
 opposites ; and I suppose that this must have been the meaning of 
 Heracleitus, although his words are not accurate ; for he says that 
 one is united by disunion, like the harmony of the bow and the 
 lyre. Now there is an absurdity in saying that harmony is dis- 
 agreement or is composed of elements which are still in a state of 
 disagreement. But perhaps what he really meant to say was that 
 harmony is composed of differing notes of higher or lower pitch 
 which disagreed once, but are now reconciled by the art of music ; 
 for if the higher and lower notes still disagreed, there could be no 
 
504 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 harmony, as is indeed evident. For harmony is a symphony,' and 
 symphony is an agreement; but an agreement of disagreements 
 while they disagree cannot exist ; there is no harmony of discord 
 and disagreement. This niay be illustrated by rhythm, which is 
 xomposed of elements short and long, once differing and now in 
 accord; which accordance, as in the former instance, medicine, so in 
 this, music implants, making love and unison to grow up among 
 them : and thus music, too, is concerned with the principles of love 
 in their application to harmony and rhythm. Again, in the ab^ 
 stract principles of harmony and rhythm there is no difficulty in 
 s discerning them, for as yet love has no double nature. But when 
 , you want to use them in actual life, either in the compositions of 
 music or in the correct performance of airs or metres composed 
 already, which latter is called education, then the difficulty begins, 
 and the good artist is needed. Then the old tale has to be repeated 
 of fair and heavenly love — the love of Urania the fair and heavenly 
 muse, and of the duty of accepting the temperate, and the intem- 
 perate only that they may become temperate, and of preserving their 
 love ; and again, of the vulgar Polyhymnia, who must be used, with $ 
 circumspection that the pleasure may not generate licentiousness ; 
 just as in my own art great skill is shown in gratifying the taste 
 of the epicure without inflicting upon him the attendant evil of 
 disease. The conclusion is that in music, in medicine, in all othes . 
 things human as well as divine, both loves ought to be noted as li 
 J^ar as may be, for they are both present. 
 
 The course of the seasons is also full of both principles ; and 
 
 when, as I was saying, tlie elements of hot and cold, moist and 
 
 dry, attain the harmonious love of one another and blend in 
 
 temperance and harmony, they bring to men, animals and veget- ;: 
 
 ables health and wealth, and do them no harm; whereas the 
 
 \ wantonness and overbearingness of the other love affecting the 
 
 I seasons is a great injurer and destroyer, and is the source of 
 
 i pestilence, and brings many different sorts of diseases on animals. 
 
 ! and plants ; for hoar-frost and hail and blight spring from the 
 
 excesses and disorders of these elements of love, the knowledge of 
 
 which in relation to the revolutions of the heavenly bodies and the 
 
 seasons of the year is termed astronomy. Furthermore all sacrifices 
 
 and the Whole art of divination, which is the art of communioa 
 
 between gods and men — these, I say, are concerned only with the 
 
I? THE SYMPOSIUM. 505 
 
 salvation and healing power of love. For all impiety is likely to 
 ensue if, instead of accepting and honourllig and reverencing the 
 harmonious love in all his actions, a man honours the other love, 
 whether in his feelings towards gods or parents, towards the 
 living or the dead. Wherefore the business of divination is to 
 see to these loves and to heal them, and divination is the peace- 
 maker o£ gods and men, working by a knowledge of the religious 
 or irreligious tendencies which exist in merely human Ipves. Such 
 is the great and mighty, or rather universal, force of all love. And 
 that love, especially, which is concerned with the good, and which 
 is perfected in company with temperance and justice, whether 
 among gods or, men, has the greatest power, and is the source of 
 all our happiness and harmony and friendship with the gods 
 which are above us, and with one another. I dare say that I have 
 omitted several things which might be said in praise of Love, but 
 this was not intentional, and you, Aristophanes, may now supply 
 the omission or take some other line of commendation; as I 
 perceive that you are cured of the hiccough. 
 
 I Yes, said Aristophanes, who followed, the hiccough is gone ; not, 
 however, until I applied the sneezing ; and I wonder whether the 
 principle of order in the human frame requires tjiese sort of noises 
 and ticklings, for I no sooner applied the sneezing than I was 
 cured. 
 
 :• , Eryximachus said: Take care, friend Aristophanes, you are 
 beginning with a joke, and I shall have to watch if you talk 
 nonsense; and the interruption will be occasioned by your own 
 
 fault. ;; 
 
 You are very right, said Aristophanes, laughing, and I will 
 retract what I said j and do you please not to watch me, as I fear 
 that in what I am going to say, instead of making others laugh, \ 
 which is to the manner born of our muse and would be all the I 
 better, I shall only be laughed at by them. 
 
 Do you expect to shoot your bolt and escape, Aristophanes ? 
 Well, if you are very careful and have a due sense of responsibility, 
 I may be induced to let you off. 
 
 Aristophanes professed to open another vein of discourse ; he 
 had a mind to praise Love in another way, not like that either of 
 Pausanias or Eryximachus. Mankind, he said, judging by their 
 neglect of him, have never, as I think, at all understood the power , 
 
506 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 of Love. For if they had understood him they would surely have 
 built noble temples and altars, and offered solemn sacrifices in his 
 honour J but this is not done, and certainly ought to be done: 
 for of all the gods he is the best friend of men, the helper and 
 the healer of the ills which are the great obstruction to the happi^ 
 ness of the race^j, I shall rehearse to you his power, and you may 
 repeat what I say to the rest of the world. And first let me treat 
 of the nature and state of man ; for the original human nature 
 was not like the present, but different. In the first place, the sexes 
 were originally three in number, not two as they are now ; there 
 was man, woman, and" the union of the two, having a name 
 corresponding to this double nature ; this once had a real 
 existence, but is now lost, and the name only is preserved as a 
 term of reproach. In the second place, the primeval man was 
 round and had four hands and four feet, back and sides forming 
 a circle, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on 
 a round neck and precisely alike ; also four ears, two privy i 
 members, and the remainder to correspond. When he had a 
 mind he could walk as men now do, and he could also roll over 
 and over at a great rate, leaning on his four hands and four feet, 
 eight in all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs in 
 the air ; this was when he wanted to run fast. Now there were 
 these three sexes, because the sun, moon, and earth are three ; and 
 the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the 
 earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun 
 and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round 
 like their parents. Terrible was their might and strength, and 
 the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack 
 upon the gods j and of them is told the tale of Otus and Ephialtes 
 who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven, and would have laid 
 hands upon the gods. Doubt reigned in the councils of Zeus and 
 of the gods. Should they kill them and annihilate the race with 
 thunderbolts, as they had done the giants, then there would be an 
 end of the sacrifice and worship which men offered to them ; but, 
 on the other hand, the gods could not suffer their insolence to be 
 unrestrained. At last, after a good deal of reflection, Zeus dis- 
 covered a way. He said : ' I have a notion which will humble 
 their pride and mend their manners ; they shall continue to exist, 
 but I will cut them in two and then they will be dimiiiished in 
 
' THE SYMPOSIUM. 507 
 
 strength and increased in numbers ; this will have the advantage t 
 of making them more profitable to us. They shall walk upright • 
 on two legs, and if they continue insolent and won't be quiet, I 
 will split them again and they shall hop about on a single leg.' 
 He spoke and cut men in two, like a sorb-apple which is halved 
 for pickling, or as you might divide an egg with a hair ; and as he 
 cut them one after another, he bade Apollo give the face and the 
 half of the neck a turn in order that the man might contemplate 
 the section of himself: this would teach him a lesson of humility. 
 He was also to heal their wounds and compose their forms. 
 Apollo twisted the face and pulled the skin all round over that 
 which in our language is called the belly,~like the purses which 
 draw in, and he made one mouth at the centre, which he fastened 
 t in a knot (this is called the navel) ; he also moulded the breast 
 and took out most of the wrinkles, much as a shoemaker might ^ 
 smooth out leather upon a last ; he left a few, however, in the 
 region of the belly and navel, as a memorial of the primeval 
 change. After the division the two parts of man, each desiring 
 his other half, came together, and threw their arms about one ! 
 another eager to grow into one, and would have perished from \ 
 hunger without ever making an effort, because they did not like j 
 to do anything apart ; and when one of the halves died and the 
 other survived, the survivor sought another mate, whether the 
 section of an entire man or of an entire woman, which had 
 usurped the name of man and woman, and clung to that. And 
 this was being the destruction of them, when Zeus in pity 
 invented a new plan : he turned the parts of generation round in 
 front, for this was not always their position, and they sowed the 
 seed no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in 
 one another; arid after the transposition the male generated in the 
 female in order that by the mutual embraces of man. and woman 
 they might breed, and the race might continue ; or if man came 
 to man they might be satisfied, and rest and go their ways to the 
 business of life : so ancient is the desire of one another which is 
 implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, making one of 
 two, and healing the state of man. Each of us when separated is 
 but the indenture of a man, having one side only like a flat 
 fish, and he is always looking for his other half. Men who are 
 a section of that double nature which was once called Andro- 
 
5o8 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 gynous are lascivious , adulterers are generally of this breed, and 
 also adulterous and lascivious women: the women who are a 
 section of the woman don't care for men, but have female attach- 
 ments J the female companions are of this sort. But the men 
 who are a section of the male follow the male, and while they are 
 young, being a piece of the man, they hang about him and 
 embrace him, and_ they are themselves the best of boys and 
 youths, because they have the most manly nature. Some indeed 
 assert that they are shameless, but this is not true ; for they do 
 not act thus from any want of shame, but because they are valiant 
 and manly, and have a manly countenance, and they embrace 
 that which is like them. And these when they grow up are our 
 statesmen, and these only, which is a great proof of the truth 
 of what I am saying. And when they reach manhood they are 
 lovers of youth, and are not naturally inclined to marry or beget 
 children, which they do, if at all, only in- obedience to the law, 
 but they are satisfied if they may be allowed to live un wedded; 
 and such a nature is prone to love and ready to return love, 
 always embracing that which is akin to him. And when one 
 of them finds his other half, whether he be a lover of youth or 
 a lover of another sort," the pair are lost in an amazement of love 
 and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's 
 sight, as I may say, even for a moment : these are they who pass 
 their lives with one another; yet they could not explain what 
 they desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each 
 of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of 
 intercourse, but of something else which the soul desires and 
 cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful 
 presentiment. Suppose Hephaestus, with his instruments, to come 
 to the pair who are lying side by side and say to them, ' What 
 do you people want of one another?' they would be unable to 
 explain, ^nd suppose further, that when he saw their perplexity 
 he said : ' Do you desire to be wholly one ; always day and night 
 to be in one another's company? for if this is what you desire, 
 I am ready to melt you into one and let you grojv together, so 
 that being two you shall become one, and while you live live a 
 common life as if you were a single man, and after your death 
 in the world below still be one departed soul instead of two— I 
 ask whether this is what you lovingly desire, and whether you are 
 
I THE SYMPOSIUM. 509 
 
 f- — — — ^ ~~ 
 
 \ satisfied to attain this V — there is not a man among them when 
 f he heard this who would deny or who woufd not acknowledge that 
 this meeting and melting in one another's arms, this becoming 
 f one instead of two, was the very expression of his ancient need. 
 ' And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we 
 3 were a whole|^nd the desire and pursuit of the whole is called 
 \ love.") There was a time, I say, when the two were one, but now 
 because of this wickedness of men God has dispersed us, as the 
 Arcadians were dispersed into villages by the Lacedaemonians. 
 I And if we are not obedient to the gods there is a danger that we 
 shall be split up again and go about in basso-relievo, like the 
 ■figures having only half a nose which are sculptured on columns, 
 ■ and that we shall be like tallies. Wherefore let us exhort all 
 men to piety, that we may avoid the evil and obtain the good, of 
 which Love is the lord and leader ; and let no one oppose him — 
 h^ is the enemy of the gods who opposes him. For if we are 
 friends of God and reconciled to him we shall find our own true 
 . loves, which rarely happens in this world. I am serious, and 
 therefore I must beg Eryximachus not to make fun or to find any 
 allusion to Pausanias and Agathon, who, as I believe, are of the 
 manly sort such as I have been describing. But my words have 
 a wider application — they include men and women everywhere ; 
 and I believe that if all of us obtained our love, and each one had 
 his particular beloved, thus returning to his original nature, then 
 i our race would be happy. And 4f this would be best of all, that 
 ' which would be best under present circumstances would be the 
 nearest approach to such an union ; and that will be the attain- 
 ment of a congenial love. Therefore we shall do well to praise 
 the god Love, who is the author of this gift, and who is also our 
 greatest benefactor, leading us in this life back to our own nature, 
 and giving us high hopes for the future, that if we are pious, he 
 will restore us to our original state, and heal us and make us 
 happy and blessed. This, Eryximachus, is my discourse of love, 
 which, although different from yours, I must beg you to leave 
 unassailed by the shafts of your ridicule, in order that each may 
 have his turn; each, or rather- either, for Agathon and Socrates are 
 the only ones left. 
 
 V . Indeed, I am not going to attack you, said Eryximachus, for I 
 thought your speech charming, and did I not know that Agathon 
 
510 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 and Socrates are masters in the art of love, I should be really 
 afraid that they would have nothing to say, after all the world of 
 things which have been said already. But, for all that, I am not 
 without hopes. , 
 
 Socrates said: You did your part well, Eryximachus.j but if, 
 you were as I am now, or rather as I shall be when Agathon has 
 spoke», you would, indeed, be in a great strait. 
 
 You want to cast a spell over me, Socrates, said Agathon, in 
 the hope that I may be disconcerted, thinking of the anticipation 
 which the theatre has of my fine speech. , 
 
 I should be strangely forgetful, Agathon, replied SocrateSj. of the 
 courage and magnanimity which you showed when your own com- 
 positions were about to be exhibited, coming upon the stage with 
 the actors and facing the whole theatre altogether undismayed, if 
 I thought that your nerves could be fluttered at a small party of 
 friends. 
 
 Do you think, Socrates, said Agathon, that my head is so full of 
 the theatre as not to know how much more formidable to a man of 
 sense a few good judges are than many fools T) 
 
 Nay, replied Socrates, I should be very wrong in attributing to 
 you, Agathon, that or any other want of refinement. And I am 
 quite aware that if you happened to meet with any one whom you 
 thought wise, you would care for his opinion much more than for 
 that of the many. But then we, having been a part of the foolish 
 many in the theatre, cannot be regarded as the select wise ; though I 
 know that if you chanced to light upon a really wise man, you would 
 be ashamed of disgracing yourself before him — ^would you not ? 
 
 Yes, said Agathon. 
 
 But you would not be ashamed of disgracing yourself before the 
 many? 
 
 Here Phaedrus interrupted them, saying : Don't answer him, 
 my dear Agathon ; for if he can only get a partner with whom he 
 can talk, especially a good-looking one, he will no longer care 
 about the completion of our plan. Now I love to hear him talk} 
 but" just at present I must not forget the encomium on Love which 
 I ought to receive from him and every one. When you and he 
 have paid the tribute to the god, then you may talk. 
 
 Very good, Phaedrus, said Agathon j I see no reason why I 
 should not proceed with my speech, as I shall have other oppor-: 
 

 THE SYMPOSIUM. 511 
 
 tunities of conversing with Socrates. Let me say first how I 
 ought to speak, and then speak. * 
 
 N The previous speakers, instead of praising the god Love, or un- 
 folding his nature, appear to have congratulated mankind on the 
 
 ; benefits which he confers upon them. But I would rather praise 
 the god first, and then speak of his gifts ; this is always the right 
 way of praising everything. May I express unblamed then, that 
 of all the blessed gods he is the blessedest and the best ? And 
 also the fairest, which I prove in this way : for, in the first place, 
 Phaedrus, he is the youngest, and of his youth he is himself the 
 witness, fleeing out of the way of age, which is swift enough 
 surely, swifter than most of us like : yet he cannot be overtaken 
 by him j he is not a bird of that feather ; youth and love live and 
 move together — like to like, as the proverb says. There are many 
 things which Phaedrus said about Love in which I agree with him ; 
 but I cannot agree that he is older than lapetus and Kronos — that 
 is not the truth j as I maintain, he is the youngest of the gods, and 
 youthful ever. The ancient things of which Hesiod and Par- 
 menides speak, if they were done at all, were done of necessity 
 and not of lov^; had love been in those days, there would have 
 been no chaining or mutilation of the gods, or other violence, but 
 peace and sweetness, as there is- now in heaven, since the rule of 
 Love began. Love is young and also tender ; he ought to have 
 a poet like Homer to describe his tenderness, as Homer says of 
 Ate, that she is a goddess and tender : — 
 
 'Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps, 
 Not on the ground but on the heads of men:' 
 
 which is an excellent proof of her tenderness, because she 
 walks not upon the hard but upon the soft. Let us adduce 
 a similar prooi' of the tenderness of Love; for he walks not 
 upon ^the earth, nor ' yet upon the skulls of men, which are 
 hard enough, but in the hearts and souls of men: in them 
 he walks and dwells and has his home. Not in every soul 
 without exception, for where there is hardness he departs, where 
 there is softness there he dwells; and clinging always with his 
 feet and in all manner of ways in the softest of soft places, 
 hoTjir can he be other than the softest of all things? And he 
 6 is the youngest as well as the tenderest, and also he is of flexile 
 
512 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 .mil 
 
 form ; for without flexure he could not enfold all things, or wind 
 his way into and out of every soul of man without being dis- 
 covered, if he were hard. And a proof of his flexibility and sym- -p 
 metry of form is his grace, which is universally admitted to be in ii 
 an especial manner the attribute of Love; ungrace and love are 5-^0 
 always at war with one another. The fairness of his complexion ijul 
 is revealed by his habitation among the flowers; for he dwells .jp 
 not amid unflowering or fading beauties, whether of body or ^ 
 soul or aught else, but in the place of flowers and scents, there yj| 
 hs dwells and abides. Enough of his beauty— of which, however, Ijjg 
 ihere is more to tell. But I must now speak of his virtue: his \^{\ 
 greatest glory is that he can neither do nor suffer wrong from any , 1 
 god or any man; for he suiFers not by force if he sufl^ers, for jj. 
 force comes not near him, neither does he act by force. \For all , j. 
 serve him of their own freewill, and where there is love as well ^ '^i^ 
 as obedience, there, as the laws which are the lords of the city 
 say, is justice.^ And not only is hejust but exceedingly temperate, 
 for Temperance is the acknowledged ruler of the pleasures and 
 desires, and no pleasure ever masters Love ; he is their master and ..^ 
 they are his servants ; and if he conquers them he must be tem- ,,,| 
 perate indeed. As to courage, even the God of War is no 
 
 ■ffl 
 
 match for him ; he is the captive and Love is the lord, for love, j^ 
 the love, of Aphrodite, masters him, as the tale runs ; and the 
 master is stronger than the servant. And if he conquers the \^^ 
 bravest of all he must be himself the bravest. TOf his courage 
 and justice and temperance I have spoken; but I have yet to j^^ 
 speak of his wisdom, and I must try to do my best, according l_^ 
 to the measure of my ability.) For in the first place he is a 
 poet (and here, like Eryximachus, I magnify my art), and he 
 \ i^,also the source of poesy in others, which he could not be if ij 
 \ik were not himself a poet. And at the touch of him every one '^^ 
 becoijies a poet, even though he had no music in him before ; this .' 
 also is a proof that Love is a goo^ poet and accomplished in all ;^ 
 the musical arts ; for no one can give to another that which he , "{^ 
 has not himself,. or teach that of which he has no knowledge;] ^ 
 Who will deny that the creation of the animals is his doing? 19?;' 
 Are they not all the works of his wisdom, born and begotteflj* " 
 of him? And as to the artists, do we not know that he only 
 of them whom love inspires has the light of fame? — he whom ,' 
 
 59 
 
r THE SYMPOSIUM. 513 
 
 f ^ ^ 
 
 love touches not^walks in darkness./ The arts of medicine and 
 
 archery and divination were discovered by Apollo, under the 
 
 guidance of love and desire, so that he too is a disciple of love. 
 
 Also the melody of the Muses, the metallurgy of Hephaestus, the 
 
 weaving of Athene, the empire of Zeus over gods and men, are 
 
 all due to love, who was the inventor of them. Love set in order 
 
 ' the empire of the gods — the love of beauty, as is evident, for 
 
 of deformity there is no love. And formerly, as I was saying, 
 
 dreadful deeds were done among the gods, because of the rule 
 
 of necessity; but now since the birth of love, and from the 
 
 love of the beautiful^ has sprung every good in heaven and- 
 
 earth. Therefore, Phaedrus, I say of love that he is the fairest 
 
 and best in himself, and the .cause of what is fairest and best 
 
 in all other things. And I have a mind to say of him in 
 
 verse that he is the god who 
 
 ' Gives peace on earth and calms the stormy deep, 
 Who stills the waves and bids the sufferer sleep.' 
 
 He makes men to be of one rnind at a banquet .such as this, 
 fulfilling them with affection and emptying theiri of disaffection. 
 In sacrifices, banquets, dances, he is our lord— supplying kindness 
 and banishing unkindness, giving friendship and forgiving enmity, 
 the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of, 
 the gods i desired by those who have no partnn him, and precious 
 to those who have the better part in him; parent of delicacy, 
 luxury, desire, fondness, softness, grace ; careful of the good, un- 
 careful of the evil. In every word, work, wish, fear — pilot, helper, 
 defender, saviour; glory of gods and men, leader best and brightest: 
 in whose footsteps let every man follow, chanting a hymn and 
 joining in that fair strain with which love charms the souls of 
 gods and men. Such is the discourse, Phaedrus, half playful, yet 
 having a certain measure of seriousness, which, according to my 
 ability, I dedicate to the god. 
 
 When Agathon had done speaking, Aristodemus said that there 
 was a general cheer ; thfe fair youth was thought to have spoken in 
 a manner worthy of himself, and of the god. And Socrates, look- 
 ing at Eryximachus, said : Tell me, son of Acumenus, was I not 
 a -prophet ? Did I not anticipate that Agathon would make a 
 wonderful oration and, .that I should be in a strait? 
 
 r. 1 
 
514 THE SYMJ'OSIUM. 
 
 I think, said Eryximachus, that you were right in the first 
 anticipation, but not in the second. 
 
 Why, my dear friend, said Socrates, must not I or any one be in 
 a strait who has to speak after such a rich and varied discourse 
 as that ? I am especially struck with the beauty of the concluding 
 words — who could listen to them without amazement? When 
 I reflected on the immeasurable inferiority of my own powers, 
 I was ready to run away for shame, if there had been any escape. 
 For I was reminded of Gorgias, and at the end of his speech I 
 fancied that Agathon was shaking at me the Gorginian or Gor- 
 gonian head of the great master of rhetoric, which was simply 
 to turn me and my speech into stone, as_Homer_says, and strike 
 me dumb. And then I perceived Jiow foolish I had been in con- 
 senting to talce my turn with you in praising love, and saying that 
 I too was a master of the art, when I really had no idea of the 
 meaning of the word ' praise,' which appears to be another name 
 for glorification, whether true or false j in which sense of the 
 term I am unable to praise anything. For I in my simplicity 
 imagined that the topics of praise should be true ; this was to 
 be the foundation, and that out of them the speaker was to 
 choose the best and arrange them in the best order. And I 
 felt quite proud, and thought that . I could speak as well as 
 another, as I knew the nature of true praise. Whereas I see 
 now that the intention was to attribute to love every species of 
 greatness and glory, whether really belonging to him or not, 
 without regard to truth or falsehood — that was no matter; for 
 the original proposal seems to have been not that you should 
 praise, but only that you should appear to praise him. And you 
 attribute to love every imaginable form of praise, and say that 
 ' he is all . this,' ' the cause of all this,' in order that you may ii 
 exhibit 'him as the fairest and best of all ; and this of course 
 imposes on the unwary, but not on those who know him: . 
 and a noble and solemn hymn of praise have you rehearsed. 
 But as I misunderstood the nature of the praise when I said 
 that I would take my turn, I must beg to be absolved from the 
 promise which, (as Euripides would say) was a promise of. the • 
 lips and not of the mind. Farewell then to such a strain : for 
 that is not my way of praising; no, indeed, I cannot attain 
 to that. But if you like to hear the truth about love, I am 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 515 
 
 ady to speak in my own manner, %ough I will not make 
 yself ridiculous by entering into any rivalry with you. Say 
 en, Phaedrus, whether you would like to have the truth about 
 ve, spoken in any words and in any order which may hap- 
 ;n to come into my mind at the time. Will that be agreeable 
 I you ? ' • 
 
 Aristodemus said that Phaedrus and the company bid him 
 ke his own course. Then, he said, let me have your permission- 
 st to ask Agathon^ a few more questions, in order that I may 
 ke his admissions as the premisses of my discourse. 
 Y grant the permission, said Phaedrus: put your questions. 
 )cra tes tj ip" r*" ^*^^^^^*^ ^ P follow;; : — 
 
 In the magnificent discourse which you have uttered, I think 
 lat you were right, my dear Agathon, in saying that you would 
 ;gin with the nature of love and then afterwards speak of his 
 orks — that is a way of beginning which I very much approve, 
 nd as you have spoken thus eloquently of the nature of love, 
 ill you answer me a further question ? — Is love the love of 
 »mething or of nothing? And here I must explain myself: I 
 ) not want you to say that love is the love of a father or the 
 ve of a mother — that would be ridiculous j but to answer as you 
 ould, if I asked is a father a father of something ? to which you 
 ould find no difficulty in replying, of a son or daughter : and 
 lat would be right. 
 
 Very true, said Agathon. 
 
 And you would say the same of a mother ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 Yet let me ask you one more question in order further to 
 lustrate my meaning. Is not a brother to be regarded essen- 
 ally as a brother of something ? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 That is, of a brother or sister? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And now, said Socrates, I will ask about love :— Is love of 
 »mething or of nothing ? 
 
 Of something, surely, he replied. 
 
 Keep in mind what this is, and tell, me what I want to know 
 -whether love desires that of which love is. 
 
 Yes, surely. 
 
5i6 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 And does he possess, or does he not possess, that which he 
 loves and desires ? 
 
 Probably not, I should say. 
 ' Nay, replied Socrates, I would have you consiHer whether ne- 
 cessarily is not rather the word. The inference that he who desires 
 something is in want of something, and that he who desires 
 nothing is in want of nothing, is in my judgment, Agathon, 
 absolutely and necessarily true. What do you think ? 
 
 I think with you, said Agathon, in that. 
 
 Very good. And would he who is great desire to be great, or 
 he who is strong desire to be strong? 
 
 That would be inconsistent with our previous admissions. 
 
 True. For he who is anything cannot want to be that which 
 he is? . , 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But if, added Socrates, a man being stroi^g desired to be strong, 
 or being swift desired to be swift, or being healthy desired to 
 be healthy (for any one may be imagined to desire any quality 
 which he already has), in these cases there might be an objection 
 raised — ^they might be said to desire that which they have already. 
 I give the example in order that we may avoid misconception. 
 For as you may see, Agathon, these persons must be supposed 
 to have their respective advantages at> the time, whether they 
 choose or not j and surely no man can desire that^ which he 
 has. And therefore, when a person says, I am well and wish 
 to be well, or I am rich and wish to be rich, and I desire 
 simply what I havej we shall reply to him: 'You, my friend, 
 having wealth and health and strength, want to have the con- 
 tinuance of them; for at this moment, whether you choose or 
 no, you have them. And when you say, I desire that which I 
 have and nothing else, is not your meaning that you want to 
 have what you now have in the future ?' He must allow this ? 
 
 He must, said Agathon. 
 
 Then, said Socrates, this is equivalent to desiring not what he 
 has or possesses already, but that what he has may be preserved 
 to him in the future? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 Then he and every one who desires, desires that which he has 
 not already, and which is future and not ' present, and which he 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 517 
 
 IS not, and is not, and of which he is in want ; — these are the 
 
 rt of things which love and desire seek ? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 Then now, said Socrates, let us recapitulate the argument. 
 
 ,rst, is not love of something, and of something too which is 
 
 anting to a man ? 
 
 Yes, he replied. 
 
 Remember further what you said in your speech, or if you do 
 
 )t remember I will remind you : you said that the love of the 
 
 :autiful disposes the empire of the .gods, for that of deformed 
 
 ings there is no love — did you not say something like that ? 
 
 Yes, said Agathon. 
 
 Yes, my friend, and the remark is a just one. And if this is 
 
 ue, love is the love of beauty and not of deformity ? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And the admission has been already made that love is of that 
 
 hich a man wants and has not ? 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 Then love wants and has not beauty ? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 And would you call that beautiful which wants and does not 
 
 Jssess beauty ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Then would you still say that love is beautiful ? 
 
 Agathon replied : I fear that I did not understand what I was 
 
 ■ying. 
 
 Nay, Agathon, replied Socrates; but I should like to ask you 
 
 le more question i-trls not the good also the beautiful ?^ 
 
 Yes. '" ■ ~ ' 
 
 Then in wanting the beautiful, love wants also the good ? 
 
 I cannot refute you, Socrates, said Agathon. And let us suppose 
 
 at what you say is true. 
 
 Say rather, dear Agathon, that you cannot refute, the truth j for 
 
 icrates is feasily refuted. ) 
 
 And now I will take my leave of you, and rehearse the tale of 
 
 ve which I heard once upon a time from Diotima of Mantineia, 
 
 ho was a wise woman in this and many other branches of 
 
 lowledge. She was the Same who deferred the plague of Athens 
 
 n years by a sacrifice, and was my instructress in the art of 
 
5i8 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 love. In the attempt which I am about to make I shall pursue) 
 Agathon's method, and begin with l)is admissions, which, are 
 nearly if not quite the same which I made to the wise woman 
 when she questioned me : this will be the easiest way, and I shall ; 
 take both parts myself as well as I can. For, like Agathon, she 
 spoke first of the being and nature of love, and then of his works- 
 And I said to her in nearly the same words which he used to me, 
 that love was a mighty god, and likewise fair j and she. proved to 
 me as I proved to him that, in my way of speaking about him, ; 
 love was neither fair_nor good. 'What do you mean, Diotima/ .|| 
 I said, ' is love then evil and foul ?' ' Hush,' she cried ; ' is that 
 to be deemed foul which is not fair?' 'Certainly,' I said. 'And 
 is that which is not wise, ignorant? do you not see that there is 202 
 a mean between wisdom and ignorance?' 'And what is this?' 
 I said. 'Right opinion/ she replied; 'which, as you know, being 
 incapable of giving a reason, is not knowledge (for how could ! • 
 knowledge be devoid of reason ? nor again, ignorance, for neither | 
 can ignorance attain the truth), but is clearly something which is 
 a mean between ignorance and wisdom.' ' Quite true,' I replied, 
 'Do not then insist,' she said, 'that what is not fair is of 
 necessity foul, or what is not good evil j or infer that because love 
 is not Jair and good he .is therefore foul and evil ; for he is in 
 a mean between them.' ' Well,' I said, ' love is surely admitted 
 by all to be a great god.' ' By those who know or by those who 
 don't know?' 'By all.' 'And how, Socrates,' she said with 
 a smile, ' can love be acknowledged to be a great god by those, 
 who say that he is not a god at all?' 'And who are they?' I said. 
 'You and I are tWo of them,' she replied. 'How can that be?' 
 I said. ' That is very intelligible/ she replied ; ' as you yourself 
 would acknowledge that the gods are happy and fair — of course 
 you wxDuld — would you dare to say that any god was not?' 
 ' Certainly not,' I replied. ' And you mean by the happy, those 
 who are the possessors of things good or fair?' 'Yes.' 'And 
 you admitted that love, because he was in, waiit, desires those;, good 
 and fair things of which he is in want?' 'Yes, I admitted that.'. 
 ' But how can he be a god who has no share in the good or the 
 fair?' 'That is not to be supposed.' 'Then you see that you 
 also deny the deity of love/ " 
 
 ' What then is love ? ' I asked ; ' Is he mortal ? ' ' No.' ' What 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 519 
 
 hen?' 'As in the former instance, he^ is neither-naortaLjifir 
 mmortal, but in a mean between them/ ' What is he then, 
 3iotima?' 'He is a great spirit (6a^)Litaz'), and like all that is 
 ipiritual he is intermediate between the divine and the mortal.' 
 And what is the [nature of thj,s spiritual power ?' I said. ' This 
 s the power/ she ;said, ' which interprets and conveys to the gods 
 he prayers and sacrifices of men, and to men the commands and 
 ewards of the godsj and this power spans the chasm which 
 livides them, and in this all is bound together, and through this 
 he arts of the prophet and the priest, their sacrifices and mysteries 
 ind charms, and all prophecy and incantation, find their way. 
 "or God mingles not with man-; and through this power all" the 
 j|tercourse and speech of God with man, whether awake or asleep, 
 s carried on. The wisdom which understands this is spiritual; 
 ill other wisdom, such as that of arts or handicrafts, is mean and 
 Tilgar. Now these spirits or intermediate powers are many and 
 livine,^and one of them is love.' 'And who,' I said, 'Was his 
 ather, and who his mother ?' 'The tale/ she said, 'will take time ; 
 levertheless I will tell you. On the birthday of Aphrodite there 
 vzs, a feast of the gods, at which the god Poros or Plenty, who is 
 he son of Metis or Discretion, was one of the guests. Whei. the 
 east was over, Penia or Poverty, as the 'manner was, came about 
 he doors to -beg. Now Plenty, who was the worse for nectar 
 there was-Tio wine in those days), came into ,the garden of Zeus 
 ,nd fell into a heavy sleep; and Poverty considering her own 
 traitened circumstances, plotted to have him for a husband, and 
 .ccordingly she lay down at his side and conceived Love, who 
 lartly because he is naturally a lover of the beautiful, and because 
 aphrodite is herself beautiful, and also bec^se he was born on 
 Aphrodite's birthday is her follower and attendant. ' And as his 
 larentage is, so also are his fortunes. In the first place he is 
 Jways poor, and anything but tender and fair, as the many 
 magine him; and he is hard-featured and squalid, and has no 
 hoes, nor a house to dwell in ; on the bare earth exposed he lies | 
 nder the open heaven, in the streets, or at the doors of houses, 
 iking his rest ; and like his mother he is always in distress. Like 
 is father too, whom he also partly resembles, he is always \ 
 lotting against the fair and good; he is bold, enterprising, 
 trong, a hunter of meii, always at some intrigue or other, keen 
 
520 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 '■J 
 
 in the pursuit of wisdom, and never wanting resources ^ a philo; 
 sopher at all times, terrible as an enchanter, sorcerer, sophist 
 for as 'he is neither mortal nor immortal, he is alive and 
 flourishing at one moment when he is in plenty, and dead at 
 another moment, and again alive by reason of his father's nature. 
 But that which is always flowing in is always flowing out, and so 
 he is never in want and never in Wealth, and he is also in a mean 
 between ignorance and knowledge. The truth of the 'matter is 20^ 
 just this : No god is a philosopher or seeker after wisdom, for he 
 is wise already j nor does any one else who is wise seek, after . 
 wisdom. Neither do the ignorant seek after wisdom. For herein 
 is the evil of ignorance, that he who is nefther good nor wise is 
 nevertheless satisfied: he feels no want, and has therefore no 
 desire.' 'But who then, Diotima,' I said, 'are the lovers of 
 wisdom, if they are neither the wise nor the foolish?' 'A child 
 may answer that question,' she replied j ' they are those who, like 
 love, are in a mean between the two. For wisdom is a most 
 \ beautiful thing, and love is of the beautiful ; and therefore love 
 ds also a philosopher or lover of wisdom, and being a lover of 
 wisdom is in a mean between the wise and the ignorant. ' And 
 this again is a quality which Love inherits from his parents-; for 
 his father is wealthy and wise, and his mother poor and foolish. 
 Such, my dear Socrates, is the nature of the spirit Love. The 
 error in your conception of him was very natural, and as I 
 imagine from what you say, has arisen out of a confusion of love 
 and the beloved — this made you think that love was all beautiful.' 
 For the beloved is the truly beautiftil, delicate, and perfect and 
 blessed; but the principle of love is of another nature, and is 
 such as I have described.' 
 
 I said: 'O thou stranger woman, thou sayest well, and now^ 
 assuming love to be such as you say, what is the u^e of him?' 
 ' That, Socrates,' she replied, ' I will proceed to unfold : of his 
 nature and birth I have already spoken ; and you acknowledge 
 that love is of the beautiful But some one will say: Of the 
 beautifiil in what, Socrates and Diotima? — or rather let me put 
 the question more clearly, and ask : When a man loves the beaU' 
 tiful, what does' he love ? ' I answered her ' That the beautiful 
 may be his.' 'Still,' she said, 'the answer suggests a further 
 question, which is this: What is given by the possession of 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 521 
 
 beauty?' 'That/ I replied, 'is a questi^ to which I have no 
 answer ready.' 'Then,' she said, 'let me put the word "good" 
 in the place of the beautiful, and repeat the question: What 
 does he who loves the good desire?' 'The possession of the 
 gpod,' I said. ' And what does he gain who possesses the good ? ' 
 
 6 'Happiness/ I replied j S there is no diflSculty in answering that.' 
 'Yes/ she said, 'the happy are made happy by the acquisition 
 
 \ of good things. Nor is there any need to ask why a man desires 
 happiness j the answer is already final.' 'That is true/ I said. 'And 
 is this wish and this desire common to all? and do all men 
 always desire their own good, or only some men? — what think 
 you?' 'AH men/ I replied; 'the desire is common to all.' 'But 
 
 \ all men, -Socrates/ she rejoined, 'are not said to love, but only 
 some of them; and you say that all men are always loving the 
 same things.' ' I myself wonder/ I said, ' why that is.' ' There is 
 nothing to wonder at/ she replied ; ' the reason is that one part 
 of love is separated off and receives the name of the whole, but 
 the other parts have' other names.' 'Give an example/ I said. She 
 answered me as follows : ' There is poetry, which, as you know, is ' 
 complex and manifold. And all creation or passage of non-being 
 into being is poetry or making, and the processes of all art are cre- 
 ative ; and the masters of arts are all poets.' ' Very true.' ' Still/ 1 
 she said, 'you know that they are not called poets, but have 
 other names ; the generic term "poetry" is confined to that specific 
 art which is separated off from the rest of poetry, and is concerned '^ 
 with music and metre j and this is what is called poetry, and 
 they who possess this kind of poetry are called poets.' ' Very true/ . 
 I saia. ' And the same holds of love. For you may say generally j 
 that all desire of good and happiness is due to the great and \ 
 subtle power of love ; but those who, having their affections set 
 upon him, are yet diverted into the paths of money-making or 
 gymnastic philosophy, are not called lovers — the name of the 
 genus is reserved for those whose devotion takes one form only— 
 they alone are said to love, or to be lovers.' 'In that/ I said, 
 'I am of opinion that you are right.' 'Yes/ she said, 'and you 
 
 } hear people say that lovers are seeking for the half of themselves ; 
 
 [ but I say that they are seeking neither for the half, nor for 
 
 6 the whole, unless the half or the whole be also a good. And 
 
 I they will cut off their own hands and feet and cast them away. 
 
522 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 (if they are evil; for they love them not because they are ths.it 
 own, but because they ^are good, and dislike them not because 
 I they are another's, but because they are evil. There is nbthing 
 which men love but the good. Do you think that there is?' 
 ' Indeed,' I answered, ' I should say not.' ' Then,' she said, ' the 
 conclusion of the whole matter is, that men love the good.' 'Yes,*' 
 I said. ' To which may be added that they love the possession ^ of 
 the good ? ' ' Yes, that may be added.' 'And not only the pos- 
 session, but the everlasting possession of the good ? ' ' That may 
 :■ be added too.' ' Then love,' she said, ' may be described generally 
 i as the love of the everlasting possession of the good?' ' That is 
 I most true,' I said. 
 
 « Then if this be the "nature of love, can you tell me further,' 
 she said, ' what is the manner of the, pursuit ? what are they 
 doing who show all this eagerness and heat which ig-~called love? 
 Answer me that.' ' Nay, Diotima,' I said, ' if I had known I should 
 not have wondered at your wisdom, or have come to you to 
 learn.' ' Well,' she said, ' I will teach you ;— love is only birth 
 in beauty, whether of body or soiil,' 'The oracle requires an 
 explanation,' I said ; ' I don't understand you.' ' I ivill make my 
 meaning clearer,' she replied. 'I mean to say, that alljnen are 
 bringing to the birth" in their bodies and in their souls. There 
 is a certain age at which human nature is desirous of procreation ; 
 and this procreation must be in be;^uty and hot in deformity K 
 and this is the mystery of man and wonian, vs^hich is a divine' 
 thing, for conception and generation- are a principle of immor- 
 tality, in the mortal creature. And' in the inharijionical they can 
 never be. But the deformed is always inharmonical with the 
 divine, and the beautiful harmonious. Beauty, then, is the destiny 
 or goddess of parturition who presides at birth, and therefore: 
 when approaching beauty the conceiving" power is propitious, and 
 diffuse, and benign, and begets and bears fruit : on the appearance ) 
 of foulness she frowns and contracts in pain, and is averted and 
 morose, and shrinks up, and not without a pang refrains. from' 
 conception. And this is the reason why, when the hour of con- 
 ^ ception arrives, and the teeming, nature is full, there is such 
 / a flutter and ecstacy about" beauty whose approach is the alle- 
 1 viation of pain. For love, Socrates, is not, as you imagine, the 
 love of the beautiful only.' < WJiat then ?' « The love of generatifi • 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 523 
 
 land birth in beauty.' -' Yes,' I said. ' Yea, indeed,' she replied. 
 I ' But why of birth ? ' I said. ' Because to the mortal, birth is a 
 i sort of eternity and immortality,' she replied ; ' and as has been 
 talready admitted, all men will necessarily desire immortality 
 P together with good, if love is of the everlasting possession of 
 L the good.' 
 
 fi All this she taught me at various times when she spoke of 
 love. And on another occasion she said to me, 'What is the 
 reason, Socrates, of this love, and the attendant desire ? See yoi^ 
 [not how all animals, birds as well as beasts, in their desire of 
 I procreation, are in agony when they take the infection of love ; — 
 [this begins with the desire of union, to which is added the care 
 t of offspring, on behalf of whom the weakest are ready to battle 
 \ against the strongest even to the uttermost, and to die for them, 
 and will let themselves be tormented with hunger or suiFer any- 
 thing in order to maintain their offspring. Man may be supposed 
 to do this from reason j but why should animals have these pas- 
 'sionate feelings? Can you tell me why?' Again I replied, that 
 I did not know. She said to me : 'And do you expect ever to 
 become a master in the art. of love, if you do not know this?' 
 ^'But that,' I said, 'Diotima, is the reason why I come to you, 
 because, as I have told you already, I am aware that I want a 
 teacher j and I wish that you would explain to me this and the 
 
 t* other mysteries of love.' 'Marvel not at this,' she said, 'if you 
 believe that love is of the immortal, as we have a,lready admitted; 
 for here ^ain, and on the same principle too, the mortal nature 
 is seeking as far as is possible to be everlasting and immortal ; 
 and this is only to be attained by generatiori, because the new 
 is always left in the place of the old. For even in the same 
 individual there is succession and not absolute unity: a man is 
 called the same j but yet in the short interval which elapses between 
 youth and age, and in which every animal is said to have life 
 and identity, he is undergoing a perpetual process of loss and 
 reparation — hair, flesh, bones, blood, and the whole body are 
 always changing. And this is true not only of the body, but also 
 of the soul, whose habits, tempers, opinions, desires, pleasures, 
 pains, fears, never remain the same in any one of us, but are 
 always coming and going. And what is yet more surprising is, 
 3 that this is' also true of knowledge; and not oniy does knowledge 
 
524 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 in general come and go, so that in this respect we are never th^ ;i 
 same J but particular knowledge also experiences a like change. 
 For what is implied in the word " recollection," but the departure \ 
 of knowledge, which is ever being forgotten and is renewed and ; 
 preserved by recollection, appearing to be the same although in 
 reality new, according to that law of succession by which all : 
 mortal things are preserved, not by absolute sameness of existence, d 
 but by substitution, the old worn-out mortality leaving anotherd 
 new and similar one beh^d — unlike the immortal in thi^ which | 
 is always the same and not another? And in this way, Socrates, \ 
 the mortal body, or mortal anything, partakes of immortality- \ 
 but the immortal in another way. Marvel not then at the lovei^ 
 which all men have of their offspring ^ for that universal love and- j 
 interest is for the sake of immortality.' | 
 
 When I heard this, I was astonished, and- said : ' Is this really | 
 true, O thou wise Diotima ?' And ■ she answered with , all the- 
 authority of a sophist : ' Of that, Socrates, you may be assured ; — 
 think only of the ambition of men, and you will marvel at their; 
 senselessness, unless you consider how they are stirred by the 
 love of an immortality of fame. They are ready to run risks 
 greatej: far than they would have run for their children, and to 
 spend money and undergo any amount of toil, and even to die 
 for the sake of leaving behind them a name which shall be 
 eternal. Do you imagine that Alcestis would have died on 
 behalf of Admetus, or Achilles after Patroclus, or your own 
 Codrus in order to preserve the kingdom for his sons, if they 
 had not imagined that the memory of their virtues, which is still 
 retained among us, would be immortal? Nay,' she said, 'for I 
 am persuaded that all men do all things for the sake of the 
 glorious fame of immortal virtue^ and the better they are the 
 more they desire this ; for they are ravished with , the desire of 
 the immortal. 
 
 *Men whose bodies only are creative, betake themselves to 
 women and beget children — this is the character of their love; 
 their offspring, as they hope, will preserve their memory and 
 give them the blessedness and immortality which they desire in the 
 future. But creative souls— for there are. men who are more creativejl 
 in their souls than in their bodies — conceive that which is proper 
 for the soul to conceive or retain. And what are these con- 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. , 525 
 
 ^r ■ , 
 
 iceptions?— wisdom and virtue in general, ^nd such creators are 
 Uu poets and other artists who may be said to have invention. 
 ■ But the greatest and fairest sort of wisdom by far is that which 
 fis concerned with the ordering of states and families, and which' 
 is called temperance and justice. And he who in youth has 
 the seed of these implanted in him and is himself inspired, 
 wheh he comes to maturity desires to beget and generate. And 
 he wanders about seeking beauty that he may beget offspring — 
 for in deformity he will beget nothing — and embraces the beau- 
 tiful rather than the deformed; and when he finds a fair and 
 neble and well-nurtured soul, and there is union of the two in 
 one person, he gladly embraces him, and to ^uch an one he is 
 ! full of fair speech about virtue and the nature and pursuits of 
 a good man; and he tries to educate him; and at the^-touch and 
 [presence of the beautiful he brings forth the beautiful which 
 I he conceived long before, and the beautiful is ever present with 
 him and in his memory even when absent, and in company they 
 tend that which he brings forth, and they are bound together 
 by a far nearer tie and have a closer friendship than those who 
 beget mortal children, for the children who are their common 
 oflFspring are fairer and more immortaL Who, when he thinks 
 of Homer and Hesiod and other great poets, would not rather 
 have their children than ordinary human ones ? Who would not 
 emulate them in the creation of children such as theirs, which 
 have preserved their memory and given them everlasting glory ? 
 Or who would not have such children as Lycurgus left behind 
 to be the saviours, not only of Lacedaemon, but of Hellas, as 
 ,one may say? There is Solon, too, who is the revered father of 
 I Athenian laws ; and many others there are in many other places, 
 both among Hellenes and barbarians. All of them have done 
 many noble works, and have been the parents of virtue of every 
 kind, and many temples have been raised in honour of their 
 children, which were never raised in honour of the mortal children 
 of any one. 
 
 'These are the lesser mysteries of love, into which even you, 
 Socrates, may enter ; to the greater and more hidden ones which 
 are the crown of these, and to which, if you pursue them in a 
 right spirit, they will lead, I know not whether you will be 
 i able to attain. But I will do mv utmost to inform you, and do 
 
526 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 you follow if you • cai\ For he who would proceed rightly in 
 this matter should begjk in youth to turn to beautiful forms; 
 and first, if his instructor guide him rightly, he should learn to 
 love one such form only — out of that he should create fair 
 thoughts; and soon he will himself perceive that the beauty of 
 one form is truly related tA the beauty of another; and then 
 if beauty in general is his pursuit, how foolish would he be 
 not to recognize that the beauty in every form is one andthe 
 same! And when he perceives this he will abate his violent 
 love of the one, which he will despise and deem a small thing, 
 and will become a lover of all beautiful forms; this will lead 
 him on to consider that the beauty of the mind is more honour- 
 able than the beauty of the outw^d form. So that if a virtuous 
 soul have but a little comeliness, he will be content to love and 
 tend him, and will search out and bring to the birth thoughts 
 I which may improve the young, until his beloved is compelled 
 1 to contemplate and see the beauty of institutions and laws, and 
 ' understand- that all is of one kindred, and that personal beauty, 
 is only a trifle ; and after laws and institutions he will lead him 
 on to the sciences, that he may see their beauty, being not Uke 
 a servant in love with the beauty of one youth or man or in- 
 stitution, himself a slave mean and calculating, but looking at 
 T the abundance of Beauty and drawing towards the sea of beauty, 
 and creating and beholding many fair and noble thoughts and 
 notions in boundless love of wisdom; until at length he grows 
 and waxes strong, and at last the vision is- revealed to him of 
 a single science, which is the 6cience of beauty everywhere. 
 To this I will proceed ; please to give me your very best 
 attention. 
 
 ' For he who has been instructed thus far in the things of love, 
 and who has learned to see the beautiful in due order and suc- 
 cession, when he comes toward the end will suddenly perceive 
 a nature of wondrous beauty— and this, Socrates, is that final 
 cause of aU oip. former toils, which i^ the first place is ever- 
 lasting-i^nor growing. and decaying, or waxing and waning; in the 
 next tpfibe not f^ir in one point of view and foul in another, 
 or<at{one time or in oi^ relation or at one place rfir, at 
 anothfex time ^ in anotheFrelat^on '^ at another place fouli'as 
 if fjir to some and foul to others, or in the likeness of a face 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 527 
 
 or hands or an^mher part of the bodily; frame, or in any 
 form of speech or loljawledge, nor existing in any other being; 
 as for example, an animalj whether in earth or heaven, but 
 beauty only, absolute, separate,^ simple, and everlasting, which 
 without diminution and without increase, or any change, is im- 
 parted to the ever-gsowing and perishing beauties of all other 
 things. He who und« the influence of true love rising upward 
 from these begins to ^e that beauty, is not far from the end. 
 And the true order of going or being led by another to the things 
 of; love, is to use the beauties of earth- as steps along, which he 
 mounts upwards for the skke of that other beauty, going from 
 one to two, and from two id all fair forms, anH~from fairKrins 
 to fair actions, and from fa|r actions to fair notions, until from 
 fair notions he arrives at the notion" of absolute beauty, and at 
 last knows what the essence ~of beauty is. This, my dear 
 Socrates,' said the stranger of Mantineia, 'is that life above alii 
 others which man should live, in the contemplation of beauty ab- 
 solute; a beauty which if you once beheld, you would see not 
 to be after the measure of gold, and garments, antmfair boys 
 and youths, which when you now behold you are in fopd amaze- 
 ment, and you and many a one are content to live seeing only 
 and conversing with them^ithout meat- or drink, if that were 
 possible — you only want to be lyith them and to look at them. 
 But what if man had eyes to see the true -beauty — the divine 
 beauty, I mean, pure and clear and unalloyed, not clogged with 
 the. pollutions of moilality, and all the colours and vanities of 
 human 'life — thither looking, and holding converse with the true 
 beauty divine and simple, and bringing into being and educating 
 true creations of virtue and not idols only? Do you not see 
 that in that communion only, beholding beauty with the eye 
 of the mind, he will be enabled to bring forth, not images of 
 beauty, but realities ; for he has hold not of an image but of a 
 reality, and bringing forth and educating true virtue to become 
 the friend of God and be immortal, if n|prtal man may. Would 
 that be an ignoble life ?' | 
 
 Such, Phaedrus — and I speak not only to you, but to all men — 
 were the words of Diotima ; and I am persuaded of their truth. 
 And being persuaded of them, I try to persuade others, that in the 
 attainment of this end human nature will not easily find a better 
 
528 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 helper than love. And therefore, also, I say that every man ought f 
 
 to honour him as I myself honour him, and walk in his ways, t 
 
 and exhort others to do the same, even as I praise the power and f 
 
 spirit of love according to the measure of my ability now and ;ii 
 
 ever. ^ 
 
 The words which I have spoken, you, Phaedrus, may call an I 
 
 encomium of love, or anything else which you please. :.! 
 
 When Socrates had done speaking, the company applauded, a 
 
 and Aristophanes was beginning to say something in answer n 
 
 to the allusion which Socrates had made i to his own speech, in 
 
 when suddenly there was a great knocking at the door of the ::- 
 
 house, as of revellers, and the sound of a flute-girl was heard, a 
 
 Agathon told the attendants to go and see who were the intruders. It 
 
 ' If they are friends of ours,' he said, ' invite them in, but if not ::; 
 
 say that the drinking is over.' A little while afterwards they heard xr 
 
 the voice of Alcibiades resounding in the court; he was in %\ 
 
 a great state of intoxication, and kept roaring and shouting si 
 
 ' Where is Agathon ? Lead me to Agathon,' and at length, sup- ia 
 
 ported by the flute-girl and some of his companions, he found sis 
 
 his way to them. ' Hail friends,' he said, appearing at the door ^| 
 crowned with a massive garlarid of ivy and wall-flowers, and 
 having his head flowing with ribands. 'Will you have a very 
 drunken man as a companion of your revels ? Or shall I crown 
 
 Agathon, as was my intention in coining, and go my way? \-^ 
 
 For I was unable to come yesterday, and therefore I come to ;|j 
 
 day, carrying on my head these ribands, that taking them from ji( 
 
 my own head, I may crown the head of this fairest and wisest of „ | 
 
 men, as I may be allowed to call him. Will you laugh at me L 
 because I am drunk? Yet I know very well that I am speaking 2|;,. 
 
 the truth, although you may laugh. But first tell me whether I \ 
 
 shall come in on the understanding that I am drunk. Will i^ 
 
 you drink with me or not ?' s. 
 
 The company were vociferous in begging that he would take .^ 
 
 his place among them, and Agathon specially invited him. There- , 
 
 upon he was led in by the people who were with him; and ^^ 
 
 as he was being led he took the crown and ribands from hiS: ^ 
 
 head, intending to crown Agathon, and had them before hiS' !^ 
 
 eyes ; this prevented him from seeing Socrates, who made way for *^^ 
 
 •p. 205, 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 529 
 
 "^ him, and Alcibiades took the vacant pJ^ce between Agathon 
 *1 and Socrates, and in taking the place he embraced Agathon and 
 "*■ crowned him. Take off his sandals, said Agathon, and let him 
 "I make a third on the same couch. 
 
 By all means j but who makes the third partner in our revels ? 
 \^ said Alcibiades, turning round and starting up as he caught 
 
 sight of Socrates. By Heracles, he said, what is this ? here is 
 11^: Socrates always lying in wait for me, and always, as his way 
 •2 is, coming out at all sorts of unsuspected places : and now, what 
 '? have you to say for yourself, and why are you lying here, where 
 »i I perceive that you have contrived to find a place, not by a 
 isk professor or lover of jokes, like Aristophanes, but by the fairest 
 i* of the company ? 
 
 W Socrates turned to Agathon and said: I must ask you to 
 ^ protect me, Agathon ; for this passion of his has grown quite a 
 n serious matter. Since I became his admirer I have never been 
 lii allowed to speak to any other fair one, or so much as to look 
 ti|l,i at them. If I do he goes wild with envy and jealousy, and not 
 ilii only abuses me but can hardly keep his hands ofF me, and at this 
 ilk; moment he may do m6 somie harm. Please to see to this, and 
 issi either reconcile me to him, or, if he attempts violence, protect 
 mil me, as I am in bodily fear of his mad and passionate attempts. 
 Jli There can never be reconciliation between you and me, said 
 iji Alcibiades; but for the present. I will defer your chastisement. 
 In And I must beg you, Agathon, to give me back some of the 
 Jul ribands that I may crown the marvellous head of this universal 
 J(iS despot — I would not have him complain of me for crowning 
 |i|l:you, and neglecting him, who in conversation is the conquerer 
 |i|S of all mankind; and- this not once only, as you were the day 
 ,ilri before yesterday, but always. Then taking some of the ribands, 
 lii he crowned Socrates, and again reclined. When he bad lain 
 
 down again, he said : You seem, my friends, to be sober, which 
 jji is a thing not to be endured; you must drink — ^for that was 
 11 1 the agreement which I made with you— and I elect myself master 
 lii, of the feast until you Are well drunk. Let us have a large goblet, 
 |j|(^ Agathon, or rather, he said, addressing the attendant, bring me 
 lijlr that wine-cooler. The wine-cooler was a vessel holding more 
 jj,rf than two quarts which caught his eye — this he filled and emptied, 
 
 and bid the attendant fill it again for Socrates. Observe, my 
 
530 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 friends, said Alcibiades, that my ingenious device will ha^fis no ^ 
 
 effect on Socrates, for he can drink any quantity of wine and ^ 
 
 not be at all nearer being drunk. Socrates drank the cup which I 
 
 the attendant filled for him. ^ 
 
 Eryximachus said : What is this, Alcibiades ? Are we to have '' 
 
 neither conversation nor singing over our cupsj but simply to '" 
 
 drink as if we were thirsty? ' i' 
 
 Alcibiades replied: Hail, worthy son of a most wise andsfi" 
 
 worthy sire. i' 
 
 The same to you, said Eryximachus j but what shall we do ? JS 
 
 That I leave to you, said Alcibiades. it 
 
 i\ 
 ' The wise physician sliilled our wounds to heal' 
 
 -i) 
 
 shall prescribe and we will obey. What do you want ? 3 
 
 Well, Eryximachus said : Before you appeared a resolution was jt 
 
 agreed to by us that each one in turn should speak a discourse .,2i 
 
 in praise of love, and as good a one as he could: this was passed ip 
 
 round from left to right; and as all of us have spoken, and i^ 
 
 you have not spoken but have well drunken, you ought to speak, \^.^ 
 
 and then impose upon Socrates any task which you please, and jjj 
 
 he on his right hand neighbour, and so on. ^1 
 
 That is good, Eryximachus, said Alcibiades; and yet the com. 
 
 parison of a drunken man's speech with those of sober men., 
 
 is hardly fair ; and I should like to know, sweet friend, whether \ 
 
 you really believe what Socrates was just now saying; for I Jk 
 
 can assure you that the very reverse is the fact, and that if I \-^. 
 
 praise any one but himself in his presence, whether God or man, ,v^ 
 
 he will hardly keep his hands off^ me. ji 
 
 For shame, said Socrates. I,,, 
 
 ' fill 
 
 By Poseidon, said Alcibiades, there is no use in your denying L, 
 
 this, for no creature will I praise in your presence. L 
 
 Well then take your own course, said Eryximachus, and if you ^ 
 like praise Socrates. . 
 
 What do you think, Eryximachus? said Alcibiades; shall ^li^T' 
 attack him and inflict the punishment in your presence ? *" 
 
 What are you about ? said Socrates ; are you going to raise ^^ 
 a laugh at me? Is that the meaning of your praise? 2 
 
 I am going to speak the truth, if you will permit me. ... 
 
 I not only permit you but exhort you to speak the truth. "" ,? 
 
 51 
 lit 
 
I THE SYMPOSIUM. 531 
 
 1 Then I will begin at once, said Algibiades, and if I say 
 anything that is not true, you may interrupt me if you will, 
 and say that I speak falsely, though my intention is to speak 
 the truth. But you must nqt wonder if I speak any how as things 
 come into my mind j for the fluent and orderly enumeration of all 
 your wonderfiil qualities is not a task the accomplishment ■ of 
 which is easy to a man in my condition. 
 
 I shall praise Socrates in a figure which will appear to him 
 to be a caricature, and yet I do not mean to laugh at him, but 
 only to speak the truth. I say then, that he is exactly like the 
 masks of Silenus, which may be seen sitting in the statuaries' 
 shops, having pipes and flutes in their mouths; and they are 
 made to open in the middle, and there are images of gods in- 
 side them. I say also that he is like Marsyas the satyr. You 
 will not deny, Socrates, that your face is like that of a satyr. 
 Aye, and there is a resemblance in other points too. For ex- 
 ample, you are a bully, — that I am in a position to prove by 
 the evidence of witnesses, if you will not confess. And are 
 you not a flute-player ? That you are, and a far more wonder- 
 ful performer than Marsyas. For he indeed with instruments 
 charmed the souls of men by the power of his breath, as the 
 performers of his music do still : for the melodies of Olympus 
 are derived from the teaching of Marsyas, and these, whether 
 they are played by a great master or by a miserable flute- 
 girl, have a power which no others have; they alone possess 
 the soul and reveal the wants of those who have need of gods 
 J and mysteries, because they are inspired. But you produce the 
 same effect with the voice only, and do not require the flute: 
 that is the difference between you and him. When we hear any 
 other speaker, even a very good one, his words produce absolutely 
 no effect upon us in comparison, whereas the very fragments of 
 ' you and your words, even at second-hand, and however imper- 
 fectly repeated, amaze and possess the souls of every man, woman, 
 ; and child who comes within hearing of them. And if I were 
 [ not afraid Ihat you would think me drunk, I would have sworn 
 \ as well as spoken to the influence which they have always had 
 and still have over me. For my heart leaps within me more 
 than that of any Corybantian reveller, and my eyes rain tears 
 when I hear them. And I observe that many others are affected 
 
 » t t^-i 
 
532 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 in the same way. I have heard Pericles and other great orators, 
 but though I thought that they spoke well, I never had any similar 
 feeling J my soul was not stirred by them, nor was I angry at 
 the thought of my own slavish state. But this Marsyas has 
 often brought me to such a pass, that I have felt as if I could 
 hardly endure the life which I am leading (this, Socrates, you 
 admit) j and I am conscious that if I did not shut my ears against 
 him, and fly from the voice of the siren, he would detain me 
 until I grew old sitting at his feet. For he makes me confess 
 that I ought not to live as I do, neglecting the wants of my 
 own soul, and busying myself with the concerns of the Athenians, 
 therefore I hold my ears and tear myself away from him. And 
 he is the only person who ever made me ashamed, which you 
 might think not to be in my nature, and there is no one else 
 who does the same. For I know that I 'cannot answer him or 
 say that I ought not to do as he bids, but when I leave his 
 presence the love of popularity gets the better of me. And there- 
 fore I run away and fly from him, and when I see him I am 
 ashamed of what I have confessed to him. And many a time I 
 wish that he were dead, and yet 1 know that I should be much 
 more sorry than glad, if he were to die : so that I am at my 
 wit's end. 
 
 And this is what I and many others have suffered from the 
 flute-playing of this satyr. Yet hear me once more while I show 
 you how exact the image is, and how marvellous his power. For 
 I am sure that none of you know him; but I know him and 
 will describe him, as I have begun. See you how fond he is of 
 the fair ? He is always with them and is always being smitten 
 by them, and then again he knows nothing and is ignorant of all 
 things — that is the appearance which he puts on. Is he not like a 
 Silenus in this ? Yes, surely : that is, his outer mask, which is the 
 carved head of the Silenus ; but when he is opened, what temper- 
 ance there is, as I may say to you, O my companions in dris^ 
 residing within. Know you that beauty and wealth and honour, at 
 which the many wonder, are of no account with him, and are utterift 
 despised by him : he regards not at all the persons who are gifted 
 with them ; mankind are nothing to him ; all his life is spe4 
 in mocking and flouting at them. But when I opened him,(sani| 
 looked within at his serious purpose, I saw in him divine an4 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 533 
 
 golden images of such fascinating beaujy that I was ready to 
 do in a moment whatever Socrates commanded : (they may have 
 escaped the observation of others, but I saw them). Now I 
 thought that he was seriously enamoured of my beauty, and 
 this appeared to be a grand opportunity of hearing him tell 
 what he knew, for I had a wonderfial opinion of the attractions 
 of my youth. In the prosecution of this design, when I next went 
 to him, I sent away the attendant who usually accompanied me (I 
 will confess the whole truth, and beg you to listen j and if I speak 
 falsely, do you, Socrates, expose the falsehood). Well, he and I 
 were alone together, and I thought that when there was nobody 
 with us, I should hear him speak the language of love as lovers 
 do, and I was delighted. Not a wordj he conversed as usual, 
 and spent the day with me and then went away. Afterwards 
 I challenged him to the palaestra ; and he wrestled and closed 
 with me several times alone; I fancied that I might succeed 
 in this way. Not a bit j there was no use in that. Lastly, as 
 I had failed hitherto, I thought that I must«use stronger measures 
 and attack him boldly, as I had begun, and not give him up until 
 I saw how the matter stood. So I invited him to supper, just 
 as if he were a fair youth, and I a designing lover. He was 
 not easily persuaded to come; he did, however, after a while 
 accept the invitation, and when he came the first time, he 
 Wanted to go away at once as soon as supper was over, and 
 I had not the face to detain him. The second time, still in 
 pursuance of my design, after we had supped, I went on conversing 
 far into the night, and when he wanted to go away, I pretended 
 that the hour was late and that he had better remain. So he 
 lay down on the next couch to me, the same on which he had 
 supped, and there was no one else in the apartment. All this 
 may be told without shame to any one. But what follows I 
 could hardly tell you if I were sober. Yet as the proverb says, 
 'In vino Veritas,' whether there is in boys or not ; and therefore 
 I must speak. Nor, again, should I be justified in concealing the 
 lofty actions of Socrates as I come to praise him. Moreover I 
 We felt the pang; and ht who has suffered, as they say, is 
 [willing to tell his fellow-sufferers only, as they alone "will be 
 likely to understand- him, and will not be extreme in judging 
 U the sayings or doings which have been wrung from his 
 
534 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 agony. For I have been Ipitten by the viper too; I have known 
 in my soul, or in my heart, or in some other part, that worst of 
 pangs, more violent in ingenuous youth than any serpent's tooth, 
 the pang of philosophy, which will . make a man say or do any- 
 thing. And you whom I see ar9und me, your Phaedrus, your 
 Agathon, your Eryximachus, your Pausanias, your Aristodemus-, 
 V your Aristophanes, all of you, and I need not say Socrates himseif| 
 j have all had experience of the same . madness and passion of 
 philosophy. Therefore listen and excuse my doings then and 
 1 my sayings now. But let the attendants and other profane and 
 unmannered persons close the doors of their ears. 
 
 When the lamp was put out and the servants had gone away, 
 I thought that I must be plain with him and have no more 
 ambiguity. So I gave him a shake, and I said : * Socrates, are you 
 asleep?' 'No,' he said. 'Do you know what I am meditating?' 
 'What is that?' he said. 'I think,' I replied, 'that of all the lovers 
 whom I have ever had you are the only one who is worthy of me, 
 and you appear to be too modest to speak. Now I feel that 
 I should be a fool to reflise you this or any other favour, and 
 therefore I come to lay at your feet all that I have and all that 
 my friends have, in the hope that you will assist me in the way of 
 virtue, which I desire above all things;, and in which I believe that 
 you can help me better than any one else. And I am certainly of 
 opinion that I should have more reason to be ashamed of what 
 - wise men would say if I were to refuse a favour to such as you, 
 than of what fools would say if I granted it.' When he heard this, 
 he said in his ironical manner: 'Friend Alcibiades, you have 
 indeed an elevated aim if what you say is true, and if there really 
 is in me any power by which you may become better; truly you 
 must see in me' some rare beauty of a kind infinitely higher than 
 that which I see in you. And if, seeing this, you mean to share 
 with me and to exchange beauty for beauty, you will have greatly 
 the advantage of me; you will gain real beauty in return for 
 appearance — gold in exchange for brass. But look again, sweet 
 friend, and see whether yoif are not deceived in me. The mind 
 begins to grow critical when the bodily eye fails, and you have 
 not com:e to that yet.' Hearing this, I said : ' I have told you my 
 purpose, which is quite serious, and do you consider what you 
 think best for you and me.' 'That is good/ he said; 'at some 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 535 
 
 :her time then we will consider and act ^ seems best about this 
 id about other matters.' When I heard this answer, I fancied 
 lat he was smitten, and that my arrows had wounded him, and 
 ) without waiting to hear more I got up, and throwing my coat 
 30Ut him crept under his threadbare cloak, as the time of year 
 as winter, and there I lay during the whole night having this 
 onderful monster in my arms. You won't deny this, Socrates, 
 jid yet, notwithstanding all this, he was so superior to my 
 )licitations, so contemptuous and derisive and disdainful of my 
 eauty — which really, as I believe, had some attractions — hear, 
 > judges J for judges you shall be of the haughty virtue of Socrates 
 -that in the morning when I awoke (let all the gods and goddesses 
 z my witnesses) I arose as from the couch of a father or an 
 ider brother. 
 
 What do you suppose must have been my feelings after this 
 yection at the thought of my own dishonour ? And yet I could 
 ot help wondering at his natural temperance and self-restraint 
 nd courage. I never could have thought that I should have met 
 dth a man like him in wisdom and endurance. Neither could 
 
 be angry with him or renounce his company, any more than 
 could hope to win him. For I well knew that if Ajax could not 
 e wounded by steel, much less he by money j and I had failed in 
 ly only chance of captivating him. So I wandered about and was 
 t my wit's end j no one was ever more hopelessly enslaved by 
 tiother. All this, as I should explain, happened before he and 
 went on the expedition to Potidaea ; there we messed together, 
 nd I had the opportunity of observing his extraordinary power 
 f sustaining fatigue and going without food when our supplies 
 'ere intercepted at any place, as will happen with an army. 
 a the faculty of endurance he was superior not only to me but 
 ) everybody j there was no one to be compared to him. Yet at 
 
 festival he was the only person who had any real powers of 
 njoyment, and though not willing to drink, he could if compelled 
 eat us all at that, and the most wonderful thing of all was that 
 human being had ever seen Socrates drunk ; and that, if I am 
 ot mistaken, will soon be tested. His endurance of cold was 
 Iso surprising. There was a severe frost, for the winter in that 
 :gion is really tremendous, and everybody else either remained 
 idoors, or if they went ou^ijiad on no end of clothing, and were 
 
536 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 well shod, and had their feet swathed in felt and fleeces : in the 
 midst of this, Socrates, with his bare feet on the ice, and in his 
 ordinary dress, marched better than any of the other soldiers who 
 had their shoes on, and they looked daggers at him because he 
 seemed to despise them. 
 
 I have told you one tale, and now I must tell you another, which 
 is worth hearing, of the doings and sufferings of this enduring man 
 while he was on the expedition. One morning he was thinking : 
 > about something which he could not resolve ; and he would not 
 ! give up, but continued thinking from early dawn until noon — 
 there he stood fixed in thought ;- and at noon attention was drawn 
 to him, and the rumour ran ■through^ the wondering crowd that 
 Socrates had been standing and thinking about something: ever 
 since the break of day. At last, in the evening after supper, some 
 lonians out of curiosity (I should explain that this was not in 
 winter but in summer), brought out their mats and slept in the 
 open air that they might watch him and see whether he would 
 stand all night. There he stood all night as well as all day and 
 the following morning ; and with the return . of light he offered 
 up a prayer to the sun, and went his way. I will also tell, if you 
 please — and indeed I am bound to tell — of his courage in battle ; 
 for who but he saved my life? Now this was the engagement 
 in wWch I received the prize of valour : for I was wounded and 
 he would not leave me, but he rescued me and my arms ; and he 
 ought to have received the prize of valour which the generals, 
 wanted to confer on me partly on account of my rank, and I told 
 them so (this Socrates will not impeach or deny), but he was more 
 eager than the generals that I and not he should have the prize. .^ 
 There was another occasion on -which he was very noticeabl^f 
 this was in the flight of the army after the battle of Deliura, and? 
 I had a better opportunity of seeing him than at Potidaea as I was ^ 
 myself on horseback, and therefore comparatively out of danger.| 
 He and Laches were retreating as the troops were in flight, and I 
 met them and told them not to be discouraged, and promise(fc?to 
 remain with them ; and there you might see him, Aristophanes, j 
 as you describe, just as he is in the streets of Athens, stalking i 
 like a pelican, and rolling his eyes, calmly contemplating enemies , 
 as w?ll as friends, and making very intelligible to anybody, evefll 
 from a distance, that whoever attacks him will be likely to meet , 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 537 
 
 with a stout resistance j and in this wav he and his companion 
 escaped — for these are the sort of persons who are never touched 
 in war j they only pursue those who are running away headlong. 
 I particularly observed how superior he was to Laches in presence 
 of mind. Many are the wonders of Socrates which I might 
 narrate in his praise j most of his ways might perhaps be paralleled 
 in others, but the most astonishing thing of all is his absolute 
 unlikeness to any human being that is or ever has been. You 
 may imagine Brasidas and others to . have been like Achilles ; or 
 you may imagine Nestor and Antenor to have been like Pericles j 
 and the same may be said of other famous men, but of this strange 
 being you will never be able to find any likeness however remote, 
 either among men who now are or who ever have been, except 
 that which I have already suggested of Silenus and the satyrs j 
 and this is an allegory not only of himself, but also of his words. 
 For, although I forgot to mention this before, his words are 
 ridiculous when you first hear them ; he clothes himself in language 
 that is as the skin of the wanto;^ satyr — for his talk is of pack-asses 
 and smiths and cobblers and curriers, and he is always repeating 
 the same things in the same words, so that an ignorant man 
 who did not know him might feel disposed to laugh at him; 
 but he who pierces the mask and sees what is within will find 
 that they are the only words which have a meaning in them, 
 and also the most divine, abounding in fair examples of virtue, 
 and of the largest discourse, or rather extending to the whole 
 duty of a good and honourable man. 
 
 This, friends, is my praise of Socrates. I have added my blame 
 of him • for his ill-treatment of me j and he has ill-treated not 
 only me, but Charmides the son of Glaucon, and Euthydemus 
 the son of Diodes, and many others in the same way — beginning 
 as their lover he has ended by making them pay their addresses 
 to him. Wherefore I say to you, Agathon, ' Be not deceived by 
 him; learn from me and take warning, and don't be a fool and 
 learn by experience,' as the proverb says. 
 
 When Alcibiades had done speaking, there was a laugh at his 
 plainness of speech, as he seemed to be still in love with Socrates. 
 You are sober, Alcibiades, said Socrates, or you would never have 
 gone about to hide the purpose of your satyr's praises, for all this 
 long story is only an ingenious circumlocution, the point of 
 
538 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 which comes in by the way at the end j you want to get up % 
 quarrel between me and Agathon, and your notion is that~ I 
 ought to love you and nobocjy else, and that you and you only 
 ought to love Agathon. But the plot of this Satyric or Sileaic 
 drama has been detected, and you must not allow him, Agathop, 
 to set us at variance. 
 
 I believe you are right, said Agathon, and I am disposed to 
 think that his intention in placing himself between you and me 
 was only to divide us j but he shall gain nothing by that move, 
 as I will go and lie in the couch next to you. 
 
 Yes, yes, replied Socrates, by all means come here and lie oa 
 the couch below me. 
 
 Alas, said Alcibiades, how am I fooled by this manj he is 
 determined to get the better of me at every turn. I do beseech 
 you, allow Agathon to lie between us. 
 
 Impossible, said Socrates, as you praised ,me, and I ought to 
 praise my neighbour on the right, he will be out of order in 
 praising me again when he ought rather to be praised by me, 
 and I must entreat you to consent tp this, and not be jealous, 
 for I have a great desire to praise the youth. 
 
 Ha! ha! cried Agathon, I will rise instantly, that I may be 
 praised by Socrates. 
 
 The usual way, said Alcibiades, where Socrates is, no one 
 else has any chance with the fair, and now how readily has he 
 invented a specious reason for attracting Agathon to himself. 
 
 Agathon arose in order that he might take his place on the 
 couch by Socrates, when suddenly a band of revellers entered, 
 and spoiled the order of the banquet. Some one who was going - 
 out having left the door open, they had found their way in, and 
 made themselves at home; great confusion ensued, and every 
 one was compelled to drink large quantities of wine. Aristodemus 
 said that Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and others went away — he 
 himself fell asleep, and as the nights were long took a good rest : 
 he was awakened towards daybreak by a crowing of cocks, and 
 when he awoke, the others were either asleep, or had gone away; 
 there remained awake only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon, 
 j who were drinking out of a large goblet which they passed round, 
 and Socrates was discoursing to them. Arjstodemus did not hear 
 1 the beginning of the discourse, and he was only half awake, 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM. 539 
 
 but the chief thing which he rememberecL was Socrates insisting 
 to the other two that the genius of comedy was the same as 
 that of tragedy, and that the writer of tragedy ought to be 
 a writer of comedy also. To this they were compelled to assent, 
 being sleepy, and not quite understanding his meaning. And 
 first of all Aristophanes dropped, and then, when the day was 
 already dawning, Agathon. Socrates, when he had put them to 
 sleep, rose to depart, Aristodemus, as his manner was, following 
 him. At the Lyceum he took a bath and passed the day as 
 usual; and when evening came he retired to rest at his own 
 home. 
 
PHAEDRUS. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Phaedrus is closely connected with the Symposium, and may be 
 regarded either as introducing or following it. The two Dialogues 
 together contain the whole philosophy of Plato on the nature of love, 
 which in the Republic and in the later Tvritings of Plato is only intro- 
 duced playfully or as a figure of speech. But in the Phaedrus and Sym- 
 jposiiun love' and philosophy join hands, and one is an aspect of the 
 other.' The spiritual and emotional part is elevated into the ideal, to 
 which in the Syrdposium mankind are described as looking forward, 
 and which in the Phaedrus, as well as in the Phaedo, they are seeking 
 to recover from a former state of existence. Whether the subject of the 
 Dialogue is love or rhetoric, or the union of the two, or the relation of 
 philosophy to love and to art in general, will be hereafter considered. 
 
 Phaedrus has been passing the day with Lysias, the celebrated 
 rhetorician, and is going to refresh himself by taking a walk outside the 
 wall, when he is met by Socrates, who professes that he will not leave 
 him until he has delivered up the speech with which Lysias has regaled 
 him, and which he is carrying about in his mind, or more probably in 
 a book hidden under his cloak, and is intending to study as he walks. 
 The imputation is not denied, and the two agree to direct their steps 
 out of the public way along the stream of the Ilissus towards a plane-tree 
 which is seen in the distance. There, lying down amidst pleasant 
 sounds and scents, they will read the speech of Lysias. The country 
 is a novelty to Socrates, who never goes out of the town; and hence 
 he is full of admiration for the beauties of nature, of which he seems 
 for the first time to be conscious. 
 
 In the course of their walk Phaedrus asks the opinion of Socrates 
 respecting the local tradition of Boreas and Oreithyia. Socrates, after 
 a satirical allusion to the ' rationalizers ' of his day, replies that he has 
 
544 ' PHAEDRUS. 
 
 no time for these 'nice' interpretations of mythology ; 'the proper study 
 of mankind is man,' who is a far more complex and wonderful being 
 than the serpent Typhon. When they have reached the plane-tree, 
 Phaedrus pulls out the speech and reads. 
 
 The speech consists of a foolish paradox which is to the effect that 
 the. non-lover ought to be accepted rather than the lover — because he 
 is more rational, more agreeable, more enduring, less suspicious, less 
 hurtful, less boastful, less engrossing, and because there are more of 
 them, and for a great many other reasons which are equally unmeaning. 
 Phaedrus is captivated with the beauty of the periods, and wants to 
 make Socrates say that nothing was or ever could be better written. 
 Socrates does not think much of the matter, but then he has only 
 attended to the form, and in the form he thinks that he has detected 
 repetitions and other marks of haste. He cannot agree with Phaedrus 
 in the extreme value which he sets upon this performance, because he 
 is afraid of doing injustice to Anacreon and Sappho and other great 
 writers, and is almost inclined to think that he himself, or rather some 
 power residing within him, could make a speech better than that of 
 Lysias on the same theme, and also different from his, if he may be 
 allowed to have a few commonplaces which all speakers must equally 
 employ. 
 
 Phaedrus is delighted at the prospect of having another speech, and 
 promises that he will set up a golden statue of Socrates at Delphi, if 
 he keeps his word. Some raillery ensues, and at length Socrates, 
 conquered, -by the threat that he shall never hear a speech of Lysias 
 again unless he fulfils his promise, veils his face and begins. 
 
 The first part of his speech is a somewhat prosaic discussion of the 
 opposition between desire and opinion guided by reason. But he has 
 not proceeded far when he fancies that he detects in himself an unusual 
 flow of eloquence — this he can only attribute to the inspiration of the - 
 place, which appears to be dedicated to the nymphs. Starting from the 
 philosophical basis which has been already laid down, he proceeds to 
 show how many advantages the non-lover has over the lover. The one 
 leads to softness and poverty and exclusiveness, and is full of all sorts 
 of unpleasantness ; ' crabbed age and youth' have to ' live together,' and 
 the sight and the ways of the old are mighty disagreeable to the young. 
 Or if they part company, then the spectacle may be seen of the lovet 
 running away from the beloved, who pursues him with vain reproaches; 
 
INTRODUCTION. s^s 
 
 and, demands his reward which the other refuses to pay. The lover 
 turns virtuous when the hour of payment arriA*s, and the beloved learns 
 too late, after all his pains and disagreeables, that as wolves love lambs 
 so lovers love their loves. (Cp. Char. 155 D.) Here is the end; the 
 'other' or 'non-lover' part of the speech had better be understood, for 
 if in the censure of the lover Socrates has broken out in verse, what 
 will he do in his praise of the non-lover ? He has said his say and 
 is preparing to go away. 
 
 Phaedrus begs him to remain, at any rate until the heat of noon has 
 passed; he thinks that they may as well have a little more conversation 
 before they go. Socrates, who has risen to go, recognizes the oractilar 
 sign which forbids him to depart until he has done penance. His 
 conscience has been awakened, and like Stesichorus over Helen he 
 will sing a palinode for having blasphemed the majesty of love. His 
 palinode takes the form of a myth. _ ^ 
 
 Socrates begitis his tale with a glorification of madness, which he 
 divides into four kinds : first, there is the art of divination or prophecy 
 — this, in a vein, similar to that of the Cratylus, he connects with madness ' 
 by an etymological explanation (y-anua], fiaviKfi — compare olovoiariKfi, 
 olmuTTiKii, ''tis all one reckoning, save the phrase is a little variations'); 
 secondly, there is the art of purification by mysteries; thirdly, poetry 
 or the inspiration of the Muses (cp. Ion, 533 foil.), without which no 
 man can enter their temple. All this shows that madness is one of 
 heaven's blessings, and may sometimes be a great deal better than sense. 
 There is also a fourth kind of madness which cannot be explained \ 
 without enquiring into the nature of the soul. 1 
 
 The soul is immortal, for she is the source of all motion both in I 
 herself and in others. Of her true and divine form it would be long I 
 to tell, but she may be described in a figure as a composite being made 
 up of a charioteer and a pair of winged steeds. The steeds of the gods 
 are immortal, but ours are one mortal and the other immortal. The 
 immortal soul soars upwards into the heavens, but the mortal droKjj^ 
 her plumes and is draggled upon the earth. t^ 
 
 Now the nature of the wings is to rise and carry the downward'^ 
 element into the upper world — there to behold beauty, wisdom, goodness, 
 and the other things of God by which the soul is nourished. On a 
 ipertain day Zeus the lord of heaven goes forth in a winged chariot; and 
 an array of gods and demi-gods and of humaa souls in their train, 
 i N n 
 
546 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 follows him. There are glorious and blessed sights in the interior of 
 heaven, and he who will may freely behold them. The great vision 
 of all is seen at the feast of the gods, when they ascend the heights of 
 heaven — all but Hestia, who is left at home to keep house. The 
 horses of the gods glide readily upwards and stand upon the outside, 
 and are carried round in the revolutions of the spheres, and gaze 
 upon the world beyond. But of this world beyond the heavens, who 
 can tell? There is an essence formless, coloiurless, intangible, per- 
 ceived by the mind only, circling above in the place of true know- 
 ledge. The divine mind in her revolution enjop this fair prospect, 
 and beholds justice, temperance, and knowledge in their everlasting 
 essence. When fulfilled with the sight of them she returns home, 
 and the charioteer puts up the horses in their stable, and gives them 
 ambrosia to eat and nectar to drink. This is the life ■ of the gods; 
 and the human soul tries to reach the same heights, but hardly succeeds;, 
 and sometimes the head of the charioteer rises above, and sometimes 
 sinks below the fair vision, and is at last obliged, after much contention, 
 to turn away and leave the plain of truth. Yet if she has followed in 
 the train of any god and once beheld truth she is preserved harmless, 
 and is carried round in the next revolution of the spheres ; and if always 
 following, and always seeing the truth, then for ever harmless. But if 
 she drops her wings and falls to the earth, then she takes the form of 
 man, and the soul Which has seen most of the truth passes into 
 a philosopher or lover ; that which has seen truth in the second degree, 
 into a king or warrior ; the third, into a householder or money-maker; 
 the fourth, into a gymnast; the fifth, into a prophet, or mystic; the 
 sixth, into a poet, or imitator; the seventh, into a husbandman or 
 craftsman; the eighth, into a sophist, or demagogue; the ninth, into 
 a tyrant. In all these conditions he who lives righteously improves, 
 and he who lives unrighteously deteriorates his lot. Ten thousand^ 
 years elapse before the souls of men in general can regain their first| 
 estate, and have their wings restored to them. And the soul of a man 
 may descend into a beast, and return again into the/ form of man. But 
 the form of man can only be acquired at all by those who have once 
 beheld truth, for the soul of man alone apprehends the universal; and • 
 this is the recollection of that knowledge which ^e attained when in 
 the company of the gods. At the end of every thousand years the soul 
 has another choice, and may go upwards or downwards. Only the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 547 
 
 ioul of a philosopher or lover who has three times in succession chosen 
 the better life, may receive wings and go Irer way in three thousand 
 
 For the soul in her own nature having the vision of true being 
 remembers in her condition here those glorious sights of justice 
 md temperance and wisdom and truth which she once gazed upon 
 when in coinpany with the heavenly choir. Then she celebrated holy 
 mysteries and beheld blessed apparitions shining in pure light, herself 
 pure and not as yet entombed in the oyster-shell of the body. And 
 still she is eager to depart, and like a bird is fluttering and looking 
 apwards, and is therefore esteemed mad. Such a light of other days 
 is spread over her when she remembers that beauty which alone of 
 the ideas has any visible representation oh earth. For wisdom has 
 no outward form, and is 'too dazzling bright for mortal eye.' Now 
 the corrupted nature, when blindly excited by the vision of beauty, 
 only rushes on to enjoy, and wallows like a quadruped in sensual 
 pleasures. -But the true mystic, who has seen the many sights of 
 bliss, when he beholds a godlike form or face is ravished with de- 
 light, and if he were not afraid of being thought mad he would fall 
 down and worship. Then the stiffened wing begins to relax and 
 grow again. At the sight of earthly beauty the memory of the 
 heavenly is recalled; desire which has been imprisoned, pours over 
 the soul of the lover ; the germ of the wing unfolds, and stings 
 and pangs at birth, like the cutting of teeth, are everywhere felt. (Cp. 
 Symp. 206 foil.). Father and mother, and , goods and laws, and 
 proprieties are nothing to him ; his beloved is his physician, who can 
 alone cure his pain. An apocryphal sacred writer says that mortals 
 call hun love, but the immortals call him dove, or the winged one,\ 
 in order to represent the force of his wings — at any rate this is his 
 nature. Now the characters of lovers depend upon the god whom 
 they followed in the other world, and they choose their loves in this 
 world accordingly. The followers of Ares are fierce and violent ; those_ 
 of Zeus seek out some philosophical and imperial nature; the at- 
 tendants of Here find a royal love ; and in like manner the followers 
 of every god seek a love who is in his likeness, and they communicate 
 to him the nature which they have received, from their god. The 
 manner in which they take their love is as follows : — 
 \ I told you about the charioteer and two steeds, the one a noble 
 
 B. V n 2 
 
\ 
 
 ai 
 
 548 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 animal who is guided by word and admonition only, the other an 
 
 ill-looking villain who will hardly yield to blow or spur. Together all 3 
 
 three, who are a figure of the soul, approach the vision of love. . And i 
 
 now a conflict begins. The ill-conditioned steed rushes on to en- d 
 
 joy, but the charioteer, who beholds the beloved with awe, falls ; 
 
 back in adoration, and forces both the steeds,on their haunches ; again J 
 
 the evil steed rushes forwards and pulls shameles|ly. Then a still ; 
 
 more fearful conflict ensues ; the charioteer dropping at the very start i 
 
 jerks violently the bit from the clenched teeth of the brute, and pul- I 
 
 ling harder than ever at the reins, covers his tongue and jaws, with :> 
 
 blood, and forces him to rest his hocks and haunches with pain upon -j. 
 
 the ground. When this has happened several times, the villain is % 
 
 tamed and humbled, and from that time forward the soul of the lover jss 
 follows the beloved in modesty, and holy fear. And now their bliss 
 
 is consummated; the same image of love dwells in the breast of either; jc 
 
 and if they have self-control, they pass their lives in the greatest :;;, 
 
 happiness which is attainable by man — they live masters of themselves f; 
 
 and conquer in one of the three heavenly victories. But if they choose <it 
 
 the lower life of ambition they may still have a happy destiny, though ij 
 
 inferior, because they have not ^he approval of the whole soul. At last rt 
 
 they leave the body and proceed on their pilgrim's progress, and those k 
 
 who have once begun can never go back. When the time comes they L,. 
 
 receive their wings and fly away, and the lovers have the same wings. jiu, 
 
 Socrates concludes : — j.i 
 
 These are the blessings of love, and thus I have made my recantation- ^^ 
 in finer language than before, but this was only in order to please 
 
 Phaedrus. If I said what was wrong at first, please to attribute my j; 
 
 error to Lysias, who ought to study philosophy instead of rhetoric, and ^,^, 
 then he vnll not mislead his disciple Phaedrus. 
 
 Phaedrus is afraid that he will lose conceit of Lysias, and that Lysias ,?_ 
 
 will be out of conceit with himself, and leave ofi" making speeches, as "^ 
 
 the politicians have been deriding him. Socrates is of opinion that ^.^ 
 
 there is small danger of this, ^ and that the politicians are themselves ^^^ 
 
 the great rhetoricians of the age, who desire to attain immortality by jj 
 
 the authorship of laws, and therefore there can be no disgrace, nothing,, i 
 
 with which any body could reproach Lysias in being a writer, W- L, 
 
 there may be disgrace in being a bad one. .^ 
 
 And what is good or bad writing or speaking? There is time r' 
 
 Ki 
 
' INTRODUCTION. S49 
 
 to consider that question. For by the discussion of sucli ques- 
 tions man lives, and not by the indulgence of bodily pleasures^ 
 And the grasshoppers who are chirruping around may carry our 
 words to the Muses, who are their patronesses; for the grasshoppers 
 were human beings themselves in a world before the Muses, and when 
 the Muses came they died of hunger for the love of song. And they 
 carry to them in heaven the report of those who honour them on 
 earth. 
 
 The first rule of good speaking is to know and speak truth; true 
 art is truth, says a Spartan proverb, whereas rhetoric is a mode of 
 enchanting the soul, which makes things appear good and evil, like 
 and unlike, according to the fancy of the speaker. Still, mankind are 
 deceived, not all at once, but by degrees, and therefore he who would 
 either impose on others or escape imposition must know the truth. 
 • Socrates then proposes that they shall use the two speeches as illustra^ 
 tions of the art of rhetoric ; first distinguishing between the debatable 
 and imdisputed class of subjects. In the debatable class there ought to 
 be a definition of all disputed matters. But there was no such definition 
 in the speech of Lysias; nor is there any order or connection in his 
 words any more than in' a nursery rhyme. With this he compares the 
 regular divisions of the other speech, which was his own (and- yet not 
 his own, for the local deities must have inspired him). This 'fancy' 
 of his will be found to embody two principles ; first, that of synthesis 
 or the comprehension of parts in a whole ; secondly, analysis, or, the 
 resolution of the whole into parts. These are the processes of division 
 and generalization which are so dear to the dialectician, that king of 
 men. But this is dialectic and not rhetoric ; of which the remains are 
 but scanty after order and arrangement have been subtracted. There is 
 nothing left but a heap of ' ologies ' and other technical terms invented 
 by Theodorus, Evenus, Tisias, Gorgias, and others who have rules for 
 everything, and who teach how to be short or long at pleasure. Prodicus 
 showed his good sense in saymg that there was a better thing than 
 either being short or loiig, which was to be of a convenient length. 
 |i i Still, notwithstanding the absurdities of Polus and others, rhetoric has 
 great power in public assemblies. This,-however, is not given by these 
 ' technical rules, but is the gift of genius. • The real art is always being 
 .confused by rhetoricians with the preliminaries of the art. The per- 
 fection of oratory is the perfection of all things ; but for this the art of 
 
 ,rt 
 
550 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 rhetoric can do little, and the art which does this little is of another 
 kind from that which is taught by the rhetoricians. 
 
 Pericles, the most accomplished of all speakers, derived his art not 
 from rhetoric but from the philosophy of nature which he learnt from 
 Anaxagoras. The true rhetoric is like medicine, and the rhetorician 
 has to consider the natures of men's souls as the physician considers 
 the natures of their bodies. Such and such persons are to be affected in 
 this way, such and such others in that; he must know the times and 
 the seasons for saying this or that. This is not an easy task, and this, 
 if there be such an art, is the art of rhetoric. 
 
 I know that there are some professors of the art who maintain that 
 probability is stronger than truth. But' we maintain that probability is 
 engendered by likeness of the truth which is best attained by the know- 
 ledge of the truth, and that the aim of the good man should not be to 
 please or persuade his fellow-servants, but to please his good masters 
 who are the gods. Rhetoric has a fair beginning in this. 
 
 Enough of the art of speaking ; let us now proceed to consider the 
 true use of writing. There is an old Egyptian tale of Theuth, the in- 
 ventor of writing, showing his invention to the god Thamuz, who told 
 him that he would only spoil men's memories and take away their 
 understandings. From this tale, which young Athens will probably 
 scorn, may be gathered the lesson that writing is inferior to speech. For 
 . writing is like a picture which can give no answer to a question, and 
 has only a deceitful likeness of a living creature. It has no power of 
 adaptation, but uses the same words for all. It is a sort of bastard and 
 not a legitimate son of knowledge, and when an attack is made upon 
 this illegitimate progeny neither the parent nor any one else is there 
 to defend it. The husbandman will not seriously incline to sow his 
 seed in such a hot-bed or garden of Adonis ; he will rather sow in the 
 natural soil of the human soul which has depth of earth; and he will 
 anticipate this natural process by writing, if at all, only as a remedy 
 against old age. The natural growth will be far nobler, and bring 
 forth fruit not only in his own but in other minds. 
 
 The conclusion of the whole matter is just this, — that until a man 
 knows the truth, and the manner of adapting the truth to the natuies 
 of other men, he cannot be a good orator ; also, that the living is better 
 than the written word, and that the principles of justice and truth when 
 delivered by word of mouth are the legitimate offspring of a man's 
 
INTRODUCTION. 551 
 
 \ 
 
 own bosom, and their lawful descendants take up their abode in others. 
 Such an orator as he is who has them, you and I would fain become. 
 And to all composers in the world who are poets, orators, legislators, 
 we hereby announce that if their compositions are based upon these 
 •principles then they are not only poets, orators, statesmen, but philoso- 
 phers. All the rest are mere flatterers and putters together of words. 
 This is the message which Phaedrus undertakes to carry to Lysias 
 from the local deities, and Socrates will himself carry a similar mes- 
 sage to his favourite Isocrates, whose future distinction as a great 
 rhetorician he prophesies. The heat of the day has passed and, after 
 offering up a prayer to Pan and the nymphs, Socrates and Phaedrus 
 depart. 
 
 There are two principal- controversies which have been raised about 
 tiie Phaedrus; the first relates to the subject, the second to the date 
 of the Dialogue. 
 
 There seems to be a notion that the work of a great artist like 
 Plato could not fail in unity, and that the unity of a dialogue requires 
 a single subject. But the conception of unity really applies in very 
 different degrees and ways to different kinds of art; to a statue, for 
 example, far more than to any kind of literary composition, and to some 
 species of literature far more than to others. Nor does the dialogue 
 appear to be a style of composition in which the requirement of unity 
 is most stringent ; nor should the idea of unity derived from one sort 
 of art be hastily transferred to another. The double titles of several of 
 the Platonic Dialogues seem to indicate that this severer imity was not 
 attempted by Plato. The Republic is divided between the search after 
 justice and the construction of the ideal state; the Parmenides between 
 the criticism of the Platonic ideas and of the Eleatic one or being ; the 
 Gorgias between the art of speaking and the nature of the good; the 
 Sophist between the detection of the Sophist and the correlation of 
 ideas. The Theaetetus, the Politicus, and the Philebus, have also di- 
 gressions which are but remotely connected with the main subject. 
 
 Thus tlje comparison of Plato's other writings, as well as the reason 
 of the thing, lead us to the conclusion that we are not to expect to 
 find one idea pervading a whole work, but one, two, or more, as the 
 invention of the writer may suggest or his fancy wander. If each dia- 
 logue were confined to the development of a single idea, this would 
 
55Z PHAEDRUS. 
 
 appear on the face of the dialogue, nor could any controversy be 
 raised as to whether the Phaedrus treated of love or rhetoric. But 
 the truth is that Plato subjects himself to no rule of this sort. Like 
 every great artist he gives unity of form to the diiferent and apparently 
 distracting topics which he brings together. He works freely and is 
 not to be supposed to have arranged every part of the dialogue be- 
 fore he begins to write. He fastens or weaves together the frame of 
 his discourse loosely and imperfectly, and which is the warp and which 
 is the woof is not always easy to determine. '' 
 
 The subjects of the Phaedrus (exclusive of the short introductory 
 passage about mythology which is suggested by the local tradition) are 
 first the false or conventional art of rhetoric , secondly, love or the 
 inspiration of beauty and knowledge which is described as madness; 
 thirdly, dialectic or the art of composition and division ; fourthly, the 
 true rhetoric, which is based upon dialectic; fifthly, the superiority of 
 the spoken over the written word. The continuous thread which ap- 
 pears and reappears throughout is rhetoric ; this' is the ground into 
 which the rest of the Dialogue is inlaid, in parts embroidered with fine 
 words 'in order to please Phaedrus.' The speech of Lysias, and the 
 first speech of Socrates are examples of the false rhetoric, as the second 
 speech of Socrates is adduced as 'an instance of the true. But 
 the true rhetoric is based Upon dialectic, and dialectic is a sort of in- 
 spiration akin to love (cp.Symp. 210 foil.); they are two aspects of 
 philosophy in which the technicalities of rhetoric are absorbed. Thus 
 the example becomes also the deeper theme of discourse. The true 
 knowledge 0/ things in heaven and earth is based upon enthusiasm or 
 love of the ideas; and the true order of speech or ■writing proceeds 
 according to them. ^Love, again, has three degrees : first, of interested- 
 love corresponding to the conventionalities of rhetoric; secondly, of 
 disinterested or mad love', fixed on objects of sense and answering, 
 perhaps, to poetry; thirdly, of disinterested love directed towards the 
 unseen, answering to dialectic or the science of the ideas. ) j Lastly, the 
 art of rhetoric in the lower sense is found to rest on a knowledge of 
 the natures and characters of men, which Socrates at the commence- 
 ment of the Dialogue has described as his own peculiar study. 
 
 Thus amid the appearance of discord a very tolerable degree of uni- 
 formity begins to arise; there are many threads of connection which 
 are not visible at first sight. At the same time the Phaedrus, although;. 
 
tl 
 
 I INTRODUCTION. 553 
 
 ■^;, • — ^ 
 
 one of the most beautiful of the Platonic dialogues, may be admitted 
 to have more of the character of a ' tour de force,' and has certainly 
 I more o*f the ' quidlibet audendi potestas' than any other. 
 I* The first speech is composed ' in that balanced style in which the 
 '«! -wise love to talk.' (Symp. 185 C.) The characteristics of rhetoric are 
 i\ insipidity, mannerism, and monotonous parallelism of clauses. There is 
 a more rhythm than reason ; the creative power of imagination is wanting. 
 
 \i 
 
 "Tis Greece, but living Greece no more.' 
 
 ^ Plato has seized by anticipation the spirit which hung over Greek litera- 
 
 iit ture for a thousand years afterwards. Yet doubtless, there were some 
 
 i,i who, like Phaedrus, felt a delight in the harmonious cadence and the 
 
 i^i, pedantic reasoning of the rhetoricians newly imported from Sicily, 
 
 ft which had ceased to be awakened in them by really great works, such 
 
 jj^ as the poems of Anacreon or Sappho or the orations of Pericles. That 
 
 jj.' the first speech was really written by Lysias is improbable. Like the 
 
 J poem of Solon, or the story of Thamuz and Theuth, or the funeral 
 
 ^j oration of Aspasia (if genuine), or the pretence of Socrates in the Cratylug 
 
 ^ -that his knowledge of philology is derived from Euthyphro, the invention 
 
 U is really due to the imagination of Plato, and may be compared to the; 
 
 J \ parodies of the Sophists in the Protagoras. Numerous fictions of this 
 
 ilj, sort occur in the dialogues, and the gravity of Plato has sometimes 
 
 jj imposed upon his commentators. The introduction of a considerable 
 
 J [ writing of another would seem not to be in keeping with a great work 
 
 Hi of art, and has no parallel elsewhere. 
 
 ^ In the second speech Socrates is exhibited as beating the rhetoricians 
 
 ^ , at their own weapons ; he ' an unpractised man and they masters of 
 
 ^ the art.' True to his character he must, however, profess that the 
 
 J. speech which he makes is not his own, for he knows nothing of him- 
 
 ^ self. (Cp. Symp. 201 D.) The superiority of this speech over the 
 
 L, first seems to consist chiefly in a better arrangement of the topics; 
 
 1 a lesser merit is the greater liveliness of Socrates, which hurries him 
 
 ,j into verse and relieves the monotony of the style; and he gives an 
 
 . apparent weight to his words by going back to general maxims. '' 
 
 s ,;. Both speeches are strongly condemned by Socrates as sinful and 
 
 I- blasphemous towards the god Love, and as worthy only of some haunt 
 
 ^ of sailors to which good manners were unknown. The meaning of this 
 
 J and other Vild language to the same effect, which is introduced by 
 
564 PHAEBRUS. 
 
 way of contrast to the formality of the two speeches (Socrates has a 
 sense of relief when he has escaped from the trammels of rhetoric) 
 seems to be that the two speeches proceed upon the supposition that 
 love is and ought to be interested, and that no such thing as a real or 
 disinterested passion, which would be at the same time lasting, could 
 be conceived. 
 
 This is what Socrates proposes to recant in the famous myth, which 
 is a sort of parable, and like other parables ought not to receive too 
 minute an interpretation. In all such allegories there is a great deal 
 which is merely ornamental, and the interpreter has to separate the 
 important from the unimportant. Socrates himself has given the right 
 clue when, in using his' own discourse afterwards as the text for his 
 examination of rhetoric, he characterizes it as a ' partly __ true_aiid 
 tolerably credible mythus,' in which amid poetical figures, order and 
 arrangement were not forgotten. 
 
 The soul is described in magnificent language as the self-moved 
 aqd the source of motion in all other things. This is thS philosophical 
 theme or proem of the whole. But i^as must be given through 
 something, and under the pretext that to realize' the true nature of 
 the soul would be not only tedious but impossible, we at once pass 
 orv to describe the souls of gods as well as men under the figure of 
 two winged steeds and a charioteer. No connection is traced between 
 the soul as the great motive power and the triple soul which is thus 
 imaged. There is no diflSculty in seeing that the -charioteer represents ;i 
 the reason, or that the black horse is the symbol of the sensual ot'" 
 concupiscent element of human nature. The white horse also repre- 
 sents rational impulse, but the description in p. 253, ' a lover of honour 
 and modesty and temperance, and a follower of true glory,' though 
 kindred, does not at once recall the ' spirit ' (dvfibt) of the Republifci 
 The two steeds really correspond in a figure more nearly to the ap- 
 petitive and moral or semi-rational soul of Aristotle. And thus for 
 the first time, perhaps, in the history of philosophy, we have represented 
 to us the threefold division of psychology; The image of the charioteer 
 and the steeds has been compared with a similar image which occurs in 
 the verses of Parmenides ; but it is important to remark that the horses ' 
 of-Parmenides have no ' allegorical meaning, and that the poet is only 
 . describing his own approach in a chariot to the regions of light and 
 the house of the goddess of truth. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 535 
 
 l8i The triple soul has had a previous existence, in which following in 
 
 lis the train of some god, from whom she derive* her character, she be- 
 
 iiil held partially and imperfectly the vision of absolute truth. All her 
 
 iin after existence, passed in many forms of men and animals, is spent in 
 
 iji regaining this. In the various stages of this long struggle she is 
 
 sorely let and hindered by the animal desires of the inferior or con- 
 
 i4( cupiscent steed. Again and again she beholds the flashing beauty 
 
 55 of the beloved. But before that vision can be finally enjoyed the 
 
 M| animal desires must be subjected. 
 
 ~ The moral or spiritual element in man is represented by the immortal 
 
 ,j. steed which, like 6vito9 in the RepubUc, always sides with the reason. 
 
 [jl, 3oth are dragged out. of their course by the furious impulses of desire. 
 
 ,1,, In the end something is conceded to the desires, after they have been 
 
 jj, finally humbled and overpowered. And yet the way of philosophy, or 
 
 . perfect love of the unseen is total abstinence from bodily delights. ' But 
 
 jjj all men caimot receive this saying:' in the lower life of ambition they 
 
 "jj may be taken off their guard and stoop to folly unawares, and then, 
 
 ^ although they do not attain to the highest bliss, yet if they have once 
 
 conquered they may be happy enough. 
 
 The language of the Meno and the Phaedo as well as of the Phaedrus, 
 
 (j seems to show that at one time of his Ufe Plato was quite serious in 
 
 ,, maintaining a former state of existence. His mission was to realize 
 
 ^^the abstract; in that all good and truth, all the hopes of this and 
 
 another life seemed to centre. It was another kind of knowleda:e to 
 (f . . ♦ " 
 
 him — a second world distinct from that of sense, which seemed to exist 
 
 .^Within him far more truly than the fleeting objects of sense which are 
 
 without him. When we are once able to imagine the intense power 
 
 , which abstract ideas exercised over the mind of Plato, we see that there 
 
 ' was no more difiiculty to him in realizing the eternal existence of them 
 
 , and of the human minds which were associated with them — in the past 
 
 and future than in the present. The difficulty was not how they 
 
 could exist, but how they could fail to exist. In the attempt to regain 
 
 "■^this 'saving' knowledge of the ideas, the sense was found to be as great 
 
 * , an enemy as the desires ; and hence two things which to us seem quite 
 
 distinct are inextricably blended in the representation of Plato. 
 
 ' Thus far we may beUeve that Plato was serious in his conception 
 
 *', ef the soul as a motive power, in his reminiscence of a former state 
 
 ''^of being, in his elevation of the reason over sense and passion, and 
 
566 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 perhaps in his doctrine of transmigration. Was he equally serious in the 
 rest ? For example, are we to attribute his tripartite division of the soul 
 to the gods ? Or is this merely assigned to them by way Of parallelism 
 with men ? The latter is the more probable ; for the horses of the gods 
 are both white, i. e. their every impulse is in harmony with reason ; their 
 dualism, on the other hand, only carries out the figure of the chariot. 
 Is he serious, again, in regarding love as 'a madness?' That seems to 
 arise out of the antithesis to the former conception of love. At the 
 same time he appears to intimate here, as in the Ion, Apology, Meno, 
 and elsewhere, that there is a faculty in man, whether to be termed in 
 modem language genius, or inspiration, or idealism, which cannot be 
 reduced to rule and measure. Perhaps, too, he is ironically repeatii^ 
 the common language of mankind about philosophy, and is turning their 
 jest into a sort of earnest. (Cp. Phaedr. 6i B; Symp. 218 B.) Oris 
 he serious in holding that each soul bears the character of a god? 
 Perhaps he had no other account to give of the differences of human 
 characters to which he afterwards refers. Or, again, in his absurd de- 
 rivation of fuivTtKri and olavuTTiKr) and Ifiipos (cp. Cratylus) ? It seems 
 to be characteristic of the irony of Socrates to mix up sense and 
 nonsense in such a way that no exact line can be drawn between them, 
 And allegory helps to increase this sort of confusion. 
 
 As is often the case in the parables and prophecies of Scripture, the 
 meaning is allowed to break through the figure, and the details are not 
 always consistent. When the charioteers and their steeds stand upoii 
 the dome of heaven they behold the intangible, invisible essences which 
 are not objects of sight. This is because the force of_language can no 
 further go. Nor can we dwell much on the circumstance, that at the 
 completion of ten thousand years all are to return to the place from 
 whence they came; because he also represents this as dependent on 
 their own good conduct in the successive stages of existence. Nor again 
 can we attribute anything to the accidental inference which would also 
 follow, that even a tyrant may live righteously in the condition of life 
 to which fate has called him ('he aiblins might, I dinna ken'). 
 But this would be much at variance with Plato himself and with Greek 
 notions generally. He is much more serious in distinguishing men 
 from animals by their recognition of the universal which they have 
 known in a former state, and in denying that this gift of reason can ever 
 be obliterated or lost. In the language of some modern theologians he 
 
INTRODUCTION. 557 
 
 might be said to maintain the ' final perseverance' of those who have 
 entered on their pilgrim's progress. Other intimltions of a ,' metaphysic' 
 or 'theology' of the future may also be discerned in him : (i) The 
 moderate predestinarianism which here, as in the Republic, acknowledges 
 the element of chance in human life, and yet asserts the freedom and 
 responsibility of man; (2) The recognition of a moral as well as an 
 intellectual principle in man under the image of an immortal steed; 
 (3) The notion that the divine nature exists by the contemplation of 
 ideas of virtue and justice — or, in other words, the assertion of the 
 essentially moral nature of God ; (4) Again, there is the hint that human 
 
 I life is a life of aspiration only, and that the true ideal is not to be found 
 
 , in art; (5) There occurs the first trace of the distinction between certain 
 
 I and contingent matter ; (6) The conception of the soul itself as the 
 motive power and reason of the universe. 
 
 . The conception of the philosopher, or the philosopher and lover 
 in one, as, a sort of madman, may be compared with the Republic and 
 
 , Theaetetus, in both of which the philosopher fc regarded as a stranger 
 and monster upon the earth. The whole'' myth, like the other myths 
 
 , of Plato, describes in a figure things which are beyond the range of 
 
 , human faculties, or inaccessible to the knowledge of the age. That—- 
 philosophy should be represented as the inspiration of love is a con-^wy 
 
 , |eption that has ahready become familiar to us in the Symposium, and-*"^ 
 is the expression partly of Plato's enthusiasm for the idea, and is also 
 an indication of the real power exercised by the passion of friendship 
 over the mind of the Greek. The master in the art of love knew that . 
 there was a mystery in these feelings' and their associations, and espe- _^ 
 
 \ cially in the contrast of the sensible and permanent which is afforded \y^W 
 them ; and he sought to explain this, as he explained universal ideas, by 
 a reference to a former state of existence. The capriciousness of love * 
 is also derived by him from an attachment to some god in a former 
 
 ' world. The singular remark that the beloved is more aflfected than the 
 lover at the final consummation of their love, seems likewise to have 
 a psychological truth. 
 
 If We may now pass on to the second part of the Dialogue, which is 
 a criticism on the first. Rhetoric is assailed on various grounds : 
 
 .^st, as expecting to deceive, without a knowledge of the truth; and 
 
 'secondly, as ignoring the distinction between certain and probable 
 matter. The three speeches are then passed in review : the first of them 
 
 Y 
 
 \ 
 
558 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 has no definition of the nature of love, and no order in the topics 
 (being in these respects far inferior to the second) ; while the third of 
 them is found (though a fancy of the hour) to be framfed upon real 
 dialectical principles. But dialectic is not rhetoric; nothing on that 
 subject is to be found in the endless treatises of rhetoric, however prolific 
 in hard names. When Plato has sufficiently put them to the test of 
 ridicule he touches, as with the point of a needle, the real error of this 
 as well as of much modern literature and writing upon the arts, which 
 is the confusion of preliminary knowledge with creative power. No 
 attainments will provide the speaker with genius; and the sort of 
 attainments which can alone be of any value are the higher philosophy 
 and the power of psychological analysis, which is given by dialectic, 
 not by the rules of the rhetoricians. 
 
 Dialectic may be variously definpd, either as the power of dividing 
 a whole into parts, and of uniting the parts in a whole, or as the 
 process of the mind talking with herself. The latter view seems to 
 have led Plato to the paradox that speech is superior to writing, in which 
 he may seem also to be doing an injustice to -himself. For the truth is, 
 that speech and writing cannot be fairly compared in the manner which 
 Plato suggests. The contrast of the living and dead word, as well as 
 the example of Socrates, which he has represented in the form of the 
 dialogue, seem to have misled him. For speech and writing have 
 really different functions ; the one is more transitory, more diifuse, more 
 elastic and capable of adaptation to moods and times ; the other is more 
 permanent, more concentrated, and is uttered not to this or that person or 
 audience, but to all the world. In the Politicus (294 foil.) the paradox is 
 carried further ; the mind or will of the king is preferred to the written law. 
 
 The chief criteria for determining the date of the Dialogue are 
 (i) the ages of Lysias and Isocrates; (2) the character of the work. 
 
 Lysias was born in the year 458 ; Isocrates in the year 436, about 
 seven years before the birth of Plato. The first of the two great 
 rhetoricians is described as in the zenith of his fame; the second aS 
 still young and full of promise. Now it is argued that this must have been 
 written in the youth of Isocrates, when the promise was still unfulfilled. 
 And thus we should have to assign the Dialogue to a year not later 
 than 406, when Isocrates was thirty and Plato twenty-three years of age, 
 and while Socrates himself was still alive. 
 
 Those who argue in this way seem not to reflect how easily Plato 
 
INTRODUCTION. 659 
 
 can 'invent Egyptians or anything else,' and how careless he is of 
 J historical truth or probability. Who would s.usppct that the wise Critias, 
 ^ the virtuous Charmides, had ended their lives among the thirty tyrants? ' 
 I Who would imagine that Lysias, who is here assailed by'^Socrates, is 
 
 the son of his old friend Cephalus? Or that Isocrates himself is the 
 I enemy of Plato and his school? No arguments can be drawn from 
 j^ the appropriateness or inappropriateness of the characters of Plato. 
 , (Else, perhaps, it might be further argued, that judging from their 
 
 extant remains, insipid rhetoric is far more characteristic of Isocrates 
 ' than of Lysias.) But Plato makes use of names which have often 
 L. hardly any connection with the historical characters to whom they 
 j|; belong. In this instance the comparative favour shown to Isocrates 
 
 may possibly be accounted for by the circumstance of his belonging 
 
 to the aristocratical, as Lysias to the democratical party. 
 Few persons will be inclined to suppose, in the superficial manner of 
 
 some ancient critics, that a dialogue which treats of love mugt neces- 
 , sarily have been written ip youth. As little weight can be attached to 
 
 the argument that he had probably visited Egypt before he wrote the 
 
 story of Theuth and Thamuz. For there is no real proof that he ever 
 , was in Egypt; and even if he was, he might have known or invented 
 
 SI 
 
 Egyptian traditions before he went there. The late date of the 
 
 „ Phaedrus is really to be proved by other arguments than these: the 
 
 . maturity of the thought, the perfection of the style, the insight, the re- 
 
 ' l^tion^to the other Platonic Dialogues, seem to contradict the notion 
 
 that it could have been the work of a youth of twenty or twenty-three 
 
 " years of age. The cosmological notion of the mind as the primum 
 
 ™ mohile, and the admission of impulse into the immortal nature, afford 
 
 grounds for assigning a much later date. (Cp. Tim., Soph., Laws.) Add 
 
 , to this that the picture of Socrates, though in some lesser particulars, 
 
 ' e. g. his going without sandals, his habit of remaining within the walls, 
 
 **P his emphatic declaration that ,his study is human nature, an exact 
 
 ''* resemblance, is in the main the Platonic and not the real Socrates. 
 
 ' J Can we suppose 'the young man to have told such lies' about his 
 
 ''^ master while he was still alive ? Moreover, when two Dialogues are so 
 
 '* closely connected as the Phaedrus and Symposium, there is great 
 
 '"'' improbability in supposing that one of them was written at least twenty 
 
 I*' years after the;^other. The conclusion seems to be, that the Dialogue 
 
 was written at some comparatively late but unknown period of Plato's 
 
56o PHAEDRUS. 
 
 life, after he had deserted the purely Socratic point of view, but before 
 he had entered on the more abstract speculations of the Sophist or the 
 Philebus. Comparing the divisions of the soul, the doctrine of trans- 
 migration, the isolation of the philosophic life, and the general character 
 of the style, we shall not be far wrong in placing the Phaedrus in the 
 neighbourhood of the Republic ; remarking only that allowance must be 
 made for the poetical element in the Phaedrus, which, while falling short 
 of the Republic in definite philosophic results, seems to have glimpses of 
 a truth beyond. 
 
 Two short passages, which are unconnected with the main subject 
 of the Dialogue, may seem to merit a more particular notice : (i) the 
 locus classicus about mythology ; (2) the tale of the grasshoppers. 
 
 The first passage is remarkable as showing that Plato was entirely . ' 
 free from what may be termed the Euhemerism of his age. (For 
 there were Euhemerists in Greece before Euhemerus.) Other philo- 
 sophers, like Anaxagoras, had found in Homer and mythology hidden 
 meanings. Plato, with a truer instinct, rejects these attractive inter- , 
 pretations; he regards the invention of them as an 'unfortunate' way j 
 of employing a man's mind and time. They are endless, and they 
 draw a man off from the knowledge of himself. There is a latent 
 criticism, and also a poetical sense in Plato, which at once enable him 
 to discard them, and yet in another way to make the fu llest _ uae-o£- 
 poetry and mythology as a vehicle of thought and feeling. The 
 ' sophistical' interest of Phaedrus, the little touch' about the two versions 
 of the story, the ironical manner in which these explanations are set 
 aside, 'the common opinion about them is enough for me,' may be 
 noted in passing ; also the general agreement between the tone of this 
 speech and the remark of Socrates which follows afterwards, 'I am 
 a diviner, but a poor one.' 
 
 The tale of the grasshoppers is naturally suggested by the surrounding 
 scene. » Yet we must not forget also, that they are the representatives 
 of the Athenians as children of the soil. .^Under the image of the 
 lively chirruping grasshoppers who inform the Muses in heaven who 
 honours them on earth, Plato intends to represent an Athenian audience 
 (TfTriyea-cnv ioiKOTcs). The story is introduced, apparently, to mark a 
 change of subject, and also, like several other allusions which occur in 
 the course of thfi Dialogue, in order to preserve the scene in the recollec- 
 tion of the reader. 
 
PHAEDRUS. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Socrates. - Phaedrus. ^ 
 
 Scene :^— Under a plane-tree, by the banks of the Ilissus. 
 
 L. Socrates. My dear Phaedrus, whence come you, and whither are 
 
 f you going ? 
 , Fiaedrus. I am come from Lysias the son of Cephalus, and I am 
 ■going to take a walk outside the wall, for I have been with him 
 
 ^jever since the early dawn, which is a long while, and our common 
 
 (| friend Acumenus advises me to walk in the country j he says that 
 
 |ithis is far more refreshing than walking in the courts. 
 
 M Soc. There he is right. Lysias then, I suppose, was in the city ? 
 
 W Thaedr. Yes, he was with Epicrates, at the house of Morychus ; 
 
 r that house which is near the temple of Olympian Zeus. 
 
 I Soc. And how did he entertain you ? Can I be wrong in 
 supposing that Lysias gave you a feast of discourse? 
 Thaedr. You shall hear, if you have leisure to stay and listen. 
 Soc. And would I not regard the conversation of you and 
 Lysias as ' a thing of higher import,' as I may say in the words 
 of Pindar, 'than any business?' 
 Phaedr. Will you go on ? 
 Soc. And will you go on with the narration ? 
 Phaedr. My tale, Socrates, is one of your sort, for the theme 
 which occupied us was love — after a fashion : Lysias imagined a 
 fair youth who was being tempted, but not by a lover; and this 
 was the point : he ingeniously proved that the non-lover should be 
 accepted rather than the lover. 
 
562 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 Soc. O that is noble of him. And I wish that he would say a 
 poor man rather than a rich, and an old man rather than a young 
 one ; he should meet the case of me, and all of us, and then his 
 words would indeed be charming, and of public utility ; and I am 
 so eager to hear them that if you walk all the way to Megara, and 
 when you have reached the wall come back, as Herodicus recom- 
 mends, without going in, I will not leave you. ' 
 
 Phaedr. What do you mean, Socrates ? How can you imagine 
 that I, who am quite unpractised, can remember or do justice to 22 
 an elaborate work, which the greatest rhetorician of the day spent a 
 long time in composing. Indeed, I cannot j I would give a great 
 deal if I could. 
 
 Soc. I believe that I know Phaedrus about as well as I know' 
 myself, and I am very sure that he heard, the words of Lysias, not 
 once only, but again and again he made him say them, and Lysias 
 was very willing to gratify him ; at last, when nothing else would 
 /"satisfy him, he got hold of the book, and saw what he wanted— ^ 
 ( this was his morning's occupation — and then when he was tired 
 ) with sitting, he went out to take a walk, not until, as I believe, 
 [ he had simply learned by heart the entire discoiu-se, which may 
 y not have been very "long ; and as he was going to take a walk 
 \ outside the wall in order that he might practise, he saw a certain 
 lover of discourse who had the same complaint as himself; — ^he 
 saw and rejoiced ; now thought he, 'I shall have a partner in my 
 revels.' And Jie-4PvitedJiirnJo_come ^dtliJiim. .But when the 
 lover of discourse asked to hear the tale, he gave himself airs and 1 
 said, ' No I can't,' as if he didn't like ; although, if the hearer had j 
 refused, the end would have been that he would have made him 1 
 listen whether he would or no. Therefore, Phaedrus, as he will j 
 soon speak in any case, beg him to speak at once. 
 
 Phaedr. As you don't seem very likely to let me oS until I 
 speak in some way, the best thing that I can do is to speak as I I 
 best may. j 
 
 Soc. That is a very true observation of yours. 
 
 Phaedr. I will do my best, for believe me, Socrates, I did not 
 
 learn the very words ; O no, but I have a general notion of what : 
 
 he said, and will repeat concisely, and in order, the several argu- ; 
 
 lents by which the case of the non-lover was proved to be ] 
 
 superior to that of the lover j let me begin at the beginning. 
 
 me 
 / sut 
 
PHAEDRUS. 563 
 
 Soc. Yes, my friend j but you must first of all show what you 
 have got^^^|i,,j9U£j,efLhand under your ftoak, for that roll, as I 
 suspect, is^&e.gctudj^iscourse. Now, much as I love you, I would 
 not have you suppose that! am going to have your memory exer- 
 cised upon me, if you have Lysias himself here. 
 
 Fhaedr. Enough ; I see that I have no hope of practising upon 
 9 you. But if I am to read, where would you please to sit ? 
 
 Soc. Turn this way j let us go to the Ilissus, and sit down at 
 some quiet spot. 
 
 Phaedr. I am fortunate in not having my sandals, and as you \ 
 \ never have any, I think that we may go along the brook and cool 
 our feet ^in the water ; this is the easiest way, and at mid-day 
 and in the summer is far from being unpleasant. 
 
 Soc. Lead on, and look out for a place in which we can sit 
 down. 
 
 Phaedr. Do you see that tallest plane-tree in the distance ? 
 
 5w. Yes. 
 
 Phaedr. There are shade and gentle breezes, and grass on which 
 we may either sit or lie down. , 
 
 Soc. Move on. 
 
 "Phaedr. I should like to know, Socrates, whether the place is 
 not somewhere here at which Boreas is said to have carried off 
 Orithyia from the banks of the Ilissus. 
 
 Soc, That is the tradition. 
 
 Phaedr. And is this the exact spot? The little stream is de- 
 lightfully clear and bright; I can fancv that there might be maidens 
 . .playing near. 
 
 [- Soc. I believe that the ^t islOTKxactly here, but about a 
 quarter of a mile lower down^^reSBFtross to the temple of Agra, 
 
 and I think that tliere is ^^"vHMBr^^^'' °^ ^°'^^^ ^"^ ^^ ^\z.cz. 
 Phaedr. I don't, recollect ; ^^[^ish that you would tell me 
 whether you believe this tal< 
 Soc. The wise are doubtful, anS^i^ like them, I also doubted, 
 
 ythere would be nothing very strange in that. I might have a rational 
 explanation that Orithyia was playing with Pharmacia, when a 
 northern gust carried her over the neighbouring rocks j and this 
 being the manner of her death, she was said to have been carried 
 away by Boreas. There is a discrepancy, however,' about the loca- 
 
 I lity, as recording to another version of the story she was taken from 
 
 I 003 
 
564 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 the Areopagus, and not from this place. Now I quite acknow- 
 ledge that these ex:planations are very nice, but he is not to be 
 envied who has to give them j much labour and iiigenuity will be 
 required of him ; and when he has once begun, he must go on and 
 rehabilitate centaurs and chimeras dire. Gorgons and winged 
 steeds flow in apace, and numberless other inconceivable and 
 impossible monstrosities and marvels of nature. And if he is 
 sceptical about them, and would fain reduce them all to the rules 
 of probability, this sort of crude philosophy will take up all his 
 time. Now I have certainly not time for this ; shall I tell you 
 why ? I must first know myself, as the Delphian inscription says ; 
 and I should be absurd indeed, if while I am still in ignorance of 231 
 myself I were to be curious about that which is not my business. 
 And therefore I say farewell to all this j the common opinion is 
 enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want to know not about 
 this, but about myself. Am I indeed a wonder more complicated 
 and swollen with passion than the serpent Typho, or a creature 
 of a gentler and simpler sort, to whom Nature has given a diviner 
 and lowlier destiny ? But here let me ask you, friend : Is not this 
 the plane-tree to which you were conducting us ? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, this is the tree, 
 
 Soc. Yes, indeed, and a fair and shady resting-place, full of sum- 
 mer sounds and scents. There is the lofty and spreading plane-tree, >! 
 and the agnus castus high and clustering, in the fullest blossom 
 and the greatest fragrance ; and the stream which flows beneath 
 the plane-tree is deliciously cold to the feet. Judging from the 
 ornaments and images, this must be a spot sacred to Achelous and 
 the Nymphs J , moreover, there is a sweet breeze, and the grass- 
 hoppers chirrup J and the greatest charm of all is the grass like 
 a pillow gently sloping to the head. My dear Phaedrus, you have 
 been an admirable guide. 
 
 Thaedr. I always wonder at you, Socrates ; for when you are' in 
 the country, you really are like a stranger who is being led about 
 by a guide. Do you ever cross the border ? I rather think that 
 you never venture even outside the gates. 
 
 Soc. Very true, my good friend ; and I hope that you will excuse 
 me when you hear the reason, which is, that I am a lover of 
 knowledge, and the men who dwell in the city are my teachers, 
 and not the trees, or the country. Though I do, indeed, believe 
 
PHAEDRUS. 565 
 
 that you have foun4,a,jgell with whicl% to draw me out of the 
 city into the country, as hungry cows are led by shaking before 
 them a bait of leaves or fruit. For only hold up the bait of dis- 
 tourse, and you may lead me all round Attica, and over the wide 
 world. And now having arrived, I intend to lie down, and do 
 you choose any posture in which you can read best. Begin. 
 
 Phaedr. Listen. ' You know my views of our common interest, 
 and I do not think that I ought to fail in the object of my suit, 
 1)ecause I am not your lover: for the kindnesses of lovers are 
 afterwards jegretted by them when their passion ceases, but non- 
 lovers have no time of repentance, because they are free and not 
 Subject to necessity, and they confer their benefits as far as they 
 are able, in the way which is most conducive to their own in- 
 terest. Then again, lovers remember how they have neglected their 
 interests, for the sake of their loves j they consider the benefits 
 which they have conferred on them j and when to these they add 
 the troubles which they have endured, they think that they have 
 long ago paid all that" is due to them. But the non-lover has no 
 such tormenting recollections; he has never. neglected his affairs 
 or quarrelled with his relations ; he has no troubles to reckon up, 
 or excuses to allege ; for all has gone smoothly with him. What 
 remains, then, but that he should freely do what will gratify the 
 beloved ? But you will say that the lover is more to be esteemed, 
 because his love is thought to be greater; for he is willing to say 
 and do what is hateful to other men, in order to please his be- 
 loved : well, that, if true, is only a proof that he will prefer any 
 future love to his present, and will injure his old love at the 
 pleasure of the new. And how can a man reasonably sacrifice 
 himself to one who is possessed with a malady which no ex- 
 perienced person would attempt to cure, for the patient himsel 
 admits that he is npt in his right mind, and acknowledges that 
 he is wrong in his mind, but is unable, as he ^ says, to control 
 himself. How, if he came to his right mind, could he imagine 
 that -the desires were good which he conceived when in his 
 wrong mind ? Then again, there are many more non-lovers than 
 lovers ; and, therefore, you will have a larger choice, and are far 
 more likely to find among them a compatible friend. And if you 
 fear common opinion, and would avoid publicity and reproach, 
 the lover, who is always thinking that other men are as emulous 
 
566 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 of him as he is of them, will be sure to boast of his successes, and 
 make a show of them openly in the pride of his heart ; — he wants 
 others to know that his labour has not been lost j but the non- 
 lover is more his own master, and is desirous of solid good, and 
 not of the vainglory of men. Again, the lover may be generally 
 seen and known following the beloved (this is his regular oc- 
 cupation), and when they are observed to exchange two words 
 they are supposed to meet about some aflfair of love, either past 
 or future; but when non-lovers meet, no one asks the reason 
 why, because people know that talking is natural, whether friend- 
 ship or mere pleasure is the motive. And, again, if you fear the 
 fickleness of friendship, consider that in any other case a quarrel 
 might be a mutual calamity; but now, when you have given up 
 what is most precious to you, you will be the great loser, and 
 therefore, you will have reason in being more afraid of the lover, 
 for his vexations are many, and he is always fancying that every- 
 thing is against him. And for this reason he debars his beloved 
 from society; he will not have you intimate with the wealthy, 
 lest they should exceed him in wealth, or with men of education, 
 lest they should be his superiors in knowledge ; and he is equally 
 afraid of the power of any other good. He would persuade you to 
 have nothing to do with them, in order that he may have you all 
 to himself, and if, out of regard to your own interest, you have 
 more sense than to comply with his desire, a quarrel will ensue. 
 But those who are non-lovers, and whose success in love is the 
 reward of their superiority, will not be jealous of the companions 
 of their beloved, ' but will rather hate those who refuse to be his 
 companions, thinking that their refusal is a mark of contempt, 
 and that he Would be benefited by having companions ; more 
 love than hatred may be expected to come of that. Many lovers 
 also have loved the person of a youth before they knew his 
 character, or were acquainted with his domestic relations; so 
 that when their passion has passed away, there is no knowing 
 whether they, will continue to be his friends ; whereas, in the 233 
 ;ase of non-lovers who were always friends, the friendship is not 
 lessened by sensual delights ; but the recollection of these remains 
 ivith them, and is an earnest of good things to come. Further, I say 
 :hat you are likely to be improved by me, whereas the lover will 
 spoil you. For they praise your words and actions in a bad way; •;| 
 
PHAEDRUS. 567 
 
 partly, they are afraid of oflfending you, and partly, their judgment 
 is. weakened by their passion: for lovers are singular -beings when 
 disappointed in love — they deem that painful which is not painful . 
 to others, and when successful they cannot help praising that 
 which ought not to give them pleasure 5 so that the beloved is 
 a far more appropriate object of pity than of envy. But if you 
 listen to me, in the first place, I, in my intercourse with you, shall 
 not regard present enjoyment, but future advantage, being not 
 conquered by love, but conquering myself j nor for small causes ^ 
 taking violent offences, but even when the cause is great, slowly ^, j- 
 laying up little wrath; — unintentional offences I shall forgive, and I ^ , 
 intentional ones I shall try to prevent; and these are the marks ) f' 
 of a friendship which will last. But if you think that only a lover 
 can be a' firm friend, you ought to consider that, if this were true, 
 we should set small value on sons, or fathers, or mothers; nor should 
 we ever have loyal friends, for our love of them arises not froni 
 passion, but from other associations. Further, if we ought to 
 confer favours on those who are the most eager suitors, we ought 
 to confer them not on the most virtuous, but on the most needy ; 
 for they are the persons who will be most relieved, and will 
 therefore be the most grateful ; and, in general, when you make a 
 feast, invite not your friend, but the beggar and the empty soul, 
 for they will love you, and attend you, and come about your doors, ^^^ 1* 
 and will be the best pleased, and the most grateful, and wVu Hp 
 invoke blessings on your head. But, perhaps, you will say^that 
 you ought not to give to the most importunate, but to thqhe who 
 are best able to reward you; nor to the lover only, but to\those 
 [ who are worthy of love ; nor to those who will enjoy the chtoTO, ^ ' 
 of your youth, but to those who will share their goods with you iii "" - 
 age; nor to those who, having succeeded, will glory in their 
 success to others, but to those who will be modest and hold their ^^ - 
 peace; nor to those who care about you for a moment only, 
 but to those who will continue your friends for life ; nor to those 
 who, when their passion is over, will pick a quarrel with you, but 
 rather to those who, when the bloom of youth is over, will show 
 their own virtue. Remember what I have said; and consider 
 this also, that friends admonish the lover under the idea that his 
 way of life is bad, but no one of his kindred ever yet censured the 
 non-lover, or thought that he was ill-advised about his own interests. 
 
568 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 ' Perhaps you will ask me whether I propose that you should 
 indulge every non-lover. To which I reply that not even the 
 lover would advise you to indulge all lovers, for the favour is 
 less in the just estimation of the receiver and more difficult to 
 hide from the world. Now love ought to be for the advantage 
 of both parties and for the injury of neither. 
 
 'I believe that I have said enough; but if there is anything 
 more which you desire or which needs to be supplied, ask and 
 I will answer.' 
 
 Now, Socrates, what do you think ? Is not the discourse ex- 
 cellent,_ especially the language ? 
 
 Sm. Yes indeed, admirable ; the effect on me was ravishing. 
 And this I owe to you, Phaedrus, for I observed you while reading 
 to be in an ecstasy, and thinking that you are more experienced 
 in these matters than I am, I followed your example, and, like 
 you, became inspired with a divine phrenzy. 
 
 Phaedr. Indeed, you are pleased to be merry. 
 
 Soc. Do you mean that I am not in earnest ? 
 
 "Phaedr. Now, don't talk in that way, Socrates, but let me have 
 year real opinion ; I adjure you, by the god of friendship, to tell 
 rtKTS whether you think that any Hellene could have said more 
 tar 50ken better oil the same subject. 
 
 Sm. Well, but are you and I expected to praise the sentiments 
 a/' the author, or only the clearness, and roundness, and accuracy, 
 and tf;ournure of the language ? As to the first I willingly submit to 
 your bl^'tter judgment, for I am unworthy to form an opinion, 23 
 haviaig only attended to tTie rhetorical manner ; and I was doubt- 
 iTXg ifiiether Lysias himself would be able to defend that ; for 
 I ^iOBght, though I speak under correctipn, that he repeated 
 himself two or three times, either from want of words or from 
 want of pains ; and also, he appeared to me wantonly ambitious 
 of jdtowing how well he could say the same thing in two or 
 three ways.. 
 
 Phaedr. Nonsense, Socrates ; that was his exhaustive treatment 
 of the subject ; for he omitted nothing ; — this is the special merit 
 of the speech, and I do not think that any one could have made 
 a fuller or better, 
 
 Soc. I cannot go so far as that with you. Ancient sages, 
 men and women, who have spoken and written of these things, 
 
PUAEDRUS. 569 
 
 would rise up in judgment against me, if I lightly assented to 
 you. 
 
 P/&«efl?r.'Who are they, and where did you hear anything better 
 than this ? 
 
 Soc. I am sure that I must have heard; I don't remember at 
 this moment from whom ; perhaps from Sappho the fair, Anacreon 
 the wise ; or, possibly, from a prose writer. What makes me say 
 this? Why, because I perceive jthat my bosom is full, and that 
 J could make another speech as good as that of Lysias, and 
 different. Now I am certain that this is not an invention of 
 my own, for I am conscious that I know nothing, and therefore 
 I can only infer that I have been filled through the ears, like 
 a pitcher from the waters of another, though I have actually 
 ^gotten in my stupidity who was my informant. 
 
 Thaedr. That is grand. But never mind where you heard the 
 discourse or of whom j let that, if you will, be a nilS^'^y ^°* *° 
 be divulged even at my earnest desire. But do as you sayj 
 promise to make another and better oration of equal length on 
 the same subject, with^oJ^ej^_arguments ; and I, like the nine 
 Archons, will promise to set up agolHeh image at Delphi, not 
 only of myself, but of you, and as large as life. 
 
 Soc. You are a dear golden simpleton if you suppose me to 
 mean that Lysias has altogether missed the mark, and that I 
 can make a speech from which all his arguments are to be ex- 
 cluded. The worst of authors will say something that is to the 
 point. Who, for example, could speak on this thesis of yours 
 without praising the discretion of the non-lover .and blaming 
 the folly of the lover ? These are the common-places which must 
 come in . (for what else is there to be said ?) and must be 
 allowed and excused; the only merit is in the arrangement of 
 them, for there can be none in the 'invention ;^but^.w^ien^jou 
 leave the common-places, then there may be some originMity. 
 
 Ihaedr. I admit that there is reason in that, and I will be 
 reasonable too, and will allow you to start with the premiss that 
 the lover is more disordered in his wits than the non-lover; and 
 if you go on after that and make a longer and better speech 
 than Lysias, and use other arguments, then I say again that a 
 statue you shall have of beaten gold, and take your place by the 
 colossal offering of the Cypselids at Olympia. 
 
570 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 Soc. Is not the lover serious^ because only in fun I lay a finger 
 upon hi& love ? And so, Phaedrus, you really imagine that I anj 
 going to impr6ve upon his ingenuity ? , 
 
 Fhaedr. There I have you as you had me, and you must speak 
 'as you best can,' and no mistake. And don't let us have the 
 vulgar exchange of 'tu quoque' as in a comedy, or compel me 
 to say to you as you said to me, *I know Socrates as well as I 
 know myself, and he was wanting to speak, but he gave himself 
 airs.' Rather I would have you consider that from this plac^ 
 we stir not until you have unbosomed yourself of the speech; 
 for here are we all alone, and I am stronger, remember, and 
 younger than you; therefore perpend, and do not compel me 
 to use violence, 
 
 Soc. But, my sweet Phaedrus, how can I ever compete with 
 Lysias in an extempore speech ? He is a master in his art and 
 I am an untaught man. 
 
 Fhaedr. You see how matters stand ; and therefore let there 
 be no more pretences j for, indeed, I know the word that is irre- 
 sistible. ' 
 
 Soc. Then don't say it. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, but I will ; and my word shall be an oath. ' I say, 
 or rather swear ' — but what god will be the witness of my oath ? 
 — « I swear by this plane-tree, that unless you repeat the dis- 
 course here, in the face of the plane-tree, I will never tell you 
 another ; never let you have word of another ! ' 
 
 Sac. Villain! I am conquered; the poor lover of discourse has 
 no more to say. 
 
 Phaedr. Then why are you still at your tricks ? 
 
 Soc. I am not going to play tricks now that you have taken the 
 oath, for I cannot allow myself to be starved. J 
 
 Phaedr. Proceed. 
 
 Soc. Shall I tell you what I will do ? *• 
 
 Phaedr. What? I 
 
 Soc. I will veil my face and gallop through the discourse as 
 fast as I can, for if I see you, I shall feel ashamed and not know | 
 what to say. 
 
 Phaedr. Only go on and you may do as you please. 
 
 Soc. Come, O ye Muses, melodious (Xiyeiai), as ye are called,' 
 whether you have received this name from the character of your 
 
PHAEDRUS, 571 
 
 strains, or because the Melians ^ are a musical race, help, O help 
 me in the tale which my good friend desires me to rehearse, 
 for the good of his friend whom he always deemed wise and 
 will now deem wiser than ever. 
 
 Once upon a time there was a fair boy, or, more properly 
 speaking, a youth ; he was very fair and had a great many lovers j 
 and there was one special cunning one, who liad persuaded the 
 youth that he did not love him, but he really loved him all the 
 «mej and one day as he was paying his addresses to him, he 
 used this very argument — ^that he ought to accept the non-lover 
 rather than the lover j and his words were as follow: — 
 
 'All good counsel begins in the same way ; a man should know 
 what he is advising about, or his counsel will come to nought. 
 But people imagine that they know about the nature of things, 
 when they don't know about them, and, snot agreeing at the 
 beginning, they end, as might be expected, vin contradicting one 
 another and themselves. Now you and I Ihust not be guilty of 
 the error which we condemn in others ; but as our question is 
 whether the lover or non-lover is to be preferred, let us first of 
 all agree iii defining the nature and power of, love, and then, 
 keeping our eyes upon this and to this appealing, let us further 
 enquire whether love brings advantage or disadvantage. 
 
 ' Every one sees that love is a desire, and we know also that 
 fion-lovers desire the beautiful and good. Now in what way is 
 the lover to be distinguished from the non-lover ? Let us note 
 that in every one of us there are two guiding and -ruling prin- 
 ciples which lead us whither they will ; one is the natural desire 
 of pleasure, the other is an acquired opinion which is in search 
 of the best j and these two are sometimes in harmony and then 
 again at war, and sometimes the one, sometimes the other 
 conquers. When opinion conquers, and by the help of reason 
 leads us to the best, the conquering principle is called temper- 
 ance j but when desire, which is devoid of reason, rules in us 
 and drags us to pleasure, that power of misrule is called excess. 
 Now excess has many names, and many members, and many 
 'forms, and any of these forms when marked gives a name to 
 the bearer of the name, neither honourable nor desirable. The 
 
 % ' In the original, Xiyupai Aiyues, 
 
572 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 desire of eating, which gels the better of the higher reason and 
 the other desires, is called gluttony, ani^ he who is possessed by 
 this is called a glutton ; the tyrannical desire of drink, which 
 inclines the possessor of the desire to drink, has a name which is 
 only too obvious j and the same may be said of the whole family 
 of desires and their names, whichever of them happens to be 
 dominant. And now I think that you will perceive the drift of 
 my discourse; but as every spoken word is in a manner plainer 
 than the unspoken, I had better say further that the irrationai 
 desire which overcomes the tendency of opinion towards right, 
 and is led away to the enjoyment of beauty, and especially of 
 personal beauty, by the desires which are her kindred — that desire, 
 I say, the conqueror and leader of the rest, and waxing strong 
 from having this very power, is called the power of love {^p^ia- 
 IJi,iva>s ?pa>s)-' *-/ 
 
 And now, dear Phaedrus, I shall pause for an instant to ask 
 whether you do not think me, as I appear to myself, inspired ? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, Socrates, you seem to have a very unusual flow^ 
 of words. 
 
 Soc. Listen to me, then, in silence ; for surely the place is 
 holy ; so that you must not wonder, if, as I proceed, I appear to 
 be ig^-a^^divine fury, for already I am getting into dithyrambics. 
 
 Fhaedr. That is quite true. 
 
 Soc. And that I attribute to you. But hear what follows, and 
 perhaps the fjt may be averted ; all is in their hands above. 
 And now I will go on talking to my youth. Listen : — 
 
 Thus, my friend, we have declared and determined the nature 
 of love. Keeping this in view, let us now enquire what ad- 
 vantage or disadvantage is likely to ensue from the lover or the 
 non-lover to him who accepts their advaQces. , 
 
 He who is the victim of his passioift and the slave of pleasure |^ 
 will of course desire to make his beloved as agreeable to himself' 
 as possible. Now to him who is not in his right senses that is 
 agreeable which is not opposed to him, but tliat which is equal of' 
 superior is hateful to him, and therefore the lover will not brook " 
 any superiority or equality on the part of his beloved ; he is 23 
 always employed in reducing him to inferiority. And the igno- 
 rant is the inferior of the wise, the coward of the brave, the slow 
 of speech of the speaker, the dull of the clever. These are the . 
 
PHAEDRUS. 573 
 
 sort of natural and inherent defects in the mind of the beloved 
 
 which enhance the delight of the lover, StA there are acquired 
 
 defects which he must produce in him, or he will be deprived 
 
 of his fleeting joy. And therefore he cannot help being jealous, 
 
 and will debar him from the advantages of society which would 
 
 make a man of him,. ,knd especially from that society which 
 
 would have given him wisdom. That is to say, he will be 
 
 compelled to banish from him divine philosophy, in his excessive 
 
 fear lest he should come to be despised in his eyesj and there 
 
 is no greater injury which he can inflict on him than this. 
 
 ' Moreover, he will contrive that he shall be wholly ignorant, and 
 
 : in everything dependent on himself; he is to be the delight of 
 
 ' his lover's heart, and a curse to himself. Verily, a lover is a 
 
 J profitable guardian and associate for him in all that relates to 
 
 his mind. 
 
 Let us next see how his mastpr, whose law of life is pleasure 
 
 ', and not good, will keep and train the body of his servant. Will 
 
 he not choose a beloved who is delicate rather than sturdy and 
 
 strong ? One brought up in shady bowers and not in the bright 
 
 sun, not practised' in manly exercises or dried by perspiration, 
 
 but knowing only a soft and luxurious diet, instead of the hues 
 
 f . of health having only the colours of paint aiid ornament, and 
 
 '^ the rest of a piece ?— such a life as any one can imagine and 
 
 which I need not detail at length. But I may sum up all that 
 
 #1 have to say in a word, and pass on. Such a person in war, 
 
 ror in any of the great exigeiicies in life, will be the anxiety of 
 
 his friends and also of his lover, and certainly not the terror of 
 
 i"* his enemies ; which nobody can deny. 
 
 *' And now let us tell what advantage or disadvantage the be- 
 «"' loved will receive from the guardianship and society of his lover 
 lin, the matter of his possessions ; that is the next point to 
 mcbnsider. All men will see, and the lover above all men, that 
 tfes own first wish is to deprive his beloved of his dearest and 
 lis'^est and most sacred possessions, father, mother, kindred, friends, 
 liiil^whom he thinks may be hinderers or reprovers of their sweet 
 lirfSverse ; he will even cast a jealous eye upon his gold and silver 
 (iJiftotherproperty, because these make him a less easy and manage- 
 ilkffie prey, and hence he is of necessity displeased at the possession 
 (jffthem and rejoices at their loss; and he would like him to be 
 
I 
 
 574 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 wifeless, childless, homeless, as well ; and the longer the better, 
 for the longer he is all this, the longer he will enjoy him. 
 
 There are some sort of animals, such as flatterers, which are 
 dangerous and mischievous enough, and yet nature has mingled ^ 
 a temporary pleasure and grace in their composition. You may 
 say that a courtesan is hurtful, and disapprove of such c/eaturs^ 
 and their practices, and yet for the time they are very pleasant. 
 But the lover is not only mischievous to his love, he is alsq L 
 extremely unpleasant to live with. Equals, as the proverb says, ,L 
 delight in equals j equality of years inclines them to the same ;, 
 pleasures, and similarity Begets friendship, and yet you may havg / L 
 more than enough even of this, and compulsion is always said to .'. 
 be grievous. Now the lover is not only unlike his beloved^ bul^V „ 
 he forces himself upon him. For he is old and his love is youngy ., 
 and neither day nor night will he leave him if he can help; and, ,j 
 necessity and the sting of desire drive"' him on, and allure him\ .,, 
 with the pleasure which he receives from seeing, hearing, touch-^\ [ 
 ing, perceiving him. And therefore he is delighted to fasten V 
 upon him and to minister to him. But what pleasure or co?i- j 
 solation can the beloved be receiving all this time ? Must he jvl 
 not feel the extremity of disgust when he looks at an old Qii 
 withered face and the remainder to match, which even in a lij 
 description is not agreeable, and quite detestable when you are JUsui 
 forced into daily contact with them ; moreover he is jealously lit, ' 
 watched and guarded against everything and everybody, and has 'fc 
 to hear misplaced and exaggerated praises of himself, and censures* fej 
 as inappropriate, which are quite intolerable when the man is ^ ^nij, 
 sober; and, besides being intolerable, are published all over the 
 world in all their shamelessness and wearisbmeness when he 
 is drunk. a 
 
 And not only while his love continues is he mischievous an(f« 
 unpleasant, but when his love ceases he becomes a perfidious* 
 enemy of him on whom he showered his oaths and prayers and 3i 
 promises, and yet could hardly prevail upon him to tolerate the 
 tedium of his company even from motives of interest. The 
 time of payment arrives, and now he is the servant of anothi 
 master ; instead of love and infatuation, wisdom and temperan| 
 are his bosom's lords ; the man has changed, but the beloved-is- 
 not aware of this ; he asks for a return and recalls to his recol^^ 
 
 
PHAEDRUS. 575 
 
 lection former acts and words, for he fancies that he is talking 
 to the same person, and the other, being asnamed and not having 
 the courage to tell him that he has changed, and not knowing how 
 to make good his promises, has now grown virtuous and tem- 
 perate J he does not want to do as he did or to be as he was before. 
 Therefore he runs away and can but end a defaulter j quick as 
 the spinning of a teetotum^ he changes pursuit into flight, and the 
 other is compelled to follow him with passion and imprecation, 
 not knowing that he ought never from the first to have accepted 
 a demented lover instead of a sensible non-lover j and that in 
 making such a choice he was yielding to a faithless, morose, en- 
 vious, disagreeable beings hurtful to his estate, hurtful to his 
 bodily constitution, and still more hurtful to the cultivation of 
 his mind, which is anlhfver will be the most honourable posses- 
 sion both of gods and r^aR. Consider this, fair youth, and know 
 that in the friendship o^me lover there is no real kindness ; he 
 has an appetite and wants to feed upon you. 
 
 'As wolves love lambs so lovers love their loves.' 
 
 But, as I said before, J am speaking in verse, and therefore I 
 had better make an end j that is enough. 
 
 Fhaedr. I thought that you were only half-way and were going to 
 make a similar speech about all the advantages of accepting the 
 aon-lover. Why don't you go on ? 
 
 Soc. Does not your simplicity observe that I have got out of 
 
 dithyrambics into epics; and if my censure was in verse, what 
 
 will my praise be ? Don't you see that I am already overtaken, 
 
 by the Nymphs to whom you have mischievously exposed me ? 
 
 And therefore I will only add that the non-lover has all the 
 
 advantages in which the lover is charged with being deficient. 
 
 nd now I will say no more; there has been enough said of 
 
 ith of them. Leaving the tale to its fate, I will cross the 
 
 iver and make the best of my way home, lest a worse thin^ 
 
 € inflicted upon me by you. 
 
 \thaedr. Not yet, Socrates; not until the heat of the day has 
 lassed; don't you see that the hour is noon, and the sun is 
 standing over our heads ? Let us rather stay and talk over what 
 
 iias been said, and then return in the cool. 
 ** Lit. an oyster-shell. 
 
576 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 Soc. Your lcjve_ofjdiscourse, Phaedrus, is^^sugerhuman, simply 
 marvellous, and I do not believe that there is any one of your 
 contemporaries who in one way or another has either made or 
 been the cause of others making an equal number of speeches. 
 I would except Simmias the Theban, but all the rest are far 
 behind you. And now I do verily believe that you have been the 
 cause of another. 
 
 Fhaedr. That is good news. But what do you mean? 
 
 Soc. I mean to say that as I was about to cross the stream 
 the usual sign was given to me ; that is the sign which never bids 
 but always forbids me to do what I am going to do; and I 
 thought that I heard a voice saying in my ear that I had been 
 guilty of impiety, and that I must not go away until I had 
 made an atonement.^ Now I am a diviner, though not a very 
 good one, but I have enough religion, for my own needs, as 
 you .might say of a bad writer — his writing is good enough for 
 him. And, O my friend, how singularly prophetic is the soul! 
 For at the time I had a sort of misgiving, and, like Ibycus, 'I 
 was troubled,-" and I suspected that I might be receiving honour 
 from men at the expense of sinning against the gods. ' Now' I 
 am aware of the error. 
 
 Phaedr. What error ? 
 
 Soc. That was a dreadful speech which you brought with you, 
 ' and you made me utter one as bad. j 
 
 Fhaedr. How was that ? %. 
 
 Soc. Foolish, I say, and in a degree impious ; and what can be 
 more dreadful than this ? i 
 
 Phaedr. Nothing, if the speech was really such as you describe. ' 
 
 Soc. Well, and is not Eros, the son of Aphrodite, a mighty god? 
 
 Phaedr. That is the language of mankind about Mm. 4 
 
 Soc. But that was not the language of Lysias' speech any more 
 than of that other speech uttered through my lips when undeJ 
 the influence of your enchantments, and which I may call yours ; 
 and not mine. For love, if he be a god or divine,. cannot be evil. J 
 _, Yet this was the error of both our speeches. There was also 
 a solemnity about them which was trqly charming ; /they had no' 
 
 i truth or honesty in them, and yet they pretended to be somethi» 
 hoping to succeed in deceiving the manikins of earth and bej 
 famous among them. And therefore I must have a purgatiOTJ 
 
PHAEDRUS. 577 
 
 And now I bethink me of an ancient purgationof mythological 
 errorwhich^as devised, not by Homer, for he never haSTlie v^it 
 to discover why he was blind, but by Stesichorus, who was a 
 philosopher and knew the reason why ; and, therefore, when he 
 lost his eyes, for that was the penalty which was inflicted upon 
 him for reviling the lovely Helen, he purged himself. And the 
 purgation was a recantation, which began with the words : — 
 
 ' That was a lie of mine when I said that thou never embarkedst on the 
 swift ships, or wentest to the walls of Troy.' 
 
 And when he had completed his poem, which is called 'the 
 recantation,' immediately his sight returned to him. Now I will 
 be wiser than either Stesichorus or Homer, in that I am going to 
 make a recantation before I lose mine ; and this I will attempt, 
 not as before, veiled and ashamed, but with forehead bold 
 and bare. 
 
 Phaedr. There is nothing which I should like better to hear. 
 
 Soc. Only think, my good Phaedrus, what an utter want of 
 delicacy was shown in the two discourses j I mean, in my own 
 and in the one which you recited out of the book. Would not 
 any one who was himself of a noble and gentle nature, and who 
 loved or ever had loved a nature like his own, when, he heard us 
 speaking of the petty causes of lovers' jealousies, and of their 
 exceeding animosities, and the injuries which they do to their 
 beloved, have imagined that our ideas of love were taken from 
 some haunt of sailors to which good manners were unlinown — he 
 would certainly never have admitted the justice of our censure ? 
 
 Fhaedr. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. Therefore, because I blush at the thought of this person, 
 and also because I am afraid of the god Love, I desire to wash 
 down that gall and vinegar with a wholesome draught ; and I would 
 counsel Lysias not to delay, but to write another discourse, which 
 shall prove ' ceteris paribus' that the lover ought to be accepted 
 rather than the non-lover. 
 
 Thaedr. Be assured that he shall. You shall speak the praises 
 of the lover^ and Lysias shall be made to write them in another 
 discourse. I will compel him to do this. 
 
 ! Soc. You will be true to your nature in that, and therefore 
 I believe you. 
 
 p o 
 
578 PHAEDRUS, 
 
 Phaedr. Speakj and fear not. 
 
 Soc. But where is the fair youth whom I was addressing, and 
 who ought to listen^ in order that he may not be misled by one 
 side before he has heard the other ? 
 
 Phaedr. He is close at hand, and always at your service. 
 
 Soc. Know then, fair youth, that the former discourse was that 
 of a finely-scented gentleman, who is all myrrh and fragrance, : 
 named Phaedrus, the son of Vain Man. And this is the recant- 
 ation of Stesichorus the pious, who comes from the town of 
 Desire, and is to the following effect: That was a lie in which 
 I said that the beloved ought to accept the non-lover and reject 
 the lover, because the one is sane, and the other mad. For that 
 might have been truly said if madness were simply an evil j but 
 I there is also a madness which is the special gift of heaven, and 
 the source of the chiefest blessings among men. (} For prophecy is 
 a madness, and the prophetess at Delphi and the priestesses cf 
 Dodona, when out of their senses have conferred great benefits 
 on Hellas, both in public and private life, but when in their senses 
 few or none. And I might also tell you how the Sibyl and other 
 persons, who have had the gift of prophecy, have told the future 
 of many an one and guided them aright ; but that is obvious, and 
 would be tedious. 
 
 There will be more reason in appealing to the^ ancient inventors 
 of names, who, if they had thought madness a disgrace or dis- 
 honour, would never have called prophecy, which, is the noblest 
 of arts, by the very same name {^o.vtik\ naviKj)) as madness, thus 
 inseparably connecting themj but they must have thought that 
 there was an inspired madness which was no disgrace j for the 
 two words, fiavTiKTi and naviKt), are really the same, and the letter 
 T is only a modern and tasteless insertion. And this is confirmed 
 by the name which they gave to the rational investigation of 
 futurity, whether made by the help of birds or other signs ; this as 
 supplying from the reasoning faculty insight and information to 
 human thought {vovs and toropto), they originally termed olovoumiq, 
 but the word has been lately altered and made sonorous by the 
 modern introduction of the letter Omega (olovournKri and olmv- 
 to-nKTJ), and in proportion as {fjtavuKri or) prophecy is higher, and 
 more perfect than divination both in name and reality, in the 
 same proportion as the ancients testify, is madness superior to 
 
PHAEDRUS: 579 
 
 a sane mind {<Tciii<ppo<ruvri), for the one is only of human, but the\ 
 "I other of divine origin.- Again, where plagues and mightiest woes V 
 It have bred in a race, owing to some ancient wrath, there madness, J, 
 
 lifting up her voice and flying to prayers and rites, has come to 
 " the rescue of those who are in need j and he who has part in this 
 "' gift, and is truly possessed and duly out of his mind, is by the 
 Wuse of purifications and mysteries made whole and delivered from 
 "t evil, future as well as present, and has a release from the calamity 
 K which afflicts him. ^There is also a third kind of madness, which 
 i" is a possession of the Muses j this enters into a delicate and 
 "i' virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyric and all 
 If other numbers ; with these adorning the myriad actions of ancient 
 nil' heroes for the instruction of posterity. But he who, not being 
 ^. inspired and having no touch of madness in his soul, comes to the 
 1^ dpor and thinks that he will get into the temple by the help of art 
 *1; -r-he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted j the sane man is 
 ill: nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the madman. _$ j 
 iM I might tell of many other noble deeds which have sprung 
 liffrom inspired madness. And therefore, let no one frighten or 
 tr flutter us by saying that temperate love is preferable to mad 
 lif love, but let him further show, if he would carry oflF the palm, 
 
 that love is not sent by the gods for any good to lover or beloved. 
 lit And we, on our part, will prove in answer to him that the mad- 
 Bfj ness of love is the greatest of heaven's blessings, and the proof 
 kl shall be one which the wise will receive, and the witling dis- 
 |jj; believe. And, first of all, let us inquire what is the truth about \ 
 ^,, the affections and actions of the soul, divine as well as human. ]^ 
 , j And thus we begin our proof: fX 
 
 lji> The soul is immortal, for that is immortal which is ever iri>s 
 i(^ motion J but that which moves and is moved by another, in^ 
 a ceasing to move ceases also to live. Therefore, only that which 
 j,|is self-moving, never failing of self, never cease's to move, and is 
 j^the fountain and beginning of motion to all that moves besides. 
 ^' Now, the begimiing is unbegotten, for that which is begotten "has^ 
 ^jj. a^ginnii5g7^ut4he_b£ginflij:gjia^^ 
 
 ij Ding were begotten of something, that would have no beginning. \ 
 Lfiut that, which is unbegotten must also be indestructible; for if f 
 J beginning were destroyed, there could be no beginning out of any- \ 
 1 thing, nor anything out of a beginning ; and all things must have 1 
 '^L p P a ^ 
 
58o PHAEDRUS. 
 
 a beginnin g. And therefore the self-moving is the beginning 
 of motion ; and this can neither be destroyed nor begotten, for in 
 that' case the whole heavens and all generation would collapse and 
 stand still, and never again have motion or birth. But if the self- 
 moving is immortal, he who affirms that self-motion is the very 
 idea and essence of the soul will not be put to confusion. For the 
 body which is moved from without is soulless j but that which is 
 moved from within has a soul, and this is involved in the nature 
 of the soul. But if the soul be truly affirmed to be the self- 
 moving, then must she also be without begiarnng, and immortal. 
 Enough of the soul's immortality. 
 
 'Her form is a theme of divine and large -xliscourse; human 
 language may, however, speak of TMs» briefi«(Hfed,<i|i- a figure. 
 Let our figure be of a composite nature — a pair of WinEed_ horses 
 and a charioteer. Now the winged horses ancft-the challQte.ak 
 of the gods are all of them noble, and of noble breed, while odrs 
 are mixed ; and we have a charioteer who drives them in a pair, 
 and one of them is noble and of noble origin, and the other 
 is ignoble and of ignoble origin; and, as might be expected, there 
 is a great deal of trouble in managing them. I will endeavour to 
 explain to you in what way the mortal differs from the immortal 
 creature. The soul or animate being has the care of the inanimate, 
 and traverses the whdte heaven in divers forms appearing;— 
 when perfect and fully winged she soars upward, and is the ruler 
 of the universe ; while the imperfect soul loses her feather^, and 
 drooping in her flight at la:st settles on the solid ground- 
 there, finding a home, she receives an earthly frame which ap- 
 pears to be self-moved, but is really moved by her power; and 
 this composition of soul and body is called a living and mortal 
 creature. For no such union can be reasonably believed, or at all 
 proved to be other than mortal; although fancy may imagij« 
 a god whom, not having seen nor surely known, we invent — such 
 an one, an immortal creature having a body, and having also a soul 
 which have been united in all time. Let that, however, be as 
 God wills, and be spoken of acceptably to him. But Ae reason 
 
 \why the soul loses her feathers should be explained, and is 
 
 'as follows: 
 
 The wing is intended to soar aloft and carry that which gravH 
 tates downwards into the upper region, which is the dwelling of 
 
PHAEDRUS. 581 
 
 the gods ; and this is that element of the body which is most akin 
 to the divine. Now the divine is beauty,%visdom, goodness, and 
 the like J and by these the wing of the soul is nourished, and 
 grows apace ; but when fed upon evil and foulness, and the like, 
 wastes and falls away. Zeus, the mighty lord holding the reins 
 of a winged chopiot, leads the way in heaven, ordering all and 
 caring for all j and there follows him the heavenly array of gods 
 and demi-gods, divided into eleven bands j for only Hestia is left 
 at home in the house of heaven; but the rest of the twelve 
 greater deities march in their appointed order. And they see in 
 the interior of heaven many blessed, sights j and there are ways to 
 and fro, along which the happy gods are passing, each one fulfilling 
 his own work ; and any one may follow who pleases, for jealousy 
 has no place in the heavenly choir. This is within the heaveti.(^ 
 But when they go to feast and festival, then they move right up^ 
 the s'teep ascent, and mount the top of the dome of heaven. Now 
 the chariots of the gods, self-balanced, upward glide in obedience 
 to the rein : but the others have a difSculty, for the steed who has 
 evil in him, if he has not been properly trained by the charioteer, 
 .gravitates and inclines and sinks towards the earth: — and this 
 is the hour of agony and extremest conflict of the soul. For 
 the immortal souls, when they are at the end of their course, 
 go out and stand upon the back of heaven, and the revolution of 
 the spheres carries them round, and they behold the world beyond. ' 
 Now of the heaven which is above the heavens, no earthly poet 
 has sung or ever will sing in a worthy manner. But I must tell, 
 for I am bound to speak truly when speaking of the truth. The 
 Colourless and formless and intangible essence is visible to the 
 mind, which is the only lord of the soul. Circling around this 
 in the region above the heavens is the place of true knowledge. 
 And as the divine intelligence, and that of every other soul 
 which is rightly nourished, is fed upon mind and pure knowledge, 
 such an intelligent soUl is glad at once more beholding being.; 
 and feeding on the sight of truth is replenished, until the revo- 
 lution of the worlds brings her round again to the same place* 
 During the revolution she beholds justice, temperance, and know- 
 ledge absolute, not in the form of generation or of relation, which 
 men call existence, but knowledge absolute in existence absolute ; 
 and beholding otlj^ existences in like manner, and feeding upon 
 
582 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 them, she passes down into the interior of the heavens and 
 returns home, and there the charioteer putting up his horses at 
 the stall, gives them ambrosia to eat and nectar to drink. 
 
 This is the life of the godsj but of other souls, that which 
 follows God best and is likest to him lifts the head of the 2^ 
 charioteer into the outer world, and is carried round in the 
 revolution, troubled indeed by the steeds, and beholding true 
 being, but hardly j another rises and falls, and sees, and again 
 fails to see by reason of the unruliness of the steeds. Thg rest 
 of the souls are also longing after the upper world and they all 
 follow, but not being strong enough they sink into the gulph 
 as they are carried round, plunging, treading on one another, 
 striving to be first j and there is confusion and the extremity 
 of effort, and many of them are lamed or have their wings 
 broken through the ill-driving of the charioteers ; and all of them 
 after a fruitless toil go away without being initiated into the 
 mysteries of being, and are nursed with the food of opinion. , 
 The reason of their great desire to behold the plain of truth is 
 that the food which is suited to the highest part of the soul 
 comes out of that meadow; and the wing on which the soul 
 soars is nourished with this. And there is a law of the goddess 
 Retribution, that the soul which attains any vision of truth in 
 company with the god is preserved from harm until the next 
 period, and he who always attains is always unharmed. But when 
 she is unable to follow, and fails to behold the vision of truth, 
 and through some ill-hap sinks beneath the double load of for- 
 getfulness and vice, and her feathers fall from her and she drops 
 to earth, then the law ordains that this soul shall in the first 
 generation pass, not into that of any other animal, but only of 
 man; and the soul which has seen most of truth shall come to 
 the birth as a philosopher, or artist, or musician, or lover ; that 
 which has seen truth in the second degree shall be a righteous 
 king or warrior or lord ; the soul which is of the third class 
 shall be a politician, or economist, or trader; the fourth shall 
 be a lover of gymnastic toils, or a physician ; the fifth a prophet 
 or hierophant; tojjifi^u^th a^^oet_oiJjnitatQ]iwiU^^ 
 to the seventh the life of an artisan or husbandmajTjrTo-tte 
 eighth that of a sophist or demagogue ; to the ninth that of a 
 tyrant ; — all these are states of probation, in which he who lives 
 
PHAEDRUS. 583 
 
 .tighteously improves, and he who lives imrighteously deteriorates 
 his lot. / 
 
 Ten thousand years must elapse before the soul can return to 
 the place from whence she came, for she cannot grow her wings 
 
 9 in less; only the soul of a philosopher, guileless and true, or 
 the soul of a lover, who is not without philosophy, may acquire 
 wings in the third recurring period of a thousand years : and if 
 they choose this life three times in succession, then they have 
 their wings given them, and go away at the end of three thousand 
 years. But the others receive judgment when they have com- 
 pleted their first life, and after the judgment they go, some of 
 them .to the houses of correction which are under the earth, and 
 are punished; others to some place in heaven whither they are 
 lightly borne by justice, and there they live in a manner worthy 
 of the life which they led here when in the form of men. And 
 at the end of the first thousand years the good souls and also 
 the evil souls both come to cast lots and choose^their second 
 life, and they may take any that they like. And then the soul 
 of the, man may pass into the life of a beast, or from the beast 
 again into the man. But the soul of him who has never seen the 
 truth will not pass into the human form, for man ougl^.to have- 
 intelligence, as they say, 'secundum speciem,' proceeding from 
 many particulars of sense to one conception of reason ; and this 
 is the recollection of those things which our soul once saw when 
 in company with God — when looking down from above on that 
 which we now call being and upwards towards the true being. And 
 therefore the mind of the philosopher alone has wings ; and this 
 is just, for he is always, according to the measure of his abilities, 
 clinging in recollection to those things in which God abides, and 
 in beholding which He is what he is. And he who employs 
 aright these memories is ever being initiated into perfect mys- 
 teries and alone becomes truly perfect. But, as he forgets earthly 
 
 ' interests and is rapt in the divine, the vulgar deem him mad, and 
 
 ' rebuke him ; they do not see that he is inspired. ^; "^ ^ 
 
 Thus far I have been Speaking of the fourth and last kind of 
 madness, which is imputed to him who, when he sees the beauty 
 of earth,- is transported with the recollection of the true beauty; 
 
 . he would like to fly away, but he cannot ; he is like a bird flutter- 
 ing and looking upward and careless of the world below; and 
 
584 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 he is therefore esteemed mad. And I have shown that this is 
 of all inspirations the noblest and best, and comes of the best, 
 
 \ and that he who has part or lot in this madness is called a lover 
 /of the beautiful. For, as has been already said, every soul offe 
 iman has in the way of nature beheld true being; this was the 
 condition of her passing into the form of man. But all men do 25 
 not easily recall the things of the other world ; they may have 
 seen them for a short time only, or they may have been unfor- 
 tunate when they fell to earth, and may have lost the memory 
 of the holy things which they saw there through some evil and 
 corrupting association. Few there are who retain the remem- 
 brance of them sufficiently; and they, when they behold any 
 image of that other world, are rapt in amazement ; but they are 
 ignorant of what this means, because they have no clear percep- 
 tions. For there is no light in the earthly copies of justice or 
 temperance or any of the higher qualities which are precious 
 to souls: (they are seen but through a glass dimlyt and there 
 are few who, going to the images, behold in them the realities, 
 
 ; and they only with difficulty. They might have seen beauty 
 shining in brightness, when, with the happy band following 
 in the train of Zeus, as we philosophers did, or with other gods 
 as others did, they saw a vision and were initiated into most 
 blessed mysteries, which we celebrated in our state of innocence ; 
 and having no feeling of evils as yet to come ; beholding appari- 
 tions innocent and simple and calm and happy as in a mystery ; 
 shining in pure light, pure ourselves and not yet enshrined in 
 that living tomb which we carry about, now that we are im- 
 prisoned in the body, as in an oyster-shell. Let me lingerthus -A 
 long over the memory of scenes which have passed away. "^ 
 
 But of beauty, I repeat again that we saw her there shming 
 in company with, the celestial forms; and coming to earth we 
 find her here too, shining in clearness through the clearest 
 aperture of sense. For sight is the keenest of our bodily senses ; 
 though not by that is wisdom seen^ for her loveliness would have 
 been transporting if there had been a visible image of her, and 
 this is true of the loveliness of the other ideas as well. But 
 beauty only has this portion, that she is at once the loveliest and 
 also the most apparent. Now he who has not been lately initiated 
 or who has become corrupted, is not easily carried out of this 
 
PHAEDRUS. 585 
 
 world to the sight df absolute beauty in the other ; he looks only 
 at that which has the name of beauty in this world, and instead 
 of being awed at the sight of her, like a brutish beast he rushes 
 I on to enjoy and beget j he takes wantonness to his bosom, and is 
 not afraid or ashamed of pursuing pleasure in violation of nature; 
 But he whose initiation is recent, and who has been the spectator 
 of many glories in the other world, is amazed when he sees any 
 one having a godlike face or form, which is the expression or 
 imitation of divine beauty j and at first a shudder runs through 
 him, and some 'misgiving' of a former world steals over himj 
 then looking upon the face of his beloved as of a god he 
 reverences him, and if he were not afraid of being thought a 
 downright madman, he would sacrifice to his beloved as to the 
 image of a god; then as he gazes on him there is a sort of 
 reaction, and the shudder naturally passes into an unusual heat 
 and perspiration i for, as he receives the effluence of beauty 
 through the eyes, the wing moistens and he warms. And as he 
 warms, the parts out of which the wing grew, and which had been 
 hitherto closed and rigid, and had prevented the wing from 
 shooting forth are melted, and as nourishment streams upon him, 
 the lower. end of the wing begins to swell and grow from the 
 root upwards, extending under the whole soul — for once the whole 
 was winged. Now during this process the whole soul is in 
 a state of eifervescence and irritation, like the state of irritation 
 and pain in the gums at the time of cutting teeth ; in like manner 
 the soul when beginning to grow wings has inflammation and 
 pains and ticklings, and when looking at the beauty of youth 
 she receives the sensible warm traction of particles which flow 
 towards her, therefore called attraction (Ijnepos), and is refreshed 
 and warmed by them, and then she ceases from her pain with joy. 
 But when she is separated and her moisture fails, then the orifices 
 of the passages out of which the wing shoots dry up and close, 
 and intercept the germ of the wing; which, being shut up 
 within in company with desire, throbbing as with the pulsations 
 of an artery, pricks the aperture which is nearest, until at length 
 the entire soul is pierced and maddened and pained, and at the re- 
 collection of beauty is again delighted. And from both of them to- 
 gether the soul is oppressed at the strangeness of her condition, and 
 is in a great strait and excitement, and in her madness can neither 
 
586 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 sleep by night nor abide in her place by day. And wherever she 
 thinks that she will behold the beautiful one, thither in her desire 
 she runs. And when she has seen him, and drunk rivers of 
 desire, her constraint is loosened, and she is refreshed, and has no 
 more pangs and pains; and this is the sweetest of all pleasures at the -, 
 time, and is the reason why the soul of the lover never forsakes 25 
 his beautiful one, whom he esteems above all ; he has forgotten 
 his mother and brethren and companions, and he thinks nothing 
 of the neglect and loss of his property ; and as to the rules anfd 
 proprieties of life, on which he formerly prided himself, he now 
 despises them, and is ready to sleep and serve, wherever he is 
 allowed, as near as he can to his beautiful one who is not only the 
 object of his worship, but the only physician who can heal him in 
 his extreme agony. And this state, my dear imaginary youth, is' by 
 men called love, and among the gods has a name which you, in 
 your simplicity, may be inclined to mock; there are two lines 
 in honour of love in the Homeric Apocrypha in which the name 
 occurs. One of them is rather outrageous, and is not quite 
 metrical ; they are as follow : — 
 
 ' Mortals call him Eros (love), 
 But the immortals call him Pteros (fluttering dove), 
 Because fluttering of wings is a necessity to him.' 
 
 You may believe this or not as you like. At any rate the loves 
 of lovers and their causes are such as I have described. 
 
 Now the lover who is the attendant of Zeus' is better able 
 to bear the winged god, and can endure a heavier burden ; but the 
 attendants and companions of Ares, when under the influence 
 of love, if they fancy that they have been at all wronged, are 
 ready to kill and put an end to themselves and their beloved. 
 And in like manner he who follows in the train of any other god 
 honours him, and imitates him as far as he is able while the im- 
 pression lasts ; and this is his way of life and the manner of his 
 behaviour to his beloved and to every other in the first period 
 of his earthly existence. Every one chooses the object of his aflTec- 
 tions according to his character, and this he makesTiia god, and 
 fashions and adorns as a sort of image which he is to, fall down 
 and worship. The followers of Zeus desire that their beloved 
 should have a soul like him; and, therefore, they seek some 
 
PHAEDRJJS. 587 
 
 philosophical and imperial nature, and when they have found him 
 i and loved him, they do all they can to create such a nature in him, 
 '' and if they have no experience hitherto, they learn of any one 
 who can teach them, and themselves follow in the same way. And 
 133 they have the less difficulty in finding the nature of their own god 
 b ■ in themselves, because they have been compelled to gaze intensely 
 r on him; their recollection clings to him, and they become possessed 
 by him, and receive his chara^er and ways, as far as man can par- 
 ticipate in God. These |hey attribute to the beloved, and they 
 love him all the more, and if they draw inspiration from Zeus, 
 like the Ba,cchic Nyjriphs, they pour this out, upon him in order to 
 make him as like their god as possible. But those who are the fol- 
 lowers of Hera seek a royal love, and when they have found him 
 they do the same with him j and in like manner the followers of 
 Apollo, and of every other god walking in the ways of their god, 
 seek a love who is to be like their god, and when they have 
 found him, they themselves imitate their god, and persuade their 
 love' to do the same, and bring him into harmony with the form 
 apa ways of the god as far as they can ; for they have no feelings 
 of envy or mean enmity towards their beloved, but they do their 
 utmost to create in him the greatest likeness of themselves and 
 the god whom they honour. And the desire of the lover, if 
 eflFected, and the initiation of which I speak into the mysteries 
 of true love, is thus fair and blissful to the beloved when he is 
 chosen by the lover who is driven mad by love. Now the beloved 
 or chosen one 'is taken captive in the following manner : — 
 
 As I said at the beginning of this tale, I divided each soul into 
 three parts, ' two of them liaving the forms of horses and the 
 third that of a charioteer ; and one of the horses was good and 
 the other bad, but I have not yet explained the virtue and vice 
 of either, and to that I will now proceed. The well-conditioned 
 horse is erect and "well-formed ; he has a lofty neck and an aquiline 
 nose, and his colour is white, and he has dark eyes and is a 
 lover of honour and modesty and temperance, and the follower 
 of true glory; he needs not the touch of the whip, but is guided 
 by word and admonition only. Whereas the other is a large mis- 
 shapen animal, put together anyhow; he has a strong short neck; he 
 is flat-faced and of a dark colour, grey-eyed and bloodshot, the 
 mate of insolence and pride, shag-eared, deaf, hardly yielding. 
 
 r 
 
588 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 to blow or spur. Now when the charioteer beholds the vision of 
 love, and has his whole soul warmed with sense, and is full of 
 tickling and desire, the obedient steed then as always under ^5 
 the government of shame, refrains himself from leaping on the 
 beloved j but the other, instead of heeding the blows of the whip, ''\ 
 prances away and gives all manner of trouble to his companion 
 and to the charioteer, and urges them on towards the beloved , 
 and reminds them of the joys of love. They at first indignantly 
 oppose him and will not be urged on to do terrible and un- 
 lawful deeds j but at last, when there is no end of evil, they 
 yield and . suffer themselves to be led on to do as he bids them. 
 And now they are at the spot and behold the flashing beauty 
 of the beloved. But when th^ charioteer sees that, his memory 
 is carried to the true beauty, and he beholds her in company 
 with Modesty set in her holy place. And when he sees her he 
 is afraid and falls back in adoration, and in falling is compelled 
 to pull back the reins, which he does with such force as to bring 
 both the steeds on their haunches, the one willing and unresist- 
 ing, the unruly one very unwilling j and when they have gone 
 back a little, the one is overflowing with shame and wonder, 
 and pours forth rivers of perspiration over the entire soul; the 
 other, when the pain is over which the bridle and the fall had 
 given him, having with difficulty taken breath, is full of wrath and 
 reproaches, which he heaps upon the charioteer and his fellow- 
 steed, as though from want of courage and manhood they had 
 been false to their agreement and guilty of desertion. And, when 
 they again decline, he forces them on, and will scarce yield to 
 their request that he would wait until another time. Returning 
 at the appointed hour, they make as if they had forgotten, 
 and he reminds them, fighting and neighing and dragging them, 
 until at length he on the same thoughts intent, forces them; to 
 draw near. And when they are near he stoops his head and 
 puts up his tail, and takes the bit in his mouth and pulls shame- 
 lessly. Then the charioteer is worse off than ever; he drops 
 at the very start, and with still greater violence draws the bit 
 out of the teeth of the wild steed and covers his abusive tongue 
 and jaws with blood, and forces his legs and haunches to the 
 ground and punishes him sorely. And when this has happened 
 several times and the villain has ceased from his wanton way, 
 
PHAEDRUS. 589 
 
 he is tamed and humbled, and follows the will of the cliarioteer, 
 and when he sees the beautiful one he ^s ready to die of fear. 
 
 6 And from that time forward the soul of the lover follows the 
 beloved in modesty and holy fear. 
 
 15 And so the beloved who, like a god, has received every true 
 and loyal service from his lover, not in pretence but in reality, 
 being also himself of a nature' friendly to, his admirer, if in 
 former days he has blushed to own his passion and turned away 
 his lover, because his youthful companions or others slanderously 
 told him that he would be disgraced, now as years advance, at 
 the appointed age and time is led to receive him into com- 
 munion. For fate which has ordained that there shair-be no 
 friendship among the evil has also ordained that there shall ever 
 be friendship among the good. And when he has received him 
 into communion and intimacy, then the beloved is amazed at 
 the good will of the lover ; he recognises that the inspired friend 
 is worth all other friendship or kinships, which have nothing of 
 friendship in them in comparison. And as he continues to feel 
 this and approaches and embraces him, in gymnastic exercises 
 and.at other times of meeting, then does .the fountain of that 
 stream, which Zeus when he was in love with Ganymede called 
 desire, overflow upon the lover, and some enters into his soul, 
 and some when he is filled flows out again, and as a breeze 
 or an echo leaps from the smooth rocks and rebounds to them 
 again, so does the stream of beauty, passing the eyes which are 
 the natural doors and windows of the soul, return again to the 
 beautiful onej there arriving and fluttering the passages of the 
 wings, and watering them and inclining them to grow, and 
 filling the soul of the beloved also with love. And thus he loves, 
 but he knows not whatj he does not understand and cannot 
 explain his own state; he appears to have caught the infection 
 of another's eye; the lover is his mirror in whom he is 
 beholding himself, but he is not aware of this. When he is with 
 the lover, both cease from their pain, but when he is away then 
 he longs as he is longed for, and has love's image, love for love 
 (Anteros) lodging in his breast, which he calls and deems not 
 love but friendship only, and his desire is as the desire of the 
 other, but weaker ; he wants to see him, touch him, kiss, embrace 
 him, and. not long afterwards his desire is accomplished. Now, 
 
590 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 < 
 
 when they meet, the wanton steed of the lover has a word t 
 say to the charioteer; he would like to have a little pleasur 
 as a return for many pains, but the wanton steed of the belove 
 says not a word, for he is bursting with passion which he undea 
 stands not, but he throws his arms round the lover and embrace 
 him as his dearest friend ; and, when they are side by side, h 
 is not in a state in which he can refuse the lover anything, i 
 he ask, him, while his fellow-fiteed and the charioteer oppose hir 
 with shame and reason. After this their happiness depends upoi 
 their self-control; if the better elements of the mind whic 
 lead to order and philosophy prevail, then they pass their life i: 
 this world in happiness and harmony — ^^masters of themselves an 
 orderly — enslaving the vicious and emancipating the virtuou 
 elements ; and when the end comes, being light and ready to fl 
 away, they conquer in one of the three heavenly or truly Olympia 
 victories ; nor can human discipline or divine inspiration confe 
 any greater blessing on man than this. If, on the other hanc 
 they leave philosophy and lead the lower life of ambition, ther 
 probably in the dark or in some other careless hour, the tw 
 wanton animals take the two souls when oflf their guard and brin 
 them together, and they accomplish that desire of their hearts whic 
 to the many is bliss ; and this having once enjoyed they continu 
 to enjoy, yet rarely because they have not the approval of th 
 whole souL They too are'dear, but not so dear to one anothe 
 as the others, either at the time of their love or afterward 
 They consider that they have given and taken from eac 
 other the most sacred pledges, and they may not break thei 
 and fall into enmity. At last -they pass out of the bod] 
 unwinged, but eager to soar, and thus obtain no mean n 
 ward of love and madness. For those who have once begun th 
 heavenward pilgrimage may not go down again to darkness an 
 the journey beneath the earth, but they live in light always 
 happy companions' in their pilgrimage, and when the time come 
 at which they receive their wings they have the same plumag 
 because of their love. 
 
 Thus great are the heavenly blessings which the friendship c 
 a lover will confer on you, my youth. Whereas the attachmei 
 of the non-lover which is .just a vulgar compound of temperanc 
 ahd niggardly earthly ways and motives, will breed meanness- 
 
PHAEDRUS. 
 
 591 
 
 praised by the vulgar as virtue in your inmost soul; will send 
 *you bowling round the earth during a fferiod of nine thousand 
 years, and leave you a fool in the world below. ^>^^^ - 
 
 And thus, dear Eros, I have made and paid my recantation, 
 as^well as I could and as fairly as I could; the poetical figures 
 I was compelled to use, because Phaedrus would have them'. And 
 now forgive the past and accept the present, and be gracious 
 and merciful to me, and do not deprive me of sight or take 
 from me the art of love, but grant that I may be yet more 
 esteemed in the eyes of the fair. And if Phaedrus or I myself 
 said anything objectionable in our first speeches, blame Lysias, 
 who is the father of the brat, and let us have no more of his 
 progeny ; bid him study philosophy, like his brother Polemarchus ; 
 and then his lover Phaedrus will no longer halt betwe,en two, but 
 dedicate himself wholly to love and philosophical discourses. __ 
 
 Fhaedr. I say with you, Socrates, may this come true if this 
 be for my good. But why did you make this discourse of 
 yours so much finer than the other? I wonder at that. And 
 I begin to be afraid that I shall lose conceit of Lysias, even 
 if he be willing to make another as. long as yours, which I 
 doubt. For one of our politicians lately took t® abusing him 
 on this veiy account ; he would insist on calling him a speech- 
 writer. So that a feeling of pride may probably induce him to 
 give up writing. -, 
 
 Soc. That is an amusing notion; but I think that you are 
 a little mistaken in your friend if you imagine that he is 
 frightened at every noise; and, possibly, you think that his as- 
 sailant was in earnest ? ^ 
 
 Phaedr. I thought, Socrates, that he was. And you are aware^ 
 that themostDOwerfll_and considerable men among^our statesmen 
 are ashamed of^w dtjng sp eeches and leavmg 
 form because they are afraid _ of praterity 
 be cal leds ^histir 
 
 Soc. I don't know whether you are aware, 
 'sweet elbow 3' of which the proverb speaks is really derived from 
 the long and difficult arm of the Nile. And you appear to be 
 equally unaware of the fact that this sweet elbow of theirs is 
 
 3 A proverb, like ' the grapes are sour,' applied to pleasures which cannot be 
 had, meaning sweet things which are out of the reach of the mouth. 
 
 Phaedrus, that the 
 
592 , PHAEDRUS. 
 
 also 2} long arm. For there is nothing of which great politicians 
 are so fond as o f writi ng speeches, which they bequeath to 
 posterity. And when they write them, out of gratitude to their 
 admirers, they append their names at the top. 
 
 Phaedr. What do you mean ? I don't understand. i 
 
 Soc. Why, don't you know that when a politician writes, he 
 begins with the names of his approvers ? 
 
 Fhaedr, How is that ? 
 
 Soc. Why, he begins thus : * Be it enacted by the senate, the 
 people, or both, as a certain person who was the author pro- 
 posed;' and then he rehearses all his titles, and proceeds to 
 display his own wisdom to his admirers with a great flourish 
 in what is often a long and tedious composition. Now what 
 is that sort of thing but a regular piece of authorship ? 
 
 Phaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. And if the law is passed, then, like the poet, he leaves 
 the theatre in high delight; but if the law is rejected and he 
 is done out of his speech-making, and not thought good enough 
 to write, then he and his party are in mourning. 
 
 Phaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. This shows how far they are from despising^ or rather how 
 highly they value the practice of writing. 
 
 Phaedr. No doubt. 
 
 Soc. And when the king or orator has the power, as Lycurgus 
 or Solon, or Darius hadj of attaining an immortality of authorship 
 in a state, is he not thought by posterity, when they see his 
 writings, and does he not think himself, while he is y§t alive, 
 to be like a god ? 
 
 Phaedr. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Then do you think that any one of this class who may be 
 ill-disposed to Lysias would ever make it a reproach against him 
 that he is an author ? 
 
 Phaedr. Not upon your view; for according to you he would 
 be reproaching him with his own favourite pursuit. 
 
 Soc. Any one may see that there is no disgrace in the fact 
 of writing ? 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. There may however be a disgrace in ^q;iting, not well, 
 but badly. 
 
 in wnting, i 
 
PHAEDRUS. 593 
 
 a Fhaedr. That is true. , 
 
 i ■ Soc. And what is well and what is badly — need we ask Lysias, 
 or any other poet or orator, who ever wrote or will write either 
 a political or any other work, in metre or out of metre, poet 
 or prose writer, to teach us this ? 
 
 Phaedr. Need we? What motive has a man to live if not 
 for the pleasures of discourse ? Surely he would not live for the; 
 sake of bodily pleasures, which almost always have previous pain 
 as a condition of them, and therefore are rightly called slavish. 
 
 I Soc. There is time yet. And I can fancy that the grasshoppers 
 who are still chirruping in the sun over our heads are talking to 
 one another and looking at us. What would they say if they 
 saw that we also, like the many, are not talking but slumbering 
 at mid-day, lulled by their voices, too indolent to think ? They 
 would have a right to laugh at us, and might imagine that we are 
 slaves coming to our place of resort, who like sheep lie asleep at noon 
 about the fountain. But if they see us discoursing, and like Odys- ' 
 seus sailing by their siren voices, they may perhaps, out of respect- 
 give us of tiie gifts which they recejve of the gods and give to men.j , 
 Vhaedr. What_gifo do you mean ? I never heard of any. 
 Soc. A lover of music like yourself ought surely to have heard 
 the story of the grasshoppers, who are said to have been human 
 beings in an age before the Muses. And when the Muses came 
 and song appeared they were ravished with delight ; and singing 
 always, never thought of eating and drinking, until at last they ^ 
 forgot and died. And now they live again in the grasshoppers js^ 
 and this is the return v(Wdi_Jhe2Aluses_iji^ke_Jo^ V 
 
 hunger no more, neither thirst any more, but are always singing 
 from the moment that they are born, and never eating or drink- 
 ing; and when they die they go and inform the Muses in heaven 
 who honours them on earth. They win the love of Terpsichore - 
 ft)/ the dancers by their report of them; of Erato for the lovers, 
 and of the other Muses for those who do them honour, according 
 to the several ways of honouring them ;— of Calliope the eldest 
 Muse, and of her who is next to her for the votaries of philosophy ; ■ 
 for these are the Muses who are chiefly concerned with heaven 
 and the ideas, divine as well as human, and they have the 
 sweetest utterance. For many reasons, then, we ought always**' 
 to talk and not to sleep at mid-day. 
 
 q 
 
594 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 Phaedr. Let us talk. 
 
 Soc. Shall we discuss the rules of writing and speech as we 
 were proposing ? 
 Thaedr. Very good. 
 
 Soc. Is not the first rule of good speaking that the mind of 
 the speaker should know the truth of what he is going to 
 say? 
 
 Phaedr. And yet, Socrates^ I have heard that he who would 2 
 be an orator has ndthing to do with true justice, but only with 
 that which is likely to be approved by the many who sit in 
 judgment ; nor with the truly good or honourable, but only with 
 public opinion about them, and that from this source and not 
 from the truth come the elements of persuasion. 
 
 Soc. Any words of the wise ought to be regarded and not" 
 trampled under foot, for there is probably something in them, 
 and perhaps there may be something in this which is worthy of 
 attention. 
 
 Fhaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Let us put the matter thus : — Suppose that I persuaded you 
 to buy a horse and go to the wars. Neither of us knew what a 
 horse was like, but I knew that you believed a horse to be the 
 longest-eared of domestic animals. 
 Phaedr. That would be ridiculous. 
 
 Soc. There is something more ridiculous coming. Suppose, 
 now, that I was in earnest and went and composed a speech 
 in honour of an ass, whom I entitled a horse, beginning: 'A 
 noble animal and a most useful possession, especially in war, 
 and you may get on his back and fight, and he will carry baggage 
 or anything.' 
 
 Phaedr. That would be most ridiculous. 
 
 Soc. Ridiculous ! Yes ; but is not even a ridiculous friend better 
 than a dangerous enemy ? 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And when the orator instead of putting an ass in the place 
 of a horse, puts good for evil, being himself as ignorant of their 
 true nature as the city on which he imposes is ignorant; and 
 having studied the notions of the multitude, persuades them to- 
 do evil instead of good, — what will be the harvest which 
 rhetoric will be likely to gather after the sowing of that fruit ? 
 
PHAEDRUS. 595 
 
 Fhaedr. Anything but good. 
 
 Soc. Perhaps, however, rhetoric has been getting too roughly 
 landled by us, and she might answer : What amazing nonsense 
 s' this ! As if I forced any man to learn to speak in ignorance 
 )f the truth ! Whatever my advice may be worth, I should have 
 old him to arrive at the truth firstj and then come to me. At the 
 lame time I boldly assert that mere knowledge of the truth will 
 lot give you the art of persuasion. 
 
 Fhaedr. There is reason in the lady's defence of herself. 
 
 Soc. Yes, I admit that, if the arguments which she has yet in 
 itore bear witness that she is an art at all. But I seem to hear \ 
 hem arraying themselves on the opposite side, declaring that she f 
 ipeaks not true, and that rhetoric is not an art but only a dilettante \ 
 imusement. Lo! a Spartan appears, and says that there never \ 
 s nor ever will be a real art of speaking which is unconnected \ 
 !?ith the truth. j 
 
 Fhaedr. And what are these arguments, Socrates ? Bring them / 
 )ut that we may examine them. 
 
 Soc. Come out, children of my soul, and convince Phaedrus, 
 who is the father of similar beauties, that he will never be able 
 :o speak about anything unless he be trained in philosophy. 
 \nd let Phaedrus answer you. 
 
 Fhaedr. Put the question. 
 
 Soc. Is not rhetoric, taken generally, a universal art of enchant- 
 ng the mind bvarguments j which is practised not only in %^ 
 ;ourts and public assemDiiesJ but in private houses also, having ^ 
 ;o do with all matters, great as well as small, good and bad ^ 
 dike, and . is in all equally right, and equally to be esteemed — ^ 
 hat is what you have heard ? 
 
 Fhaedr. 'i^is.j, not exactly that; but I should rather say that 
 ; have heard the art confined to speaking and writing in law-suits, 
 ind to speaking in public assemblies — not extended farther. 
 
 Soc. Then Lsuppose that you have only heard of the rhetoric of 
 Mestor and Odysseus, which they composed in their leisure hours 
 vhen at Troy, and never of Palamedes ? 
 
 Fhaedr. No more than of Nestor and Odysseus, unless Gorgias 
 s your Nestor, and Thrasymachus and Theodorus your Odys- 
 leus. 
 
 Soc. Perhaps that is my meaning. But let us leave them. And 
 
 2 
 
596 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 do you tell me, instead, what are plaintiff and defendant doing 
 in a law-court — are they not contending? 
 
 Phaedr. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. About the just and unjust — that is the matter in dispute ? 
 
 'Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And he who is practised in the art will make the same 
 thing appear to the same persons to be at one time just and at 
 another time unjust, if he has a mind ? 
 
 Phaedr. Exactly. 
 , Soc. And when he speaks in the assembly, he will make- the 
 same things seem good to the <;ity at one time, and at another 
 time the reverse of good ? 
 
 Phaedr. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Have we not heard of the Eleatic Palamedes (Zeno), who 
 has an art of speaking which makes the same things appear to 
 his hearers like and unlike, one and many, at rest and in 
 motion too ? 
 
 Phaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. The art of disputation, then, is not confined to the courts 
 and the assembly, but is one and the same in every use of 
 language 3 this is that art, if such an art there be, which finds 
 a likeness of everything to which a likeness can be found, and 
 draws into the light of day the likenesses and disguises which are 
 used by others ? 
 
 Phaedr. How do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. Let me put the matter thus: When will there be more 
 chance of deception — when the difference is large or small ? 
 
 Phaedr. When the difference is small. , 2 
 
 Soc. And you will be less likely to be discovered in passing by 
 degrees into the other extreme than when you go all at once ? 
 
 Phaedr. Of course. 
 
 Soc. He, then, who would deceive others, and not be de- 
 ceived, must exactly know the real likenesses and differences of 
 things ? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, he must. 
 
 Soc. And if he is ignorant of the true nature of anything, how 
 can he ever distinguish the greater or less degree of likeness to 
 other things of that which he does not know ? - . : 
 
 Phaedr, He cannot. 
 
PHAEDRUS. 597 
 
 Soc. And when men are deceived, and their notions are at -f ., 
 variance with realities, it is clear that Ae error slips in through 
 ;ome resemblgiices ? 
 
 Fhaedr. Yes, that is the way. 
 
 Soc. Then he who would be a master of the art must know the 
 :eal nature of everything; or he will never know either how to 
 :ontrive or how to escape the gradual departure from truth into , . 
 Jie opposite of truth which is effected by the help ofresemblances ? 
 
 Fhaedr. He will not. . \w/ ' 
 
 Soc. He then, who being ignorant of the truth catches at 
 ippearances, will only^ attain an art of rhetoric which is ridiculous 
 ind is not an art at all ? 
 
 Fhaedr. That may be expected. 
 - Soc. Shall I propose that we look for examples of good and bad 
 irt, according to our notion of them, in the speech of Lysias 
 ivhich you have in your hand, and in my own speech ? 
 
 Fhaedr. Nothing could be better ; and indeed I think that our 
 previous argument has been too barren of illustrations. 
 
 Soc. Yes ; and the two speeches afford a good illustration of the "s. 
 ivay in which the speaker who knows the truth may playfully P 
 draw away the hearts of his hearers. This piece of good fortune \ 
 [ attribute to the local deities ; and, perhaps, the prophets of the \ 
 Muses who are singing over our heads may have imparted their ) 
 inspiration to me. For I do not imagine that I have any | 
 rhetorical art myself. 
 
 Fhaedr. I will not dispute that ; only please to go forward. 
 
 Soc. Suppose that you read me the first words of Lysias' speech ? 
 
 Fhaedr. 'You know my views of our common interest, and I do 
 lot think that I ought to fail in the object of my suit because 
 [ am not your lover. For lovers repent when ' 
 
 Soc. Enough. Now, shall I point out the rhetorical error of 
 iiose words ? 
 
 Fhaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Every one is aware that about some things we are agreed, 
 p^hereas about other things we differ. 
 
 Fhaedr. I think that I understand you ; but will you ^explain 
 sourself ? 
 
 Soc. When any one speaks of iron and silver, is not the same 
 hing present in the minds of all ? 
 
598 PHAEDRUS. ■[ 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 c> Soc. But when any one speaks of justice and goodness, there 4S 
 \ every sort of disagreement, and we are at odds with one another 
 /and with ourselves ? 
 ^ Fhaedr. Precisely. 
 
 Soc. Then in some things we agree, but not in others ? 
 
 Vhaedr. That is true. 
 
 Soc. In which are we more likely to be deceived, and in which 
 has rhetoric the greater power ? 
 
 Phaedr. Clearly, in the class wlaich admits of error. 
 
 Soc. Then the rhetorician ought to i^lfe-a-rpgnl^r division^ and 
 acquire a distinct notion of both classes, as well of that in which 
 the many err, as of that in which they do ngt err ? 
 
 Phaedr. He who made such a distinction would have an 
 excellent principle. 
 
 Soc. Yes J and in the next place he must have a keen eye for the 
 observation of particulars in speaking, and not make a mistake 
 about the class to which they are to be referred. 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 ►- Soc. Now to which class does love belong — to the debatable 
 or to the undisputed class ? 
 
 Phaedr. To the debatable class surely ; for if not, do you think 
 that any one would have allowed you to say as you did, that love 
 is an evil both to the lover and the beloved, and also the 
 greatest possible good ? 
 
 Soc. Capital. But will you tell me whether I defined love at 
 the beginning of my speech? for, having been in an ecstasy, I 
 cannot well remember. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, indeed •, that you did, and no mistake. 
 
 Soc, Then I perceive that the Nymphs of Achelous and Pan 
 the son of Hermes, who inspired me, were far better rheto- 
 . ricians than Lysias the son of Cephalus. Alas! how inferior 
 to them he is ! But perhaps I am mistaken ; and Lysias at the 
 commencement of his lover's speech did insist on our supposing 
 love to be something or other which he fancied him to be, 
 and that m. relation to this something he fashioned and framed 
 the remainder of his discourse. Suppose we read him over again. 
 
 Phaedr. If you please ; but you will not find what you want. 
 
 Soc. Read, that I may have his exact words. 
 
PHAEDRUS. 
 
 599 
 
 I' Phaedr. ' You know my views of our common interest ; and I 
 264 do not think that I ought to fail in tl*e object of my suit be- 
 cause I am not your lover, for lovers repent of the kindnesses 
 which they have shown, when their love is over/ 
 I Soc. Here he appears to have done just the reverse of what 
 f he ought J for he has begun at the end, and is swimming on 
 his back through the flood of words to the place of starting. 
 His address to the fair youth commences with reference to the 
 conclusion of his love. Am I not right, sweet Phaedrus ? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, indeed, Socrates ; he does begin at the end. 
 
 Soc. Then as to the other topics — are th^y not a mass of con- 
 fusion ? Is there any principle in theflfti ? Why should the next 
 topic or any other topic follow in that order ? I cannot help 
 fancying in my ignorance that he wrote freely off just what came 
 into his head, but I dare say that you would recognize a rheto- 
 rical necessity in the succession of the several parts of the 
 composition? 
 
 Phaedr. You have too good an opinion of me if you think 
 that I have any such insight into his principles of composition. 
 
 Soc. At any rate, you will allow that eve^ y dis course ought to 
 b e a living cr eature, having ite own body and Tieadand feet; 
 th ere ought J xi Jag a-JniddlCj Jaeginnihg, "anS^end^^yhiS^^^^n 
 amanngr agr eeable to mie-annther and^to the wEole? 
 
 Phaedr.- Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Can this be said of the discourse of Lysias ? See whether 
 you can find any more connexion in his words than in the 
 epitaph, which is said by some to have been inscribed on the 
 grave of Midas the Phrygian. 
 
 Phaedr. What is there remarkable in the epitaph ? 
 
 Soc. The epitaph is as follows : 
 
 ' I am a maiden of brass ; 
 I lie on the tomb of Midas, 
 While waters flow and tall trees grow, 
 Here am I. 
 ; ' On Midas' tearful tomb I lie; 
 
 I am to tell the passers by 
 ■ That Midas sleeps in earth below.' 
 
 Now in this rhyme whether , a line comes first or comes last, 
 that, as you will perceive, makes no difference. 
 
6oo PHAEDRUS. 
 
 Phaedr. You are making fun of that oration of ours. 
 Soc. Well, I will say no more about your friend lest I should 
 give offence to you; although I think that he might furnish 
 many other examples of what a man ought to avoid. But I 
 will proceed to the other speech^ which, as I think, is also 
 suggestive to students of rhetoric. 
 Phaedr. In what way ? 
 
 Soc. The two speeches, as you may remember, were of an 
 opposite character, the one argued that the lover and the other 
 that the non-lover ought to be accepted. 
 Fhaedr. And right manfully. 
 
 Soc. You should rather say ' madly ;' and that was the argument 
 of them, for, as I said, ' love is a madness.' 
 Fhaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And there were two kinds of madness ; one produced by 
 human infirmity, the other by a divine release from the ordinary 
 ways of men. 
 Fhaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. The divine madness was subdivided into four kinds, pro^ 
 phetic, initiatory, poetic, erotic, having four gods presiding over 
 them j' the first was the inspiration of Apollo, the second that of 
 Dionysus, the third that of the Muses, the fourth that of Aphrodite 
 and Eros* In the description of the last kind of madness, which 
 was also the best, being a sort of figure of love, we mingled a 
 tolerably credible and .possibly true, though partly erring myth, 
 which was also a hymn in honour of Eros, who is your lord and 
 also mine, Phaedrus, and the guardian of fair children, and to 
 him we sung the hymn in measured and solemn form. 
 
 Fhaedr. I know that I had great pleasure in listening to the tale. 
 Soc. Let us take this instance- and examine how the transition 
 was made from blame to praise. 
 Fhaedr. What do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. I mean to say that the composition was mostly playful. 
 Yet in these chance fancies of the hour were involved two prin- 
 ciples which would be charming if thiey gould be fixed by art. 
 Fhaedr. What are they ? 
 
 Soc. First, the comprehension of scattered particulars in one 
 ide.aj — the speaker defines his several notions in order that he 
 may make his meaning clear, as in our definition of love, which 
 
PHAEDRUS. 
 
 60 1 
 
 whether true or false certainly gave clearness and consistency 
 
 to the discourse. • 
 
 • Fhaedr. What is the other principle, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. Secondly, there is the faculty of division according to the 
 
 I natural ideas or members, not breaking any part as a bad carver 
 
 ] might. But, as the body may be divided into a left side and 
 
 i into a right side, having parts rigbt^and left, so in the two 
 
 discourses there was asSimed, 
 
 the general idea of 
 
 jmreason, and then one _of the two proceeded to divide the parts 
 of the left side and did not desist until he found in them an 
 evil or Mt-handed love which the speaker justly reviled j and 
 the other leading us to the right portion in which madness lay, 
 found another love, having the same name, but yet divine, which 
 he held up before us and applauded as the author of the greatest 
 benefits. 
 
 Fhaedr. That is most true. 
 
 Soc. I am a great — lovec—c^_J:hese_processes ^of_ division .and 
 gen eralizatj otij ^hey help me J o speak and think. And if I find 
 any man who is able to see unity ari3 plurality* in nature, him 
 I follow, and walk in his steps as if he were a god. And those 
 who have this art, I have hitherto been in the habit of calling 
 di^e cticia ns ; but God knows whether the name is right or not. 
 And I should like to know what name you would give to your or 
 Lysias' disciples, and whether this may not be that famous art 
 of rhetoric which Thrasymachus and others practise? Skilful 
 speakers they are, and impart their skill to- any who will consent 
 to worship them as kings andtobrigg_tjienj.^ft! 
 
 Fhaedr. Yes, they are rdyal men ; burth^iraft*!:^ not the same 
 with the art of those whom you call, and rightly, in my opinion, 
 dialecticians. Stinweaj£JnJb£jdafk^bout.4ietoric. 
 °*~5fer-What do you mean ? The remains of the art, when all 
 ;this has been taien away, must be of rare value j and are not 
 at all to be despised by you and me. But what are the remains ? 
 — tell me that. ' " 
 
 ,' Fhaedr. There is a great,deal surely to be found in books of 
 jhetoric ? 
 
 Soc. Yes; thank you for reminding me of that, there is the 
 prooemium, if I remember rightly — ^that is what you mean— the 
 niceties of the art ? 
 
6o2 PHAEDRUS. I 
 
 _ — _ , 'j 
 
 Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. There follows the statement of facts, and upon that wit- 
 nesses; thirdly, proofs; fourthly, probabilities are to come; the 
 great Byzantian artist also speaks, if I am not mistaken, of con- 
 firmation and superconfirmation. 
 
 Phaedr. You mean the excellent Theodorus. 
 
 Soc. Yes ; and he tells how refutation or further refutation is to 2( 
 be managed, whether in accusation or defence. I need hardly 
 mention the Parian Evenus, who first invented indirect allusions 
 and incidental praises, and also censures, of which this wise man 
 made a memoria tecknica in verse. But shall 
 
 ' I to dumb forgetfulness consign' 
 
 Tisias and Gorgias, who are not ignorant that probability is 
 superior to truth, and who by force of argument make the little 
 appear great and the great little, and the new old and the old 
 new, and have discovered universal forms, either short or going 
 on to infinity. I remember Prodicus laughing when I told him 
 of this; he said that he had himself discovered- the true rule of 
 art, which was to be neither long nor short, but of a convenient 
 length. 
 
 Phaedr. Well done, Prodicus. 
 
 Soc. Then there is Hippias of Elis, who probably agrees with him. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And there is also Polus, who has schools of diplasiology, 
 and gnomology, and eikonology, and who teaches in them the 
 words of which Licymnius made him a present; they were to 
 
 give a polish. ^'^^^'\^>'' 
 
 Phaedr. Had not Protagoras something of the same sort ? 
 Soc. Yes, rules of correctness and many other fine precepts; 
 for the ' sorrows of a poor old man,' or any other pathetic case, 
 no one is better than the Chalcedonian giant ; he can put a whole 
 company of people into a passion and out of one again by his 
 mighty magic, and is first-rate ^t inventing or disposing of any 
 sort of calumny on any grounds or none. All of them agree in 
 asserting that a speech should end in a recapitulation, though they 
 do not all agree in the use of this word. 
 
 Phaedr. You mean that there should be a summing up of the 
 arguments in order to remind the hearers of them. ; '' 
 
PHAEDRUS. 603 
 
 Soc. I have now said all that I have to say of the art of rhetoric : 
 
 ? 
 
 itij have you anything to add 
 (jl Thaedr. Not much, nor very important. 
 
 i^^ Soc. Leave the unimportant and let us bring the really impor- 
 tant "question into the light of day, which is : What power this 
 art of rhetoric has, and when ? 
 nifi; Vhaedr. A very great power in public meetings. 
 iJl Soc. Yes, that is true. But I should like to know whether you 
 1^ have the same feeling as I have about the rhetoricians ? To me 
 sj there seem to be a great many holes in their web. 
 Fhaedr. Give an example. 
 
 Soc. I will. Suppose a person to come to your friend Eryxi- 
 
 machus, or to his father Acumenus, and to say to him : ' I know 
 
 |i how to apply drugs which shall have either a heating or a cooling 
 
 1 eflFectj and I can give a vomit and also, a purge, and all that sort 
 
 , , of thing; and knowing all this, as I do, I claim to be a physician 
 
 t and a teacher of physic' — what do you suppose that they would 
 
 , Fhaedr. They would be sure to ask him whether he knew 
 
 'to whom' he would give them, and 'when/ and 'how muqh.' 
 Soc. And suppose that he were to reply : ' No ; I know nothing 
 
 of that ; I expect those whom I have taught all this to do that 
 
 ; of themselves.' 
 
 Fhaedr. They would reply that he is a madman or a pedant 
 
 who fancies that he is a physician, because he has read something 
 ' in a book, or has stumbled on a few drugs, although he has no 
 
 real understanding of the art of medicine. 
 "^ Soc. And suppose a person were to come to Sophocles or 
 
 Euripides and say that he knows how to make a long speech 
 
 about a small matter, and a short speech about a great matter, 
 '^ and also a sorrowful speech, or a terrible, or threatening speech, 
 ^, or any other kind of speech, and in teaching this fancies that he 
 
 is teaching the art of tragedy ? 
 [' Fhaedr. They too would surely laugh at him if he fancies that 
 ; tragedy is anything but the arranging of these elements in a 
 '' manner suitable to one another and to the whole. 
 ^ Soc. But I do not suppose that they would be rude to him or 
 
 revile him. Would they not treat him as a musician would 
 H treat a man who thinks that he is a harmonist because he knows 
 
6o4 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 how to pitch the highest and lowest note; happening to meet 
 such an one he would not say to him savagely, 'Fool, you arc 
 mad!' Oh, no; he would rather say to him in a gentle and 
 musical tone of voice : ' My good friend, he who would be a 
 harmonist must certainly know this, and yet he may understand 
 nothing of harmony if he has not got beyond your stage of 
 knowledge, for you only know the preliminaries of harmony and 
 not harmonies.' a 
 
 Fhaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And would not Sophocles say to the display of the would- 2 
 be tragedian, that this was not tragedy but the preliminaries of 
 tragedy, and would not Acumenus say to the would-be doctor 
 that this was not medicine but the preliminaries of medicine ? 
 
 Phaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And if Adrastus the mellifluous or Pericles heard of these 
 wonderful arts, brachylogies and eikonologies and all the hard 
 names which we have been endeavouring to draw into the 
 light of day, what would they say? Instead of losing temper 
 and applying uncomplimentary epithets, as you and I have been 
 doing to the authors of such an imaginary art, their superior 
 wisdom would rather censure us, as well as them. Have a little 
 patience, Phaedrus and Socrates, they would say, and don't be 
 angry with those who from some want of dialectical skill are 
 unable to define the nature of rhetoric, and consequently suppose 
 that they have found the art in the preliminary conditions of 
 the art, and when they have taught these to others, fancy that 
 they have been teaching the whole art of rhetoric; but as to 
 persuasion in detail and unity of composition, that they re- 
 gard as an easy thing wi^h. which their disciples may supply 
 themselves. 
 
 Fhaedr. I quite admit, Socrates, that the art of rhetoric which 
 these men teach and of which they write is such as you describe—- 
 in that I agree with you. But I still want to know where .and 
 how the true art of rhetoric and persuasion is to be acquired. 
 . Soc. The perfection of oratory is, or rather must be, like the peir 
 fection of all things, partly given by nature ; but this is assisted 
 by art, and if you have the natural power you will be famous 
 as a rhetorician, if you only add knowledge and practice, and 
 in either you may fall short. But the art, as far as there is 
 
PHAEDRUS. 605 
 
 ,^f. ■ ■ ■ — ■ — 
 
 fan art, of rhetoric does not lie in the direction of Tisias or 
 I Thrasymachus. 
 
 %/^haedr. But in what direction then ? i 
 
 ,, Soc. I should conceive that Pericles was the most accomplished 
 
 of rhetonclans: 
 
 Vhaedr. What of that ? 
 Soc. All the higher , arts require much discussion and lofty 
 ) contemplation of nature j this is the source of sublimity arid 
 ^perfect comprehensive power. And this, as I conceive, was the 
 ! quality which, in addition to his rlatural gifts, Pericles acquired 
 from ,his happening to know Anaxagoras. He was imbued with 
 the higher philosophy, and attained the knowledge of mind and 
 matter, which was the favourite theme of Anaxagoras, and hence 
 he drew what was applicable to his art. 
 Thaedr. Explain. 
 ■Soc. Rhetoric is like medicine. 
 Vhaedr. How is that? " 
 
 Soc. Why, because medicine has to define the nature of the body 
 and rhetoric of the soul — if you would proceed, not empirically 
 but scientifically, in the oiie case to impart health and strength 
 i by giving medicine and food, in-the -other to implan,t the con- 
 viction which you require by the right use of words and' 
 : principles. 
 
 I Fhaedr. You are probably right in that. 
 
 I* Soc. And do you think that you can know the nature of the 
 : soul intelligently without knowing the nature of the whole ? ^ 
 
 ^ Fhaedr. Hippocrates the Asclepiad says that this is. the only 
 [ method of procedure by which the nature even of the body can 
 be understood. ;, 
 
 Soc. Yes, friend, and he says truly. Still, we ought not to be 
 content with the name of Hippocrates, but to examine and see 
 whether he has reason on his side. 
 Fhaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. Then consider what this is which Hippocrates says, and 
 
 which right reason says about this or any other nature. Ought 
 
 we not to consider first whether that which we wish either to 
 
 ; learn or to teach is simple or multiform, and if simple, then 
 
 ■to enquire what power this has of acting or being acted upon 
 
 ^ by other, and if multiform, then to number the forms j and see 
 
6o6 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 first in the case of one of them, and then in the case of all of 
 them, the several powers which they by nature have of doing or 
 suffering. 
 
 IPhaedr. That will be the way. 
 
 Soc. The method which has not this analysis is like the' groping 
 of a blind man. Yet, surely, he who is an artist ought not to 
 admit of a comparison with the blind, or deaf; but he who 
 imparts rules of speech in an artist-like or scientific manner will 
 particularly set forth the nature of that to which he gives his 
 rules, which I suppose is the soul. 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. His whole effort is directed towards this, for in this he 2 
 seeks to produce conviction. 
 
 Fhaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then clearly, Thrasymachus or any one else who elaborates 
 a system of rhetoric will give an exact description of the nature 
 of the soul ; which he will make to appear either as single an? 
 same, or, like the body, multiform. That is what we shquld call 
 showing the nature of the soul. 
 
 Phaedr. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. He will next proceed to speak of the instruments by which 
 the soul acts or is affected in anyway. 
 
 Fhaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. Thirdly, having arranged men and speeches, and their 
 modes and affections in different classes, and fitted them into 
 one another, he will point out the connexion between them — ^he 
 will show why one is naturally persuaded by a particular form 
 of argument^ and another not. 
 
 Phaedr. That will certainly be a very good way. 
 
 Soc. YeSj that is the true and only way in which any subject 
 can be set forth or treated by rules of art, whether in speaking 
 or writing. But the writers of the present day, at whose feet 
 you have sat, improperly conceal all this about the soul which 
 they know quite well. Nor, until they adopt our method of 
 reading and writing, can we admit that they write by rules of art. 
 
 Phaedr. What is our method ? 
 
 Soc. I cannot give you the exact details ; but I should like to tell 
 you generally, as far as I can, how a man ought to proceed accord- 
 ing to rules of art. 
 
PHAEDRUS. 607 
 
 .. fhatdr. Let me hear. 
 
 Soc, Oratpry's j3i;_mji_2f, ''"rJijiiti^g-y^f',.^?^; and therefore 
 he who would be an orator has to learn the differences of human 
 souls — they are so many and of such a nature, and from them 
 come the diflFerenq^s between man and man — he will then proceed 
 to divide speeches into their different classes. 5uch and such 
 persons, he will say, are affected by this or that kind of speech 
 in this or that way, and Tie will tell you why ; he must have a theo- 
 retical notion of them first, and then he must see them in action, 
 and be able to follow them with all his senses about him, or he 
 will never get beyond the precepts of his masters. But when 
 he is able to say what persons are persuaded by what arguments, 
 I and recognize the individual about whom he used to theorize as 
 actually present to him, and say to himself, ' This is he and this 
 is the sort of man who ought to have that argument applied to 
 him in order to convince him of this ;' — ^when he has attained the 
 •fciiowledge of all this, and knows also when he should speak and 
 when he should abstain from speaking, and when he should make 
 use of pithy sayings, pathetic appeals, aggravated effects, and all 
 the other figures of speech; — ^when, I say, he knoWs the times 
 and seasons of >all these things, then, and not till then, he is 
 perfect and a consummate master of his art ; but if he fail in any 
 of these points, whether in speaking or teaching or writing them, 
 and says that he speaks by rules of art, he who denies this has the 
 better of him. Well, the teacher will say, is this, Phaedrus and 
 Socrates, your account of the art of rhetoric, or am I to look for 
 another? 
 
 Phaedr. He must take this, Socrates, for there is no pos- 
 sibility of another, and yet the creation of such an art is not 
 easy. 
 
 Soc. That is true ; and therefore let us turn the matter up and 
 down, and see whether there may not be a shorter and easier 
 road ; there is no use in taking the longer and more difficult way 
 when there is a shorter and easier one. And I wish that you 
 would try and remember whether there is anything which you 
 have heard from Lysias or any one else which might be of service 
 to us. ^ '" 
 
 Vhaedr. If trying would avail, then I might ; but I fear that I 
 cannot remember anything at the moment. 
 
6o8 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 Soc. Suppose I tell you something which somebody who knows 
 told me. 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. ' 
 
 Soc. May not the wolf, as the proverb says, claim a hearing ? 
 
 Phaedr. Do you say what can be said for him. 
 
 Soc. Well, they say that there is no use in putting a solemn 
 face on a matter, or in going round and round, until you arrive 
 at the^egigningofanthings ; for that when the question is of 
 justice and good, as I said at first, or a question in which men are 
 concerned who are just and good, either by nature or habit, he 
 who would be a skilful rhetorician has no need of truth— for that 
 in courts of law men literally care nothing about truth, but only 
 about conviction : and this is based on probability, to which he 
 who would be a skilful orator should therefore give his whole 
 attention. And they say also that there are cases-4n which the 
 actual facts ought to be withheld, and only the probabilities 
 should be told either in accusation or defence, and that always 
 in speaking the orator should run after probability, and say; 
 good bye to the truth. And the observance of this principle 
 throughout a speech furnishes the whole art. 
 
 Phaedr. That is what the professors of rhetoric do actually say, 
 Socrates, for I remember that although we have touched ' upon this 
 matter but slightly, the point is all-important with them. ,* 
 
 Soc. I dare say that you are familiar with Tisias. .Does he not 
 define probability to be that which the many think ? 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly, he does. 
 
 Soc. 1 believe that he has a clever and ingenious case of this 
 sort: — He supposes a feeble and valiant man to have assaulted 
 a strong and cowardly one, and to have robbed him of bis coat 
 or of something or other; he is brought into court, and then 
 Tisias says that both parties should tell lies : the coward should 
 say that he was assaulted by more men than one ; the other should 
 prove that they were alone, and should use this argum,ent : ^ How 
 could a man like me have assaulted a man like him?' The other 
 will not like to confess his own cowardice, and will therefore 
 invent some other lie which his adversary will thus gain an 
 opportunity of refuting. These and others like them are the 
 precepts of the doctors of the art. Am I not right, Phaedrus? 
 
 • Cp. 259 E. 
 
PHAEDRUS. 609 
 
 Vhaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. I cannot help feeling that this is a wonderfully mysterious 
 art which Tisias has discovered, or whoever the gentleman was, 
 or whatever his name or country may have been who was the 
 discoverer. Shall we say a word to him or not ? 
 ■ Thaedr. What shall we say to him ? 
 
 Soc, Let us tell him that, before he appeared, you and I were 
 saying that probability was engendered in the minds of the 
 many by the likeness of the truth, and were setting forth that 
 he who knew the truth would always know how best to discovet 
 the resemblances of the truth. If he has anything further to 
 say about the art of speaking we should like to hear himj but 
 if not, we are satisfied with our own view, that unless a man 
 'estimates the various characters of his hearers and is able to 
 divide existences into classes and to sum them up in single 
 ideas, he will never be a skilful rhetorician even within the 
 limits of human power. And this art he will not attain with- 
 out a great deal of trouble, which a good man ought to undergo, 
 not for the sake of speaking and acting before men, but in order 
 that he may be able to say what is acceptable to God and in 
 all things to act acceptably to Him as far as in hiffi iles^ iQr 
 tiiere is a saying of wiser men than ourselye^j^at a man of 
 sense should not tiy to please his fellow-servants (at least this 
 should sot be his principal object) but his good and noblrf" 
 masters, so that, if the way is long and circuitous, marvel not at 
 this; for, where the- end is great, there the way may be per- 
 mitted to be long, but not for lesser ends such as yours. Truly, 
 the argument may say, Tisias, that if you do not mind going 
 so far, rhetoric has a fair beginning in this. j 
 
 Fhaedr. I think, Socrates, that this is admirable, if only prac- 
 ticable. 
 
 Soc. But ej^gnJoJiainiijJLb^ioaiaMeo^ 
 
 Fhaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. I think that enough has been said of a true and false art 
 of speaking. 
 
 Fhaedr. Certainly. ^ 
 
 Soc. But there is something yet to be said of propriety and 
 impropriety of writing. 
 
 Fhaedr. Yes. 
 
 Rr 
 
6io PHAEDRUS. 
 
 Soc. Do you know how, you can speak or act about rhetoric in 
 a manner which will be acceptable to God ? 
 
 Thaedr. No, indeed. Do you^* 
 
 Soc. I have heard a tradition of antiquity, whether true or not 
 antiquity only knows. If we had the truth ourselves, do you, 
 think that we should care much about the opinions of men ? 
 
 Fhaedr. That is a question which needs no answer- but I 
 wish that you would tell me what you say that you have 
 heard. 
 
 5^^5ojP At the Egyptian city of Naucratis, there was a famous 
 old god, whose name was Theuth j the bird which is called the 
 Ibis was sacred to him, and he was the inventor of many arts, 
 such as arithmetic and calculation and geometry and astronomy 
 and draughts and dice, but his great discovery was the use of 
 letters. Now in those days _ Thamus. was the king of the whole 
 of Upper Egypt, which is the district surrounding that great city 
 j which is called by the Hellenes Egyptian Thebes, and they call 
 the god himself Ammon. To him came Theuth and showed his 
 inventions, desiring that the other Egyptians might be allowed ^ 
 to have the benefit of them ; he went through them, and Thamiis*- 
 ej}qstrEd~abQut their several uses, and praised some of them and 
 censured othergj^^he approved or disapproved of them. There 
 would be no use in repeating~air'tHat TiianiviS- ?aid to Theuth 
 in praise or blame of the various arts. But when they .,?nie to 
 letters. This, said Theuth, will make the Egyptians wiser and 
 give them better memories ; for this is the cure of forgetfulne^ 
 and of folly. Thamus replied : O most ingenious Theuth, he 
 who has the gift of invention is not always the best judge of 
 the utility or inutility of h?s own inventions to the-users of thenii 
 And in^ this_mstaiice3^^aternaJ_Jov£^_^^ K 
 
 led jTQu to sayjwhat is ^ot the fact : for this invention of yours ' 
 will create forgetfulness in the learners' souls, because they will 
 not use their memories j they will trust to the external written 
 characters and not remember of themselves. You have found a . 
 specific, not for memory but for reminiscence, and you give your 
 disciples only the pretence of wisdom ; they will be hearers of 
 many things and will have learned nothing; they will appear to 
 be omniscient and will generally know nothing ; they will be 
 tiresome, having the reputation of knowledge without the reality. 
 
I PHAEDRUS. 6ii 
 
 £« • ■■ 
 
 ^i / ¥haedr. Yes, Scxrates, you can easily invent tales of Egypt, 
 or of any other country that you like. >\. 
 
 Soc. There was a tradition in the temple of Dodona that oaks 
 
 irst gave prophetic utterances. The men of that day, unlike in 
 
 their simplicity to young philosophy, deemed that if they heard 
 
 i the truth even from 'oak or rock,' that was enough for them; 
 
 whereas, you seem to think not of the truth but of the speaker^ 
 
 '; and of the country from which the truth comes. 
 
 Phaedr. I acknowledge the justice of your rebuke ; and I think 
 that the Theban is right in his view about letters. 
 > Soc. He would be a simple person, and quite without under- ^ 
 standing of the oracles Thaihus and Ammon, who should leave 
 in writing or receive in writing any art under the idea that j 
 the written word would be intelligible or certain ; or who deemed 
 [ that writing was at all better than knowledge and recollection of 
 
 the same matters. 
 1= Phaedr. That is most true. , , 
 
 i - &0C. I carmot help feeling, Phaedrus, that writing is unfortunately 
 like- painting; for the creations of the painter have the attitude 
 of life, and yet if you ask them a question they preserve a solemn 
 silence. And the same may be said of speeches. You would 
 imagine that they had, intelligence, but if you want to know 
 anything and put a question to one of them, the speaker always 
 gives one unvarying answer. And when they have been once 
 written down they are tossed about anywhere among those who 
 do and among those who do, not understand them. And they 
 have no reticences or proprieties towards different classes of 
 persons ; and, if they are unjustly assailed or abused, their parent 
 is needed to protect his offspring, for they canno t "proteet^or \ 
 
 def end them selves: ' " "^ ^ 
 
 Phaedr. That again is most true. 
 
 Sot. May we not imagine another kind of writing or speaking 
 far better than this is, and having far greater power — which is ^ 
 5 one_^_aie_sajri€faniily,_but lawfollybegotten ? Let us see wh at 
 I his ori gin is. ^ 
 
 \ ^Ph^dr. Who is he, and what do you mean about his origin .? 
 %• Soc. I am speaking of an intelligent writing which is graven in^ 
 I the soul of him who has learned, and can defend itself, and knows 
 I when to speak and when to be silent, ( 
 
 R r a 
 
6 12 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 , Pi>aedr. You mean tiiejrordofknowledge which has a livm^^-^^ 
 soul, and of which tlTTwritteFword is"^roperly no more than 
 
 :^i6 
 
 ■:im 
 (in 
 
 lis 
 
 TiSill 
 
 iw. 
 
 an image ? C i 
 
 Soc. Yes, of course that is what I mean. And I wish that you ^ 
 would let me ask you a question : Would a husbandman, who is 
 a man of sense, ta ke the seed s, which he values and which he 
 wishes to be fruitful, and in sober earnest plant them during 
 the heat of summer, in some garden of Adonis, that he may rejoice 
 when he sees them in eight days appearing in beauty (at least 
 he does that, if at all, Qnlvastiieshow _of a festi valh but 
 those about which he is in"earnesnie sows in fitting soil, and 
 practises husbandry, and is satisfied if in eight months they 
 arrive at perfection ? 
 
 Thaedr. Yes, Socrates, that will be his way when he is in 
 
 earnest ; he will do the other, as you say, only as an amusement. 
 
 Soc. And can we suppose that he who knows the just and good 
 
 —and honourable has less understanding in reference to his own ^'* 
 
 seeds than the husbandman ? ''^^ 
 
 \ Phaedr. Certainly not. '^^ 
 
 J Soc. Then he will not seriously incline to write them in water -^- 
 
 with pen and ink or in dumb characters which have not a ^' 
 
 word to say for themselves and cannot adequately express the "a 
 
 truth? '^ 
 
 Phaedr. No, that is not likely. 
 
 Soc. No, that is not likely — in the garden of letters he will ; 
 plant them only as an amusement, or he will write them down -; 
 as memorials against the forgetfulness of old age, to be treasured -? 
 by him and his equals when they, like him, have one foot in the i. 
 grave ; and he will rejoice in beholding their tender growth ; and i 
 they will be his pastime while others are watering the garden of \ 
 their souls with banqueting and the like. 
 
 Phaedr. A pastime, Socrates, as noble as the otlierJs_^gaQble, \ 
 when a man is able to pass time merrily in the representation of 
 justice and the like, 
 
 Soc. True, Phaedrus. But nobler far is the serious pursuit of 
 the dialectician, who finds a congenial soul, and then with know- 
 ledge engrafts and sows words which are able to help themselves 
 I and him who planted them, and are not unfruitful, but have in 2J7 
 them seeds which may bear fruit in other natures, nurtured in 
 
PHAEDRUS. 613 
 
 other ways — making the seed everlasting and the possessors- happy 
 to the utmost extent of human happiness. * 
 r^Thaedr. Yes, indeed, that is far nobler. 
 
 \ .Soc. And now, Phaedrus, having agreed upon the premises we 
 may decide about the conclusion. 
 <Fhaedr. About what conclusion ? 
 
 • Soc, About LysiaSj whom we censured, and his art of writing, 
 and his discourses, and the rhetorical skill or want of skill which 
 was shown in them ; for he brought us to this point. And I think, 
 that we are now pretty well informed about the nature of art 
 and its opposite. 
 
 ¥'^ Haedr. Yes, I think with you j but I wish that you would repeat 
 what was said. 
 
 ^ Soc. Until a man knows the truth of the several particulars of 
 which he is writing or speaking, and is able to define them as 
 they are, and having defined them again tcvjlivijje them imtil 
 they can be no longer divided, and until in like manner he is 
 able to discern the nature of the soul and discover the different 
 modes of discourse which are adapted to different natures, and to 
 arrange and dispose them in such a way that the simple form 
 of speech may be addressed to the simpler nature, and the 
 complex- and composite to the complex nature — ^until he has 
 accomplished all this, he will be unable to handle arguments 
 according to rules of art, as far as their nature allows them 
 to be subjected to art, either for the purpose of teaching or 
 persuading; — ^that is the view which is implied in the whole/- 
 preceding argument. 
 -. fhaedr. Yes, that was our view, certainly. 
 
 Soc. Secondly, as to the justice of the censure which was passed 
 on speaking or writing discourses — did not our previous argument 
 show — ? 
 
 Thaedr. Show what ? 
 
 Soc. That whether Lysias or any other writer that ever was 
 or will be, whether private man or statesman, writes a political 
 treatise in his capacity of legislator, and fancies that there is a 
 great certainty and clearness in his performance, the fact of his 
 writing as he does is only a disgrace to him, whatever men may 
 say. For entire ignorance about the nature of justice and in- 
 justice, and good and evil, and the inability to distinguish the dream 
 
6i4 
 
 PHAEDRUS. 
 
 from the reality, cannot in truth be otherwise than disgraceful 
 I to him, even though he have the applause of the whole world. 
 / Fhaedr. Certainly. 
 
 i Soc. But he who thinks that in the written ^aard tiiea e is neces - 
 
 goetry nor 
 like the 
 
 -if. 
 
 _sarilj__mug^j^nchis not^eriOT^_^^ 
 
 ase,_4Po]se|i__orwiitten,^__areofai^^ value- 
 
 I compositio ns, of the -Jchap5od^,_they_are_oSyrrecited in order 
 
 to be be lie^ifd. ^ajid nqt^ with anY_viewto criticisni_ or instruc- 
 
 ti^ij__and^:wliQ_ti^n^s__^ia^ev2nthe^ 
 
 re miniscence of what we know, aMjhat_onlyiaIpdPciples_of 
 I jljstkejjidjgodnessanTMbi^^ 
 
 and writte n.Jil_jhe_^ouly.j^juch jsjt^e^ t^^ 
 j^ere_j^earness and perfection_and_-£eriousness; _a nd tha t suS 
 rvnri ples are likelegiti mate ofFspring^— beingjin the" hrst 
 
 place, jhat whi^ the -ma n* finds3n_hjg_QW|l.^osom ; s^mdly," 
 
 the brethren and descen dants and relations of this which 
 
 has_b een duly i mplaiited inthe so uls of otheis ^ and who 
 
 cares . for._them and_ no others — this is the right sort of m an"; 
 
 ^nd ;^QB a nd I, ^ haedras. would Braythat we may become like 
 
 him. 
 
 Thaedr. That is most assuredly my desire and prayer. 
 
 Soc. And now -gie_play is played_p ut ; and of rhetoric enough. 
 Go and tell Lysias that to the fountain and school of the Nymphs 
 we went down^ and were bidden by them to convey a message 
 to him and to other composers of speeches — to Homer and other 
 writers of poems, whether set to music or not. And to Solon 
 and the writers of political documents, which they term laws, 
 we are to say that if their compositions are based on knowledge 
 of the truth, and they can defend or prove them, when they are 
 ;Jut to the test, by^sgoken arguments, which leave their writings 
 ]Mor in comparison oftheni^THelHiiey are not only poets, orators, 
 legislators, but worthy of a higher name. 
 
 Fhaedr. What name is that ? 
 
 Soc, Wise, I may not call them ; for that is a great name which 
 belongs to Ljod only, — la cers nf w igrJarn '->r rhilv^s^phnT-HT-t'^''''' 
 lodestandJzsfitting title. 
 
 Fhaedr. Verygoo3 
 
 Soc. And he who cannot rise above his own compilations and 
 compositions, which he has been long patching and piecing, 
 
PHAEDRUS. 615 
 
 adding some and taking away some, may be justly called poet n 
 or speech-maker or law-maker. 
 
 Fhaedr. Certainly. '^ 
 
 Soc, Now go and tell this to your companion. 
 
 Thaedr. But there is also a friend of yours who ought not to be 
 forgotten. 
 
 Soc. Who is that ? 
 
 Phaedr. Isocrates the fair. 
 
 Soc. What of him ? 
 
 Vhaedr. What message shall we send to him ? 
 
 Soc. Isocrates is still young, Phaedrusj but I am willing to 
 risk a prophecy concerning him. 
 
 Fhaedr. What would you prophesy ? 
 
 Soc. I think that he has a genius which soars above the orations 
 of Lysias, and he has a character of a finer mould. My impression 
 of him is that he will marvellously improve as he grows older, and 
 that all former rhetoricians will be as children in comparison of 
 him. And I believe that he will not be satisfied with this, but 
 that some divine impulse will lead him to things higher still. For 
 there is an element of philosophy- in his nature. This is the 
 message which comes from the gods dwelling in this place, and 
 which I will myself deliver to Isocrates, who is my delight ; and 
 do you give the other to Lysias who is yours. , 
 
 Fhaedr. I will ; and now as the heat is abated let us depart. 
 
 Soc. Should we not offer up a prayer first of all to the local 
 deities ? 
 
 Fhaedr. By all means. 
 
 Soc. Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who haunt this place, 
 give me beauty in the inward soul ; and may the outward and inward 
 man be at one. May I reckon the wise to be the wealthy, and 
 may I have such a quantity of gold as none but the temperate 
 can carry. Anything more? That prayer, I think, is enough 
 for me. 
 
 Fhaedr. Ask the same for me, for friends should have all things 
 in common. 
 
 Soc. Let us go. ■ 
 
CRATYLUS. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Cratylus has always been a source of perplexity to the student of 
 Plato. While in fancy and humour and perfection of style, and meta- 
 physical originaUty, this dialogue may be ranked with the best of the 
 Platonic writings, there has been an uncertainty about the motive of the 
 piece, which interpreters have hitherto not succeeded in dispelling. We 
 need not suppose that Plato used words in order to conceal his thoughts, 
 or that he would have been unintelligible to an educated contemporary. 
 In the Phaedrus and Euthydemus we also found a difScuIty in deter- 
 mining the precise aim of the author. Plato wrote satires in the form 
 of dialogues, and his meaning, like that of other satirical writers, has 
 often slept in the ear of posterity. Two causes may be assigned for 
 this: ist, the subtlety and allusiveness of this species of composition; 
 2nd, the difficulty of reproducing a state of life and literature which has 
 passed away. A satire is unmeaning, unless we can place ourselves 
 back among the persons and thoughts of the age in which it was written. 
 Had the treatise of Antisthenes upon words, or the speculations of 
 Cratylus, or some other Heraclitean of the fourth century b. c, on the 
 nature of language, been preserved to us; or if we had lived at the 
 time, and been rich enough to attend ' the fifty-drachma course of Pro- 
 dicus,' we should have understood Plato better, and many points which 
 are now attributed to the extravagance of Socrates' humour, would have 
 been found, like the allusions of Aristophanes in the Clouds, to have 
 gone home to the sophists and grammarians of the day. 
 
 For the age was very busy with philological speculation; and many 
 questions were beginning to be asked about language which were 
 parallel to other questions about justice, virtue, knowledge, and were 
 
 *R r a 
 
60,0 CRATVLUS. 
 
 illustrated in a similar manner by the analogy of the arts. Was there 
 a correctness in words, and were they given by nature or convention ? 
 In the presocratic philosophy mankind had been striving to attain an 
 expression of their ideas ; and now they were beginifing to ask them- 
 selves whether the expression might not be distinguished from the idea ? 
 These were some of the problems which were occupying the minds of 
 speculative men in the age of Plato. But of these beginnings of the 
 study of language we know little, and there necessarily arises an ob- 
 scurity, when the surroundings of such a work as the Cratylus are taken 
 away. Moreover, in this, as in most of the dialogues of Plato, allowance 
 has to be made for the character of Socrates. For the theory of lan- 
 guage can only be propounded by him in a manner which is consistent 
 -with his own profession of ignorance. Hence his ridicule of the new 
 school of etymology is interspersed with many declarations, 'that he 
 knows nothing,' 'that he has learned from Euthyphro,' and the like. 
 Even the truest things which he says are depreciated by himself. He 
 professes to be guessing, but the guesses of Plato are better than all the 
 other theories of the ancients respecting language put together. 
 
 The dialogue hardly derives any light from Plato's other writings, and 
 still less from Scholiasts and Neoplatonist writers. Socrates must be 
 interpreted from himself, and on first reading we certainly have a diffi- 
 culty in understtading his drift, or his relation to the two other inter- 
 locutors in the dialogue. Does he agree with Cratylus or with Her- 
 mogenes, and is he serious in those fanciful etjTnologies, extending over 
 more than half the dialogue, which he seems so greatly to relish ? Or is 
 he serious in part only; and can we separate his jest from his earnest? — 
 Sunt bona, sunt quaedam mediocria, sunt mala plura. Most of them are 
 ridiculously bad, and yet among them are found, as if by accident, prin- 
 ciples of philology which are unsurpassed in any ancient writer, and 
 even in advance of any philologer of the last century. May we suppose 
 that Plato, like Lucian, has been amusing his fancy by writing a comedy 
 in the form of a prose dialogue ? And what is the final result of the 
 enquiry ? Is Plato an upholder of the conventional theory of language, 
 which he acknowledges to be imperfect? Or does he mean to imply that 
 a perfect language can only be based on his own theory of ideas ? Or if 
 this latter explanation is refuted by his silence, then in what relation does 
 his account of language stand to the rest of his philosophy ? Or may we 
 be so bold as to deny the connection between them ? For the allusion 
 
INTRODUCTION. 621 
 
 to the ideas at the end of the dialogue is merely intended to show that 
 we must not put words in the place of thifigs or realities, which is a 
 thesis strongly insisted upon by Plato in many other passages . . . These 
 are some of the first thoughts which arise in the mind of the reader of 
 the Cratylus. And the consideration of them may form a convenient 
 introduction to the general subject of the dialogue. 
 
 We have already seen in the case of the Phaedrus, that we must not 
 expect aU the parts of a dialogue of Plato to tend equally to some 
 clearly-defined end. His idea of literary art is not the absolute pro- 
 portion of the whole, such as we appear to find in a Greek temple or 
 statue ; nor should his works be tried by any such standard. They have 
 often the beauty of poetry, but they have also the freedom of conver- 
 sation. ' Words are more plastic than wax,' and may be moulded into 
 any form. He wanders on from one topic to another, careless of the 
 unity of his work, not fearing any 'judge, or spectator, who may recall 
 him to the point' (Theaet.), ' whither the argument blows we follow.' 
 (Rep. 394 D.) To have determined beforehand, as in a modern didactic 
 treatise, the nature and Umits of the subject, would have been fatal to 
 the spirit of enquiry or discovery, which is the soul of the dialogue. 
 
 There is another aspect under which some of the dialogues of Plato 
 may be more truly viewed : — they are dramatic sketches of an argument. 
 We have found that in the Lysis, Charmides, Laches, Protagoras, Meno, 
 we arrived at no conclusion — the different sides of the argument were 
 personified in the different speakers ; but the victory was not distinctly 
 attributed to any of them, nor the truth wholly the property of any. 
 And in the Cratylus we have no reason to assume that Socrates is either 
 wholly right or wholly wrong, or that Plato, though he evidently inclines 
 to him, had any other aim than that of personifying the conventional, 
 rational, ideal theories of language, in the characters of Hermogenes, 
 Socrates, and Cratylus. 
 
 The two subordinate persons of the dialogue, Hermogenes and Cra- 
 tylus, are at the opposite poles of the argument. But extremes meet ; 
 and the disciple of the Sophists and the follower of Heraclitus, are found 
 to be not so far removed from one another as at first sight appears ; and 
 both show an inclination to accept the third view which Socrates inter- 
 poses between them. First, Hermogenes, the poor brother of the rich 
 Callias, expounds the doctrine that names are conventional; like the 
 names of slaves, they may be given and altered at pleasure. This is 
 
623 CRATYLUS. 
 
 one of those principles which, whether applied to society or language; 
 explains everything and nothing. For in all things there is an element 
 of convention ; but the admission of this does not explain the rational 
 ground or basis in human nature on which the convention proceeds: 
 Socrates first of all intimates to Hermogenes, that his view of language 
 is only a part of a sophistical whole, and ultimately tends to abolish the 
 distinction between truth and falsehood. Hermogenes is very ready to 
 throw aside the sophistical tenet, and listens with a sort of half admira- 
 tion, half belief, to the speculations of Socrates. 
 
 Cratylus is of opinion that a name is either a true name or not a 
 name at all. He is unable to conceive of degrees of imitation ; a word 
 is either the perfect expression of a thing, or a mere inarticulate sound 
 (a fallacy which is still prevalent among theorizers about the origin of 
 language). He is at once a philosopher and sophist; for while wanting 
 to rest language on an immutable basis, he would deny the possibility of 
 falsehood. He is inclined to derive all truth from language, and in lan- 
 guage he sees reflected the philosophy of Heraclitus. His views are not 
 like those of Hermogenes, hastily taken up, but are said to be the result 
 of mature consideration, although he is described as still a young man; 
 With a tenacity characteristic of the Heraclitean philosophers, he clings 
 to the doctrine of the flux. (Cp. Theaet. i8o.) Of the real Cratylus we 
 know nothing, except that he is recorded by Aristotle to have been the 
 friend or teacher of Plato ; nor have we any proof that he resembled the 
 likeness of him in Plato any more than the Critias of Plato is like the 
 real Critias, or the Euthyphro in this dialogue like the other Euthyphro, 
 the diviner, in the dialogue which is called after him. 
 
 Between these two extremes, which have both of them a sophistical 
 character, the view of Socrates is introduced, which is in a manner the 
 union of the two. Language is conventional and also natural, and the 
 true conventional-natural is the rational. It is a work not of chance, but 
 of art ; the dialectician is the artificer of words, and the legislator gives 
 authority to them. They are the expressions or imitations in sound of 
 things. In a sense, Cratylus is right in saying that things have by nature 
 names (p. 390) ; for nature is not opposed either to art or to law. But 
 vocal imitation, like any other copy, may be imperfectly executed; and 
 in this way an element of chance or convention enters in. There is 
 much which is accidental or exceptional in language. Some words 
 have had their original meaning so obscured, that they require to be 
 
INTRODUCTION. 623 
 
 helped out by convention. But still the true name is that which has a 
 natural meaning. Thus nature, art, chance, %11 combine in the forma- 
 tion of language. And the three views respectively propounded by 
 Pprmogenes, Socrates, Cratylus, may be described as tho' conventional, 
 the artificial or rational, and the natural. And this view of Socrates is 
 the meeting-point of the other two, just as conceptualism is the meeting- 
 point of nominalism and realism. 
 
 We can hardly say that Plato was aware of the truth, that ' languages 
 are not made, but grow.' But still, when he says that 'the legislator 
 made language with the dialectician standing on his right hand,' we need 
 not infer from this that he supposed words, like coins, to be issued from 
 the mint of the State. The creator of laws and of social life is naturally 
 regarded as the creator of language, according to Hellenic notions, and 
 the philosopher is his natural adviser. We are not to suppose that the 
 legislator is performing any extraordinary function ; he is merely the 
 Eponymus of the State, who prescribes rules for the dialectician and 
 for all other artists. According to a truly Platonic mode of approaching 
 the subject, language, like virtue in the Republic, is examined by the 
 analogy of the arts. Words are works of art which may be equally made 
 in different materials, and are well made when they have a meaning. Of 
 the process which he thus describes, Plato had probably no very definite 
 notion. But he means to express generally that language-is the product of 
 intelligence, and that languages belong to States and not to individuals. 
 
 A better conception of language could not have been formed in Plato's 
 age, than that which he attributes to Socrates. Yet many persons have 
 thought that the mind of Plato is more truly seen in the vague realism 
 of Cratylus. This misconception has probably arisen from two causes : 
 first, the desire to bring Plato's theory of language into accordance with 
 the received doctrine of the Platonic ideas; secondly, the impression 
 created by Socrates himself, that he is not in earnest, and is only in- 
 dulging the fancy of the hour. 
 
 I. We shall have occasion to show more at length, in the Intro- 
 duction to future dialogues, that the so-called Platonic ideas are only a 
 semi-mythical form, in which he attempts to realize abstractions, and 
 that they are replaced in his later writings by a rational theory of psy- 
 chology. (See, especially. Introduction to the Sophist.) And in the 
 Cratylus he gives a rational account of the nature and origin of language, 
 in which Adam Smith, Rousseau, and other writers of the last century. 
 
6a4 CRATYLVS. 
 
 would have generally agreed. At the end of the dialogue, he speaks as 
 in the Symposium and Republic of absolute beauty and good; but he 
 never supposed that they were capable of being embodied in words. 
 Of the names of the ideas, he would have said, as he says of the names 
 of the Gods, that we know nothing. Even the realism of Cratylus is not 
 based upon the ideas of Plato, but upon the flux of Heraclitus. Here, 
 as in the Sophist and Politicus, Plato expressly draws attention to the 
 want of correspondence of words and things. Hence we are led to 
 infer, that the view of Socrates is not the less Plato's own, because not 
 based upon the ideas; and, that Plato's theory of language is not 
 inconsistent with the rest of his philosophy. 
 
 3. We do not deny that Socrates is partly in jest and partly in 
 earnest. He is discoursing in a high-flown vein, which may be compared 
 to ' the dithyrambics ' of the Phaedrus. They are mysteries of which he 
 is speaking, and he professes a kind of ludicrous fear of his imaginary 
 wisdom. When he is arguing out of Homer, about the names of 
 Hector's son, or when he describes himself as inspired or maddened by 
 Euthyphro, with whom he has been sitting from the early dawn (compare 
 again Phaedrus and Lysias), and expresses his intention of yielding to 
 the illusion to-day, and to-morrow he will go to a priest and be purified, 
 we easily see that his words are not to b^ taken seriously. In this part 
 of the dialogue his dread of committing impiety, the pretended derivation 
 of his wisdom from another, the extravagance of some of his etymologies,! 
 and, in general, the manner in which the fun fast and furious, vires 
 acquirit eundo, remind us strongly of the Phaedrus. The jest is a long 
 one, extending over more than half the dialogue. But then, we remember 
 that the Euthydemus is a still longer jest, in which the irony is pre- 
 served to the very end. There he is parodying the ingenious follies of 
 early logic ; in the Cratylus he is ridiculing the fancies of a new school 
 of sophists and grammarians. The fallacies of the Euthydemus are still 
 retained at the end of our logic books; and the etjonologies of the 
 Cratylus have also found their way into later writers. Some of these 
 are not much worse than the conjectures of Hemsterhuis, and ofjier 
 critics of the last century ; but this does not prove that they are serious., 
 For Plato is in advance of his age in his conception of language, as 
 much as he is in his conception of mythology. (Cp. Phaedrus sub initio.) 
 He might have described the etymologies in the Cratylus, as ' the occu- 
 pation of a not very fortunate individual,' who had a good deal of time 
 
INTRODUCTION. 635 
 
 sji oh his hands ; or he might have satirized th^ current interpretations of 
 mythology in a similar spirit. 
 
 When the fervour of his etymological enthusiasm has abated, Socrates 
 ends, as he had begun, with a rational explanation of language. Still he 
 preserves his 'know nothing' disguise, and himself declares his first 
 notions about names to be reckless and ridiculous. Having explained 
 compound words, by resolving them into their original elements, he now 
 proceeds to analyse simple words into the letters of which they are com- 
 posed. The Socrates who ' knows nothing,' here passes into the 
 teacher, the dfalectician, the arranger of species. There is nothing in 
 this part of'the dialogue which is either weak or extravagant. Plato is a 
 supporter of the onomatopoeic theory of language; that is to say, he 
 supposes words to be formed by the imitation of ideas in sounds ; he 
 also recognises the effect of time, the influence of foreign languages, 
 the desire of euphony, to be formative principles; and he admits a 
 certain element of chance. But he gives no intimation in all this, that he 
 is preparing the way for the construction of an ideal language, or that he 
 has any Eleatic speculation to oppose to the Heracliteanism of Cratylus. 
 
 The theory of language which is propounded in the Cratylus, is in 
 accordance with the later phase of the philosophy of Plato, and would 
 have been regarded by him as in the main true. The dialogue is also a 
 satire on the philological fancies of the day. Socrates in pursuit of his 
 vocation, as a detector of false knowledge, lights by accident on the truth. 
 He is guessing, he is dreaming ; he has heard, as he says in the Phaedrus, 
 from another : no one is more surprised than himself at his own dis- 
 coveries. And yet some of his best remarks, as, for example, his view of 
 the derivation of Greek words from other languages, or of the permu- 
 tations of letters, or again, his observaticm that in speaking of the Gods 
 we are only speaking of our names of them, occur among these flights 
 of humour. 
 
 We can imagine a character having a profound insight into the nature 
 of men and things, and yet hardly dwelling upon them seriously; blending 
 inextricably sense and nonsense; sometimes enveloping in a blaze of 
 jests the most serious matters, and then again allowing the truth to 
 peer through; enjoying the flow of his own humour, and puzzling 
 mankind by an ironical exaggeration of their absurdities. Such were 
 Aristophanes and Rabelais ; such, in a different style, were Sterne, Jean 
 Paul, Hamann,— writers who sometimes become unintelligible through the 
 
 VOL. I. s s 
 
62,6 CRATYLUS. 
 
 extravagance of their fancies. Such is the character which Plato intends 
 to depict in some of his dialogues as the Silenus Socrates ; and through 
 this medium we have to receive our theory of language. 
 
 There remains still a question, which seems to demand a more exact 
 answer : In what relation does the satirical or etymological portion of 
 the dialogue stand to the serious ? Granting all that can be said about 
 the provoking irony of Socrates, about the parody of Euthyphro, or 
 Prodicus, or Antisthenes, how does the long gatalogue of etymologies 
 furnish any answer to the question of Hermogenes, which is evidently 
 the main thesis of the dialogue : What is the truth, or correctness, or 
 principle of names ? 
 
 After illustrating the nature of correctness by the analogy of the arts, 
 and then, as in the Republic, ironically appealing to the authority of the 
 Homeric poems, Socrates shows that the truth or correctness of names 
 can only be ascertained by an appeal to etymology. The truth of names 
 is to be found in the analysis of their elements. But why does he admit 
 etymologies which are absurd, based on Heraclitean fancies, fourfold 
 interpretations of words, impossible unions and separations of syllables 
 and letters ? 
 
 I. The answer to this diflSculty has been already anticipated in part: 
 Socrates is not a dogmatic teacher, and therefore he puts on this wild 
 and fanciful disguise, in order that the truth may be permitted to appear : 
 2. as Benfey remarks, an erroneous example may illustrate a principle of 
 language as well as a true one : 3. many of these etymologies, as, for 
 example, that of biKoiov, are indicated, by the manner in which Socrates 
 speaks of them, to have been current in his own age. 4. The philosophy 
 of language had not made such progress as would have justified Plato in 
 propounding real derivations. Like his master, Socrates, he saw through : 
 the hoUowness of the incipient sciences of the day, and tries to move in a 
 circle apart from them, laying down the conditions under which they 
 are to be pursued ; but as in the Timaeus, cautious and tentative, when 
 he is speaking of actual phenomena. To have made etymologies 
 seriously, would have seemed to him like the interpretation of the myths 
 in the Phaedrus, the task ' of a not very fortunate individual, who had a 
 great deal of time on his hands.' (See p. 625.) The irony of Socrates 
 places him above and beyond the errors of his contemporaries. 
 
 The Cratylus is full of humour and of satirical touches : the inspiration 
 which comes from Euthyphro, and his prancing steeds, the light 
 
INTRODUCTION. 6%'] 
 
 admixture of quotations from Homer, and the spurious dialectic which 
 is applied to them ; the jest about the fifty-drachma course of Prodicus, 
 and the double explanation of the name Hermogenes, either as 'not 
 being in luck,' or 'being no speaker;' the dearly-bought wisdom of 
 Callias, the Lacedaemonian whose name was Bolt, and, above all, the 
 pleasure which Socrates expresses in his own dangerous discoveries, 
 which ' to-morrow he will purge away,' are truly humorous. A deeper 
 vein of satire is found in other passages : first, Protagoras and Euthy- 
 demus are assailed ; then the interpreters of Homer, oX •naKaim 'OiaipiKoi ; 
 {cp. Arist. Met. xiii. 6. 7 ;) then he discovers a hive of wisdom in the 
 philosophy of Heraclitus ; or he ridicules the arbitrary methods of pulling 
 out and putting in letters which were in vogue among the philologers of 
 his time ; or slightly scoffs at contemporary religious beliefs. Lastly, he 
 is impatient of hearing from the half-converted Cratylus, the doctrine 
 that falsehood can neither be spoken, nor uttered, nor addressed; a 
 piece of sophistry attributed to Gorgias, which re-appears in the Sophist. 
 And he proceeds to demolish, with no less delight than he had set up, 
 the Heraclitean theory of language. 
 
 The place of the dialogue in the series cannot be determined with 
 certainty. The style and subject, and the treatment of the character of 
 Socrates, have a close resemblance to the Phaedrus, and, in general, to 
 the earlier dialogues. The manner in which the ideas are spoken of at 
 the end of the dialogue, also indicates a comparatively early date. The 
 imaginative element is still in full vigour ; the Socrates of the Cratylus is 
 the Socrates of the Apology and Symposium, not yet Platonized ; and he 
 describes, as in the Theaetetus, the philosophy of Heraclitus by 'un- 
 isavoury' similes — he cannot believe that the world is like ' a leaky vessel,' 
 or ' a man who has a running at the nose ;' he attributes the flux of the 
 world to the swimming in some folks' heads. On the other hand, the 
 relation of thought to language is omitted here, but is treated of in the 
 Sophist. These grounds are not suflScient to enable us to arrive at a 
 precise conclusion. But we shall not be far wrong in placing- the 
 Cratylus about the middle, or at any rate in the first half, of the series. 
 
 Cratylus, the Heraclitean philosopher, and Hermogenes, the brother of 
 Callias, have been arguing about names; the former maintaining that 
 they are natural, the latter that they are only conventional. Cratylus 
 afiirms that his own is a true name, but will not allow that the name of 
 
 s s 2 
 
6a8 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Hermogenes is equally true. Hermogenes is mystified by this, and asks 
 Socrates to explain to him what Cratylus means ; and he would like to 
 know what Socrates himself thinks about the truth or correctness of 
 names? Socrates replies, that hard is knowledge, and the nature of 
 names is a considerable part of knowledge : he has never been to hear 
 the fifty-drachma course of Prodicus; and having only attended the 
 single drachma course, he is not competent to give an opinion on 
 matters of this sort. When Cratylus denies that Hermogenes is a true 
 name, he supposes him to mean that, he is not a true son of Hermes, 
 because he is never in luck. But he would like to have an open council 
 and to hear both sides. 
 
 Hermogenes has often considered the question, and is of opinion that 
 there is no principle in names ; they may be changed, as we change the 
 names of slaves, whenever we please, and the altered name is as good as 
 the original one. 
 
 You mean to say, rejoins Socrates, who re-states the proposition of 
 Hermogenes, that if I agree to call a man a horse, then a man will be 
 rightly called a horse by me, and a man by the rest of the world ? But 
 to this he proceeds to object, that there is in words a true and a false, 
 which is contained in propositions ; and if a whole proposition be true 
 or false, then the parts of a proposition may be true or false, and the 
 least parts as well as the greatest; and the least parts are names, and 
 therefore names may be true or false. And would Hermogenes main- 
 tain that anybody may give a name to anything, and as many names aS 
 he pleases ; and would all these names be always true at the time of 
 giving them ? Hermogenes replies that this is the only consistent account 
 of the correctness of names ; and he appeals to the practice of different 
 nations, and of the different Hellenic tribes, in confirmation of his view. 
 Socrates asks, whether the things differ as the words which represent 
 them differ : — Are we to maintain with Protagoras, that what appears is ? 
 Hermogenes has considered this question and is puzzled at first, but 
 acknowledges, when he is pressed by Socrates, that there are a few very 
 good men in the world, and a great many very bad ; and the very good 
 are the wise, and the very bad are the foolish; and this is not mere 
 appearance but reality. Nor is he disposed to say with Euthydemus, 
 that all things equally and always belong to all men ; in that case, again, 
 there would be no distinction between bad and good men. But if 
 Protagoras and Euthydemus are both admitted to be wrong, then the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 639 
 
 only remaining possibility is, that all things have their several distinct 
 natures, and are independent of our notions ^out them. And not only 
 things, but actions, have distinct natures, and are done by different pro- 
 cesses. There is a natural way of cutting or burning, and a natural 
 instrument with which men cut or burn, and any other way will fail ; — 
 this is true of all actions. And speaking is a kind of action, and naming 
 is a kind of speaking, and we must name according to a natural process, 
 and with a proper instrument. We cut with a knife, we pierce with an 
 awl, we weave with a shuttle, we name with a name. And as a shuttle 
 divides the warp and the woof, so a name distinguishes the natures of 
 things. And'the weaver will use the shuttle well, — that is, like a weaver ; 
 and the teacher will use the name well, — that is, like a teacher. The 
 shuttle will be made by the carpenter ; the awl by the smith or skilled 
 person. But who makes a name ? Does not the law give names, and 
 does not the teacher receive them from the legislator ? He is the skilled 
 person who makes them, and of all skilled workmen he is the rarest. 
 But how does the carpenter make or repair the shuttle, and to what will 
 he look ? Will he not look at the ideal which he has in his mind ? And 
 as the different kinds of work differ, so ought the instruments which 
 make them to differ. The several kinds of shuttles ought to answer in 
 material and form to the several kinds of webs. And the legislator 
 ought to know the different materials and forms of which names are 
 made in Hellas and other countries. But who is to be the judge of the 
 proper form ? The judge of shuttles is the weaver who uses them ; the 
 judge of lyres is the player of the lyre ; the judge of ships is the pilot 
 who sails in them. And will not the judge who is able to direct the 
 legislator in his work of naming, be he who knows how to use the 
 names — he who can ask and answer questions — in short, the dialectician? 
 The pilot directs the carpenter how to make the rudder, and the dia- 
 lectician directs the legislator how he is to impose names ; for to express 
 the ideal forms of things in syllables and letters is no easy task, Hermo- 
 genes — of that I can assure you." 
 ; ' I wish you would explain to me the natural correctness of names.' 
 
 Indeed I cannot ; but I see that you have advanced ; for you now 
 admit that there is a correctness of names,, and that not every one can 
 give a name. But what is the nature of this correctness or truth, you 
 must leam from the Sophists, of whom your brother, Callias, has bought 
 his reputation for wisdom rather dearly ; and since they require to be 
 
630 CRATYLUS: 
 
 paid, you having no money, had better learn from him at second hand. 
 ' Well, but I have just given up Protagoras, and I should be inconsistent 
 in going to learn of him.' Then if you reject him you may learn of the 
 poets, and in particular of Homer, who distinguishes the names given by 
 Gods and men to the same things, as in the verse about the river God 
 who fought with Achilles, ' whom the Gods call Xanthus, and men call 
 Scamander ;' or in the lines in which he mentions the bird which the 
 Gods call ' Chalcis,' and men ' Cymindis ;' or the hill which men call 
 ' Batiea,' and the Gods call ' Myrina's Tomb.' Now here is a myste- 
 rious lesson which we may take to heart ; for the Gods must, of course, 
 be right in their use of names. And this is not the only truth about 
 philology which may be learnt from Homer. For does he not say that 
 the women called Hector's son Scamandrius, and the men called him 
 Astyanax ? And which are more likely to be right — ^the wiser or the 
 less wise, the men or the women ? Homer evidently thought that the 
 men were likely to be right; and of the name given by the men he offers 
 an explanation ; — he Ti^as called Astyanax because his father saved the 
 city. Hence you may properly call his son 'the king of the city;' 
 and the names of Astyanax and Hector are really the same, for the one 
 means a king, and the other is a holder or possessor; ''tis all one 
 meaning, save the phrase is a little variations.' As the lion's whelp may 
 be called a lion, so the son of a king may be called a king. But if the 
 lion had produced a foal, then the offspring of the lion would be called a 
 foal. Whether the syllables of a name are the-* same or not, makes no 
 difference, provided the meaning is retained. For example ; the names 
 of letters, whether vowels or consonants, do not correspond to their 
 sounds, with the exception of e, v, 0, a. The name Beta has three letters 
 added to the sound — and yet this does not alter the sense of the word, 
 or prevent the whole name having the value which the legislator intended. 
 And the same may be said of a king; the Words which signify the good 
 son, and the noble sire, may be disguised; and yet amid differences of 
 sound the etyrnologist may recognise the same notion, just as the physi- 
 cian may recognise the power of the same drugs under different disguises 
 of colour and smell. Hector and Astyanax have only one letter alike, 
 but they may have the same meaning ;' and Agis (leader), is altogether 
 different in sound from Polemarchus (chief in war), or Eupofemus (good; 
 warrior); but the two words present the same idea of leader or general; 
 like the words latrocles and Acesimbrotus, which equally denote a 
 
INTRODUCTION. 631 
 
 doctor. The son succeeds the father as the foal succeeds the horse ; 
 but ■when, out of the course of nature, a prodigy occurs, like a lion pro- 
 ducing a dog, that is to say, when the offspring no longer resembles the 
 parent, then the names no longer agree. This may be illustrated by 
 the case of Agamemnon and Orestes, of whom the former has a name 
 significant of his patience at the siege of Troy ; while the name of the 
 latter indicates his savage, man-of-the-mountain nature. Atreus again, 
 for his murder of Chrysippms, and his cruelty to Thyestes, is rightly 
 named Atreus; which, to the eye of the etymologist, is aT?)pos (de- 
 structive), ariipfis (stubborn), arpearos (fearless) ; and IleXoi//- is 6 n-eXay 
 op&v (he who' sees what is near only) ; because in his eagerness to win 
 Hippodamia, he was unconscious of the remoter consequences which the 
 murder of Myrtilus would entail upon his race. The name Tantalus, if 
 slightly changed, offers two et3rmologies ; either djro Trjs tov \Wm raXav- 
 TEi'ar, or OTTO TOV ToKdvraTov thai, signifying at once the misery which he 
 brought upon his country, and the hanging of the stone over his head in 
 the world below. And the name of his father, Zeis, AjAs, Ztjvos, has an 
 excellent meaning, though hard to be understood, because really a 
 sentence which is divided into two parts (Zeii, Aim). For he, being the 
 lord and king of all, is the author of our being, and in him all live : this 
 is implied in the double form, Ai&s Zr^vos, which being put together and 
 interpreted is hi ov fj irivra. There may, at first sight, appear to be a 
 want of reverence in calling him the son of Cronos ; but the meaning, I 
 suspect, is that Zfis himself is the son of a mighty intellect ; Kpovot, quasi 
 Kopos, not in the sense of a youth, but quasi t6 najBapov kcu. oKTiparov tov vov 
 — the pure and garnished mind, which in turn is begotten of Uranus, 
 who is so called airh tov 6pav TO. Sva, from looking upwards ; which, as 
 philosophers say, is the way to have a pure mind. The earlier portion 
 of Hesiod's genealogy has escaped my meiiiory, or I would try more 
 conclusions of the same sort. ' You talk like an oracle.' I caught the 
 infection from Euthyphron, who gave me a long lecture which began at 
 dawn, and has not only entered into my ears, but filled my soul, and my 
 mtentionis to yield to the inspiration to-day; and to-morrow I will be 
 exorcised by a priest or sophist. 'Go on ; I am anxious to hear the 
 rest.' Now that we have a general notion, how shall we proceed ? What 
 names will afford the most crucial test of natural fitness? Those of 
 heroes are often deceptive, because they are patronymics or expressions 
 of a wish ; let us try gods and demi-gods. Gods are so called, dn-6 toC 
 
633 CRATYLUS. 
 
 diiv, from the word 'to run;' because the sun, moon, and stars, run 
 about the heaven; and they being the original gods of the Hellenes, as 
 they still are of the Barbarians, their name is given to all Gods. The 
 demons are the golden race of Hesiod, and by golden he means not 
 literally golden, but good; and they are called demons, quasi 8afiiwves',< 
 which in the old language was Satfiovcs — good men are well said by 
 Hesiod to become Baiixoves when they die, because they are knowing. 
 'Hpas is the same word as epas : ' the sons of God saw the daughters of 
 men that they were fair ;' perhaps, also, they are a kind of sophists who 
 are likewise of heroic breed, and called rjpaes dn-o toO ipmr^v, or eLptu/, from 
 their habit of spinning questions ; for eXpav is equivalent to Xiyew. I get 
 all this from Euthyphro; and now I bethink me of a very new and 
 ingenious notion which occurs to me ; and, if I do not mind, I shall be 
 wiser than I ought to be by to-morrow's dawn. My notion is, that we 
 may put in and pull out letters at pleasure and alter the accents (as, for 
 example, A« ^iXos may be turned into Ai^iXos), and we may make words 
 into sentences and sentences into words. The name avBpamos is a case 
 in point, for a letter has been omitted and the accent changed ; the 
 original meaning being 6 avadpav a onamev — he who looks up at what he 
 sees. ■'Srvxri may be thought to be the cooling, or refreshing, or animating 
 principle, ij ava^x°'"'''^ ''^ a-apa ; but I am afraid that Euthyphro and his 
 disciples will scorn this derivation, and I must find another : shall we 
 say with Anaxagoras, that i/fuxi is the xoa-pmiiTa Sidvoia, quasi 4""^^}Ct V 
 (pia-iv ex" Or op^eT — this by a refinement may be called iruxfi ? ' That is a 
 better and more artistic etymology.' 
 
 After yjmxri follows o-apa ; this, by a change of a letter, is converted into 
 a-TJpa — the grave in which the soul is buried, or the sign of the soul through 
 which her will is signified ; • or without changing even a letter may 
 be thought to mean the place of ward in which the soul is safely kept 
 and endures punishment — ev S a-a^erai.. 'I should lake to hear some more 
 explanations of the names of the Gods, like that excellent one of Zeus.' 
 The truest names of the Gods are those which they give themselves ; but 
 these are unknown to us. Less true are those by which we propitiate 
 them, as men say in prayers, ' May he graciously receive any name by 
 which I call him.' And to avoid offence, I should like to let them know 
 beforehand that we are not enquiring about them — .that would be a piece 
 of impertinence on our part; but we are enquiring about the names 
 which men give to them. Let us begin with Hestia. What did he 
 
Iiv 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 6^^ 
 
 mean who gave the name Hestia? 'That is a very difficult question 
 to answer.' O, my dear Hermogenes, I beU^e that there was a power 
 of philosophy and talk among the first inventors of names, both in our 
 own and in other languages; for even in foreign words a principle is 
 discernible. Hestia is the same with iiria, which is an old form of 
 ma-'ia, and means the first principle of things : this agrees with the fact, 
 that to Hestia the first sacrifices are offered. There is also another read- 
 ing of axTia, which impUes that 'pushing' is the first principle of all 
 things. And here I seem to discover a delicate allusion to the flux of 
 Heraclitus — that antedUuvian philosopher who cannot walk twice in the 
 same stream ; and this flux of his may accomplish yet greater marvels. 
 For the names Cronos and Rhea cannot have been accidental ; the giver 
 of them must have known something about the doctrine of Heraclitus. 
 Moreover, there is a remarkable coincidence in the words of Hesiod, 
 when he speaks of Oceanus, 'the origin of Gods;' or in the verse of 
 Orpheus, in which he describes Oceanus espousing his sister Tethys. 
 Tethys is nothing more than the name of a spring — rh rjBoinepov rai Sjot™- 
 fupov. Poseidon is iroa-ibea-iuis, the chain of the feet, because you cannot 
 walk on the sea — the e is inserted by way of ornament ; or perhaps the 
 name may have been originally iroWelhav, meaning, that the God knew 
 many things ; he may also be the shaker, airh rov a-cUiv. Pluto is con- 
 nected with WKovTos, because wealth comes out of the earth ; or because 
 there are riches in the world below ; or the word may be a euphemism 
 for Hades. And Hades is so called, not ano toC aaiovs, but otto tov irdvra 
 TO KoXa «Serat — from knowing all good and beautiful things. Hades 
 binds men by the strongest of chains, and the love of the beautiful is the 
 strongest; the men who are bound hy this chain never want to come 
 back, and indeed, when they have once been laid under his spell, they 
 cannot. He is the perfect and accomplished sophist, and the great 
 benefactor of the world below; for he has much more than he wants 
 there, and this is why he is called Pluto, or the rich. He will have 
 nothing to do with the souls of men while in the body, because he 
 cannot bind them with the desire of virtue until they are liberated from 
 their earthly tenement. Demeter is the mother and giver of food — 
 ^ StSova-a iiriTjjp r^s iSaS^s. Herfe is eparri ns, or perhaps, the legislator may 
 have been thinking of the weather, and has merely transposed the letters 
 of the word arip. You will see the truth of this when you say the letters 
 over fast. Persephatta, that awful name, is ^epen-ai^j) — and means only 
 
634 CRAIYLUS. 
 
 i\ Tov (jiipoixivov itpaTTTonevr) — all things in the world are in motion, and she 
 in her wisdom moves with them, and Hades consorts with her— 'there 
 is nothing very terrible in this. Apollo is another name, which is sup- 
 posed to have some dreadful meaning, but is susceptible, if I am not 
 mistaken, of at least four perfectly innocent explanations, which agree 
 marvellously with his four attributes of musician, diviner, doctor, archer. 
 First, he is the purifier or purger or fumigator (dTrokoiav); secondly, he 
 is the true diviner {mrXas), as he is called in the Thessalian dialect; 
 thirdly, he is the archer (dei PaiKKav), always shooting ; or again, supposing 
 a to mean a/m or ofiou, Apollo becomes equivalent to d/ia noKmv, which is 
 significant both of his musical and of his heavenly attributes ; for he is 
 the God of music, and also of the movement of the sphere. The second 
 X is inserted in order to avoid the ill-omened sound of destruction. ThC' 
 Muses are so called — dn-A tov imaQai. Leto or Letho means, forget and 
 forgive ; she is such a gentle deity. Artemis is named from her healthy 
 happy nature — hih. t6 dpreiih, or as dpeTrjs la-rap ; or as a lover of virginity, 
 apoTov luarjo-aa-a tov dv8p6s. One, if not all of these explanations, is probr 
 ably true. Dionysus is 6 SiSoi/s tov olvov, and otvos is quasi olovavs because 
 wine gives a mind to those who have not got one. The established 
 derivation of 'AtppoSirri Sih ttjv toC S^jjpov ■yeVeo-u', may be accepted on the 
 authority of Hesiod. Again, there is the name of Pallas, or Athene, 
 which you, who are an Athenian, must not forget. Pallas is derived 
 from armed dances — dirb tov TrdXXeiv to &rXa. For Athene we must have 
 recourse to the allegorical interpreters of Homer, who make the name 
 equivalent to Bfov&j or ri6ov6r]; this has been beautified into Athene. 
 Hephaestus, again, is the lord of light — 6 rov (jydeos tarap. This is a 
 good notion ; and, to prevent any other getting into our heads, let 
 us go on to Ares. He is the manly one {Sppriv), or the unbroken one 
 (Spparos). Enough of the Gods ; for, by the Gods, I am afraid of them ; but 
 if you suggest other words, you will see how the horses of Euthyphro 
 prance. 'Only one more God; tell me about my godfather Hermes.' 
 He is eppriveis, the messenger or cheater or thief or bargainer ; or d tlpiai 
 fitfievos, that is, elpepsris 6r epprjs — the speaker or contriver of speeches. 
 ' Well said Cratylus, then, that I am no son of Hermes.' Pan, the son of 
 Hermes, is Xdyor, and is called Pan because he indicates everything — i 
 ■ndv pr/vvav. He has two forms, a true and a false ; and is in the upper 
 part smooth, and in the lower part shaggy. He is the goat of Tragedy, 
 in which there are plenty of falsehoods. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 635 
 
 Enough of the names of the Gods. Shall I go on to the elements — 
 sun, moon, stars, earth, aether, air, fire, water, seasons, years? And 
 which shall I take first ? Let us begin with ijIXtos, or the sun. The origin 
 of ^IXibs will be clearer in the Doric form aXior, which is so called Kara to 
 
 oKi^av els ravro roiis avBpimavs otov dvareiXr;, because at his rising he gathers 
 
 men together ; or, 8ia t6 jrepl t^v yr\v eiXeZv, because he goes round the 
 earth; or, 8m rh aioXcTi/, the meaning of which is TroKiXXftv, because he 
 variegates the earth. Selene is an anticipation of Anaxagoras, being a 
 contraction of (rikatvoviaaua, the light which is ever old and new, and 
 which, as Anaxagoras says, is borrowed from the sun; the name was 
 beaten into shape and called aiKi\va.ia — that is a name of the true dithy- 
 rambic sort. M«s is so called anh rov iiewva-Bm, from suffering diminu- 
 tion ; and aarpov is from iarpairri, which is an improvement of amarpanrfj, 
 
 that which turns the eyes inside out. ' How do you explain nSp and 
 vSapi' I suspect iTvp, like vSap and Kvav, which are found in the Phoe- 
 nician language, to be a word of which the origin must be sought in 
 some other language ; for the Hellenes borrowed many words from the 
 barbarians, and I always have recourse to them when I am at a loss. 
 
 "A^p may be explained, on aipei to ano rrjs yfis ; or, Sn ad pel • or, Sn nvevpa 
 ii-avTov ylverai (compare the poetic word drJTai). So aWfip quasi aaBerip oTi 
 Of 1 Sfi : yfj yata quasi yewrfreipa (compare the Homeric form yeyacun) ; S>pa, 
 
 Or, according to the old Attic form, opa, is derived dno rmj opifew, because it 
 divides the year ; iuutvT&s and tros are the same thought — o iv cavr^ (ra^av, 
 cut into two parts, hi iavra and ira^av, like 81' ov ixi into AiAs and Zi/wds. 
 
 'You make surprising progress.' True; I am run away with, and am 
 not even yet at my utmost speed. ' I should like very much to hear your 
 account of the virtues. What principle of correctness is there in all those 
 charming words, wisdom, understanding, justice, and the rest of theih?' 
 To explain all that, will be a serious business ; still, as I have put on the 
 lion's skin, appearances must be maintained. My opinion is, that primi- 
 tive men were like some modern philosophers, who, by always going 
 round in their search after the nature of things, become dizzy ; and this 
 latter phenomena, which was really in themselves, they imagined to take 
 place in the external world. You have no doubt remarked, that the 
 doctrine of the universal flux, or generation of things, is indicated in 
 names. ' No, I never did.' *poinjo-ir is only ^opas km vov vAqms, or per- 
 haps 8wj(r« (i>opas, and in any case is connected with ^ipeirBai; yvap,Ji is 
 yovTJs o-Mi^is Kcu vafirims; vorjo-is is viou or yiyvopevov ea-is; the word vios 
 
636 CRATVLVS. 
 
 implies that creation is always going on — the original form was «ofo-ij; 
 
 craippoavvri is (raTtjpta <^povr]<Tfas ; imiTTfjixij is f) enojiivr] rois itpayfiaiTiv — the 
 
 faculty which keeps close, neither anticipating nor lagging behind; 
 a-ivea-is is equivalent to irvvUvai, iTvpm-opevea-dai rrjv '^XV^i ^•nd is a kind of 
 conclusion — avX\oyia-p.6s ns, akin therefore in idea to iintTrTiiirj ; tro^m is 
 very difficult, and has a foreign look — the meaning is, touching the motion 
 or stream of things, and may be illustrated by the poetical ia-v6ri and the 
 Lacedaemonian proper name Soily, or Bolt; ayaOov is t6 ayaarov h rfj 
 TQxwTTjrj, — for all things are in motion, and some are swifter than others : 
 diKato(Tvvri is clearly fj tov Sixalov (Tvve(TK, The word dUmov is more difficult, 
 and appears to mean the subtle penetrating power which, as the lovers 
 of motion say, preserves all things, and is the cause of all things, quasi 
 Siatov going through — the letter «• being inserted for the sake of euphony. 
 This is a great mystery which has been confided to me ; but when I ask 
 for an explanation of the mystery, I am thought irreverent, and another 
 derivation is proposed to me. Justice is said to be d Kmav, or the sun ; 
 and when I joyfully repeat this beautiful notion, I am answered, ' What, 
 is there no justice when the sun ia down?' And when I entreat my 
 questioner to tell me his own opinion, he replies, that justice is fire in 
 the abstract, or heat in the abstract ; which is not very intelligible. Others 
 laugh at all this, and say with Anaxagoras, that justice is the ordering, 
 mind. ' I think that some one must have told you this,' And not the 
 rest ? Let me proceed then, in the hope of proving to you my origin- 
 ality. 'Av8peia is quasi dvpela quasi 17 ava por/, the stream which flows, 
 upwards, and is opposed to injustice, which clearly hinders the principle 
 of penetration ; yvvfj is the same as yovfi ; 6^\v is derived airb t^s ftjX^Si or 
 oTri ToS BaWeiv, and implies increase of youth, which is swift and sudden 
 ever (deiv and SKKea-Bm). Observe how I run away when I am on smooth 
 ground ! Tc'xmj, by an aphaeresis of t and an epenthesis of o in two places, 
 may be identified with ixovot). 
 
 ' That is a very poor etymology.' Yes ; but you must remember that 
 all language is in a process of disguise or transition; and letters are 
 taken in and put out at pleasure, and twisted and twirled about in the 
 lapse of ages — sometimes for the sake of euphony. For example, what 
 business has the letter p in the word KoroTn-pov, or the letter o- in the word 
 <r(j)iy^ ? The additions are often such that no human being can by any 
 possibility make out the original word. ' True.' And yet, if you may 
 put in and pull out, as you like, any name is equally good for any object 
 
INTRODUCTION. 637 
 
 ('les voyelles ne sont pas grand chose et les consonants rien.') 'That 
 is true.' The fact is, that great dictators of literature like yourself, should 
 observe the rules of moderation, ' I will do my best.' But do not be 
 too much of a precisian, or you will paralyse me. If you will let me 
 add 'lajxavfi — arro rov firjKovs which means jroXi and aveiv, I shall be at the 
 summit of my powers, from which elevation I will examine the two words 
 Kwcla and aperfj. The explanation of the first is obvious, and in accord- 
 ance with what has preceded ; for all things being in a flux, kokm is t6 
 rafcSs toy. This is evident, and is further confirmed by the poor forgotten 
 word SeiKla, which ought to have come after dvSpela, and may be regarded 
 
 as o Xi'ov 8eo-/ior, jUSt as aitopia is rh ip-itohiov t& iropcveadai, and dpcTri is eirro- 
 
 pla, which is the opposite of this — ^the everflowing det piuva-a or deipeiri), 
 or the eligible, quasi alpcr^ — this has been contracted into dperrj. You 
 will, perhaps, say that I am inventing, but I say that if (cawa is right, then 
 dperri is also right. ' But what is kmovJ' That is a very obscure word, to 
 which I can only apply my old notion: 'What is that?' I shall say, that 
 KOKov is a foreign word. Next, let us proceed to KaXoi», ala-xpov. About 
 alcrxpov I have no doubt — r6 'la-xov Trjs po^s Ta Svra or decrxopovv ; which haS 
 been contracted into ala-xpov. The inventor of words being a patron of 
 the flux, was an enemy to stagnation of all sorts. KaXov is ro koKovv ra 
 irpayp.aTa — that which gives expression to voOr or biavoiu ; this is the prin- 
 ciple of beauty; and mind, which does the works of beauty, is rightly 
 called the beautiful. The meaning of <rup4>epov is explained by previous 
 examples ; — ^like iirurrrnui, signifying that the soul moves in harmony with 
 the world. KepSos is to jrSo-t K€pamvp,cvov — that which mingles with all 
 things : Xuo-tTeXoCi/ is equivalent to to t^s <^opas \vov to TeXor, and is not to 
 be taken in the vulgar sense of gainful, but rather in that of swift, being 
 the principle which makes motion immortal and unceasing ; atftiXip^v is 
 dn-o Tov o0eXXett> — that which gives increase : this word, which is Homeric, 
 
 is of foreign origin. BXafitpop is t6 /SXaTrTOK or 0ovK6p^vov dirreiv tov poO — 
 
 that which injures or seeks to bind the stream. The proper word would 
 be ^ovXairrepovv, but this is too much of a mouthful — like a prelude on 
 the flute in honour of Athene. The word f?;/«£8es is difficult; great 
 changes, as I was saying, have been made in words, and even a small 
 change will alter their meaning very much. The word S/oj is one of 
 these disguised words. You know that according to the old pronim- 
 <:iation, which was especially affected by the women, who are great con- 
 servatives, t and 8 were used where we should now use ij and f: for 
 
638 CRATYLUS. 
 
 example, what we now call T\\i.ipa was formerly called J/ifpa; and this shows 
 the meaning of the word to have been ' the desired one after night.' Zvyoi* 
 is Suoyoj', meaning 8eVir hviiv As ayarp/v — the binding of two together, for 
 the purpose of drawing. The word hkov has also the meaning of obli- 
 gation, but when taken in this sense should be written hu&v; for the 
 cessation of motion implies censure and evil. Thus fi)p(»8i;j is really 
 &ijfua>8Tis, and means that which binds motion : ^bovfi is 17 irphs t^v Smimv 
 
 TeivmKTa npa^is: XvTnj appears tO be derived dwb r^g &iakia-eas Tov tna/xarsr: 
 
 dvia is from a and Uvm, to go : aKyrjSav IS a foreign word, and is so called 
 OTTO ToC dXyeivov ; 68vv^ dno Tfjs ivSviTfas Trjs XjJttijs : d)(dr)hau, a word the very 
 sound of which is a burden; x^P" is expressive of the flow of soul; 
 
 reprrvbs is otto tov repmiov, and TcpTTVov is properly epTTVoV. ev<f>po<rvmj and 
 iiTiBvp.ia explain themselves : 6vpJbs is dwo 7^1 dia-eas : tjupos — on U/iCvos pel : 
 €pa>s was anciently ea-povs Sn ia-pfl ; d6^a is ij Slants TOV cidcvai, or 17 dirb tov 
 
 To^ov jSoXi). BouXij is the shooting of a bow : djSouXm is the missing. ' You 
 are quickening yoiu: pace now, Socrates.' Why, yes, because I wish to 
 make an end. But I must first explain ckovo-iov and di/dyio;. 'Ekovo-uiv is 
 t6 cTkov — ^the yielding — dvdyKrj is ij koto tu ayxij iropeia, the passage through, 
 ravines which impede motion : oXi^dcid is 6ela SKrj, divine motion. 'i'fuSoi 
 is the opposite of this, implying the constraining and reposing principle, 
 which is expressed under the figure of sleep, t6 cv&ov; this is disguised 
 by the addition of ^. "Ovop-a, a name, afiSrms the real existence of that 
 which is sought after — tv oS pairpa Zutiv. "Ov is lov, agreeably to our 
 theory, and ovK Sv is ouK tdj;. 'And what are JAk, pe'oi', SeW?' One way of 
 explaining them has been already suggested — ^they may be of foreign 
 origin; and this is very likely the true answer. Mere antiquity may 
 often prevent our recognising words, after all their complications; and 
 we must remember that however far we carry back the analysis of 
 nouns or verbs, there must be some ultimate elements or roots which 
 can be no further analysed. For example; the word dyoBhs was sup- 
 posed by us to be a compound of dyaorAs and 66os, and probably 660s 
 may be further resolvable. But when we have arrived at the letter 6, 
 then there is no further resolution ; and possibly the words about which 
 you are asking are like letters, original elements, and their truth or law 
 will have to be examined according to some new method. In the attempt 
 to find this method, I shall ask for your assistance. 
 
 All names, whether primary or secondary, are intended to show the 
 nature of things; and the secondary, as I conceive, derive their signi- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 639 
 
 ficance from the primary. But then, how do the primary names indicate 
 anything ? And here I will ask a further ques^n, — If we had no faculty 
 of speech, how should we communicate with one another ? Should we 
 not use signs, like the deaf and dumb ? The elevation of our hands to 
 heaven would mean lightness — heaviness would be expressed by letting 
 them drop to the ground. The running of a horse, or any other animal, 
 would be described by a similar movement of our own frames. The 
 only way in which the body can express anything, is by imitation ; and 
 the tongue or mouth can imitate as well as the rest of the body. But 
 this imitation of the tongue or voice is not yet a name, because people 
 may imitate sheep or goats without naming them. What, then, is a name ? 
 In the first place, a name is not a musical, or, secondly, a pictorial imi- 
 tation, but an imitation of that kind which expresses the nature of a 
 thing ; and is the invention not of a musician, or of a painter, but of a 
 namer. 
 
 And now, I think that we may consider the names po^, stream — Uvai, to 
 go. The way to analyse them will be by going back to the letters, or 
 primary elements of which they are composed. First, we separate the 
 alphabet into classes of letters, distinguishing the consonants, vowels, 
 and semivowels; and when we have learnt them singly, we shall learn 
 to know them in their various combinations of two or more letters ; just 
 as the painter knows how to use either a single colour, which may be 
 purple or some other colour, or a combination of them. And like the 
 painter, we may apply letters to the expression of objects, and form them 
 into syllables; and these again into words, until the picture or figure, 
 large and fair — that is, language — ^is completed. Not that I am literally 
 speaking of ourselves, but I meant to say that this was the way in which 
 the ancients framed language. And this leads me to consider whether 
 the primary and secondary elements are rightly given. I may remark, 
 as I was saying about the Gods, that we can only attain to conjecture 
 of the truth about them. But still we insist that this which we are 
 pursuing is the true and only method of discovery; and not having this, 
 we must have recourse, like the tragic poets, to a Deus ex machind, and 
 say that God gave the first names, and therefore they are right. And this 
 will perhaps be our best device ; unless indeed we say that the barbarians 
 are older than we are, and that we learnt of them, or that antiquity has 
 cast a veil over the truth. Yet all these are not reasons ; they are only 
 ingenious excuses for having no reasons. 
 
640 CRATYLUS. 
 
 I will freely impart to you my own notions, though they are somewhat 
 crude : The letter p appears to me to be the general instrument expressing 
 all motion or ki'vtjo-is. I ought to explain that this word kiw/o-k was just 
 "ixdis, for the letter ?) was unknown to the ancients; and the' root, Knew, is 
 a dialectical variety of Uvax : of Kivrjo-is or euris, the opposite is a-Tcia-is. 
 The letter p appeared to the legislator an excellent instrument for 
 expressing motion, as is evident in the words tremble, break, crush, 
 crumble, and the like ; he perceived that the tongue is most agitated in 
 the pronunciation of this letter ; just as he used a to express the subtle 
 penetrating power which passes through all things. The letters <^, ^, a-, f, 
 which require a great deal of wind, are employed in the imitation of 
 such notions as shivering, seething, and in general of what is windy. The 
 letters 8 and t have a notion of binding and rest in a place : the limpid 
 movement of X expresses smoothness, as in the words slip, sleek, sleep, 
 and the like. But when the slipping tongue is detained by the heavier 
 sound of y, then arises the notion of a glutinous clammy nature : v is 
 sounded from within, and has a notion of inwardness : a is the expres- 
 sion of size ; r) of length ; o of roundness, and therefore there is plenty of 
 o in the word 707)01X01'. That is my view, Hermogenes, of the correct- 
 ness of names ; and now I want to hear what Cratylus would say. 
 ' But, Socrates, as I was telling you, Cratylus mystifies me ; I should like 
 to ask him, in your presence, what he means by the fitness of names?' 
 (To this appeal, -Cratylus repHes 'that he cannot explain that or any 
 other subject all in a moment.') ' No, but you may add little to little, as 
 Hesiod says.' Socrates here interposes his own request, that Cratylus 
 will tell him the nature of his theory. Hermogenes and himself are 
 mere sciolists, but Cratylus has reflected on these matters, and has had 
 teachers. Cratylus replies in the words which Achilles uses to Ajax: 
 ' Illustrious Ajax, son of Telamon, you have spoken in all things very 
 much to my mind, whether Euthyphro, or some Muse inhabiting your 
 own breast, was the inspirer.' Socrates replies, that he is afraid of being 
 self-deceived; there is nothing worse than self-deception, and therefore he 
 must ' look fore and aft,' as the aforesaid Homer remarks ; he then pro- 
 ceeds to confirm his own opinion by that of Cratylus. Names teach us 
 the nature of things. ' Yes.' And naming is an art, and the artists are 
 legislators, and hke artists in general, some of them are better and some 
 of them are worse than others, and give better or worse laws, and make 
 better or worse names. Cratylus is not disposed to admit that one name 
 
INTRODUCTION. 641 
 
 is better than another; they are either true names, or they are not names 
 at all ; and when he is asked , about the nartfe of Hermogenes, who is 
 acknowledged to have no luck in him, he afiSrms this to be the name of 
 somebody eke. Socrates supposes him to mean that falsehood is im- 
 possible, to which he himself is disposed to reply, that there have been 
 liars in all ages. But Cratylus presses him with the old sophistical argu- 
 ment, that falsehood is saying that which is not, and therefore .saying 
 nothing ; — you can neither speak, say, utter, or address the word which 
 is not. Socrates complains that this argument is too subtle for an old 
 man like himself to understand : Suppose a person addressing Cratylus 
 were to say. Hail, Athenian Stranger, Hermogenes 1 Would these words 
 be true or false? 'I should say that they would be a succession of 
 unmeaning sounds, like ihe hammering of a brass pot.' But you would 
 .[Acknowledge that names, as well as pictures, are imitations ; and also that 
 pictures may give a right or wrong representation of a man or woman, 
 and that names may equally give a representation true and right or false 
 and wrong. Cratylus admits that pictures may give a true or false repre- 
 sentation, but denies that names can. Socrates argues, that he may go up 
 to a man and say ' this is your picture,' and again, he may go and say to 
 him ' this is your name' — in the one case appealing to his sense of sight, 
 and in the other to his sense of hearing ; you admit that? ' Yes.' Then 
 you must admit that there is a right or a wrong assignment of names, 
 and if of names, then of verbs and nouns ; and if of verbs and nouns, 
 then of the sentences, which are made up of them ; and comparing nouns 
 to pictures, you may give them all the appropriate sounds, or only some 
 of them. And as he who gives all the colours makes a good picture, 
 and he who gives only some of them, a bad or imperfect one, but still a 
 picture ; so he who gives all the sounds makes, a good name, and he 
 who gives only some of them, a bad or imperfect one, but a name still. 
 The artist of names, that is, the legislator, may be a good or he may be a 
 bad artist. ' Yes, Socrates, but the cases are not altogether parallel ; for 
 if you subtract or misplace a letter, the name ceases to be a name.' 
 Socrates admits that the number 10, if an unit is subtracted, would cease 
 to be 10, but denies that names are of this purely quantitative nature. Let 
 •me suppose two objects: there is Cratylus and the image of Cratylus; 
 and we will further imagine that some God makes them perfectly aUke, 
 not only in their outward form, but also in their inner nature and 
 qualities : then there will be two Cratyluses, and not merely Cratylus 
 and the image of Cratylus. But do you not see that an image always 
 
6^2 CRATYLUS. 
 
 falls short in some degree of the original, and if images are very far 
 from being exact counterparts, why should names be? If they were, 
 they would be the doubles of their originals, and indistinguishable from 
 them ; and how ridiculous would this be ! Cratylus admits the truth of 
 Socrates' remark. But then Socrates rejoins, he should have the courage 
 to acknowledge that letters may be wrongly inserted in a noun, or a noun 
 in a sentence ; and yet the noun or the sentence may retain a meaning. 
 If we deny this, the argument will say 'too late' to us, as in the story of 
 the belated traveller in Aegina. And, errors excepted, we may still aflRrm 
 that a name to be correct must have proper letters, which bear a resem- 
 })lance to the thiiig signified. I must remind you of what Hermogenes 
 ahd I were saying about the letter p, which was held to be expressive of 
 miotion and hardness, as X is of smoothness ; — and this you will admit to 
 be their natural meaning. But then, why do the Eretrians call that 
 a-K\r]p6Trip which we call a-ieKripATris'l We Can understand one another, 
 although the letter p is not equivalent to the letter s : why is this ? You 
 reply, because the two letters are sufficiently alike for the purpose of 
 expressing motion. Well, then, there is the letter X ; what business has 
 this in a word meaning hardness ? ' Why, Socrates, I retort upon you, 
 that we put in and pull out words at pleasure.' And the explanation of 
 this is custom or agreement: we have made a convention that the p 
 shall mean s, and a convention may indicate by the unlike as well as by 
 the like. How could there be names for all the numbers unless you 
 allow that convention is used ? Imitation is a poor thing, and has to be 
 supplemented by convention, which is another poor thing ; although I 
 quite agree, that if we could always have a perfect correspondenefe of 
 sound and meaning, that would be the most perfect form of language. 
 But let me ask you what is the use and force of names f ' The use of 
 names, Socrates, is to inform, and he who knows names knows things-.' 
 Do you mean that the discovery of names is the same as the discovery 
 of things ? ' Yes.' But do you not see that there is a degree of deception 
 about names ? He who first gave names, gave them according to his 
 conception, and that may have been erroneous. 'But then, why, 
 Socrates, is language so consistent? all words have the same laws.' 
 Mere consistency is no test of truth. In geometrical problems, for 
 example, there may be a flaw at the beginning, and yet the conclusion 
 may be consistently made. And, therefore, a wise man will take 
 especial care of first principles. But I should be surprised to find that 
 words were really consistent ; for are there not as many terras of praise 
 
INTRODUCTION. 643 
 
 which signify rest as which signify motion ? There is tirurnjiir), which is 
 eonnected with orao-ti, as lunjfai is with fiSki. Bepaiov, again, is the 
 expression of station and position ; and laropia is clearly descriptive of 
 the stopping of the stream : and there are many words having a bad 
 sense, which are connected with ideas of motion, as uvju^opa, dfiapria, &c. : 
 dimSia, again, might be explained, as ^ a/M Be^ mpeia. Thus the bad names 
 are framed on the same principle as the good, and other examples might 
 be given, which would favour a theory of rest rather than of motion. ' Yes ; 
 but the greater number of words express motion.' Are we to count them, 
 Cratylus ; and is correctness of names the voice of a majority ? 
 
 Here is another point: we were saying that the legislator gives names; 
 and we must suppose that he knows the things which he names : but 
 how can he have learnt things from names before there were names ? 
 ' I believe, Socrates, that some power more than human first gave things 
 their names, and that these were necessarily true names.' Then how 
 came the giver of names to contradict himself, and to make some names 
 expressive of rest, and others of motion ? ' I do not suppose that he did 
 make them both.' Then which did he make — those which are expressive 
 of rest, or those which are expressive of motion ? . . . But if some names 
 are true and others false, we can only decide between them, not by 
 counting words, but by appealing to things. And, if so, we must allow 
 that things may be known without names ; for names, as we have several 
 times admitted, are the images of things ; and the higher knowledge is 
 of things, and is not to be derived from names ; and though I do not 
 doubt that the inventors of language gave names, under the idea that 
 all things are in a state of motion and flux, I believe that they were 
 mistaken ; and that having fallen into a whirlpool themselves, they are 
 trying to drag us after them. For is there not a true beauty and a true 
 good, which is always beautiful and always good ? Can the thing beauty 
 be -vanishing away from us while the words are yet in our mouths ? And 
 fliey could not be known by any one if they are always passing away — 
 for if they are always passing away, the observer has no opportunity of 
 knowing their state. Whether the doctrine of the flux or of the eternal 
 nature be the truer, is hard to determine. But no man of sense will put 
 Wmself, or the education of his mind, in the power of names : he will 
 not condemn himself to be an unreal thing, nor will he believe that every- 
 thing is in a flux like the water in a leaky vessel, or that the world is 
 a man who has a running at the nose. This doctrine may be true, 
 Cratylus, but is also very likely to be untrue; and therefore I would have 
 
644 CRATYLUS. 
 
 you reflect while you are young, and find out the truth, and when you 
 know come and tell me. ' I have thought, Socrates, and after a good 
 deal of thinking I incline to Heraclilus.' Then another day, my friend, 
 you shall give me a lesson. ' Very good, Socrates, and I hope that you 
 will continue to study these things yourself.' 
 
 We may now consider, I. how far Plato in the Cratylus has discovered 
 the true principles of language, and then, II. proceed to compare the 
 anticipations of his genius with the view^ maintained in modem times 
 by W. Humboldt, Grimm, and other masters of the science of language. , 
 
 (i) Plato is aware that language is not the work of chance ; nor does 
 he deny that there is a natural fitness in names. He only insists that 
 this natural fitness shall be intelligibly explained. But he has no idea 
 that language is a natural organism. He would have heard with surprise 
 that languages are the common work of whole nations in a primitive of 
 semi-barbarous age. How, he would probably have argued, could men 
 devoid of art have contrived a. structure of such complexity? No answer 
 could have been .given to this question, either in ancient or in modern 
 times, until the nature of primitive antiquity had been thoroughly studied, 
 and the instincts of man bad been shown to exist in greater force, when 
 his state approaches more nearly to that of children or animals. The 
 philosophers of the last century, after their manner, would have vainly 
 endeavoured to trace the process by which proper names were converted 
 into common, and would have shown how the last effort of abstraction 
 invented prepositions and auxiliaries. The theologian would have proved 
 that language must have had a divine origin, because in childhood, while 
 the organs are phable, the intelligence is wanting, and when the intel- 
 ligence is able to frame conceptions, the organs are no longer able to 
 express them. Or, as others have said ; Man is man because he has 
 the gift of speech; and he could not have invented that which he is. 
 But this would Tiave been an ' argument too subtle ' for Socrates (429 D), 
 who rejects the theological accoxmt of the origin of language 'as an 
 excuse for not giving a reason,' which he compares to the introduction 
 of the ' Deus ex machind' by the tragic poets when they have to solve 
 a difiBculty ; thus anticipating many modern controversies in which the 
 primary agency of the Divine Being is confused with the secondary 
 cause ; and .God is assumed to have worked a miracle in order to fill 
 up a lacuna in human knowledge. Cp. Timaeus, p. 46. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 645 
 
 Neither is Elato^ wrong in supposing that an element of design and 
 art enters into language. The creative power*abating is supplemented 
 by a mechanical process. ' Languages are not made but grow,' but they 
 are made as well as grow ; bursting into life like a plant or a flower, they 
 are also capable of being trained and improved and engrafted upon one 
 another. The change in them is effected in earlier ages by musical and 
 ^uphonic improvements, in later ages by the influence of grammar and 
 logic, and by the poetical and literary use of words. They develope 
 rapidly in childhood, and .when they are full grown, and set, they may 
 still, put forth intellectual powers, like the mind in the body ; or rather 
 we may say that the nobler use of language only begins, when the frame- 
 work is complete. The savage or primitive man, in whom the natural 
 instinct is strongest, is also the greatest improver of the forms of 
 language. He is the poet, or- maker of words,. as in civilized ages the 
 dialectician is the definer or distinguisher. of them. The latter calls the 
 second world of abstract terms into existence, as the former has 
 created the picture sounds which represent natural objects or processes. 
 Poetry and philosophy — these two, are the two great formative principles 
 of language, when they have passed their first stage, of which, as of the 
 first invention of the arts in general, we only entertain conjecture. And 
 mythology is a link between them, connecting the visible and invisible, 
 until at length the sensuous exterior falls away, and the severance of the 
 inner and outer world, of the idea and the object of sense becomes 
 ^complete. At a later period, logic . and grammar, sister arts, preserve 
 and enlarge the decaying; instinct of language, by rule and method, 
 which they gather from analysis and observation. 
 
 (2) There is- no trace in any of Plato's writings that he was acquainted 
 with any language but Greek. Yet he has conceived very truly the 
 relation o£ Greek to foreign languages, which he is led to consider, 
 because he . finds that many Greek words are incapable of explanation. 
 ^Allowing a good deal for accident, and also for the fancies of the 
 ■ conditores linguae Graecae,' there is an element of which he is unable 
 to give an account. These unintelligible words he supposes to be of 
 foreign, origin, and to have been , derived from a time when the Greeks 
 were either barbarians, or in close relations to the barbarians. Socrates 
 is aware that. this principle is liable to great abuse; and, like the ' Deus ex 
 machtnd; explains nothing. Hence he excuses himself for the employment 
 of such a device, and remarks that in foreign words there is still a principle 
 of correctness, which applies equally both to Greeks and barbarians. 
 
646 CRAIYLUS. 
 
 (3) But the greater number of primary words do not admit of deriva- 
 tion from foreign languages ; they must be resolved into the letters out 
 of which they are composed, and therefore the letters must have a 
 meaning. The framers of language were aware of this ; they observed 
 that a was adapted to express size; 17 length; o roundness; v inwardness; 
 p rush or roar; X liquidity; yX the detention of the liquid or slippery 
 element ; 8 and t binding ; <^, -^j <r, i, wind and cold, and so on. Plato's 
 analysis of the letters of the alphabet shows a wonderful insight into the 
 nature of Ismguage. He does not expressly distinguish between mere 
 imitation, aiid the symbolical use of sound to express thought; but he 
 recognises in the examples which he gives both modes of imitation. 
 Gesture is the mode which a deaf and dumb person would take of indi- 
 cating his meaning. And language is the gesture of the tongue, and in 
 the use of the letter p, to- express a- rushing or roaring, or of o to express 
 roundness, there is a direct imitation ; while in the use of the letter a to 
 express size, or of ij to express length, the imitation is symbolical. The 
 use of analogous or similar soimds, in order to express similar or analo- 
 gous ideas, with or without imitation, has escaped him. 
 
 In passing from the gesture of the body to the movement of the 
 tongue, Plato makes a great, step in the physiology of language. He 
 was probably the first who said that 'language is imitative sound,' which 
 is the greatest and deepest truth of philology ; although he is not aware 
 of the laws of euphony and association by which imitation must be 
 regulated. He was probably also the first who made a distinction 
 between simple and compound words,. a truth- second only in importance 
 to that which has just been mentioned. His great insight in one direction 
 curiously contrasts with his blindness in another; for he appears to be 
 wholly unaware (cp. his derivation of aya66s from' dyawrbs and dobs) of the 
 difference between the root and termination. But we must recollect 
 that he was necessarily more ignorant than any schoolboy of Greek 
 grammar, and had no table of the inflexions of verbs and nouns before 
 his eyes, which might have suggested to him the distinction. 
 
 (4) Plato distinctljr aflSrms that language is not truth, or 'philosophie 
 une langue bien/aite.' At first, Socrates lias delighted himself with dis- 
 covering the flux of Heraclitus in language. But he is covertly satirising 
 the pretence of that or any other age to find philosophy in words ; and 
 he afterwards corrects any erroneous inference which might be gathered 
 from his experiment. For he finds as many, or almost as many, words 
 expressive of rest, as he had previously found expressive of motion. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 647 
 
 \ 
 
 And even if this had been otherwise, who would learn of words when 
 he might learn of things ? There is a great Controversy and high argu- 
 ment between Heracliteans and Eleatics, but no man of sense would 
 commit his soul in such enquiries to the imposers of names. . . In this 
 and other passages Plato shows that he is as completely emancipated 
 from .the influence of ' Idols of the tribe ' as Bacon himself. 
 
 The lesson which may be gathered^ from words is not metaphysical or 
 moral, but historical. They teach us the affinity of races, they tell us 
 something about the association of idea§, they occasionally preserve the 
 memory of a disused custom ; but we cannot safely argue from them 
 about right and wrong, matter and mind, freedom and necessity, or 
 the other problems of moral and metaphysical philosophy. For 
 the use of words on such subjects may be metaphorical, accidental, 
 transferred from other languages, and have no relation to the contem- 
 porary state of thought and feeling. Because there is or is not a name 
 for a thing, we cannot argue that the thing has or has not an actual 
 existence; or that the antitheses, parallels, conjugates, correlatives of 
 language have anything corresponding to them in nature. The greatest 
 lesson which the philosophical analysis of language teaches us is, that we 
 should be above language, making words our servants, and not allowing 
 them to be our masters. 
 
 Plato does not add the further observation, that the etymological 
 meaning of words is in process of being lost. If at first framed on 
 a principle of intelligibility, they would gradually cease to be intelligible, 
 like those of a foreign language. He is willing to admit that they are 
 subject to many changes, and put on many disguises. He acknowledges 
 that the 'poor creature' imitation is always being supplemented by 
 another ' poor creature,' — convention. But he does not see that ' habit 
 and repute/ and their relation to other words, are always exercising an 
 influence over them. Words appear to be isolated, but they are really 
 the parts of an organism which is always being reproduced. They are- 
 refined by civiUzation, harmonized by poetry, emphasized by literature, 
 technically applied m philosophy and art; they are used as symbols 
 on the border-ground of human knowledge; they receive a fresh impress 
 from mdividual genius, and come with a new force and association to 
 every lively-minded person. They are fixed by the simultaneous utter- 
 ance of millions, and yet are always imperceptibly changing ;— not the 
 
 ^inventors of language, but writing and speaking, and particularly great 
 writers, or works which pass into the hearts of nations, Homer, Shake- 
 
648 CRATYLVS. 
 
 spear, Dante, the Gterman or English Bible, are the makers of them in later 
 ages. They carry with them the faded recollection of their own past 
 history; the use of a word' in a striking and familiar passage, gives' a 
 complexion to its use everywhere else, and the new use of an old 
 and familiar phrase has also a peculiar power over us. But these 
 and other subtleties of language escaped the observation of Plato. 
 He is not aware that the languages of the world are organic struc- 
 tures, and that every word in- thera^ is related to every other; nor 
 does he conceive of language as the joint work or communion of the 
 speaker and the hearer, requiring in man a faculty not only of express- 
 ing his thoughts but of understanding those of others. 
 
 On the other hand, he cannot- be^ justly charged with a desire to frame 
 language on- artificial principles. Philosophers have sometimes dreamed 
 of a technical' or scientific language, in which words should have fixed 
 meanings, and stand in the same relation to one another as the sub-' 
 stances which they denote. But there is no more trace of this in Plato 
 than there is of a language corresponding to the ideas; nor, indeed, 
 could the want of such a language be felt until the sciences were far 
 more developed. Those who would extMid the use of technical lan- 
 guage beyond the limits of science or of custom, seem to forget that 
 freedom and suggestiveness and the play of association are essential 
 characteristifcs of language. The great master has shown- how he re- 
 garded pedantic distinctions of words, or attempts to confine their 
 meaning in the satire on Prodicus in the Protagoras^- 
 
 On the whole, the Cratylus seems to contain deeper truths' about lan- 
 guage than- any other ancient writing. But feeling the uncertain ground < 
 upon which he is walking, and partly in order to preserve the character 
 of Socrates, Plato envelopes the whole subject in a robe of fancy, and 
 allows his principles to drop out as if by accident. 
 
 II. What is the result of recent speculations about the origin and 
 nature of language ? Like other modern metaphysical enquiries, they 
 end at last in a statement of facts. But, iii order to state or under- 
 stand the facts; a- metaphysical insight seems to be required. There are 
 more things in language than the human mind easily conceives. And 
 many fallacies have to be dispelled, as well as observations made. The 
 true spirit of philosophy or metaphysics can alone charm away meta- 
 physical illusions, which are always reappearing, formerly in the fancies of 
 neoplatonist writers, now in the disguise of experience and common sense. 
 But we must end where we began, with historical investigation. Phi- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 649 
 
 losophy has deepened and widened the question, but for the answer we 
 come back to facts. Philosophy has enabled i?s to conceive in language 
 apposite and contrasted elements, of the individual and the nation, of 
 the past and present, of the speaker and the hearer, of the inward and 
 the outward, of the subject and the object, of the notional and relational, 
 of the root or unchanging part of the word and of the changing inflexion, of 
 the vowel and the consonant, of the quantity and the accent. Philosophy 
 has taught us to apprehend the identity of speech and thought, and 
 the adaptation of sounds to conceptions. Philosophy has made us 
 observe that words are universal notions which combine into particulars, 
 and that they are the fragments and not the elements of the original 
 speech of man, taken out of the first rude agglomeration of sounds, that 
 they may be replaced in a higher and more logical order. Philosophy 
 has shown us that language is half dead, half alive, half solid, half fluid ; 
 the breath of a moment, yet like the air continuous in all ages and 
 Countries — the trickling stream which has deposited fossil strata. Phi- 
 losophy has enabled us to understand that the oldest languages now in 
 existence may be, and probably are, immeasurably removed from the 
 beginnings of human speech. Philosophy has taught us to apprehend 
 the difference between the conscious and unconscious, the individual, 
 and collective, action of the human mind. Philosophy has made us 
 aware of the power of natural selection or persistency of the stronger, 
 in the world of language, as in the other realms of nature, and of 
 the mighty effects which may be worked by the action of small causes 
 continued during infinite ages. These wide generalizations suggest 
 many thoughts to us about the powers of the mind, and the forces 
 and influences by which the first efforts of men to utter articiilate 
 words were inspired or hindered. Yet, in the metaphysical analysis 
 of language, there are also dangers to which we are exposed, i. There 
 Js the confusion of ideas with facts — of mere possibilities and modes 
 of conception and figures of speech with actual and definite know- 
 ledge. 2. There is the fallacy of resolving the language which we 
 know into its parts, and imagining that we have exjplained the origin 
 of Slanguages by reconstructing them. 3. There is the danger of giving 
 language a purely independent existence, as though in itself an intel- 
 ligent power, like the reason of God or man, or as the mere expression 
 of some universal nature — the speech of God. 4. There is the danger 
 of identifying language, not with thoughts or representations, but with 
 ideas. 5. There is the error of conceiving that the analysis of grammar 
 
650 CRATYLUS. 
 
 and logic has always existed ; that the difTerences, for examplej betweda 
 proper and common nouns, or between declinable and indeclinable 
 parts of speech, or between articulate and inarticulate language, were 
 familiar to Socrates and Plato. 6. There is the fallacy of exaggerating 
 the interval which separates the cries of animals and the speech of man, 
 the instinct of animals and the reason of man. 7. There is the general 
 fallacy which besets all enquiries into the early history of the mind,— 
 that of interpreting the past by the present, and of substituting the 
 definite and intelligible tradition for the true but dim outline which is 
 the real horizon of human knowledge. 
 
 The greatest light is thrown upon the nature of language by analogy. 
 We have the analogy of the cries of animals, of the songs of birds 
 ('man, like the nightingale, is a singing bird, but is ever binding up 
 thoughts with musical notes'), of music, of children learning to speak, 
 of barbarous nations in which the linguistic instinct is still undecayed, 
 of ourselves learning to think and speak a new language, of the deaf 
 and dumb who have words without sounds; and we have the after- 
 growth of mythology, which, like language, is an unconscious creation 
 of the human mind. We can observe the physiological cause or in- 
 strument of language ; we can note the probable effects of metre and 
 writing on language, and at a later period of grammar and log^c and 
 philosophical abstraction. We can trace the impulse to bind together 
 the world, beginning in the first efforts to speak, and culminating in 
 philosophy. But there remains an element which cannot be explained, 
 or even adequately described. We can understand how man creates 
 or constructs consciously and by design ; and see if we do not under- 
 stand how nature, by a law, calls into being an organized structure. But 
 the intermediate organism which stands between man and nature, which 
 is the work of mind yet unconscious, and in which mind and matter 
 seem to meet, and mind unperceived to herself is really limited by all 
 other minds, is neither understood nor seen by us, and is with reluctance 
 admitted to be a fact. The social and collective instincts of animals offer 
 a certain degree of parallel, but are equally incomprehensible to us. 
 
 Language is an aspect of man, of nature, and of nations, the trans- 
 figuration of the world in thought, the meeting-point of the physical and 
 mental sciences, and alsothe mirror in which they are reflected, an effect 
 and partly a cause of our common humanity, present at every moment to 
 the individual, and yet having a sort of eternal or universal existence. 
 When we reflect on our own minds, we find words everywhere in every 
 
INTRODUCTION. 651 
 
 degree of clearness and consistency, fading aw^ in dreams and more like 
 pictures, rapidly succeeding one another in our waking thoughts, attain- 
 ing a greater distinctness and consecutiveness in speech, and a greater 
 still in writing, taking the place of one another when we try to become 
 emancipated from their influence. For in all processes of the mind 
 which are conscious we are talking to ourselves ; the attempt to think 
 without words is a mere illusion, — they are always reappearing when we 
 fix our thoughts. And speech is not a separate faculty, but the ex- 
 pression of all our faculties, to which all our other powers of expression, 
 signs, looks, gestures, lend their aid. The art of speaking appears to be 
 one of the simplest of natural operations, unless through the accident of 
 some defect of utterance we are made aware of the endless complexity of 
 the process. And the mental act which corresponds to a single word 
 is too subtle and momentary to admit of any further analysis. 
 
 The minds of men are sometimes carried on to think of their lives and 
 of their actions as links in a chain of causes and effects going back to 
 the beginning of time. A few have seemed to lose the sense of their 
 own individuaUty in the universal cause or nature. In like manner we 
 might think of thewords which we daily use, as derived from the first 
 speech of man, and of all the languages in the world, as the expres- 
 sions or varieties of a single force or Ufe of language of which the 
 thoughts of men are the accident. Such a conception enables us to 
 grasp the power and wonder of languages, and is very natural to the 
 scientific philologist. For he, like the metaphysician, believes in the 
 reality of that which absorbs his own mind. Nor do we deny the 
 enormous influence which language has exercised over thought. Fixed 
 words like fixed ideas have often governed the world. But in such repre- 
 sentations we attribute to language too much the nature of a cause, and 
 too little of an eifect, — too much of an absolute, too little of a relative 
 character, — too much of an ideal, too little of a matter-of-fact existence. 
 
 Or again, we may frame a single abstract notion of language of which 
 all existing languages may be supposed to be the perversion. But we 
 must not conceive that this logical figment had ever a real existence, or 
 is anything more than an effort of the mind to give unity to infinitely various 
 phenomena. There is no abstract language ' in rerum natura' any more 
 than there is an abstract tree, but only languages in various stages of 
 growth, maturity, and decay. Nor do other logical distinctions or even 
 grammatical, exactly correspond to the facts of language ; for they too are 
 attempts to give unity and regularity to a subject which is partly irregular. 
 
65i CRATFLUS. 
 
 We find, however, that there are distinctions of another kind by which 
 this vast field of language admits of being mapped out. There is the 
 distinction between biliteral and triliteral roots, and the various, inflexions 
 which accompany them; between the mere mechanical cohesion of 
 sounds or words, and the ' chemical ' combination of them into a new 
 word ; there is the distinction between languages which have had a free 
 and full development of their organisms, and languages which have been 
 stunted in their growth, — lamed in their hands or feet, and never able to 
 acquire afterwards the powers in which they are deficient ; there is the 
 distinction between synthetical languages like Greek and Latin, which 
 have retained their inflexions, and analytical languages like English or 
 French, which have lost their inflexions. Innumerable as are the lan- 
 guages and dialects of mankind, there are comparatively few classes to 
 which they can be referred. 
 
 Another road through this chaos is provided by the physiology of 
 speech. The organs of language are the same in all mankind, and are 
 only capable of uttering a certain number of sounds. Every man has 
 tongue, teeth, lips, palate, throat, mouth, which he may close or open, 
 and adapt in various ways ; making, first, vowels and consonants ; 
 and secondly, other classes of letters. The elements of all speech, likq 
 the elements of the musical scale, are few and simple, though admitting 
 of infinite gradations and combinations. Whatever slight differences exist 
 in the use or formation of these organs, owing to climate or the sense 
 of euphony or other causes, they are as nothing compared with their 
 agreement. Here then is a real basis of unity in the study of philology, 
 unlike that imaginary abstract unity of which we were just now speaking, t 
 
 In the psychological, or historical, or physiological study of language, 
 we may find an inexhaustible mine of enquiry into facts. But we hardly 
 seem to make any nearer approach to the secret of the origin of lan- 
 guage, which like some of the other great secrets of nature — the origu) 
 of birth and death, or of animal life — remains inviolable. The com- 
 parison of children learning to speak, of barbarous nations, of musical 
 notes, of the cries of animals, afibrds great assistance in the analysis of 
 languages, but throws no light upon their first origin. That problem 
 seems to be indissolubly bound up with the origin of man ; and, if we ever 
 know more of the one, we may expect to know more of the other ^ 
 
 » Compare W. Humboldt, ' Ueber die Verschiedenheit des menschlichen 
 Sprachbaues,' and M. Miiller, ' Lectures on the Science of Language.' 
 
CRATYLUS. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 BOCRATES, HeRMOGENES, CRATYLUS. 
 
 J Hermogenes. Suppose that we make Socrates a party to the 
 argument ? 
 
 Cratylus. If you please. 
 
 Her. I must inform you, Socrates, that Cratylus has been arguing 
 about names j he says that they are natural and not conventional', 
 not sounds which men, giving articulation to a portion of their 
 voice, agree to utter j but that there is a truth or correctness in 
 them, which is the same for Hellenes as for barbarians. Where- 
 upon I ask him, whether his own name of Cratylus is a true name 
 or not, and he answers <Yes.' And Socrates? 'Yes.' Then 
 every man-'s name, as I tell him, is that which he is called. To 
 this he replies — * If all the world were to call you Hermogenes, 
 that would not be your name.' And when I am anxious to have 
 
 14 a further explanation he is ironical and mysterious, and seems to 
 imply that he has a notion in his own mind, if he would only tell, 
 and could entirely convince me, if he chose to be intelligible. 
 Tell me, Socrates, what this oracle means ; or rather tell me, if 
 you will be so good, what is your OTgn^View of the truth or 
 correctness of names, which I would far sooner hear. 
 ' Socrates. Son of Hipponicus, there is an ancient saying, that 
 'hard is the knowledge of the good.' And the knowledge of 
 names is a great part of knowledge. If I had not been poor, I 
 might have heard the fifty drachma reading of the great Prodicus, 
 which is a complete education in grammar and language — these 
 are his own words — and then I should have been at once able to 
 answer your question about the correctness of names. But, indeedj 
 
6S4 CRATYLUS. 
 
 I have only heard the single drachma course, and, therefore,! do 
 not know the truth about such matters; I will, however, gladly 
 assist you and Cratylus in the investigation of them. When he 
 declares that your name is not really Hermogenes, I suspect that 
 he is only making fiin of you j — he means to say that you are no 
 true son of Hermes, because you are always looking after a fortune 
 and never in luck. But as I was saying, there is a good deal of 
 difficulty in this sort of knowledge, and therefore we had better 
 have a council and hear both sides. 
 
 Ker. I have often talked over this matter, both with CratyluS 
 and others, and cannot convince myself that there is any principle 
 of correctness in names other than convention and agreement; 
 any name which you give, in my judgment is the right one, and 
 if you change that and give another, the new name is as correct 
 as the old : we frequently change the names of our slaves, and the 
 newly-imposed name is as good as the old : for there is no name 
 given to anything by nature ; all is convention and habit of the 
 users ; — that is my view. But if I am mistaken I shall be happy 
 to hear and learn of Cratylus, or of any one. 
 
 Soc. I dare say that you may be right, Hermcgenes: let us: 
 see J — Your meaning is, that the name of each thing is only that 
 name which is given to each thing ? 
 
 Ker. That is my view. 
 
 Soc. Whether the giver of the name be an individual or a city ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Well, now, let me take an instance ;-r-suppose that 1 call a 
 man a horse or a horse a man, you mean to say that a man will 
 be rightly called a horse by me individually, and rightly called a 
 man by the rest of the world j and a horse again would be rightly 
 called a man by me and a horse by the world: — that is your 
 meaning ? 
 
 Ker. Yes, that is my view. 
 
 Soc. But how about truth, then? you would acknowledge that 
 there is in words a true and a false ? 
 
 Her. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Which is contained in propositions ? 
 
 Her. To be sure. 
 
 Soc. And that is a true proposition which says that which is, 
 and that is a false proposition which says that which is not ? 
 
CRATYLUS, 655 
 
 i ■ Her. Yes. 
 
 &K. Then in a proposition there is a tru#and false ? 
 
 Her. Certainly, 
 
 Soc. But is a proposition true as a whole only, and are the parts 
 untrue ? 
 
 Her. No j the parts are true as well as the whole. 
 
 Soc. Would you say the large parts and not the smaller ones, or 
 every part ? 
 r_ Her. I should say that every part is true. 
 
 P Soc. Is a proposition resolvable into any part smaller than a 
 name? 
 
 Her. No ; that is the smallest 
 
 Soc. Then the name is a part of the true proposition ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc, Yes, and a true part, as you say. 
 fc Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And is not the part of a falsehood also a falsehood ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then, if propositions may be true and false, names may be 
 true and false ? 
 
 Her. That is the inference. 
 
 Soc. And the name of anything is that which any one afSrms 
 to be the name ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And will there be as many names as are given by any one ? 
 and will they be the true names at the time of giving them ? 
 
 Her. Yes, Socrates, that is the only correctness of names which 
 I can imagine j I may have one name which I give, and you may 
 have another which you give — ^that is all ; and in different cities 
 and countries there are different names for the same things : Hel- 
 lenes differ from barbarians in their use of names, and the several 
 Hellenic tribes from one another. 
 
 Soc. But would you say, Hermogenes, that the things differ as 
 6 the names differ ? and are they relative to individuals, as Pro- 
 tagoras tells us? For he says that man is the measure of all 
 ': things, and that things are to me as they appear to me, and that 
 they are to you as they appear to you. Do you agree with him, 
 or would you say that things have a permanent essence of their 
 own? 
 
656 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Her. There have been times, Socrates, when I have been driven 
 in my perplexity to take refuge with Protagoras j not that I agree 
 with him at all, 
 
 Soc, What ! have you ever been driven to admit that there was 
 no such thing as a bad man ? 
 
 Her. No, indeed; but I have often had reason to think that 
 there are very bad men, and a good many of them. 
 
 Soc. Well, and have you ever found any very good ones ? 
 
 Her. Not many. 
 
 Soc. Still you have found them ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc, And would you hold that the very good were the very wise, 
 and the very evil very foolish ? Would that be your view ? 
 
 Her. Yes ; that would be my view. 
 
 Soc. But if Protagoras is right, and the truth is that things are 
 as they appear to any one, how can some of us be wise and some 
 of us foolish ? 
 
 Her. Impossible. 
 
 Soc. But admitting the existence of wisdom and folly, you will 
 allow, I think, that the assertion of Protagoras can hardly be 
 correct. For if what appears to each man is true to him, one man 
 cannot in reality be wiser than another. 
 
 Her. He cannot. 
 
 Soc. Nor will you be disposed to say with Euthydemus, that all 
 things equally belong to all men at the same moment and always ; 
 for neither on that view can there be some good and others bad, 
 if virtue and vice are always equally to be attributed to all. 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. But if they are both wrong, — and things are not relative to 
 individuals, and all things do not equally belong to all, at the same 
 moment and always,-^they must be supposed to have their own 
 proper and permanent essence : they are not in relation to us, or 
 influenced by us — fluctuating according to our fancy, but they are 
 independent, and maintain to their own essence the relation 
 prescribed by nature. 
 
 Her. I think, Socrates, that this is the truth. 
 
 Soc. Does this apply only to the things themselves, or to the 
 actions which proceed from them ? Are not their actions also a 
 class of being ? 
 
CRATYLUS. 657 
 
 Her. Yes, the actions are real as well ag^the things. 
 
 Soc. Then the actions also are done according to their proper 
 nature, and not according to our opinion of them ? In cutting, for 
 example, we do not cut as we please, and with any chance instru- 
 ment J but I mean to say that we cut with the proper instrument 
 only, and according to the natural process of cutting 5 and the 
 natural process is right and will succeed, but any other will fail 
 and be of no use at all. 
 
 Her. I should say that the natural way is the right way. 
 
 Soc. Again, in burning, not every way is the right way ; but the 
 right way is the natural way, and the right instrument the natural 
 instrument. 
 
 Her. True. 
 
 Soc. And this holds good of all actions ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And speech is a kind of action? 
 
 Her. True. 
 
 Soc. And will a man speak correctly who speaks as he pleases ? 
 Will not the successful speaker rather be he who speaks in the 
 natural way of speaking, and as things ought to be spoken, and 
 with the natural instrument ? Any other mode of speaking will 
 result in failure and error. 
 
 Her. The second of the two ways will be the right way. 
 
 Soc. And is not naming a part of speaking ? for in giving names 
 men speak. 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. And if speaking is a sort of action and concerned- with acts, 
 is not naming also a sort of action ? 
 
 Her. True. 
 
 Soc. And we saw that actions were not relative to ourselves, but 
 had a special nature of their own ? 
 
 Her. Precisely. 
 
 Soc. Then names ought to be given according to a natural 
 process, and with a proper instrument, and not at our pleasure ; — 
 this is the inevitable conclusion from what has preceded ; in this 
 and no other way shall we name with success. 
 
 Her. That seems to me true. 
 
 Soc. But again, that which has to be cut has to be cut with 
 something ? 
 
658 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And that which has to be woven or pierced has to be woven 
 or pierced with something ? 
 Her. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And that which has to be named has to be named with 
 something ? 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. What is that with which we pierce ? 
 Her. An awl. 
 
 Soc. And with which we weave ? 3 
 
 Her. A shuttle. 
 
 Soc. And with which we name ? 
 Her. A name. 
 
 Soc. Very good : then a name is an instrument ? 
 Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. But suppose that I ask, 'What is a shuttle ?' And you answer, 
 ' A weaving instrument.' 
 Her. Very good. 
 
 Soc. And I ask again, 'What do we do when we weave?' — 
 The answer is, that we separate or disengage the warp from 
 the woof. ^ 
 
 Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And may not the same be said of an awl, and of instruments 
 in general ? 
 Her, To be sure. 
 
 Soc. And now suppose that I ask a similar question about . 
 names : will you answer that ? Regarding the name as an instru- 
 ment, what do we do when we name ? 
 Her. I cannot answer. 
 
 Soc. Do we not teach one another something, and distinguish 
 things according to their natures ? i 
 
 Her. That is very true. ' 
 
 Soc. Then a name is an instrument of teaching and of distin- 
 guishing natures, as the shuttle is of distinguishing the threads of 
 the web. j 
 
 Her. Yes. Ji^^ 
 
 Soc. And the shuttle is the instrument of the weaver ? 
 Her. Assuredly. 
 Soc. Then the weaver will use the shuttle well — and well means 
 
CRATYLUS. 659 
 
 like a weaver ; and the teacher will use the name well — and well 
 means like a teacher ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 &0C. And when the weaver uses the shuttle, whose work will he 
 be using well ? 
 
 Her. That of the carpenter. 
 
 Soc. And is every man a carpenter, or the skilled only ? 
 
 Her. Only the skilled, 
 
 Soc. And when the piercer uses the awl, whose work will he be 
 using well ? 
 
 Her. That of the smith. 
 
 Soc. And is every man a smith, or only the skilled ? 
 
 Her. The skilled only. 
 
 Soc. And when the teacher uses the name, whose work will he 
 be using ? 
 
 Her. There, again, I am puzzled. 
 
 Soc. Cannot you tell me who gives us the names which we use ? 
 
 Her. Indeed I cannot. 
 
 Soc. Does not the law seem to you to give us them ? 
 
 Her. Yes, that is so, I suppose. 
 
 Soc. Then the teacher, when he gives us a name, uses the work 
 of the legislator? 
 
 Her. I assent to that. 
 
 Soc. And is every man a legislator, or the skilled only ? 
 
 Her. The skilled only. 
 J Soc. Then, Hermogenes, not every man is able to give a name, 
 but only a maker of names ; and this is the legislator, who of all 
 skilled artisans in the world is the rarest. 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. And how does the legislator make names? and to what does 
 he look? Consider this in the light of the previous instances : to 
 what does the carpenter look in making the shuttle ? Does he not 
 look to some sort of natural or ideal shuttle ? 
 
 Her. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And suppose the shuttle to be broken in making, will he 
 make another, looking to the broken one ? or will he look to the 
 form which he had in his mind, when he made the other ? 
 
 Her. To the latter, I should imagine. 
 
 Soc. Might not that be justly called the true or ideal shuttle ? 
 I u u a 
 
660 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Her. I should say ' Yes ' to that. 
 
 Soc. And whatever shuttles are wanted, for the manufacture of 
 garments, thin or thick, of woollen, flaxen, or other material^ the 
 ideal ought to contain them all ; and whatever is the nature best 
 adapted to each kind of work, ought to be the nature which the 
 maker introduces into each sample of his own work. 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the same holds of other instruments : when a man has 
 discovered the instrument which is naturally adapted to each work, 
 he must take care to introduce that into the material of which 
 he makes his work, and in the natural form, not in some other 
 which he fancies j for example, he ought to know how to put into 
 iron the forms of awls, which are adapted by nature to their 
 several works. 
 
 Her. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And how to put into wood the proper or natural form of a 
 shuttle? 
 
 Her. True. 
 
 Soc. For the several forms of shuttles naturally answer to the 
 several kinds of webs ; — and this is true of instruments in 
 general. 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then, as to names : ought not our legislator also to know 
 how to put the true natural name into sounds and syllables, and to 
 make and give all names with a view to the ideal name, if he is 
 to be a namer in any true sense ? And if diflFerent legislators' do 
 not use the same syllables, that is quite intelligible. For neither 
 does every smith, although he may be making the same instrument 
 for the same purpose, make them all of the same iron. The form 
 must be the same, but the material may vary, and still the instru- 
 ment may be equally good of whatever iron made, whether in 3' 
 Hellas or in a foreign country j — that makes no difFerence. 
 
 Her, Very true. 
 
 Soc. And the legislator, whether he be Hellene or barbarian, is 
 not to be deemed by you a worse legislator for that, provided he 
 gives the true and proper form of the name in whatever syllables j 
 this place or any other makes no matter. 
 
 Her, Quite true. 
 
 Soc. But who then is to determine whether the proper form of 
 
CRATYLUS. 66 1 
 
 the shuttle is given in any sort of wood? the carpenter who makes, 
 or the weaver who is to use them ? 
 
 Her. I should say, that he who is to use them ought to know, 
 Socrates. 
 
 , Soc. And who uses the work of the lyre-maker ? Will not he be 
 the man who knows how to direct what is being done, and who 
 will know also whether the work is being well done or not ? 
 
 Her. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And who is he ? 
 
 Her. The player of the lyre. 
 
 Soc. And who will direct the shipwright ? 
 
 Her. The pilot. 
 
 Soc. And who will be best able to direct the legislator in his 
 work, and will know whether the work is well done, in this- or 
 any other country ? Will not the user be the man ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And this is he who knows how to ask questions ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And how- ta answer them ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And him who knows how to ask and answer you would call 
 a dialectician ? 
 
 Her. Yes ; that would be the name of him. 
 
 Soc. Then the work of the carpenter is to make a rudder, and 
 the pilot has to direct him, if the rudder is to be well made ? 
 
 Her. True. 
 
 Soc. And the work of the legislator is to give names, and 
 the dialectician must be his director if the names are to be rightly 
 given ? 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 , Soc. Then, Hermogenes, I should say that this giving of names 
 can be no such light matter as you fancy, or the work of light or 
 chance persons ; and Cratylus is right in saying that things have 
 names by nature, and that not every man is an artificer of names ; 
 but he only who looks to the name which each thing by nature 
 has, and is, will be able to express the ideal forms of things in 
 letters and syllables. 
 
 Her. I cannot answer you, Socrates j but I find a difficulty in 
 I changing my opinion all in a moment ; and I think that I should 
 
662 CRATYLUS. 
 
 be more readily persuaded, if you would show me \sdiat this is 
 which you term the natural fitness of names. 
 
 Soc. My good Hermogenes, I have none to show. Was I not 
 telling you just now (but you have forgotten)^ that I knew nothin^^ 
 and proposing to share the enquiry with you ? But now that you 
 and I have talked over the matter, a step has been gained ; for we 
 have discovered that the name has by nature a truth, and that not 
 every man knows how to give a thing a name. 
 
 Her. Very good. 
 
 Soc. And what is the nature of this truth or correctness of 
 names ? That, if you care to know, is the next question. 
 
 Her. But I do care to know. 
 
 Soc. Then reflect. 
 
 Her. How shall I reflect ? 
 
 Soc. The true way is to have the assistance of those who know, 
 and you must pay them well in money and not merely in thanks j 
 these are the Sophists of Whom your brother, Callias, has — rather 
 dearly — bought the reputation of wisdom^ But you have not yet 
 come into your inheritance, and therefore you had better go to 
 him, and beg and entreat him to tell you what he has learnt 
 from Protagoras about the fitness. of names. 
 
 Her. But how inconsistent should I be, if, whilst repudiating 
 Protagoras and his truth, I were to attach any value to what he 
 and his book affirm ! 
 
 Soc. Then if you despise him, you must learn of Homer and 
 the poets. 
 
 Her. And where does Homer say anything about names, and 
 what does he say ? 
 
 Soc. He often speate of them j notably and nobly in places in 
 which he distinguishes the different names which Gods and men 
 give to the same things. Does he not, in these passages, bear a 
 marvellous testimony to the correctness of names ? For the Gods 
 must clearly be supposed to call things by their right and natural 
 names j do you not think that ? 
 
 Her. Why, of course they call them rightly, if they call them at 
 all. But to what are you referring ? 
 
 Soc. Do you not know what he says about the riVer in Troy who 
 had a single combat with Hephaestus ? 
 
 ' Whom,' as he says, ' the Gods call Xanthus, and men call Scamander.'; 
 
CRATYLUS. 663 
 
 Her. I remember. 
 ! Soc. Well, and about this river — to knW that he ought to be 
 called Xanthus, — is not that a solemn lesson ? Or about the bird 
 which, as he says, 
 
 ' The Gods call Chalcis, and men Cymindis :' 
 
 to be taught how much more correct the name Chalcis is than the 
 name Cymindis, — do you deem that a light matter ? There is also 
 the hill, which <men call Batiea, and the immortals Myrina's 
 tomb.' And there are many other observations of the same kind 
 in Homer and other poets. Now, I think that this is beyond the 
 understanding of you and me j but the names of Scamandrius and 
 Astyanax, which he affirms to have been the names of Hector's 
 son, are more within the range of human faculties, as 1 am dis- 
 posed to think J and what the poet means by correctness may be 
 more readily apprehended in that instance: I dare say that you 
 remember the lines to which I refer. 
 
 Her. I do. 
 
 Soc. Let me ask you, then, which did Homer think the more 
 correct of the names given to Hector's son — ^Astyanax or Sca- 
 mandrius ? 
 
 Her. 1 do not know. 
 
 Sk. Look at the matter thus : Are the wise or the unwise more 
 likely to give correct names ? 
 
 Her. The wise, of course. 
 
 Soc. And suppose you were to be asked whether the men or the 
 women of a city, taken as a class, are the wiser ? 
 
 Her. I should say, the men. 
 
 Soc. And Homer, as you know, says that the Trojans (in the 
 masculine gender), called him Astyanax j but if the men called him 
 Astyanax, the other name of Scamandrius could only have been 
 given to him by the women. 
 
 Her. That may be inferred. 
 
 Soc. And must not Homer have imagined the Trojans to be 
 wiser than their wives ? 
 
 Her. To be sure. 
 . Soc. Then he must have thought that Astyanax was a more 
 correct name for the boy than Scamandrius ? 
 
 Her. That is clear. 
 
664 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Soc. And what is the reason of this? Let us consider; — does he 
 not himself suggest a very good reason, when he says, 
 
 ' For he alone defended their city and long walls ?' 
 
 This appear^ to be a good reason for calling the son of the saviour, 
 king of the city which his father was saving, as Homer observes/] 
 
 Her, I see. 
 
 Soc. Why, Hermogenes, I do not as yet see myself j and do you ? 
 
 Her. No, indeed. 
 
 Soc. But, tell ine, friend, did not Homer himself also give 
 Hector a name ? 
 
 Her. What of that ? 
 
 Soc. That name appears to me to be very nearly the same as 
 the name of Astyanax — both are Hellenic ; and a king (Svof), and 
 a holder (eKrtop) have nearly the same meaning, and are both 
 descriptive of a king j for a man is clearly the holder of that of 
 which he is king ; he rules, and owns, and holds that. But, perhaps, 
 you do not understand me ; and I think that I am very likely mis- 
 taken in supposing myself to have found some indication of the 
 opinion of Homer about the correctness of names. 
 
 Her. I assure you that I think otherwise, and that I believe you 
 to be on the right track. 
 
 Soc. There is reason, I think, in calling the lion's whelp a lion, 
 and the foal of a horse a horsej I am speaking only of the ordinary 
 course of nature, when an animal produces after his kind^, and not 
 of extraordinary births; — if, contrary to nature, a horse have a 
 calf, then I should not call that a foal but a calf; nor do I call 
 any inhuman birth a man, but only a natural birth. And the same 
 may be said of trees and other things. Do yoii agree fo that ? 
 
 Her. Yes, I agree. 
 
 Soc. Very good. But you had better watch me and see that I do 
 not play tricks with you. For on the same principle the son of a 
 king is to be called a king. And whether the syllables of the 
 name are the same or not the same, that makes no difference, pro- 
 vided the meaning is retained ; nor does the addition or subtrac- 
 tion of a letter make any difference so long as the essence of the 
 thing remains in possession, and appears in the name. 
 
 Her. What do you mean ? 
 
 1 Reading of &v. 
 
CRATYLUS. 665 
 
 Soc. A very simple matter. I may illustrate my meaning by the 
 names of letters, which you know ar# not the same as the 
 letters themselves, with the exception of the four, e, v, 0, co — ^the 
 names of the other letters, whether vowels or consonants, are 
 made up of letters which we attach to them j but so long as we 
 introduce the meaning of the letter, and there can be no mistake, 
 the name which indicates the letter is quite correct. Take, for 
 example, the letter beta — the addition of ?;, t, a, gives no 
 offence, and does not prevent the whole name from having the 
 
 ' value which the legislator intended — so well did he know how to 
 give the letters names. 
 
 Her. There is truth in that. 
 
 4 Soc. And may not the same be said of a king ? a king will often 
 be the son of a king, the good son or the noble son of a good or 
 noble sire, each after his kind j and the oflFspring of every kind, 
 when in the course of nature, is like the parent, and therefore has 
 the same name. Yet the syllables may be disguised until they 
 appear diiFerent to the ignorant person, and he may not recognize 
 them, although they are the same, just as any one of us would not 
 recognize the same drugs under different disguises of colour and 
 smell, although to the physician, who regards the power of them, 
 they are the same, and he is not put out by the addition ; and in 
 like manner the etymologist is not put out by^the addition or 
 transposition or subtraction of a letter or two, or indeed of all the 
 letters, for this need not interfere with the meaning. As was 
 just now said, the names of Hector and Astyanax have only one 
 letter alike, which is the r, and yet they have the same meaning. 
 And how little in common with their letters has Archepolis 
 (ruler of the city)— and yet the meaning is the same. And there 
 are many other names which just mean ' king.' Again, there are 
 several names for a general, as, for example, Agis (leader) and 
 ^olemarchus (chief in war) and Eupolemus (good warrior) j and 
 others which denote a physician, as latrocles (famous healer) and 
 Acesimbrotus (curer of mortals) j and there are many others which 
 might be cited, differing in their syllables and letters, but having 
 the same meaning. You admit that ? 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 ^ .- Soc. The same names, then, ought to be assigned to those who 
 
 /follow in the course of nature ? 
 
666 CRA TYL US. 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And what of those who follow out of the course of nature, 
 and are prodigies ? for example, when a good and religious man 
 has an irreligious son, he ought to bear the name not of his father, 
 but of the class to which he belongs, just as in the case which was 
 before supposed of a horse foaling a calf. 
 
 Her. Quite true. 
 
 Soc. Then the irreligious son of a religious father should be 
 called irreligious ? 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. He should not be called Theophilus (beloved of God) or 
 Mnesitheus (mindful of God), or any of these names : if names 
 are correctly given, his should have an opposite meaning. 
 
 Her. Certainly, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Again, Hermogenes, the name of Orestes (the man of the 
 mountains) is quite right • whether chance gave the name, or per- 
 haps some poet who meant to express the brutality and fierceness 
 and mountain wildness of his hero's nature. 
 
 Her. That is very likely, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And his father^s name is also according to nature. 
 
 Her. That seems to be true. 
 
 Soc. Yes, for as is his name, so also is his nature j Agamemnon 
 (admirable for remaining) is one who is patient and persevering 
 in the accomplishment of his resolves, and by his virtue crowns 
 them ; and the proof of this is the continuance of his purpose and 
 of the host at Troy 2. I have told you the meaning of the name 
 Agamemnon; and I think that Atreus is rightly called, for his 
 murder of Chrysippus and his exceeding cruelty to Thyestes are 
 damaging and destructive to his reputation ; the name is a little 
 altered and disguised so as not to be intelligible to every one, but 
 to the etymologist there is no difficulty in seeing the meaning, for 
 whether you think of him as areipris the stubborn, or as arpecrros 
 the fearless, or as drTjpos the destructive one, the name is per- 
 fectly correct in every point of view. And I think that Pelops is 
 also named appropriately ; for the name implies that he is rightly 
 called Pelops who sees what is near only. 
 
 2 Or : ' his long stay in Troy is a sign of the fulness and endurance of his 
 character.' 
 
CRATYLUS. 667 
 
 Her. How is that ? 
 
 Soc. Because, according to the tradition^ he had no forethought 
 or foresight of all the evil which the murder of Myrtilus would 
 entail upon his whole race in remote ages j he saw only what was 
 near and immediate, — or in other words, w^Aas (near), in his eager- 
 ness to win Hippodamia by all means for his bride. Every one 
 would agree that the name of Tantalus is rightly given and in 
 accordance with nature, if the traditions about him are true. 
 
 Her. And what are the traditions ? 
 
 &m. Many terrible misfortunes are said to have happened to him 
 in his life — he ended by being the ruin of his country ; and after 
 his death he had the stone suspended over his head in the world 
 below: all this agrees wonderfully well with his name. You 
 might imagine that some person who wanted to call him ToKiv- 
 rmo% (the most weighed down by misfortune), designedly altered 
 the name into Tantalus ; and this transformation has been pro- 
 duced in the legend by accident. The name of Zeus, who is 
 i his alleged father, has also an excellent meaning, although hard 
 to be understood, because really like a sentence, which is di- 
 vided into two parts, for some call him Zena (Z^m), and use the 
 one half, and others call him Dia (Afo), and use the other half j 
 the two together signify the nature of the God, and the business of 
 a name, as we were isaying, is to express this. For there is none 
 who is more the author of life to us and to all, than the lord and 
 king of all. Wherefore we ought to call him Zena and Dia, 
 which are one name, although divided, meaning the God in whom 
 all creatures always have life (81' ov ^v vir&pxei wSo-ti'). There is 
 a. want of reverence, at first sight, in calling him the son of Cronos 
 (who is a proverb for stupidity), and we might rather expect Zeus 
 to be the child of a mighty intellect. Which is the fact ; for this 
 is the meaning of his paternal name : Kpo'vos quasi Kopos, not in 
 the sense of a youth, but signifying to KoBaphi) koI aKrjpaTov tov vov, 
 the pure and garnished mind. He, as we are informed by tradi- 
 tion, was begotten of Uranus, who is called otto tov opav to. &vai 
 fi-om looking upwards ; and this, as philosophers tell us, is the way 
 to have a pure mind, and the name Uranus is therefore correct. 
 If I could remember the genealogy of Hesiod, I would have gone 
 on and tried more conclusions of the same sort on the remoter 
 ancestors of the Gods, — then I might have seen whether this 
 
668 CRA TYL US. 
 
 philosophy, which has come to me all in an instant, I know not 
 whence, will hold good to the end. 
 
 Her. You seem to me, Socrates, to be quite like a prophet newly 
 inspired, and to be uttering oracles. 
 
 Soc. Yes, Hermogenes, and I believe that I caught the inspira- 
 tion from the great Euthyphro of the Prospaltian deme, who gave 
 me a long lecture which commenced at dawn: he talked and I 
 listened, and his wisdom and enchanting ravishment have not only 
 filled my ears but taken possession of my soul, and to-day I shall 
 let his superhuman power work and finish the investigation of 
 names — that will be the way; but to-morrow we will conjure him 
 away, and make a purgation of him, if we can only find some 
 priest or sophist who is skilled in the art of purifying. 
 
 Her. With all my heart ; for I am very curious to hear the rest 
 of the enquiry about names. 
 
 Soc. Then let us proceed ; and where would you have us begin, 
 now that we have got a sort of outline of the enquiry? Are there 
 any names which witness of themselves that they are not given 
 arbitrarily, but have a natural fitness ? The names of heroes and 
 of men in general are apt to be deceptive because they are often 
 called after ancestors with whose names, as we were saying, they 
 may have no business, or they are the expression of a wish like 
 Eutychides (the son of good fortune), or Sosias (the Saviour), or 
 Theophilus (the beloved of God), and others.. But I think that 
 we had better leave these, for there will be more chance of finding 
 correctness in the names of immutable essences and natures; — 
 there ought to have been more care taken in naming them, and 
 perhaps there may have been some more than human power at 
 work occasionally in giving them names. 
 
 Her. I agree to that, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Ought we not to begin with the consideration of the Gods, 
 and show that they are rightly named Gods ? 
 
 Her. Yes, that will be well. 
 
 Soc. My notion would be something of this sort : — I suspect that 
 the sun, moon, earth, stars, and heaven, which are still the Gods 
 of many barbarians, were the only Gods known to the aboriginal 
 Hellenes. Seeing that they were always moving and running, 
 from this running nature of them, they called them Gods or 
 runners (^eoiis Bkovrai) ; and afterwards, when they discovered all 
 
CRATYLUS. 669 
 
 the other Gods, they retained the old name. Do you think that 
 likely? * 
 
 Her. I think that very likely indeed. 
 
 Soc. What shall follow the Gods ? Must not demons and heroes 
 and men come next ? 
 
 Her. Let us take demons, 
 
 Soc. I wish that you would consider what is the real meaning of 
 this word ' demons.' I wonder whether you would think my view 
 right ? 
 
 Her. Let me hear. 
 • Soc. You know how Hesiod uses the word? 
 
 Her. Indeed I do not. 
 
 Soc. Do you not remember that he speaks of a golden race of 
 men who came first ? 
 
 Her. Yes, I know that. 
 
 Soc. He says of them — 
 
 'But now that fate has closed over this race 
 They are holy demons upon the earth, 
 1^ Beneficent, averters of ills, guardians of mortal men.' 
 
 Her. What of that? 
 
 Soc. What of that ! Why, I suppose that he means by the 
 golden men, not men literally made of gold, but good and noble ; 
 and I am convinced of this, because he further says that we are 
 the iron race. 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. And do you not suppose that good men of our own day 
 would by him be said to be of that golden race ? 
 
 Her. Very likely. 
 
 Soc. And are not the good wise ? 
 
 Her. Yes, they are wise. 
 
 Soc. And therefore I have the most entire conviction that he 
 called them demons, because they were ho.-l\\Lovti (knowing or wise), 
 and in the ancient Attic dialect this is the very form of the word. 
 Now he and other poets say truly, that when a good man dies he 
 has a mighty portion and honour among the dead, and becomes 
 demon j which is a name given to him signifying wisdom. And 
 I say too of the wise men, that every man who is a good man is 
 more than human {^^.i^dviov) both in life and death, and is rightly 
 Galled a demon. 
 
 a 
 
670 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Her. I believe that I quite agree with you in that. But what is 
 the meaning of the word ' hero ?' (^pwy in the old writing epa>s.) 
 
 Soc. I think that there is no diflSculty in explaining that, foi 
 the name is not much altered, and signifies that they were bom 
 of love. 
 
 Her. What do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. Do you not know that the heroes are demigods ? 
 
 Her. What then ? 
 
 Soc. All of them sprang either from the love of a God for a 
 mortal woman, or of a mortal man for a Goddess ; think of the 
 word in the old Attic, and you will see better that the name ' heros ■ 
 is only a slight alteration of Eros, from whom the heroes sprang ; 
 either this is the meaning, or, if not this, then they must have 
 been skilful as rhetoricians and dialecticians, and able to put the 
 question (epajrar), for tlpnv is equivalent to Xiynv. And therefore, 
 as I was saying, in the Attic dialect the heroes turn out to be 
 rhetoricians and questioners. All this is easy enough j the noble 
 breed of heroes are a tribe of sophists and rhetors. But can you 
 tell me why men are called avdpa-noi ? — that is more difficult. 
 
 Her. No, I cannot ; and I would not try even if I could, because 
 1 think that you are more likely to succeed. 
 
 Soc. That is to say, you trust to the inspiration of Euthyphro. 
 
 Her. Of course. 
 
 Soc. Your faith is not vain ; for at this very moment a new and 
 ingenious thought strikes me, and, if I am not careful, before to- 
 morrow's dawn I shall be wiser than I ought to be. Now, attend 
 to me J and first, remember that we often put in and pull out 
 letters in words, and give names as we please and change the 
 accents. Take, for example, the word Ait ^C\os; in order tc 
 convert this from a sentence into a noun, we omit one of the 
 iotas and sound the middle syllable grave instead of acute ; as in 
 other words also, letters are inserted, and the grave is changed 
 into an acute. 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. The name &vdpo>itosi which was once a sentence and is 
 now a noun, appears to be a case just of this sort, for one letter, 
 which is the a, has been omitted, and the acute on the last syllable 
 has been changed to a grave. ■ 
 
 Her. What do you mean ? i. 
 
CRATYLUS. 671 
 
 Soc. I mean to say that the word ' man' implies that other animals 
 never examine, or consider, or look up at what they see, but that 
 man not only sees (feaire) but considers and looks up at that 
 which he sees, and hence he alone of all animals is rightly called 
 SvOpoairos, meaning 6 avaQp&v h. OTiaitev. y- 
 
 Her. May I ask you to examine another word about which 
 I am curious ? 
 
 Soc. Certainly. 
 
 Her. 1 will take that which appears to me to follow next in 
 order. You know the distinction of soul and body ? 
 
 Soc. Of course. 
 
 Her. Let us endeavour to analyse them like the previous words. 
 
 Soc. You want me first of all to examine the natural fitness of 
 the word i/rux^ (soul), and then of the word o-S^a (body) ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. If I am to say what occurs to me at the moment, I should 
 imagine that those who gave the name ■^vxv meant to express that, 
 the soul when in the body is the source of life, and gives the 
 power of breath and revival, and when this reviving power fails 
 [ then the body perishes and dies, and this, if I am not mistaken, 
 they called \}fvxn- But please stay a moment; I fancy that I 
 can discover something which will be more acceptable to the 
 ■"disciples of Euthyphro, for I am afraid that they will scorn this 
 
 explanation. What do you say to another ? 
 
 Her. Let me hear. 
 
 Soc. What is that which holds and carries and gives life and 
 motion to the entire nature of the body ? What is that but the 
 soul? 
 P , Her. Just that. 
 i Soc. And do you not believe with Anaxagoras, that mind or soul 
 
 is the ordering and containing principle of all things ? 
 ^ Her. Yes; I do. 
 
 Sec. Then you may well call that power c^Wx'? which carries 
 , and holds nature, and this may be refined away into \jrvxV' 
 
 Her. Certainly; and I think that this is a better and more 
 ! scientific derivation. 
 
 1 Soc. True ; and yet I cannot help laughing if 1 am to suppose 
 that this was the way in which the name was really used. 
 
 ; Her. But what shall we say of the next word ? 
 
672 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Soc. You mean a&im (the body) : which may be variously inter- 
 preted, if a very little permutation is allowed — I am sure of 
 that. For some say that the body is the grave (o^/io) of the soul 
 which may be thought to be buried in our present life j or again 
 the sign of the soul, because the soul signifies through the body; 
 probably the Orphic poets were the inventors of the name, and 
 they were under the impression that the soul is suflFering the 
 punishment of sin, and that the body is an enclosure which may 
 be compared to a prison in which the soul is incarcerated, or 
 incorporated (o-Sfia tva (r<h^riTai\ as the name a&fia or body implies, 
 until the penalty is paid ; according to this view, not even a letter 
 of the word need be changed. 
 
 Her. I think, Socrates, that we have said enough of this class 
 of words. But have we any more explanations of the names of 
 the Gods, like that which you were giving of Zeus ? I should like 
 to know whether any similar principle of correctness is to be 
 applied to them. 
 
 Soc. Yes, indeed, Hermogenes ; and there is one excellent prin- 
 ciple which, as men of sense, we must acknowledge, that, of the 
 Gods we know nothing, either of their natures or of the names 
 which they give themselves j but we are sure that the names by 
 which they call themselves, whatever they may be, are true. And 
 this is the best of all principles, and the next best is to say, as in 
 prayers, that we will call them by any sort or kind of. names or 
 patronymics which they like, because we do not know of any 4 
 other. That, I think, is a very good custom, which I should much 
 wish to follow. Let us, then, if you please, in the first place 
 announce to them that we are not enquiring about them ; we do 
 not presume that we are able to do that ; but we are enquiring, 
 about the meaning of men in giving them these names, — in-this 
 there can be small blame. 
 
 Her. I think, Socrates, that you are quite right, and I would 
 like to do as you say. 
 
 Soc. Shall we begin, then, with Hestia, according to custom ? 
 
 Her. Yes, that will be very proper. 
 
 Soc. What may we suppose him to have meant who gave the. 
 name Hestia ? 
 
 Her, That is a very difficult question to answer. 
 
 Soc, My dear Hermogenes, the first imposers of names must 
 
CRATYLUS. 673 
 
 surely have been considerable persons ; Jthey were philosophers, 
 and wanted to hear themselves talk. 
 
 Her. Well, and what of that ? 
 
 Sue. They are the men to whom I should attribute the impo- 
 sition of names. Even in foreign names, if you analyse them, 
 a meaning is still discernible. For example, that which we term 
 mala is by some called kuia, and by others again mo-fa. Now that the 
 essence of things should be called kuTla as the former name implies 
 (owio=l<rrfa) is rational enough. And there is reason in the 
 Athenians calling that kaTia. which participates in mi^im. For in 
 ancient times we too seem to have said l<jla for ovtri'a, and this 
 you may note to have been the idea of those who appointed that 
 sacrifices should be first offered to eori'a, which was natural enough 
 if they meant that kaTia. was the essence of things. Those again 
 who read u<rta seem to have inclined to the opinion of Heraclitus, 
 that all things flow and nothing stands ; the pushing principle is 
 the cause and ruling power of all things, and is therefore rightly 
 called &>aia.. Enough of this, which is all that we who know 
 nothing, can affirm. Next in order after Hestia we ought to con- 
 sider Rhea and Cronos, although the name of Cronos has been 
 already discussed. But I dare say that I am talking great nonsense. 
 
 Her. Why, Socrates ? 
 
 Soc. My good friend, I have discovered a hive of wisdom. 
 
 Her. Of what nature ? 
 I Soc. Well, rather ridiculous, and yet plausible. 
 
 Her. How plausible ? 
 
 Soc. I fancy to myself Heraclitus repeating wise traditions of 
 antiquity which existed in the old-fashioned days of Cronos and 
 Rhea, and of which Homer also spoke. 
 
 Her., How do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. Heraclitus is supposed to say that all things are in motion 
 and nothing at rest ; he compares them to the stream of a river, 
 and says that you cannot go into the same water twice. 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 ' Soc. Well, then, how can we avoid inferring that he who gave 
 the names of Cronos and Rhea to the ancestors of the Gods, 
 agreed in the doctrine of Heraclitus ? Is the giving of the names 
 of streams to both of them purely accidental ? Compare the line 
 in which Homer, and, as I believe, Hesiod also, tells of 
 
 vnr T XX 
 
674 CRATYLUS. 
 
 ' Ocean, the origin of Gods, and mother Tethys.' 
 And again, Orpheus says, that 
 
 'The fair river of Ocean was the first to marry, and he espoused his 
 sister Tethys, who was his mother's daughter.' 
 
 You see that this is a remarkable coincidence, and all in the 
 direction of Heraclitus. 
 
 Her. I think that there is something in what you say, Socrates; 
 but I do not understand the meaning of the name Tethys. 
 
 Soc. Well, that is almost self-explained, being only the name 
 of a spring, a little disguised; for that which is strained and 
 filtered (hiaTrdnevov 7\Qoi\t,ivov) may be likened to a sprii^, and the 
 name Tethys is made up of these two words. 
 
 Her. That is ingenious, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. To be sure. But what comes next? — of Zeus we have 
 spoken. 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then let us next take his two brothers, Poseidon and Pluto, 
 whether the latter is called by that or by his other name. 
 
 Her. By all means. 
 
 Soc. Poseidon is woo-iSeo-joios, the chain of the feet; the original 
 inventor of this name had been stopped by the watery element 
 in his walks, and not allowed to go on, and therefore he called 
 the ruler of this element Poseidon; the e was probably inserted 
 as an ornament. Yet, perhaps, not so ; but the name may have 
 been originally written with a double X and not with a (t, meaning 4' 
 that the God knew many things (ifoXAp dhiis). And perhaps also 
 he may be regarded as the shaker anth tov creUiv, and then is and 8 
 are added. Pluto is concerned with wXoiJroy, and means the giver 
 of wealth, because wealth comes out of the earth beneath. People 
 in general use the term as a euphemism for Hades, which their 
 fears lead them erroneously to derive from the invisible (dw6 toD ' 
 deiSoCs). 
 
 Her. And what is the true derivation ? 
 
 Soc. In spite of the mistakes which are made about the power 
 of this deity, and the foolish fears which people have of him, such 
 as the fear of always being with him after death, and of the soul 
 denuded of the body going to him, my belief is that all is quite 
 
CRATYLUS. 67 s 
 
 , consistent, and that the ofHce and name of the God really cor- 
 respond. • 
 
 Ker. Why, how is that ? 
 
 Soc. I will tell you my own view ; but first, I should like to ask 
 you which chain does any animal feel to be the stronger? and 
 which confines him more to the same spot, — desire or necessity ? 
 
 Uer. Desire, Socrates, is stronger far. 
 
 Soc. And do you not think that many an one would escape from 
 ; Jfedes, if he did not bind those who depart to him by the strongest 
 of chains? 
 
 • Ker, There can be no doubt of that. 
 
 $oc. And if by the greatest of chains, then by some desire, as I 
 should certainly infer, and not by necessity ? 
 
 Her. That is clear. 
 
 Soc. And there are many desires ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And therefore the desire must be the greatest, if the chain 
 is to be the greatest ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 j Soc. And is any desire stronger than the thought that you will be 
 made better by associating with another ? 
 
 Her. Certainly not. 
 
 • Soc. And is not that the reason, Hermogenes, why no one, who 
 has been to him, is willing to come back to us ? Even the Sirens, 
 like all the rest of the world, have been laid under his spells. Such 
 a charm, as I imagine, is the God able to infiise into his words. 
 
 j. And, according to this view, he is the perfect and accomplished 
 
 . Sophist, and the great benefactor of the inhabitants of the world 
 
 .ihelow ; and even to us who are on earth he vouchsafes exceeding 
 
 blessings. For he has much more than he wants there, and that is 
 
 why he is called Pluto (or the rich). Note also, that he will have 
 
 lathing to do with men while they are in the body, but only when 
 
 ^ the soul is liberated from the desires and evils of the body. Now 
 
 there is a great deal of philosophy and reflection in that ; for in 
 
 their liberated state he can bind them with the desire of virtue, 
 
 but while they are flustered and maddened by the body, not even 
 
 father Cronos himself would suffice to keep them with him in his 
 
 own fer-famed chains. 
 
 Her. I think that there is reason in that. 
 
 X X a 
 
676 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Soc. Yes, Hermogenes ; and the legislator called him Hades, not 
 from the unseen {a-nh tov deiBoCs) — far otherwise, but from his 
 knowledge of all noble things (diro tov -n&vTa to. koXo. elZivai). 
 
 Her. Very good j and what do we say of Demeter, and Here, 
 and Apollo, and Athene, and Hephaestus, and Ares, and the other 
 deities ? 
 
 Soc. Demeter is fi hihovaa iJ.rjrrip ttjs ^8<»S^s, the mother and giver of 
 food ; TJpr] is the lovely one (Iparij ris), for Zeus, according to tra- 
 dition, loved and married her ; possibly also the name may have 
 been given when the legislator was thinking of the weather, and 
 may be only a disguise of d^p, putting the end in the place of the 
 beginning. You will recognize the truth of this if you repeat the 
 letters of Her^ several times over. People dread the name of 
 Pherephatta as they dread the name of Apollo, — and with as little 
 reason j the fear, if I am not mistaken, only arises from ignorance 
 of the nature of names. But they go changing fhe name into 
 Phersephone, and they are terrified at this ; whereas the new name 
 means only that the Goddess is wise ; for seeing that all things in 
 the world are in motion, that principle which embraces and touches 
 and is able to follow them, is wisdom. And therefore the Goddess 
 is rightly called Pherepaphe (4>epeird<^o) or something of that sort, 
 quasi tov (pepof/Avov i<jiaiTToiJ,ivr], because she touches that which is in 
 motion ; herein showing her wisdom. And Hades, who is wise, 
 consorts with her, because she is wise. They alter her name into 
 Pherephatta now-a-days, because the present generation care for 
 euphony more than truth. There is the other name, Apollo, 
 which, as I was saying, is generally supposed to have some terrible 
 signification. Have you remarked that ? 
 
 Her. To be sure I have, and what you say is true. 
 
 Soc. But the name, in my opinion, is really most expressive of 
 the power of the God. 
 
 Her. How is that ? 
 
 Soc. I will endeavour to explain, for I do not believe that any 41 
 single name could have been better adapted to express the 
 attributes of the God, touching on and in a manner signifying 
 all four of them, — music, and prophecy, and medicine, and archery. 
 
 Her. That must be a strange name, and I should like to hear 
 the explanation. 
 
 Soc. Nay, all is harmonica] as beseems the God of Harmony. 
 
CRATYLUS. 6tj 
 
 i In the first place, doctors and diviners use^urgations, and purifica- 
 tions, and fumigations, with drugs, magical or medicinal, as well 
 as the ablutions and lustral sprinklings which ordinarily accom- 
 
 I pany them, and all these have one and the same object, which 
 
 "^ is to make a man pure both in body and soul. 
 
 Ijj, Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And is not Apollo the purifier, and the washer, and absolver 
 
 • of these sorts of evils ? 
 . Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Viewed in reference to his ablutions and absolutions, as 
 being the physician who orders them, he may be rightly called 
 %-noXa6a>v (purifier) ; or regarded with a view to his powers of 
 divination, and his truth and sincerity^ which is the same as 
 truth, he may be most fitly called 'At:>ws, as in the Thessalian 
 
 '' dialect, for all the Thessalians call him "AwASsj. also he is aeX 
 ffiWcov (always shooting), because he is a master archer who never 
 misses ; or again, the name may refer to his musical attributes ; 
 and then, as in aK6\ov6os, and &koitk, and in many otiier words 
 the a is supposed to mean 6iwv, or together j: so the meaning of a 
 in the name Apollo is,. moving together, whether in the so-called 
 poles of heaven, or in the harmony of song, which is termed con- 
 cord, because he moves all together by a harmonious power, as 
 astronomers and musicians ingeniously declare. And he is the 
 God who presides over harmony, and makes all things move round 
 together, both among Gods and men. And as in the words 
 dicoXoD^os and Sicotris, the a is substituted for an o, so the name 
 
 ^ 'AirdAAcBj' is equivalent to ojxo-noX&v ; only the second A. is added in 
 order to avoid the ill-omened sound of destruction. Now the 
 suspicion of this still haunts the minds of some who do not con- 
 
 6 sider the true value of the name, which,, as 1 was saying just now*, 
 touches upon all the powers of the God, who is [knXovs, dei p6X- 
 
 . Aa)v, amoKaCtav, ofMiioK&v) the single one, the everdarting, the purifier, 
 
 ' the mover together. The name of the Muses and of music would 
 seem to be derived {hmo tov (nwtrflat) from their making philoso- 
 phical enquiries ; and Leto is called by this name, because she is 
 such a gentle Goddess, and willing to grant our requests; or her 
 
 'name may be Letho, as strangers often call her; they seem to 
 
 ' Omitting iroki. 
 
678 CRATYLUS. 
 
 imply in this her slowness to anger, and her readiness to forgive 
 and forget. Artemis is named from her healthy, happy nature, and 
 because of her love of virginity, perhaps because she is a proficient 
 in virtue^ and perhaps also as hating intercourse of the sexes (row 
 &poTov iMcrriaatTa rod &vbpbs). He who gave the Goddess her name 
 may have had any or all of these reasons. 
 
 Her. What is the meaning of Dionysus and Aphrodite ? 
 
 Sac. Son of Hipponicus, that is a solemn question; there is a 
 serious and also a facetious explanation of both these names; the 
 serious explanation is not to be had from me, but there is no 
 objection to your hearing the facetious one ; for the Gods too love 
 a joke. Dionysus is simply 6 bibovs tov ohov (the giver of the 
 wine), AiboCvvtTos, as he might be called in fun, — and olvos is 
 properly olovovs, because wine makes those who drink, think that 
 they have a mind when they have none (otea-dat vovv Ix^tw ■toiei). 
 The derivation of Aphrodite, 8ta rqv tov iuppov yiveaip (foam), may 
 be fairly accepted on the authority of Hesiod. 
 
 Her. Still there remains Athene, whom you, Socrates, as an 
 Athenian, will surely not forget; there are also Hephaestus and Ares. 
 
 Soc. I am not likely to forget them. 
 
 Her. No. 
 
 Soc. There is 00 difficulty in explaining the other appellation of 
 Athene. 
 
 Her. What other appellation ? 
 
 Soc. We call her Pallas. 
 
 Her. To be sure. 
 
 Soc. And we cannot be wrong in supposing that this is derived 
 from armed dances. For the elevation of oneself or anything else 
 above the earth or in the hands we call shaking * waXAetv,' or being 4 
 shaken, dancing or being danced. 
 
 Her. That is quite true. 
 
 Soc. Then that is the explanation of the name Pallas ? 
 
 Her. Yes ; but what do you say of the other name ? 
 
 Soc. That of Athene ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. That is a graver rftaitter, and the^e, my friend, I think thafc ' 
 the modern interpreters of Homer may assist in explaining' the 
 view of the ancients. For most of these fn their explanation^'of 
 the poet, assert that he meant by Athene vovs and hdvoLa, arid the 
 
CRATYLUS. 679 
 
 maker of names appears to have had a similar notion about her ; 
 and indeed calls her by a still higher titlelj fleow vm\au>^ seeming to 
 
 I mean that this is she who has the mind of God (fleovoo) ;— usi^^ 
 as a dialectical variety for »;, and taking away~i and a. Perhaps, 
 however, there may be yet a ftirthei-' 'explanation j the ftame Qtov&t) 
 
 '•. may imply the special knowledge of divine things (^ to Qiw. 
 
 ^ vosmra). Nor shall we be far wrong in supposing that he wished 
 to identify this Goddess with moral perception, and therefore gave 
 her the name ifiovm] ; which, however, either he or his successors 
 
 |: have altered into what they thought a nicer form, and called her 
 
 |. Athene. 
 
 ^' Her. But what do you say of Hephaestus ? 
 
 Soc. Speak you of the princely lord of light {yevvdiov rbv rov <ffSteos 
 
 t<TTOpa) ? 
 
 Her. Surely. 
 
 Soc. "R<f)ai(TTos is ^aia-Toi, and has added the jj by attraction; 
 as is obvious to anybody. 
 
 Her. That is very probable, until some more probable notion 
 gets into your head. 
 
 Soc. To prevent that, you had better ask what is the derivation 
 of Ares. 
 
 Her. What is Ares ? 
 
 Soc. Ares may be called, if you will, from his manhood and 
 manliness, or, if you please, from his hard and unchangeable 
 nature, quasi &ppaTos; this latter is a derivation quite appropriate 
 to the God of war. 
 
 Her. Very true. 
 • Soc. And now, by the Gods, let us have no more of the Gods, for 
 h I am afraid of them j ask about anything but them, and thou shalt 
 see how the steeds of Euthyphro can prance. 
 
 Her. Only one more God! I should like tG> know about Hermes, 
 of whom I am said not to be a true son. Let us make him out, 
 and then I shall know whether there is anything in what Cratylus 
 says. 
 
 Soc. I should imagine that the name Hermes has to do with 
 
 jS; speech, and signifies that he is the interpreter, or messenger, or 
 
 thief, or liar, or bargainer; language has a great deal to say 
 
 ' to all that sort of thing; and, as I was telling you, the word eXpeiv 
 
 is expressive of the use of speech, and there is an old Homeric 
 
68o CRATYLUS. 
 
 word ejuTjeraro, which means < he contrived ;' and out of these two 
 words, rfpeij/ and /ijjo-oo-floi, the legislator formed the name of the 
 God who invented language and speech ('speaking' is another 
 word for ' telling ')j and he imposes this name upon us, saying, 
 ' O my friends,' says he to us, ' seeing that he is the contriver of o 
 tales or speeches, you may rightly call him dpk\i.r\s' And this has 
 been improved by us, as we think, into Hermes. Iris also appears 
 to have been called from the verb 'to tell' (Atto tov rf/jeti'), because 
 she was a messenger. 
 
 Her. Then I am very sure that Cratylus was quite right in 
 saying that I w;as no true son of Hermes, for I am not a good 
 hand at speeches. 
 
 Soc. There is also reason, my friend, in Pan being the double- 
 natured son of Hermes. 
 
 Her. How do you make that out ? 
 
 Soc. You are aware that speech signifies all things (iror), and is 
 always turning them round and round, and has two forms, true and 
 false ? 
 
 Her. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Is not the truth that is in him the smooth or pious nature 
 which dwells above among the Gods, whereas falsehood dwells in 
 the lower world, and is rough like the goat of tragedy ; for tales 
 and falsehoods have generally to do with the tragic or goatish 
 life, and tragedy is the place of them ? 
 
 Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Then surely Pan, who is the declarer of all things and the 
 perpetual revolver of all things (6 uov \a\vvaiv koI del to\Sw)j is 
 rightly called a'lroXos, he being the two-formed son of Hermes, 
 smooth in his upper part, and rough and goatlike in his lower 
 regions. And, as the son of Hermes, he is speech or the brother 
 of speech, and that brother should be like brother is no marvel. 
 But, as I was saying, my dear Hermogenes, let us get away from 
 the Gods. 
 
 Her. From this sort of Gods, by all means, Socrates. But 
 why should we not discuss another kind of Gods — the sun, moon, 
 stars, earth, aether, air, fire, and water, the seasons, and the 
 year? 
 
 Soc. You impose a great many tasks upon me. Still, if you wish, 
 I will riot refuse. 
 
CRATYLUS. 68 i 
 
 Her. You Will oblige me. 
 
 Soc. How would you have me begin ? Shall I take the sun first, 
 which you mentioned first ? 
 Her. Very good. 
 ^09 Soc. The origin of the sun will probably be clearer in the Doric 
 form; for the Dorians caE him SA.tosj and this name is given to 
 Mm, Kmh. TO aktCeiv rois avOpdvovs iireiZhv avareCXr), because at his 
 i rising he gathers men together, or bia to irepi Trjv yrjv eiAeiv la>v, 
 ' because he is always rolling about the earth in his course; or 
 ! 8ia TO ahkew, the meaning of which is the same as itoiKCWfiv, 
 because he variegates the productions of the earth. 
 Her. But what is a-eX-qvri (the moon) ? 
 Soc. That name is rather unfortunate for Anaxagoras. 
 Her. How is that ? 
 
 Soc. The word seems to anticipate his recent discovery, that the 
 moon receives her light from the sun, which is rather out of date. 
 Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. The two words (rikas (brightness) and 0&>j (light) have the 
 same meaning ? 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. This light about the moon is always new and always old, 
 if the disciples of Anaxagoras say truly. For the sun in his 
 revolution always adds new light, and there is the old light of the 
 previous month. 
 Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Many call the moon (rekavala. 
 Her. True. 
 I Soc. And as she has a light which is always old and also always 
 \: neWj veov koJ erov, she may very properly have the name atkae- 
 • mveodfia, and this is hammered into shape and called atkavata. 
 '' Her. A real dithyrambic sort of name that, Socrates. But what 
 ; do you say of the month and the stars ? 
 
 Soc. Meis is called (quasi ixflrjs) diro tov ixfiova-dai, because sufFer- 
 I ing diminution ; the name of Sirrpa (stars) seems to be derived 
 I from duTTpa-nri, which is an improvement on avacTTpaitri, signifying 
 ,, the upsetting of the eyes (on to. Swa ava(rTpi4>^i). 
 ' Her. What do you say of tsvp and {ISmp ? 
 
 , &f. I am at a loss how to explain mip; either the muse of 
 ' kuthyphro has deserted me, or there is some very great difficulty 
 
682 CRATYLUS. 
 
 in the word. Please, however, to note the contrivance which I 
 adopt whenever I am in a difficulty of this sort. 
 
 Her. What is that? 
 
 Soc. I will tell you; but I should like to know first whether you 
 can tell me what is the meaning of the word -nvp ? 
 
 Her. Indeed I cannot. 
 
 Soc. Shall I tell you what I suspect to be the true explanation 
 of this and several other words ? I believe that they are of foreiga 
 origin. For the Hellenes, especially those who were under the 
 dominion of the barbarians, often took words from them. 
 
 Her. Well, and what follows from that ? | 
 
 Soc. Why, you know that any one who seeks to demonstrate \ 
 the fitness of these names according to the Hellenic language, and 
 not according to the language from which the words are derived, I 
 is rather likely to be at fault. ' 
 
 Her. Yes, certainly. 
 
 Soc. Well, then, consider whether this word -nvp is not foreign j 410 
 for the word is not easily brought into relation with the Hellenic 
 tongue, and the Phrygians may be observed to have the same word 
 slightly inflected, just as they have UScop and kuvcs, and many other 
 words.. 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Any violent interpretations should be avoided, £ot there is 
 no difRculty in finding something to say about them. And thus 
 I get rid of -nvp and Zhiap. 'Aijpj Hermogenes, may be explained ', 
 8ti a'pei anb t^s y^s, as the element which raises things from the 
 earth, or as ever flowing {on ael pei), or because the flux of the , 
 air is wind, and the poet calls the winds ' ai»-blast&,' and I suppose 
 him to mean ' wind-flux,' ' air-flux,' as you might say, because they , 
 are air. AlOi/p I should interpret as &ei&eqpi this may be correctly , 
 said, because this element is always running in a flux about the 
 air (Srt del 0ei irepl tov &4pa ^^wv). The meaning of the word yif . 
 comes out better when in the form of yaia, for the earth may be ^ 
 truly called * mother,' yaia yevjrrJTeipa (parent), as Homer implies , 
 when he uses the term yeydacrai for yeyevvfiffdai. 
 
 Her. Good. 
 
 Soc. What shall we take next ? 
 
 Her. There are Spat, the seasons, and the two names of the year, 
 ivMvrbs and hos. j 
 
CRATYLUS. 683 
 
 Soc. The 5pai, or seasons, should be sgelt in the old Attic way, 
 if you desire to know the probable truth of them ; they are rightly 
 called the opcu, because they divide {SplCovaiv) the summers and 
 winters and winds and the fruits of the earth. The words iviavrbs 
 and Itos appear to be the same, — ' that which brings to light the 
 plants and growths of the earth in their turn, and reviews them 
 within itself;' this is broken up into two words, eviavrbs Sn iv 
 fdvTf, and iros Sn ercifei, just as before the word Zeiis Aibs was 
 similarly broken up into Z^va A{a; and the whole proposition 
 means that this power of self-analysing is one, but has two names, 
 two words being thus formed out of a single proposition, hos and 
 hnavTo?. 
 
 Her. Indeed, Socrates, you make surprising progress. 
 
 Soc. I am run away with. 
 
 Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. But not yet at my utmost speed. 
 '411 Her. I should like very much to know, in the next place, how 
 you would explain the virtues. What principle of correctness is 
 ,: there in those charming words-— wisdom, understanding, justice. 
 
 |. and the rest of them ? 
 
 ('• 
 
 Soc. That is a very important class of names which you are 
 disinterring; still, as I have put on the lion's skin, I must not be 
 feint of heart; and I suppose that I must consider the meaning 
 of wisdom and understanding, and judgment and knowledge, and 
 all those other charming words, as you call them ? 
 
 Her. Surely, we must not leave off until we find out their 
 meaning. 
 
 • Soc. By the dog, I have not a bad notion which came into my 
 head only this moment: I believe that the primeval men who 
 gave names were undoubtedly like too many of our modern phi- 
 losophers, who, in their search after the nature of things, are 
 always going round and round and get dizzy, and then they 
 imagine that the world is going round and round and all manner 
 of ways ; and the latter phenomenon, which is really within them 
 and an opinion of their own, they suppose to have a real existence 
 in the external world; they think that there is nothing stable or 
 permanent, but only flux and motion, and that all is fiiU of every 
 sort of motion and generation. The consideration of the names 
 which I mentioned has led me into making this reflection. 
 
684 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Her. How is that, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. Perhaps you did not observe that in the names which have 
 been just cited, the motion or flux or generation of things is most 
 surely indicated. 
 
 Her. No, indeed, I did not. 
 
 Soc. Take the first of those which you mentioned j clearly that 
 is a name indicative of motion. 
 
 Her. What was the name ? 
 
 Soc. 4>poVjjo-ts (wisdom), which may signify roTjo-ts ^opas xat pov 
 (perception of motion and flux), or perhaps orj/o-ts 0o/>as (the blessing 
 of motion), but is at any rate connected with ^^peo-flat (motion). 
 rrt^jUTj, again, certainly implies the consideration and ponderation 
 (I'MjMrjo-ti') of generation, for to ponder is the same as to consider, 
 or, if you would rather, there is to'tjctis, which is viov la-is (the 
 desire of the new) ; the word veos implies that the world is always^ 
 in process of creation. The giver of the name wanted to express 
 this longing of the soul, for the original name was vf6e<ns and not 
 voe&Ls, but a double e took the place of rj. The word aiacppoffiuvTi 
 is (TWTTjpia cppovrjcreats, the salvation of that wisdom which we were 
 just now considering. 'Eiri(Tr^/x?j is akin to this, and indicates 4 
 that the soul which is good for anything follows the motion of 
 things, neither anticipating them nor falling behind them j where- 
 fore the word should ratiier be read as iire'CcTrjp.r] or iTTKmjjuevTj *, 
 adding an e. SiJveo-ts is a kind of syllogism or conclusion,' and 
 is derived from avvievai, which, like ^Trt'orao-flai, implies the pro- 
 gression of the soul in company with the nature of things.. So^fe 
 (wisdom) is very dark, and appears not to be of native growth j 
 the meaning is, touching the motion or stream of things. You 
 must remember that the poets, when they speak of the commence- 
 ment of any rapid motion, often use the word iirvdrj ; and there 
 was a famous Lacedaemonian who was named SoOs (Bolt), for by 
 this word the Lacedaemonians signify rapid motion; and the 
 touching of motion is expressed by (To<f)Ca, for all things are sup- 
 posed to be in motion. Good (ayadov) is the name which is given 
 to the admirable (rw ayaarS) in nature; for, whereas all things 
 move, still there are degrees of motion ; some are swifter, some 
 slower; but there are some things which are admirable for their 
 
 * The reading is here uncertain. Cp. 437 E. 
 
CRATYLUS. 685 
 
 swiftness, and this admirable part of nature is called ayadov. 
 AiKaiotnJvij is clearly fi rod biKaCov <Tiuve<fts; but the actual word 
 ihaiov is more difficult : men are only agreed to a certain extent 
 about justice, and then they begin to disagree. For those who 
 suppose all things to be in motion conceive the greater part to 
 be a containing vessel, but they say that there is a penetrating 
 power which passes through them all, and is the instrument of 
 creation in all, and that this is the subtlest and swiftest element ; 
 for if not the subtlest, and a power which none can keep out, and 
 also the swiftest, and if other things were not comparatively at rest, 
 it could not penetrate through the moving universe. And this ele- 
 ment, which superintends all things and pierces all (piaiov), is rightly 
 called bUatov; the letter k being only added for the sake of eu- 
 phony. Thus far, as I was saying, there is a general agreement 
 
 .13 about the nature of justice j but I, Hermogenes, being an enthusi- 
 astic disciple, have been told all these things in a mystery ; and this 
 they declare to me to be justice and the cause, for a cause is that 
 because of which anything is created, and some one comes and 
 whispers in my ear that justice is so called because partaking of 
 the nature of the cause, and I begin, in spite of all that he has 
 said, to interrogate him quite gently : ' Well, my excellent friend,' 
 say I, * but if all this be true, I still want to know, what is justice.' 
 
 ' Thereupon they think that I ask tiresome questions, and am leap- 
 ing over the barriers, and have been already sufficiently answered, 
 and they try to satisfy me with one derivation after another, and 
 at length they quarrel. For one of them says that justice is the 
 sun, and that he only is the piercing or burning element which is 
 the guardian of nature. And when I joyfully repeat this beautiful 
 notion, I am answered by the satirical remark, 'What, is there 
 no justice in the world when the sun is down ? ' And when I 
 earnestly beg my questioner to tell me his own honest opinion, 
 he says, < Fire in the abstract ;' but this is not very intelligible. 
 Another says, ' No, not fire in the abstract, but the abstraction of 
 heat in the fire.' Another man professes to laugh at all this, and 
 says, as Anaxagoras says, that justice is mind, for mind, as they 
 say, has absolute power, and mixes with nothing, and orders all 
 things, and passes through all things. At last, my friend, I find 
 myself in far greater perplexity about the nature of justice than 
 I was before I began to learn. But still I am of opinion that the 
 
686 CRATYLUS. 
 
 name, which has led me into this digression, was given for the S 
 
 reasons which I have mentioned. J 
 
 Her. I think, Socrates, that you are not improvising now; you i 
 
 must have heard this from some one else. ; 
 
 Soc. And not the rest ? ; 
 
 Her. Hardly. i 
 
 Soc. Well, then, let me go on in the hope of making you believe i 
 
 in the originality of the rest. What comes after justice ? I do i: 
 
 not think that we have as yet discussed avhpeia, courage, (for ^ 
 
 injustice need not be considered, as there is no difficulty in seeing : 
 
 that this is really nothing more than a hindrance to the penetrating I 
 
 principle, rov hidiovros.) Well^ then, the name of &v6peCa seems 1 
 
 to imply a battle, which battle is in the world of existence, and if i 
 
 there be a flux there must be the counterflux; and if you extract j 
 
 the 6 from &v5pe(a, the name at once signifies the thing, and yqu a 
 
 may clearly understand that not the stream opposed to every | 
 
 stream is avbpeCa, but only to that which is contrary to justice, for i 
 otherwise courage would not have been praised. The words appqv 414 » 
 
 and avfip also contain a similar allusion to the same principle of ! 
 
 the upward flux (r^ &va) poj?). Tvvfi I suspect to be the same ■, i 
 
 word as yovrj ; dfiKv appears to be derived airb rfji BrjkTJs, from the e 
 
 teat, because the teat is like rain, and makes thinp have a % 
 flourishing look, Sn Te9r]k4vai iroiei. 
 
 Her. That is surely probable. j 
 
 Soc. Yes ; and the very word OaWeiv (to flourish) seems to figure i 
 the growth of youth, which is swift and sudden ever. And this is 
 
 expressed by the legislator in the name, which is a compound of ;i 
 
 Oeiv (running), and &k\ecr0ai (leaping). Pray observe how I prance ; 
 
 away when I am on smooth ground. There are a good many j, 
 
 names generally thought to be of importance, which have still to ^ 
 be explained. 
 
 Her. That is true. ii 
 
 Soc, There is the meaning of the word r^x«"? i^^)) ^o"" example. j 
 
 Her. Very true. 5 
 
 Sof. That may be identified with ix^vor), and expresses the 5 
 
 possession of mind. — you have only to take away the t and insert >; 
 
 an between the x and r, and another o between the v and tj. ; 
 
 Her. That is a very shabby etymology. ^ 
 
 Soc. Yes, my dear friend ; but then you know that the original ^ 
 
CRATYLUS. 687 
 
 , names are always being overlaid and bedizened by people sticking 
 on and stripping ofF letters for the sake*of euphony, and twisting 
 and turning them in all sorts of ways : this may be done for the 
 sake of ornamentation, or may be the effect of time. Take, for 
 example, the word KiroTrrpov ; why is the letter p inserted ? This 
 must surely be the addition of some one who cares nothing about 
 the truth, but thinks only of putting the mouth into shape. And 
 the additions are often such that at last no human being can pos- 
 
 f" sibly make out the original meaning of the word. Another ex- 
 
 1 ample is the word o-^Jyf, <7(f>iyy6i, which ought properly to be 
 ^lyi} <^'yy^s, aad there are other examples. 
 Her. That is quite true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And yet, if you are permitted to put in and pull out any 
 letters which you please, names will be too easily made, and any 
 name may be adapted to any object. 
 Her. That is true. 
 Soc. Yes, that is true. And therefore a wise dictator, like your- 
 
 ^J • self, should observe the laws of moderation and probability. 
 Her. That is my desire. 
 
 H5 Soc. And mine, too, Hermogenes. But do not be too much of a 
 precisian, or ' you will unnerve me of my strength ^.' When you 
 have allowed me to add urixavr] (contrivance) to rix^rj (art) I shall be 
 at the top of my bent, for I conceive ixrjxavri to be a sign of great 
 accomplishment — &veu> eirl -iroku j for ixrJKos points to the meaning of 
 ifohv, and these two, jMrjuos and Avfiv, make up the word urixavrj. 
 But as I was saying, being at the top of my bent, I should like 
 to consider the meaning of the two words aperri and KaxCa ; apef^ 
 
 I I do not as yet understand, but Kuxla is transparent, and agrees 
 with the principles which preceded, for all things being in a flux, 
 
 i KaK(a is TO KaxSy lov ; and this evil motion when existing in the 
 soul has preeminently the general name of KanCa, or vice. The 
 meaning of kukw levai, may be further illustrated by the use of 
 bei\Ca (cowardice), which ought to have come after avbpela, but 
 was forgotten, and, as I fear, is not the only word which has been 
 
 I passed over. AeiXi'a (cowardice) signifies that the soul is bound 
 with a strong chain, for \Cav means strength, and therefore hei\Ca 
 expresses the greatest and strongest bond of the soul 5 and airopia 
 is an evil of the same nature (d and iropeiJeo-flai), like anything else 
 wiich is an impediment to motion and movement. Then the 
 
 I « Iliad vl. 265. 
 
688 CRATYLUS. 
 
 word KaKla appears to mean KaKwy Uvai, or going badly, or limping . f 
 and halting ; of which the consequence iSj that the soul becomes 
 filled with vice. And if Kaxla is the name of this sort of things 
 &.piT7\ will be the opposite of this, signifying in the first place ease 
 of motion, then that the stream of the good soul is unimpeded, ' 
 and has therefore the attribute of ever flowing, without let or hin- 
 drance, and is therefore called dpeTTJ, or, more correctly, deipeir^j J 
 and may perhaps have had another form, aiperTj, indicating that 
 nothing is more eligible than virtue, and this has been hammered ' 
 into dper^. I dare say that you will deem this to be an invention, 
 but I think that if the previous word KaKia was right, then apivi) 
 is also right. 
 
 Her. But what is the meaning of kokw, which has indeed played 416 
 a great part in your etymologies ? 
 
 Soc. That is a very singular word, about which I can hardly 
 form an opinion, and therefore I must have recourse to that ' 
 ingenious device of mine. ' 
 
 Her. What device ? 
 
 Soc. The device of a foreign origin, which I shall give to this 
 word also. 
 
 Her. I dare say that you are right ; but suppose ■ that we leave f 
 these words, and endeavour to see the rationale of koXov and ' 
 al(Tyj)6v. ' ' 
 
 Soc. The meaning of alaxphv is evident, being only to ip.TioUCov \ 
 Kol laxov Trts porjs ra Svia (which prevents and impedes existence \ 
 from flowing), and this is in accordance with our former deriva- ' 
 tions. For the name-giver was a great enemy to stagnation of all ' 
 sorts, and hence he gave the name ae[a\opaov to that which 
 hindered the flux, and this is now beaten together into aicrxpov. 
 
 Her. But what do you say of KaX6v ? 
 
 Soc. That is more obscure; yet the form is only due to the 
 prosody, and has been changed by altering the quantity of the ov. 
 
 Her. What do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. This name appears to denote mind. 
 
 Her. How is that ? 
 
 Soc. Let me ask you what is the cause why anything has a name ; 
 is not the principle which imposes the name the cause ? 
 
 Her. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And must not this be the mind of Gods, or of men, or of 
 both ? 
 
CRA TYL US. 689 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Is not mind that which calls (/cSX.^o-ai') things, and is not 
 mind the {koXov) beautiful? 
 
 Her. That is evident. 
 
 Soc. And are not the works of intelligence and mind worthy of 
 praise, and are not any other works worthy of blame ? « 
 , Ker. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Physic does the works of a physician, and carpentering does 
 the works of a carpenter ? 
 
 Her. Exactly, 
 
 Soc. And the principle of beauty does works of beauty ? 
 
 Mer. Or ought to do them. 
 
 Soc. And that principle we affirm to be mind ? 
 
 Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Then mind is rightly called beauty because she does the 
 works which we recognize and speak of as the beautiful ? 
 
 Her. That is evident. 
 
 Soc. What more names remain to us ? 
 
 Her. There are the words which are connected with ayaQov 
 and Kokov, and are such as (jv\i.<pkpov7a and Xvtm^Kovvra, oi^iXiiMa, 
 KfpbaXea, and their opposites. 
 7 Soc. The meaning of (rvfupipov I think that you may discover for 
 •yourself by the light of the previous examples, — for it is a sister 
 word to eiri(7r?7joijj, meaning just the motion of the soul accompany- 
 ing the world, and things which are done upon this principle are 
 called (Tvixibopa or aviicpepovTa, because they are carried round with 
 the world. 
 
 Her. That is probable. 
 
 Soc. Again, KephaXeov is called from icepSoy, but you must alter 
 the 8 into v if you want to get at the meaning ; for this word also 
 signifies good, but in another way; he who gave the name intended 
 to express the power of admixture and universal penetration in the 
 good {Kepavv^ixevov) ; in forming the word, however, he inserted a 
 S instead of a v, and so made Kep6os. 
 
 Her. Well, but what is A.i^crtTeAoCi' (the profitable) ? 
 
 Soe. I suppose, Hermogenes, that people do not mean by the 
 profitable the gainful, or that which pays the retailer, but they use 
 the word in the sense of swift. You regard the profitable {to 
 kva-LTekow), as that which being the swiftest thing in existence, 
 
 VOL. 1. Y y 
 
690 CRATYLUS. 
 
 allows of no stay of things and no pause or end of. motion, but 
 always, if there begins to be any end, lets things go again, and 
 makes motion immortal and unceasing : this, as appears to me, is 
 the p6int of view in which the good is happily denominated 
 KvyiriKovv — that which looses or frees the end of motion is called 
 TO \vai,TiKmv. ^ Q.^ik\.[).ov (the advantageous) is otto tqv 6(j)iKXfiv, 
 meaning that which creates and increases j this is a common 
 Homeric word, and has a foreign, character. 
 
 Her. And what do you say of the opposites of these ? 
 
 Soc. Of such as are mere negatives I , hardly think that I need 
 speak. 
 
 Her. Which are they ? 
 
 Soc. The words inexpedient, unprofitable, unadvantageous, un- 
 gainful. 
 
 Her. True. 
 
 Soc. But I would rather take the words jSAa/Sepov (harmful), 
 Crji/,i&bes (hurtful). 
 
 Her. Good. 
 
 Soc. The word pXafifpov is that which is said to hinder or harm 
 the stream ; ^kA-mov is fiovXaixevov &VTfiv, which seeks to' hold or 
 bind j for &T{Teiv is the same as beiv, and beiv is always a term of j 
 censure ; to /SovAoVevov fiwretv rbv povv (wanting to bind the stream), . 
 would . properly be fiovkatTepovv, and this, as I imagine, is im- 
 proved into ySXa^epoV. 
 
 Her. You bring out curious results, Socrates, in the use of [ 
 names j and when I hear the word ^ovXawrepovv I cannot help ; 
 imagining that you are making your mouth into a flute, and puflP- 
 ing away at a prelude to Athene. 
 
 Soc. That is the fault of the name, Hermogenes ; not mine. 
 
 Her. That is true; but what is the derivation of fj7jut£8es? 418; 
 
 Soc. What is the meaning of fTjjwSSes ? — let me remark, Hermo- [ 
 genes, how right I was in saying that great changes are made in ,^ 
 the meaning of words by putting in and pulling out letters ; even 
 a very slight permutation will sometimes give an entirely opposite 
 sense ; I may instance the word 6e'ov, which occurs to me at the 
 moment, and reminds me of what I was going to say to you, that 
 the fine fashionable language of modern times has twisted and 
 disguised and entirely altered the original meaning both of heov, 
 and &lso of ^ij^twSey, which in the old language is clearly indicated. 
 
CRATYLUS. 691 
 
 Her. What do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. I will try to explain. You are aware that our forefathers 
 aflFected the sounds i and 8, especially the women, who are most 
 conservative of the ancient language, but now they change i into 
 rj or f , and 8 into f ; this is supposed to increase the grandeur ctf 
 the sound. 
 Her. How do you mean ? 
 
 &VC. For example, in very ancient times they called the day 
 either \\tipa or Ijne'po, which is called byus r\\i.ipa. 
 
 1 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Do you observe that only the ancient form shows the 
 intention of the giver of the name; the reason of the name is^ 
 that men long for and love the light coming after the darkness, 
 which is thence called i/xe'pa. But now the name is so travestied 
 that you cannot tell what is the meaning of the day, although 
 some are of opinion that the day is called i\[>.ipa, because making 
 things gentle. 
 
 Her. That is my view. 
 
 Soc. And do you know that the ancients said hvoyhv and not 
 fyyov ? 
 
 k Her. Very true. 
 
 !j Soc. And fvyw has no meaning, but the word hvoyov is very 
 expressive of the binding of two together, for the purpose of draw- 
 ing ^—this has been changed into ^vyov, and there are many other 
 examples of similar changes. 
 Her. There are. 
 
 I Soc. Proceeding in the same train of thought, I may remark that 
 
 ^ the word obligation (ro 8^01-) has a meaning which is the opposite 
 of all the other appellations of good ; for Uoi> is here a species of 
 
 I good, and is, nevertheless, the chain or hinderer of motion, and 
 
 i fcrefore own brother of /3Aa/3epoV. 
 
 r - Her. Yes, Socrates, and that is true. 
 
 19 Soc. Not if you restore the ancient form, which is more likely 
 to be the correct one, and read Iwv instead of hkov ; if you convert 
 
 ! the e into an t after the old fashion, this will then agree with other 
 words meaning good ; for 8tov, not Se'oj-, signifies the good, and is a 
 term of praise ; and the author of names has not fallen into any 
 contradiction, but in all these various appellations, hkov (obligatory), 
 
 ' is^iki^v (advantageous), XvaiTikmv (profitable), KepSaA^oi- (gainful), 
 
 \ Y V 2 
 
692 CRATYLUS. 
 
 ayadbv (good), avti(f>4pov (expedient) evnopov (plenteous), the same 
 conception is implied of the ordering or all-pervading principle 
 which is praised, and the restraining and binding principle which 
 is censured. And this is further illustrated by the word {rmuihis, 
 which if the f is only changed into 6, as in the ancient language, 
 becomes brjfudbrjs ; and this name, as you will perceive, is given 
 em r<3 buvvTL to lov, to that which binds motion. 
 
 Her. What do you say of ^8ovjj (pleasure), AiJTrjj (pain)j eTriflw/itio 
 (desire), and the like, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. I do not think, Hermogenes, that there is any great diffi- 
 culty about them — fibovf) is ^ upbs Tr]v oitriaiv rtCvovcra wpSfis, the 
 action which tends to advantage ; and the original form may. be 
 supposed to have been fjovr), but this has been altered by the 
 insertion of the 8. Avirr] appears to be derived cnrh rijs biakuaem 
 Tov ataixaros, from the relaxation which the body feels when in 
 sorrow; ana (trouble) is the hindrance of motion (a and 
 Uvai); aKyr]bb)v (distress), if I am not mistaken, is a foreign 
 word, which is derived from &kyeiv6s ; oSvvrj (grief) is called otto 
 T7JS fvbvcTeas ttJs Avtttjs, from the putting on sorrow ; in ax0r)boiv 
 (vexation) the word too labours, as any one may see; \apa^oy) 
 is the very expression of the fluency and diffusion of the soul.(xe'«<))i 
 Tf pirubv (delightfuJ| is so called from the breath creeping through the 
 soul, which may be likened to a breath, and is properly ■e/oiTHoCi'j 
 but has been altered by time into Tepirvov; iv<i>poiTvvr) (cheerfulness) 
 and imOvixla explain themselves; the former, which ought to be 
 ev!^fpa>(7vvr] and has been changed into tv<f)powuvri,.is named, as every 
 on&may see, from the soul moving in harmony with nature j ^irt- 
 6vij.ia is really fj e-nl rbv Bvp-bv tovcra 8wo/iis, the power which invadejS 
 the soul ; 8viJ.bs (passion) is called from the rushing (dvaem) and 
 boiling of the soul; tfxepos (desire) denotes the stream which most 
 draws the soul on Uixevos pu, and bia rriv taiv Trjs poTJs — because 
 with desire flowing, and because of the desire to flow, and expresses 
 a longing after things and violent attraction of the soul, and is / 
 termed tixepos from possessing this power; -nodos (longing) is ex- 
 pressive of the desire of that which is not present but absent^.and 
 in another place akkoOi irov; this is the reason why the name 
 Ttodos is applied to things absent, as ip.fpos is to things present^ 
 Ipojs (love)- is so called because flowing in from without; the 
 stream is no,t inherent, but is an influence introduced throiigh.the 
 
CRATYLUS. 693 
 
 eyes, and from flowing in was called Imaos (influx) in the old 
 time when they used o for m and is called epcos, now that (a is 
 Sabstituted for 0. But why do you not give me another word ? 
 Her. What do you think of 6o£o and that class of words ? 
 Soc. Ao^a is either derived from bCio^is (pursuit), and expresses 
 the march of the soul in the pursuit of knowledge, or from ^ 0770 
 rov rdfou /SoAtj (the shooting of a bow); the latter is. more likely 
 and is confirmed by otijTty, which is only oio-is tjjs ^vxvs, arid implies 
 the movement of the soul to the essential nature of each thing — 
 ouTis iirl TO Tipayna olov e(mv ; just as ^ovkr] has to do with ishooting ; 
 aiid ^dvkeadai (to wish) combines the notion of aiming and de- 
 liberating — all these words seem to follow Sofa, and are so many 
 expressions of shooting, just as d^ovAio, on the other hand, is 
 a mishap, or missing, or mistaking of the mark, or aim, or pro- 
 posal, or object. 
 ^ Her. You are quickening ybur pace now, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Why, yes, the end I now commit to« God, not, however, until 
 I' have explained avdyKr) (necessity) which ought to come next, and 
 fKovaiov (the voluntary). 'Ekovuiov is certainly the yielding, and 
 unresisting— the notion implied is yielding and not opposing, 
 yielding, as I was just now saying, to that motion which is in 
 accordance with our will; but the necessary aad resistant {avri- 
 TDTroCr) being contrary to our will, has to do with error and igno- 
 rance; the idea is taken from walking through a ravine which 
 is impassable, and rugged, and overgrown, and impedes motion — 
 and this is the derivation of the word avayKoiov (necessary) av 
 &yKri lov, which may be compared to walking through a ravine. 
 But while my strength lasts let us persevere, and I hope that jou 
 will persevere with your questions. 
 
 I Her. Well, then, let me ask about the greatest and noblest, 
 such as aATj^eio and v//eC8os and 6v, not forgetting to enquire why 
 the word ovoiia (name), which is the theme of our discussion, has 
 an ovona or name. 
 ."■ Soc. You know the word i^aUaOai (to seek)? 
 
 , ' Her. Yes; meaning the same as C^reiv (to enquire). 
 
 ' "^^ Soc. The word orojixa seems to be a compressed sentence, signi- 
 fying ort TovT eariv 6v ov nyxavH C^rrnxa (that this is in reality that 
 which is being sought); this is more obvious in 6voiJ,a<TTov, which 
 
 |. " Reading 6ea. 
 
694 CRATYLUS. 
 
 states in so many words that real existence is that for which there 
 is a search (Sv oS \mcr\t.o, ((ttCv) ; oAijfleta is also an agglomeration 
 of Oeia S.\ri, implying the divine motion of existence ; ^evboi is 
 the opposite of motion j here is another ill name given by the 
 legislator to stagnation and forced inaction, which are compared 
 by him to sleep (evbeiv) ; but the original meaning of the word is 
 disguised by the addition of -f; 6v and ovma are I6v with an i 
 broken off j this agrees with the .true principle,'- for being is also 
 moving, and the same may be said of not beings which is likewise 
 called not going, ovk §v, ovk l6v or ovkwv. 
 
 Her, (iYoM have knocked them to pieces manfully j but suppose 
 that some one were to say to you, what is the word Ihv, and what 
 ^re piov and hovv ? — show me their fitness. 
 . Soc. You mean to say, how should I answer him ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 
 Soc. One way of giving the appearance of an answer has been 
 already suggested. 
 
 Her. What is that ? 
 
 Soc. To say that names which we do not understand- are of 
 foreign origin — this is very likely the true answer, and some of 
 them may be foreign words ; but also the original forms may have 
 been lost in the lapse of ages ; names have been so twisted in all 
 manner of ways, that I should not be surprised if the old language 
 were to appear to us now to be quite like a barbarous tongue.. 
 . Her. That is very likely. 
 
 Soc. Yes, very likely. But the business is serious, and must.be 
 seriously considered. At the same time, we should remember, 
 that if a person go on analyzing names into words, and enquiring 
 also into the elements out of which the words are formed,; and is 
 continually doing this, he who has to answer him must at last 
 give up the enquiry in despair. 
 
 Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And at what point ought he to lose heart and give up the 4 
 enquiry ? Must he not stop when he comes to the names which 
 are the elements of all other names and sentences; for these 
 cannot be supposed to be made up of other names? The word 
 ayaOov, for example, as we were saying, is a compound, of dyoo-Tos 
 and Ooqs. And probably dooi is made up of other elements, and 
 these again of others. But if we take a word which is incapable 
 
CRA TYL US. 695 
 
 of further resolution, then we shall be right in saying that we have 
 at last reached a primary element, which need not be resolved 
 any further. 
 
 Ker. I believe that to be true. 
 
 Soc. And suppose the names about which you are now asking 
 should turn out to be primary elements, then their truth or law 
 must be examined according to some new method. 
 
 Her. That is very likely. 
 
 Soc, Yes, Hermogenes, that is very likely. All that has preceded 
 certainly leads up to this conclusion. And if, as 1 think, the con- 
 clusion is true, then I shall again say to you, come and help me, 
 that I may not fall into some absurdity in stating the principle 
 of primary names. 
 
 Her. Let me hear, and I will do my best to assist you. 
 
 Soc. I think that you will acknowledge with me, that one 
 principle is applicable to all names, primary as well as secondary, 
 when regarded simply as names. 
 
 Her. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. All the names that we have been explaining were intended 
 to indicate the nature of things. 
 
 Her. Of course. 
 
 Soc. And this is true of the primary quite as much as of the 
 secondary names, as is implied in their being names ? , . 
 
 Her. Surely. 
 
 Soc. But the secondary, as I conceive, derive their significance 
 from the primary. 
 
 Her. That is evident. 
 J Soc. Very goodj but then how do the primary names which 
 precede analysis show the natures of things, as far as they can be 
 shown J which they must do, if they are to be real names ? And 
 here I will ask you a question: Suppose that we had no voice 
 or tongue, and wanted to communicate with one another, should 
 ' we not, like the deaf and dumb, make signs with the hands and 
 head and the rest of the body ? 
 
 Her. There would be no choice, Socrates. 
 
 ■3 Soc. We should imitate the nature of the thing; the elevation 
 
 of our hands to heaven would mean lightness and upwardness ; 
 
 heaviness and downwardness would be expressed by letting them 
 
 drop to the ground ; the running of a horse, or any other animal, 
 
696 ' CRA TYL US. 
 
 would be expressed by the most nearly similar gestures of our own 
 frame. 
 
 Her. 1 do not see that we could do anything else. 
 
 Soc. Yes ; by bodily imitation only can the body ever be sup- 
 posed to express anything. 
 
 Her. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And when we want to indicate our meaning, either with 
 the voice, or tongue, or mouth, is not the indication of anything 
 by means of them identical with their imitation of that thing ? 
 
 Her. That, I think, must be acknowledged. 
 
 Soc. Then a name, is a vocal imitation of that which the vocal 
 imitator names or imitates ? 
 
 Her. That, I think, is true. 
 
 Soc. Nay, my friend, I am disposed to think that we have not 
 reached the truth as yet. 
 
 Her. Why not ? 
 
 Soc. Because then we should be obliged to admit that the people 
 who imitate sheep, or cocks, or other animals, name that which 
 they imitate. 
 
 Her. That is true, 
 
 Soc. Then could I have been right in saying what I did ? 
 
 Her. In my opijjion, no. But I wish that you would tell me, 
 Socrates, what sort of an imitation is a name ? 
 
 Soc. In the first place, I should reply, not a musical imitation, 
 although that is also vocal ; nor, again, an imitation of that which 
 music imitates j that, in my judgment, would not be naming. 
 Let me put the matter thus : all objects have sound and figure, 
 and many have colour : 
 
 Her. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. But the art of naming is not to be supposed to have any-, 
 thing to do with those forms of imitation j the arts which have to 
 do with them are music and drawing. 
 
 Her. True. 
 
 Soc. Again, is there not a notion or essence of each thing, just 
 as there is in colour, or figure, or sound? And is there not an 
 essence of colour and sound as well as of anything else which 
 'may be said to have an essence ? ■ 
 
 Her. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Well, and if any one could express the essence of each 
 
CRATYLUS. 697 
 
 thing in letters and syllables^ would he not express the nature 
 of each thing ? 
 
 Her. Certainly he would. 
 24 Soc. The musician and the painter were the two names which 
 you gave to the two other imitators. What will this imitator be 
 called ? 
 "' Her. I imagine, Socrates, that he must be the namer, or name- 
 giver, of whom we are in search. 
 
 Soc. If this is true, then I think that we are in a condition to 
 consider the names po^ (stream), Ikvai (to go), (rxecns (retention), 
 about which you were asking ^ and we may see whether the namer 
 has grasped the nature of them in letters and syllables in such 
 a manner as to imitate the essence or not. 
 
 Her. Very good. 
 
 Soc. But are these the only primary names, or are there others ? 
 
 Her. There must be others. 
 
 Soc. Yes, that I should expect. But how shall we analyze them, 
 and where does the imitator begin ? Imitation of the essence is 
 made by syllables and letters; ought we not, therefore, first to 
 separate the letters, just as those who are beginning rhythrn first 
 distinguish the powers of single elements, and then of compounds, 
 and then, and not until then, proceed to thfe consideration of 
 rhythms ? 
 
 Her. Yes. 
 I Soc. Must we not begin in the same way with letters; first 
 separating the vowels into classes, and then the consonants and 
 mutes, according to the received distinctions of the learned j 
 also the semi-vowels, which are not vowels, neither are they 
 mutes ; and the differences of the vowels themselves ? and when 
 we have perfected the classification of things, then we shall give 
 them names, and see whether, as in the case of letters, there are 
 any classes to which they maybe all referred ' ; and hence we shall 
 see their natures, and see, too, whether they have in them classes 
 as there are in the letters ; and when we have well considered all 
 this, we shall know how to apply them— whether one letter is 
 used to denote one thing, or whether there is to be an admixture 
 of several of them ; just as in painting the painter, who wants to 
 
 ' The text is here uncertain; the most probable meaning has been followed. 
 Cp. Phaedrus, 271. 
 
698 CRATYLUS. 
 
 depict anything, sometimes uses purple only, or any other colour, and 
 sometimes mixes up several colours, as his method is when he has 
 to paint flesh colour or anything of that kind — ^he uses his colours 
 as his figures appear to require them ; and so, too, we shall apply 
 letters to the expression of objects, either single letters when 
 required, or several letters ; and then we shall form syllables, as 
 they are called, and from syllables make nouns and verbs j and 42 
 thus, at last, from the combinations of nouns and verbs, arrive at 
 language, large and fair and whole; and as the painter made a 
 figure, even so shall we make speech by the art of the namer or 
 the rhetorician, or by some art or other. Not that I am literally 
 s.peaking of ourselves, but I was carried away — meaning to say 
 that this was the way in which the ancients formed language, and 
 what they put together we must take to pieces in like manner, 
 if we are to attain a scientific view of the whole subject ; and we 
 must see whether the primary, and also whether the secondary 
 elements are rightly given or not, for if they are not, the com- 
 position of them, my dear Hermogenes, will be a sorry piece of 
 work, and in the wrong direction. 
 
 Her. That, Socrates, I can quite believe. 
 
 Soc. Well, but do you suppose that you are able to analyze them 
 in this way ? for I am certain that I am not. 
 
 Her. Much less am I likely to be able. 
 
 Soc. Shall we leave them, then ? or shall we seek to discover, if 
 we can, something about them, according to the measure of* our 
 ability, saying by way of preface, as I said before of the Gods, 
 that we know nothing of the truth about them, and do but attain 
 conjecture of human notions of them. And in this present en- 
 quiry, let us keep saying to ourselves, as we proceed, that this is 
 the true method which we or others who would analyze language 
 to any purpose must follow ; but under the circumstances, as men 
 say, we must do as well as we can with them. What do you 
 think of this ? 
 
 Her. I very much approve. 
 
 Soc. That objects should be limited and find an expression in 
 letters and syllables may appear ridiculous, Hermogenes, but this 
 cannot be helped — ^there is no better principle to which we can 
 look for the truth of first names. Deprived of this, we must have 
 recourse to a ' Deus ex machinaj' like the tragic poets, who have 
 
CRATYLUS. 699 
 
 their Gods suspended in the air ; and we must get out of the diffi- 
 culty in their fashion, by saying that 'the Gods gave the first 
 names, and therefore they are right.' This will be the best con- 
 trivance, or perhaps that other notion may be even better still, 
 of deriving them from some barbarous people, for the barbarians 
 are older than we are ; or we may say that antiquity has cast a 
 26 veil over them, which is the same sort of excuse as the last j for 
 all these are not reasons but only ingenious excuses for having no 
 reasons. And yet any sort of ignorance of first or primitive 
 names involves an ignorance of secondary words ; for they can 
 only be explained by the primary. Clearly then the professor of 
 languages should be able to give, a very lucid explanation of first 
 names, or let him be assured he will only talk nonsense about the 
 rest. Do you not suppose that this is true ? 
 . Her. Certainly, Socrates. 
 
 I &0C. My first notions of original names are truly wild and ridi- 
 culous, though I have no objection to impart them to you if you 
 desire, and I hope that you will communicate to me in return 
 anything better that you may have. 
 Her. Fear not ; I will do my best. 
 
 Soi. In the first place, the letter p appears to me to be the gene- 
 ral instrument expressing all motion (Kfojjms). ,. But I have not yet 
 explained the meaning of this., latter word, which is just Jeo-ts; 
 for the letter r; was not in use among the ancients, who only. em- 
 ployed e ; and the root is (ctew, which is a dialectical form, the 
 same as Ikvai. And the old word icCi/Tjats will be correctly given as 
 ie(rts in corresponding modern letters. Assuming this foreign root 
 Kteir, and allowing for the change of the tj and the insertion of 
 the i», we have K&ijtrty, which should have been KieLvi^tns or elo-ts ; 
 and crracns is the negative of levai (or et(ns), and has been im- 
 proved into ordo-is. Now the letter /5, as I was saying, appeared 
 to the imposer of names an excellent instrument for the expres- 
 sion of motion ; and he frequently uses the letter for this purpose : 
 for example, in the actual word pelv and ^oij he represents motion 
 . by ^ ; also in the words Tpo>os (trembling), rpaxiis (rugged) ; and 
 again, in words such as Opavuv (crush), apovuv (strike), epeUuv 
 I (bruise), Virreif (break), Kipp-aHCuv (crumble), pv^^iiv (whirl) : of 
 ' all these sorts of movements he generally finds an expression in 
 ■ the letter R, because, as I imagine,. he had observed that the 
 
700 CRATYLUS. 
 
 tongue was most agitated and least at rest in the pronunciation 
 of this letter, which he therefore used in order to express motionj 
 just as he used t to express the subtle elements which pass through ■ 
 all things. This is why he uses the letter t as imitative of motion, 42 
 UvM, iia-dai. And there is another class of letters, <p, ^, it and f, 
 of which the pronunciation is accompanied by great expenditure 
 of wind j these are used in the imitation of such notions as ^vxpov 
 (shivering), ^eov (seething), a-fUadai (to be shaken), o-etir/iids (shock), 
 and are generally introduced by the imposer of names when he 
 wants to imitate what is windy. He seems also to have thought 
 that the closing and pressure of the tongue in the utterance of 
 8 and r had a notion of binding and rest in a place : he further 
 observed the limpid movement of A, in the pronunciation of whicH 
 the tongue slips, and in this he found the expression of smooth- 
 ness, as in A.610S (level), and in the word oXia-ddveiv (to slip) itself, 
 Mirapov (sleek), KoXX&bes (gluey), and the like ; the heavier sound 
 of y detained the slipping tongue, and in the union of the two 
 found the expression of a glutinous clammy nature, as in ykurxphs, 
 yXvKvs, yXoiufijjs. The v he observed to be sounded from within, 
 and therefore to have a notion of inwardness ; this he gave to 
 evbov and hros : a he assigned to the expression of size, and rj of 
 length, because they are great letters : was the sign of round- 
 ness, and therefore there is plenty of o mixed up in the word 
 yoyyvXov (round). Thus did the legislator, impressing signs and 
 names on things in letters and syllables, and out of these com- 
 pounding others also by imitation. That is my view, Hermo- 
 genes, of the correctness of names ; but I should like to hear what 
 Cratylus has more to say. i| 
 
 Her. But, Socrates, as I was telling you before, Cratylus mysti- 
 fies me ; he says that there is a fitness of names, but he never 
 explains what this fitness is, so that I cannot tell whether his 
 obscurity is intended or not. Tell me now, Cratylus, here in ' 
 the presence of Socrates, do you agree in what Socrates has 
 been saying about names, or have you something better of your 
 own ? and if you have, tell me what your view is, and then you ■ 
 will either learn of Socrates, or Socrates and I will learn of 
 you. 
 
 Crat. Well, but surely, Hermogenes, you do not suppose that 
 you can learn, or I explain, any subject of importance all in a 
 
CRATYLUS,. 701 
 
 moment • at any rate, not such a subject as language, which . is, 
 
 ' -, perhaps, the very greatest of all. * 
 
 (28 Her. No, indeed ; but, as Hesiod says, and I agree with him, 
 'to add little to little' is worth while. And, therefore, if you 
 
 I think that you can do any good at all, however small, take a little 
 trouble and oblige Socrates, and me too, who certainly have a 
 
 1 -' claim upon you. 
 
 Soc. I am by no means positive, Cratylus, in the view which 
 
 • f l^lermogenes and myself have worked out, and therefore I should 
 like to hear yours, which I dare say is far better, and which, if 
 better, I shall gladly receive. For you have evidently reflected on 
 these matters, and had teachers, and if you have really a better 
 theory of the truth of names, you may add me to the nurnber of 
 your disciples. 
 
 Crat. You are right, Socrates, in saying that 1 have attended to 
 these matters, and not impossibly I might turn you into a disciple. 
 But I fear that the reverse is the more probable, for, as I remem- 
 ber, Achilles in the ' Prayers' says to Ajax, — 
 
 ' Illustrious Ajax, son of Telanion, king of men, 
 You appear to have spoken in all things much to my mind.' 
 
 And you, Socrates, appear to me to be an oracle, and to give 
 answers much to my mind, whether you are inspired by Euthyphro, 
 or whether some Muse may have long been an inhabitant of your 
 breast, unconsciously to yourself. 
 
 Soc, Excellent Cratylus, I marvel at my own wisdom, and am 
 incredulous. And I think that I ought to reconsider what I am 
 saying, 'for there is nothing worse than self-deception — when the 
 deceiver is always at home and always with you — that is, indeed, 
 terrible, and therefore I ought often to retrace my steps and en- 
 ■ deavour to ' look fore and aft,' as the aforesaid Homer says. Have 
 we not been saying that the true name indicates the nature of the 
 thing: — Is that acknowledged ? „ 
 
 Crat. Yes, Socrates, that is quite true, as I am disposed to 
 think. 
 
 Sac. Names, then, are given in order to instruct ? 
 ' Crat. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And naming is an art, and has artificers ? 
 i :.. .Crat. YeSj . 
 
 
702 CRA TYL US. 
 
 Soc. And who are they ? 
 
 Crat. The legislators, of whom you spoke at first. 42 
 
 Soc. And does this art grow up among men like other arts ? Let 
 me explain what I mean : Of painters, some are better and' istape 
 worse ? ' "^■^ 
 
 Crat. Yes. ''" ' '* 
 
 Soc. The better painters execute their works, I mean their 
 figures, better, and the worse execute them worse ; and of builders 
 also, the better sort build fairer houses, and the worse build theni 
 worse. 
 
 Crat. True. 
 
 Soc. And among legislators, there are some who do their "work 
 better and some worse ? 
 
 Crat, No, I do not agree with you in thinking that. 
 
 Soc. Then you do not think that some laws are better and others 
 worse ? 
 
 Crat. Noj indeed. 
 
 Soc. Or that one name is better than another ? 
 
 Crat. Certainly not. 
 
 Sod Then all names are rightly imposed ? 
 
 Crat. Yes, if they are names at all. 
 
 Soc. Well, what do you say to the name of our friend Hermo.. 
 genes, which was mentioned before : — assuming that he has 
 nothing of the nature of Hermes in him, shall we Say that this is 
 not his name or a wrong name ? 
 
 Crat. I should reply that this name is not his, but only appears 
 to be his, and is really that of somebody else, who has the nature 
 which the- name indicates. 
 
 Soc. And if a man were to call him Hermogenes, would he not 
 be even speaking falsely ? For there may be a doubt whether you 
 can call him Hermogenes, if he is not. 
 
 Crat. What do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. Ate you maintaining that falsehood is impossible ? For to 
 that I should answer, that there have been plenty of liars in all 
 ages. 
 
 Crat. Why, Socrates, how can a man say that which is not ? — 
 say something and yet say nothing? For is not, falsehood saying 
 the thing which is not ? 
 
 Soc. That, my friend, is an argument which is too subtle for me 
 
CRA TYL US. 703 
 
 at my age. But I should like to know whether you are one. of 
 . those philosophers who think that falseHbod may be spoken but 
 not said ? 
 
 Crat. Neither spoken nor said. 
 
 Soc. Nor uttered nor addressed. For example : If a personi, 
 saluting you as a stranger, were to take your hand and say: 'Hail, 
 -Athenian stranger, Hermogenes, son of Smicrion/— these words, 
 whether spoken, said, uttered, or addressed, would have no appli- 
 cation to you but only to our friend Hermogenes, or perhaps to 
 nobody at all ? 
 
 Crat. In my opinion, Socrates, the speaker would only be talking 
 nonsense. 
 
 Soc. Well, but that will be quite enough for me, if you will tdii 
 30 me whether the nonsense would be true or false, or partly true and 
 partly false : — that is all which I want to know. 
 
 Crat. I should say that the motion of his lips would be an 
 unmeaning sound like the noise of hammering at a. brazen pot. 
 
 Soc. But let us see, Cratylus, whether there may not be a middle 
 term between us, for you would admit that the name is not the 
 same as the thing named ? 
 
 Crat. I should. 
 \ Soc. And would you further acknowledge that the name is an 
 imitation of the thing ? 
 
 Crat. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And you would say that pictures are also imitations of 
 things, but in another way ? 
 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. I dare say that you may be right, and that I do not rightly 
 :' understand you. Please to say, then, whether both sorts of imita- 
 tion (I mean both pictures or words) are not equally attributable 
 and applicable to the things imitated. 
 
 Crat. They are. 
 
 Soc. First look at the matter thus : you may attribute the like- 
 ness of the man to the man, and of the woman to the woman ; 
 and so of anything ? 
 
 Crat. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And conversely you may attribute the likeness of the man 
 to the woman, and of the woman to the man ? 
 
 Crat. That is true. 
 
704 CRA TYL US. ] 
 
 Soc. And are both modes of assigning them right, or only the 
 first? 
 
 Crat. Only the first. "i 
 
 Soc. That is to say, the mode of assignment which attributes to 
 each that which belongs to them and is like them? 
 
 Crat. That is my view, 
 
 Soc. Now then, as I am desirous that we being friends should 
 have a good understanding about the argument, let me state my 
 view to you : the first mode of assignment, whether applied to 
 figures or to names, I call right, and when applied to names only, 
 true as well as right ; and the other mode of giving and assigning 
 the name which is unlike, I call wrong, and in the case of names, 
 false as well as wrong. 
 
 . Crat. That may be true, Socrates, in the case of pictures ; they 
 may be wi;ongly assigned ; but not in the case of names — they 
 must be always right. 
 
 Soc. Why, what is the difference ? May 1 not go to a man and 
 say to him, ' This is your picture,' showing him his own likenesSj 
 or perhaps the likeness of a woman ; and when I say ' show," I 
 mean bring before the sense of sight ? 
 
 Crat. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And may I not go to him again, and say, ' This is your 
 name?' Now the name, like the picture, is an imitation; and 
 what I mean is, that I may say to him — ' This is your name ;' and 4; 
 then I may bring to his sense of hearing the imitation, and say, 
 ' This is a man -^ or of a female of the human species, and say, 
 ' This is a woman,' as the case may be. Is not all that quite -. 
 possible ? 
 
 Crat. I do not wish to say anything against that. 
 
 Soc. That is very good of you, if I am right, which need hardly 
 be disputed at present. But if I can assign names as well as 
 pictures to objects, the right assignment of them may be said to 
 be truth, and the wrong assignment of them falsehood. Now if 
 there be such a wrong assignment of names, there may also be a 
 wrong or inappropriate assignment of verbs ; and if of names and 
 verbs then of sentences, for I suppose that they must be made up 
 X)f them. -What do you say to that, Cratylus ? 
 
 Crat. I agree ; and think that what you say is very good. 
 
 Soc. And further admitting that primitive nouns may be com- 
 
CRATYLUS. 705 
 
 pared to pictures, then as in pictures you may give all the appro- 
 priate colours and figures, or you may nit give them all — some 
 may be wanting ; or too many or too much may be added ? Is not 
 that true ? 
 
 Crat. Yes ; that is true. 
 
 Soc. And he who gives all gives a perfect -picture or figure; and 
 he who takes away or adds also gives a picture or figure, but not a 
 good one ? 
 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And upon the same principle, he who by syllables and 
 letters imitates the nature of things, if he gives all that is appro- 
 priate will produce a good image, or in other words a name j but 
 if he subtracts or perhaps adds a little, the image which he makes 
 will not be a good one; whence I infer that some names are well 
 and others ill made ? 
 
 Crat, That is true. 
 
 Soc. Then the artist of names may be sometimes good, or he 
 may be bad j — ^that is also true ? 
 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And this artist of names is called the legislator ? 
 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then like other artists the legislator may be good or he 
 may be bad: there can be no mistake about that, assuming our 
 previous admission ? 
 
 Crat. That is true, Socrates; but you see that the case of 
 language is di£Ferent; when by the help of grammar we assign 
 2 the letters a or ^, or any other letters to a certain name, then, if 
 we add, or subtract, or misplace a letter, the name which is 
 written is not only written wrongly, but not written at all ; and 
 in case of any of these accidents happening, becomes other than 
 a name. 
 j Soc. But that view may not be entirely correct, Cratylus. 
 
 Crat. How do you mean ? 
 
 Soc. I believe that what you say may be true about multiplications 
 of number, which must be just what they are, or not be at all; for 
 example, the number ten at once becomes other than ten if a unit 
 be added or subtracted, and this is true of any other number: but 
 I hardly think that the truth of qualitative existence, or of images 
 at all, is of this nature ; I should say rather that the image, if 
 
 VOL. I. 2, z 
 
7o6 CRATYLUS. 
 
 expressing in every point the entire reality, would no longer be 
 an image. Let us suppose the existence of two objects : one of 
 them shall be Cratylus, and the other the image of Cratylus ; and 
 we will suppose, further, that some God makes not only a reprcr 
 sentation such as a painter would make of your outward form 
 and colour, but also creates an inward nature like yours, having 
 the same warmth and flexure j and infuses into this a motion, and 
 soul, and mind, such as that with which you are endued, and in a 
 word copies all your qualities, and places them by you in another 
 form J would you say that this was Cratylus, and the image of 
 Cratylus, or that there were two Cratyluses ? 
 
 Crat. I should say that there were two Cratyluses. 
 
 Soc. Then you see, my friend, that we must find some other 
 principle of correctness in images, and also in names; and not 
 insist that an image is no longer an image in which something is 
 added or subtracted. Do you not perceive that images are very 
 far from having qualities which are the exact counterpart of the 
 realities which they represent ? 
 
 Crat. Yes, I see that. 
 
 Soc. But, then, how ridiculous would be the effect of names on 
 things, if they were exactly the same with them ! For they would 
 be the doubles of them, and no one would be able to determine 
 which are the names and which are the realities. 
 
 Crat. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Then fear not, but have the courage to admit that one 
 name may be correctly and another incorrectly given; and do 
 not insist that the name shall be exactly the same as the res 
 Ipsa ; but allow the occasional assignation of a wrong letter, and 
 if of a letter also of a noun in a sentence, and if of a noun also 
 of a sentence in a sentence which is not appropriate to the 
 matter, and acknowledge that the thing may be named, and de- 
 scribed, so long as the general character of the thing spoken of is 
 retained ; and this, as you will remember, was remarked by Her- 
 mogenes and myself in the particular instance of the names of 433 
 the letters. 
 
 Crat. Yes, I remember. 
 
 Soc. Good; and when this character is preserved, even if some 
 of the proper letters are wanting, still the thing is signified; — 
 well, if all the letters are given ; not well, when only a few of " 
 
CRATYLUS. 707 
 
 them are given, I think that we had better admit this, or truth 
 will say, ' Too late ' to us as to the belSted traveller in Aegina, 
 and at things we shall never arrive ; or if not, you must find out 
 some new notion of correctness of names, and no longer maintain 
 that a name is the expression of a thing in letters or syllables j 
 for if you say both, you will be inconsistent with yourself. 
 
 Crat. I quite acknowledge, Socrates, the truth of what you say, 
 which is very reasonable. 
 
 Soc. Then as we are agreed thus far, let us ask ourselves 
 whether the name to be good ought not to have the proper letters? 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the proper letters are those which are like the things ? 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Enough then of names which are rightly given. And in 
 names which are incorrectly given, the greater part may be sup- 
 posed to be made up of proper and similar letters, or there would 
 be no likeness J but there is likewise a part which is improper, 
 and spoils the formation of the word : you would admit that ? 
 
 Crat. There would be no use^ Socrates, in my fighting about 
 that, as I cannot be satisfied that a name which is incorrectly 
 given is a name at all. 
 I Soc. Do you admit that a name is the representation of a thing ? 
 I Crat. Certainly. 
 
 I Soc. And do you not allow that some nouns are primitive, and 
 [ some derived? 
 I Crat. Yes, I do. 
 
 Soc. Then if you admit that primitive or first nouns are repre- 
 sentations of things, is there any better way of framing repre- 
 sentations than by assimilating them to the objects as much as 
 you can ^ or do you prefer the notion of Hermogenes and of many 
 others who say that names are conventional, and have a meaning 
 to those who have agreed about them, and who have previous 
 \ knowledge of the things intended by them, and that convention is 
 . the only principle; and whether you abide by our present con- 
 vention, or make a new and opposite one, according to which you 
 call small great and great small— that, as they say, makes no 
 difference, if you are only agreed : Which of these two notions 
 do you prefer ? 
 54 Crat. There is the most utter and entire difference, Socrates, 
 
 2, z 3 
 
7o8 CRA TYL US. 
 
 between representation by likeness, and representation by any 
 chance sign. 
 
 Soc. Very good: but if the name is to be like the thing, the 
 letters out of which the first names are composed must also be like 
 things. Returning to the image of the picture, I would ask. How 
 could any one ever compose a picture which would be like any- 
 thing at all, if there were not pigments in nature which resembled 
 the things imitated, and out of which the picture is composed ? 
 
 Crat. Impossible. 
 
 Soc. No more could names ever resemble any actually existing 
 thing, unless the original elements of which they are compounded 
 bore a resemblance to the objects of which the names are the 
 imitation : And the original elements are letters ? 
 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Let me now invite you to consider what Hermogenes and I 
 were saying about sounds. Do you agree with me that the letter 
 p is expressive of motion and hardness ? Were we right or wrong 
 in saying that ? 
 
 Crat. I should say that you were right. 
 
 Soc And that \ was expressive of smoothness, and softness, land 
 the like ? 
 
 Crat. Right in that too. 
 
 Soc. And yetj as you are aware, that which is called by us 
 (TKkripoTrjs, is by the Eretrians called (yitX-rjpoTrip. 
 
 Crat, Very true. 
 
 Soc. But are the letters p and <r equivalents j and is there the 
 same significance to them in the termination p, which there is to 
 us in (T, or is there no significance to one of us ? 
 
 Crat. I should say that there is a significance to both of us. 
 
 Soc. In as far as they are like, or in as far as they are unlike ? 
 
 Crat. In as far as they are like. 
 
 Soc. Are they altogether alike ? 
 
 Crat. Yes j for the purpose of expressing motion. 
 
 Soc. And what do you say of the insertion of the \ ? for that is 
 expressive not of hardness but of softness. 
 
 Crat. Why, perhaps that is wrongly inserted, Socrates, and 
 should be altered into p, as you were saying to Hermogenes, and 
 in my opinion rightly, when you spoke of adding and subtracting 
 letters upon occasion. 
 
I CM A TYL US. 709 
 
 f Soc. Good. But still the word is intelligible to both of usj 
 when I say a-KXrjpos, you know what I meftn. 
 
 Crat. Yes, my dear friend, and the explanation of that is custom. 
 
 Soc. And what is custom but convention ? I utter a sound which 
 has a meaning to me, and you know the meaning which this sound 
 35 has to me j that is what you are maintaining ? 
 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. But if when I speak you know my meaning, that is an 
 indication given by me to you ? 
 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And yet this indication of my meaning may proceed not 
 6nly from like, but from unlike, as in the instance of the X in 
 a-KK-qpoTTji. But if this is true, then you have made a convention 
 with yourself, and the correctness of a name turns out to be 
 convention, since letters which are unlike are indicative equally 
 with those which are like, if they are sanctioned by custom and 
 convention. And even supposing that you distinguish custom 
 from convention ever so much, still you must say that custom 
 and not likeness is the mode of indication, for custom may indi- 
 cate by the unlike as well as by the like. But as we are agreed 
 about this, Cratylus (for I shall assume that your silence gives 
 consent), then custom and convention must be supposed to con- 
 tribute to the indication of our thoughts j for suppose we take 
 the instance of number, how can you ever imagine, my good 
 friend, that you will find names for all the numbers, unless you 
 allow that which you term convention and agreement to be in 
 some way concerned with the correctness of names ? I quite agree 
 with you that words should as far as possible imitate things, but 
 this influence of imitation, as Hermogenes says, is but a mean 
 thing J and convention, which is a commonplace appliance, has to 
 be superadded with a view to the attainment of correctness in 
 names ; for I believe that if we could always, or almost always, 
 use likenesses, which are the appropriate expressions, that would 
 be the most perfect state of language ; as the opposite of this is 
 the most imperfect. But let me ask you, what is the force of 
 names, and what is the use of them ? 
 
 Crat. The use of names, Socrates, as I should imagine, is to 
 inform r the simple truth is, that he who knows names knows also 
 the things which are expressed by them. 
 
710 CRATYLUS. 
 
 Soc. I suppose you mean to say, Cratylus, that as the name is, 
 so is also the thing; and that he who knows the one will also 
 know the other, because they are similars, and there is one and 
 the same art or science of similars ; and therefore you would say, 
 that he who knows names will also know things. 
 
 Crat. That is exactly what I mean. 
 
 Soc. But let us consider what is the nature of this information 
 about things which, according to you, is given us by names? Is 
 this the best sort of information ? or is there any other ? What do 436 
 you say ? 
 
 Crat. I believe that this is the only and the best sort of in- 
 formation about them, and that there can be no other. 
 
 Soc. But do you believe that this is the mode of discovering 
 them? — that he who discovers the names discovers also the 
 things; or is there one mode of enquiry and discovery, and of 
 instruction another ? 
 
 Crat. I certainly believe that there is one method of enquiry and 
 discovery, and also of instruction. 
 
 Soc. Well, but do you not see, Cratylus, that he who follows 
 names in the search after things, and analyzes their meaning, is in 
 great danger of being deceived ? 
 
 Crat. How is that ? 
 • Soc. Why clearly he who first gave names gave them according 
 to his conception of the things which liiey signified — you would 
 allow that ? 
 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And if Ms conception was erroneous, and he gave names 
 according to his conception, what' will be the situation of us who 
 follow him ? Shall we not be deceived by him ? 
 
 Crat. But, Socrates, am I not right in thinking that he must 
 surely have known ; or else, as I was saying, his names would not 
 be names at all ? And you have a clear proof that he has not 
 missed the truth, which is this — ^that he is perfectly consistent: 
 did you ever observe in speaking that all words have the same 
 laws, and all point the same way? "j 
 
 Soc. But that, friend Cratylus, is no defence of him. For if he 
 did begin in error, he may have forced the remainder into agree- 
 ment with the original error and with himself; there would be 
 nothing strange in this, any more than in geometrical diagrams. 
 
 -'li 
 
CRATYLUS. 711 
 
 which often have a slight and invisible flaw in the first part of 
 the process, and are consistently mistakdn in the long deductions 
 
 ' which follow. And this is the reason why every man should 
 
 I expend his chief thought and attention on the consideration of 
 
 his first principles : — are they or are they not rightly laid down ? 
 
 • and when he has sifted them all the rest will follow. But I should 
 
 be astonished to find that names are really consistent. And here 
 
 let us revert to our former discussion : Were we not saying that 
 
 '1 all things are in motion, and progress, and flux, and that this idea 
 of motion is expressed by names ? Do you not conceive that to be 
 the meaning of them ? 
 
 Crat. Yes ; that is their meaning, and the true meaning. 
 
 437 Soc. Let us revert to Iototij/xtj, and observe how ambiguous this 
 word is, seeming rather to signify the stopping of the soul at 
 
 '^ things than the going round with them ; and therefore we should 
 rather leave the beginning as at present, and not reject the e 
 (cp. p. 41a), but make an insertion of an i instead of an e (not 
 moTTjfijj, but lita<rrr\\Ly\). Take another example : fii^aiov is clearly 
 the expression of station and position, and not of motion. Again, 
 the word laTopCa bears upon the face of it the stopping of the 
 stream ; and the word ■ntarbv^ certainly indicates cessation of 
 motion; then, again, jou^/xjj (memory), as any one may see, ex- 
 presses rest in the soul, and not motion. Moreover, words such 
 as afiaprCa and (rviJ.cf)opa, which have a bad sense viewed in the 
 light of their etymologies, will be the same as wuvecns and iTiurT7JiJi.r] 
 and other words which have a good sense (comp. onapreiv, awiivai, 
 ^■ne(T6ai, (rvii^epeaBaC) ; and much the same may be said of ap.a0la 
 and aKokazLo, for ap.a6la may be explained as rj &ti,a 6e£ Iovtos 
 iropeCa, and aKoka(T(a as ^ uKoXovBCa tois ■apdyp.ainv. Thus, the 
 names which, as we imagine, have the worst sense, will turn out 
 to be like those which have the best. And I have no doubt that, 
 if you were to take the trouble, you might find many other exam- 
 ples which would lead to the inference that the giver of names 
 meant to imply, not that things were in motion or progress, but 
 that they were at rest, which is the opposite of motion. 
 
 I Crat. Yes, Socrates; but observe that the greater number of 
 
 ' words express motion. 
 
 Soc. What of that, Cratylus ? Are we to count them like votes, 
 and is corre^ness of names the voice of the majority ? Are we to 
 
712 CRATYLUS. 
 
 say that of whichever sort there are most, those are to be the true 
 ones? 
 
 Crat. No ; that is not reasonable. 
 
 Soc. Certainly not. Let us, then, have done with this, and pro- 
 ceed to another question about which I should like to know 
 whether you agree with me. Were we not lately acknowledging • 
 that the first givers of names in states, both Hellenic and bar- 
 barous, were the legislators, and that the art which gave names 
 was the art of the legislator ? 
 
 Crat. Quite true. 
 
 Soc. Tell me, then, did the first legislators, who were the givers" 
 of the first names, know or not know the things which they 
 named ? 
 
 Crat. I imagine, Socrates, that they must have known. 
 
 Soc. Why, yes, friend Cratylus, they could hardly have been 43 
 ignorant. 
 
 Crat. I should say not. 
 
 Soc. Let us return to the point from which we digressed. You 
 were saying, if you remember, that he who gave names must have 
 known the things which he named j are you still of that opinion ? 
 
 Crat. That I am. 
 
 Soc. And would you say that the giver of the first names had 
 also a knowledge of the things which he named ? 
 
 Crat. I should. 
 
 Soc. But how could he have learned or discovered things from 
 names if the primitive names were not yet given ? And yet we 
 maintain that the only wayof learning or discovering things, is either 
 by learning their names of others or discovering them ourselves. 
 
 Crat. I think that there is a good deal in that, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. But if things are only to be known through names, how can 
 we suppose that the givers of names had knowledge, or were 
 legislators before there were names at all, and therefore before 
 they could have known them ? 
 
 Crat. I believe, Socrates, the true account of the matter to be, 
 that a power more than human gave things their first names, and 
 that the names which were thus given are necessarily their true 
 names. 
 
 Soc. Then how came the giver of the names, if he was an in- 
 spired being or God, to contradict himself, as he would have done 
 
CRATYLUS. 713 
 
 if, as we were saying, he made some naqjes expressive of rest and 
 others of motion? Or do you think that we were mistaken in 
 saying this ? 
 
 Crat. But I do not suppose that he did make both of them. 
 
 Soc. And which, then, did he make, my good friend j those which 
 are expressive of rest, or those which are expressive of motion ? 
 That is a point which, as I said before, cannot be determined by 
 counting them. 
 
 Crat, No ; that ought not to be the way, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. But if this is a battle of names, and some of them are 
 asserting that they are like the truth, and others that they are, how 
 or by what criterion are we to decide between them ? For there 
 are no other names to which appeal can be made, but obviously 
 recourse must be had to another standard which, without employ- 
 ing names, will make clear which of the two are right ; and this, 
 as is obvious, is a standard which shows the truth of things. 
 
 Crat. I agree. 
 
 Soc. But if that is true, Cratylusv then I suppose that things may 
 be known without names ? 
 
 Crat. That is manifest. 
 
 Soc. But how would you expect to know them? What other 
 way can there be of knowing them, except, the true and natural 
 way, through their affinities, when they are akin to each other, and 
 through themselves ? For that which is other and different from 
 them must signify something other and different from them. 
 
 Crat. That, as I think, is true. 
 ♦39 Soc. Well, but reflect; have we not several times acknowledged 
 that names rightly given are the likenesses and images of the 
 things which they name ? 
 
 Crat. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then, if you can learn things in either of two ways — either 
 through the medium of names, and that ever so well, or through 
 the things themselves— which is likely to be the nobler and clearer 
 way; to learn of the image of truth whether the image is fairly 
 imitated and to know the truth which is expressed in the image, 
 or of the truth to learn the very truth, and to know whether the 
 image is rightly executed ? 
 
 Crat. Of the truth, I should say that we certainly ought to learn. 
 
 Soc. How true being is to be studied or discovered is, I suspect, 
 VOL. T — ^ A 
 
714 CRATYLUS. 
 
 beyond you and me to determine; and we may be content to 
 admit that the knowledge of things is not to be derived froa? 
 names. No; they must be studied and investigated in them- 
 selves, and not from names. 
 Crat. That is evident, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Still there is another point. I should not like us to be 
 imposed upon by the appearance of a number of names, all tending 
 in the same direction. I do not deny that the givers of names 
 did really give them under the idea that all things were in motion - 
 and flux; which was their sincere but, as I think, mistaken 
 opinion. And having fallen into a kind of whirlpool themselves^ 
 they are carried round, and want to drag us in after them. There 
 is a matter, master Cratylus, about which I often dream, and 
 should like to ask your opinion : Tell me, whether there is or is 
 not any absolute beauty or good, or any other absolute existence ? 
 
 Crat. Certainly, Socrates, I think that there is. 
 
 Soc. Then let us seek the true beauty: not asking whether a 
 "face is fair, or anything of that sort, or whether all this is in 
 a flux; but let us ask whether the true beauty is not always 
 beautiful. 
 
 Crat. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And can we rightly speak of a beauty which is always 
 passing away, and is first this and then that ; must not the same 
 thing be born and retire and vanish while the word is in our 
 mouths ? 
 
 Crat. Undoubtedly. 
 
 Soc. Then how can that be a real thing which is never in the 
 same state? for obviously things which are the same cannot 
 change while they remain the same ; and if they are always in the 
 same state and the same, then, without losing their original form, 
 they can never change or be moved. 
 
 Crat, Certainly they cannot. 
 
 Soc. Nor yet can they be known by any one ; for at the moment 44© 
 that the observer approaches, then they become other and of 
 another nature, so that you cannot get any further in knowing 
 their nature or state, for you cannot know that which has no 
 state. 
 
 Crat. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Nor can we reasonably say, Cratylus, that there is know- 
 
CRATYLUS. 715 
 
 ;e at all, if everything is in a state of tryisition and there is 
 fthing abiding; for if knowledge did not change or cease to be 
 
 Powledge, then knowledge would ever abide and exist. But if 
 'the very nature of knowledge changes, at the time when the 
 change occurs, there will be no knowledge ; and if the transition 
 is always going on, there will always be no knowledge, and, 
 pcording to this view, there will be no one to know and nothing 
 to be known: but if that which knows and that which is known 
 exists ever, and the beautiful and the good and every other thing 
 also exist, then I do not think that they can be like a flux or 
 progress, as we were just now supposing. Whether there is this 
 eternal nature in things, or whether the truth is what Heraclitus 
 and his followers and many others say, is a question hard to de- 
 termine; and no man of sense will like to put himself or the 
 education of his mind in the power of names ; neither will he so 
 for trust names or the givers of names as to be confident in any 
 feiowledge which condemns himself and other existences to an 
 unhealthy state of unreality ; he will not believe that everything 
 is in a flux like leaky vessels, or that the world is a sick man who 
 has a running at the nose. This doctrine, Gratylus, may indeed, 
 perhaps, be true, but is also very likely to be untrue ; and therefore 
 I would have you reflect well and manfully, and not allow yourself 
 to be too easily persuaded now in the days of your youth, which is 
 the time of learning ; but search, and when you have found the 
 truth, come and tell me. 
 
 Crat. I will do as you say, though I can assure you, Socrates, 
 that I have been considering the matter already, and the result of 
 a great deal of trouble and consideration is that I incline to 
 Heraclitus. 
 
 Soc. Then, another day, my friend, when you come back, you 
 shall give me a lesson ; but at present, go into the country, as you 
 are intending, and Hermogenes shall set you on your way. 
 
 Crat. Very good, Socrates ; and I hope that you will not cease to 
 think about these things yourself.