nk- Mu. The person charging this material is re¬ sponsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 SELECT DIALOGUES OF PLATO. A NEW AND LITERAL VERSION, CHIEFLY FROM THE TEXT OF STALLBAUM. By IIENEY OAKY, M.A., WORCESTER COLLEGE, OXFORD. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 18 7 9 . HARPER’S NEW CLASSICAL LIBEARY. COMPRISING LITERAL TRANSLATIONS OF CJ2SAR. VIRGIL. SALLUST. HORACE. TERENCE. TACITUS. 2 Vols. LIVY. 2 Vols. . CICERO’S ORATIONS. CICERO’S OFFICES, LjELIUS, CATO MAJOR, PARADOXES, SCIPIO’S DREAM, LETTER TO QUINTUS. CICERO ON ORATORY AND ORATORS. PLATO (SELECT CICERO’S TUSCULAN DISPUTA. TIONS, THE NATURE OF THE GODS, AND THE COMMON. WEALTH. JUVENAL. XENOPHON. HOMER’S ILIAD. HOMER’S ODYSSEY. HERODOTUS. DEMOSTHENES. 2 Vols. THUCYDIDES. jESCHYLUS. SOPHOCLES. EURIPIDES. 2 Vols. DIALOGUES). 12mo, Cloth, $1 50 per Volume. fW Harpbr & Brothers will tend either of the above work i by mail, pottage prepaid, to any pari of the United State) or Canada, on receipt of the price. TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE. >• 9 $ 9 2 ' > £ n 3 The only version of the entire works of Plato which has appeared in the English language is that published by Taylor, in which nine of the dialogues previously translated by Floyer Sydenham are introduced. Tay¬ lor’s portion of the work is far from correct, and be¬ trays an imperfect knowledge of Gfreek: that by Syd¬ enham is much better, and evidently the work of a scholar; but in many instances, and those chiefly where difficulties present themselves, he obscures his author’s meaning by too great amplification. Translations of several detached dialogues have appeared at various times; but of those which have fallen into my hands none appear to me deserving of notice, with the ex¬ ception „ little volume containing the “Phcedrus,” 11 Lysis,” and “Protagoras,” by Mr. J. Wright, of Trin¬ ity College, Cambridge, the production of a promising scholar. In the volume now offered to the public, I have en¬ deavored to keep as closely to the original as the idioms of the two languages would allow. In the introduction to each dialogue I have con¬ tented myself with giving a brief outline of the argu¬ ments ; sufficient, I trust, to enable a reader not famil- a: E 4 PREFACE. iar witli tlie rigid dialectics of Plato to follow the chain of his reasoning, and catch the points at which he so frequently diverges from, and again returns to, the main subject of each dialogue. The editions which have been made use of are those of Bekker, Ast, and Stallbaum, though, with very few exceptions, the readings of the latter have been adopted. The division into sections, according to the London edition of Bekker, has been retained, because the ar¬ rangement is convenient, and it is believed that that edition is more generally to be met with in this country than any other. H. C. f CONTENTS. PAGE INTRODUCTION TO THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES.. . 7 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES... 9 r Introduction to the Crito. 88 CRITO; OR, THE DUTY OF A CITIZEN. 40 Introduction to the Phjedo. 56 PHiEDO; OR, THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 65 Y? \ Introduction to the Gorgias..144 GORGIAS; OR, ON RHETORIC. 153 Introduction to the Protagoras. 256 PROTAGORAS; OR, THE SOPHISTS. 261 Introduction to the Ph^edrus. 323 PHiEDRUS; OR, ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 330 Introduction to the The^etetus. 394 THEHETETUS; OR, ON SCIENCE. 404 Introduction to the Euthyphron. 497 EUTHYPHRON; OR, ON HOLINESS..499 Introduction to the Lysis. 519 LYSIS; OR, ON FRIENDSHIP. 504 •s INTRODUCTION TO THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. Two char ges were brought against Socrates—one, that he did not believe in the gods received by the state: the other, tha t he cor rupted the Athenian vonth by teaching t hem not to believ e. " 1 lato, who was present at the trial, probably gives us the very arguments employed by the accused on that oc¬ casion. Socrates disdained to have recourse to the usual methods adopted by the popular orators of the day to . secure an acquittal; and, having devoted his whole life to the search after and the inculcation of religious, philo¬ sophical, and moral truth, resolved to bear himself in this extremity in a manner consistent with his established chaiactei, and to take his stand on his own integrity and innocence, utterly uninfluenced by that imaginary evil, death. From this cause it is that his defense is so little artificial. In his discussions with others, on whatever subject, it was his constant habit to keep his opponents to the question before them, and he would never suffer them to evade it, but, by a connected series of the most subtle questions or arguments, compelled them to retract any erroneous opinion they might have advanced: whereas, in defending himself, he never once fairly grapples with 8 INTRODUCTION. either of the charges brought against him. With regard to the first accusation, that he did not believe in the es¬ tablished religion, he neither confesses nor denies it, but shows that he had in some instances conformed to the religious customs of his country, and that he did believe in God, so much so indeed that, even if they would acquit him on condition of his abandoning his practice of teach¬ ing others, he could not consent to such terms, but must * O y persevere in fulfilling the mission on which the Deity had sent him, for that he feared God rather than man. With reference to the second charge, which he meets first, by his usual method of a brief but close cross-examination of his accuser Melitus, he brings him to this dilemma, that he must either charge him with corrupting the youth design¬ edly, which would be absurd, or with doing so undesign- edly, for which he could not be liable to punishment. The Defense itself properly ends with the twenty-fourth section. The second division to the twenty-ninth section relates only to the sentence which ought to be passed on him. And in the third and concluding part, with a dig¬ nity and fullness of hope worthy even of a Christian, lie expresses his belief that the death to which he is going is only a passage to a better and a happier life. THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. I know not, O Athenians ! how far you have been influ¬ enced by my accusers: for my part, in listening to them I almostfoigot myself, so plausible were their arguments! however, so to speak, they have said nothing true. But of the many falsehoods which they uttered I wondered at one of them especially, that in which they said that you ought to be on your guard lest you should be deceived by me, as being eloquent in speech. For that they are not ashamed of being forthwith convicted by me in fact, when I shall show that I am not by any means eloquent, this seemed to me the most shameless thing in them, unless indeed they call him eloquent who speaks the truth! For if they mean this, then I would allow that I am an orator’ but not after their fashion: for they, as I affirm, have said nothing true; but from me you shall hear the whole truth. Not indeed, Athenians, arguments highly wrought, as theirs were, with choice phrases and expressions, nor adorned; but you shall hear a speech uttered without premedita- Hon, in such words as first present themselves. For I am confident that what I say will be just, and let none of }ou expect otherwise; for surely it would not become my time of life to come before you like a youth with a got- up speech. Abo^ all tilings, therefore, I beg and implore this of you, O Athenians ! if you hear me defending myself in the same language as that in which I am accustomed to speak both in the forum at the counters, where many of you have heard me, and elsewhere, not to be surprised or disturbed on this account. For the case is this : I now for the first time come before a court of justice, though j * & * 10 the apology or socrates. more than seventy years old; I am therefore utterly a stranger to the language here. As, then, if I were really a stranger, you would have pardoned me if I spoke in the language and the manner in which I had been educated, so now”I ask this of you as an act of justice, as it appears to me, to disregard the manner of my speech, for perhaps it may be somewhat worse, and perhaps better, and to consider this only, and to give your attention to this, whether I speak what is just or not; for this is the virtue of a judge, but of an orator to speak the tiuth. 2. First, then, O Athenians ! I am right in defending my¬ self against the first false accusations alleged against me, and my first accusers, and then against the latest accusa¬ tions, and the latest accusers. For many have been ac¬ cusers of me to you, and for many years, who have asset t- ed nothing true, of whom I am more afraid than of Anytus and his party, although they too are formidable; but those are still more formidable, Athenians, who, laying hold of many of you from childhood, have persuaded you, and ac¬ cused me of what is not true: “ that there is one Socrates, a wise man, who occupies himself about celestial matteis, and has explored every thing under the earth, and makes the worse appear the better reason.” Those, O Athenians ! who have spread abroad this report are my formidable ac¬ cusers ; for they who hear them think that such as search into these things do not believe that there are gods. In the next place, these accusers are numerous, and have ac¬ cused me now for a long time ; moreover, they said these things to you at that time of life in which you were most credtilous, when you were boys and soine of you youths, and they accused me altogether in my absence, when there was no one to defend me. But the most unreasonable thing of all is, that it is not possible to learn and mention their names, except that one of them happens to be a comic poet. 1 Such, however, as, influenced by envy and calumny, have persuaded you, and those who, being themselves per¬ suaded, have persuaded others, all these are most difficult to deal with; for it is not possible to bring any of them forward here, nor to confute any; but it is altogether nec¬ essary to fight, as it were with a shadow, in making my 1 Aristophanes. THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. H defense, and to convict when there is no one to answer. Gonsidei, theiefoie, as X have said, that my accusers are twofold, some who have lately accused me, and others lono* since, whom I have made mention of.; and believe that I ought to defend myself against these first; for you heard them accusing me first, and much more than these last. Well. I must make my defense, then, O Athenians ! and endeavoi in this so short a space of time to remove from your minds the calumny which you have long entertained. I wish, indeed, it might be so, if it were at all better both ■*.9^ ) 011 ail d me, and that in making my defense I could effect something more advantageous still: I think, howev¬ er, that it will be difficult, and I am not entirely ignorant what the difficulty is. Nevertheless, let this turn out as may be pleasing to God, I must obey the law and make my defense. 3. Let us, then, repeat from the beginning what the ac¬ cusation is from which the calumny against me has arisen and relying on which Melitus has preferred this indict¬ ment against me. Well. What, then, do they who charge me say in their charge ? For it is necessary to read then- deposition as of public accusers. “ Socrates acts wickedly and is criminally curious in searching into things under the earth, and in the heavens, and in making the worse ap¬ pear the better cause, and in teaching these same things to others.” Such is the accusation: for such things you have yourselves seen in the comedy of Aristophanes, one Sociates there carried about, saying that he walks in the air, and acting many other buffooneries, of which I under¬ stand nothing whatever. Nor do I say this as dispar¬ aging such a science, if there be any one skilled in such things, only let mo not be prosecuted by Melitus on a charge of this kind ; but I say it, O Athenians ! because I have nothing to do with such matters. And I call upon most of you as witnesses of this, and require you to in¬ form and tell each other, as many of you as have ever heard me conversing; and there are many such amon^ you. Therefore tell .each other, if any one of you has ever heard me conversing little or much on such subjects. And from this you will know that other things also, which the multitude assert of me, are of a similar nature. - 12 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 4. However, not one of these things is true; nor, if you have heard from any one that I attempt to teach men, and require payment, is this true. Though this, indeed, ap¬ pears to me to be an honorable thing, if one should be able to instruct men, like Gorgias the Leontine, Prodicus the Cean, and Hippias the Elean. For each of these, O Athenians ! is able, by going through the several cities, to persuade the young men, who can attach themselves gra¬ tuitously to such of their own fellow-citizens as they please, to abandon their fellow-citizens and associate with them, giving them money and thanks besides. There is also another wise man here, a Parian, who, I hear, is stay¬ ing in the city. For I happened to visit a person who spends more money on the sophists than all others togeth¬ er: I mean Callias, son of Hipponicus. I therefore asked him, for he has two sons, “Callias,” I said, “if your two sons were colts or calves, we should have had to choose a master for them, and hire a person who would make them excel in such qualities as belong to their nature; and^hc would have been a groom or an agricultural laborer. But now, since your sons are men, what master do you intend to choose for them ? Who is there skilled in the quali¬ ties that become a man and a citizen ? For I suppose you must have considered this, since you have sons. Is there any one,” I said, “or not?” “Certainly,” he answered. “Who is he?” said I, “and whence does he come? and on what terms does he teach?” He replied, “Evenus the Parian, Socrates, for five minse.” And I deemed Evenus happy, if he really possesses this art, and teaches so admi¬ rably. And I too should think highly of myself, and be very proud, if I possessed this knowledge 5 but I possess it not, O Athenians ! .-no 5 . Perhaps, one of you may now object: “ but, Socra¬ tes, what have you done, then ? Whence have these cal¬ umnies against you arisen? For surely if you had not busied yourself more than others, such a report and story would never have got abroad, unless you had done some¬ thing different from what most men do. Tell us, there- forefwhat it is, that we may not pass a hasty judgment on you.” He who speaks thus appears to me to speak justly, and I will endeavor to show you what it is that THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 13 lias occasioned me this character and imputation. Listen then: to some of you perhaps I shall appear to jest, yet be assured that I shall tell you the whole truth. For I O Athenians! have acquired this character through nothin «• else than a certain wisdom. Of what kind, then, is this wisdom? Perhaps it is merely human wisdom. For in this, in truth, I appear to be wise. They probably, whom I just now mentioned, possessed a wisdom more than hu¬ man, otherwise I know not what to say about it; for I am not acquainted with it, and whosoever says I am, speaks falsely, and for the purpose of calumniating me. But, O Athenians! do not cry out against me, even though I should seem to you to speak somewhat arrogantly. °For the account which I am going to give you is not my own; but X shall 1 efei to an authority whom you will deem wor¬ thy of credit. For I shall adduce to you the god at Delphi as a witness of my wisdom, if I have any, and of what it is. 1 ou doubtless know Chserepho : he was my associate f i om \outh, and the associate of most of you; he accom¬ panied you in your late exile, and returned with you. You know, then, what kind of a man Chzerepho was, how ear¬ nest in whatever he undertook. Having once "one to Delphi, he ventured to make the following inquiry of the oracle (and, as I said, O Athenians ! do not cry out), for he asked if there was any one wiser than I. The Pythian thereupon answered that there was not one wiser; and of this his brother here will give you proofs, since he him¬ self is dead. C. Consider, then, why I mention these things: it is be¬ cause I am going to show you whence the calumny against me arose. For when I heard this, I reasoned thus with myself, What does the god mean? What enigma is this? 101 , not conscious to myself that I am wise, either mucn or little. What, then, does he mean by saying that 1 am the wisest? For assuredly he does not speak false¬ ly: that he can not do. And for a long time I was in doubt what he meant; afterward,‘with considerable diffi- cu ty ? X had igcouisg to the following method of SGarcliin 0 * out his meaning. I went to one of those‘who have the character of being wise, thinking that there, if anywhere, I should confute the oracle, and show in answer to the re- !4 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. % spouse that This man is wiser than I, though you affirmed that I was the wisest. Having, then, examined this man (for there is no occasion to mention his name; he was, how¬ ever, one of our great politicians, in examining whom I felt as I proceed to describe, O Athenians !), having fallen into conversation with him, this man appeared to me to be wise in the opinion of most other men, and especially in his own opinion, though in fact he was not so.. I there¬ upon endeavored to show him that he fancied himself to be wise, but really was not. Hence I became odious both to him, and to many others who were present. When I left him, I reasoned thus with myself: I am wiser than this man, for neither of us appears to know any thing great and good; but he fancies he knows something, although he knows nothing; whereas I, as I do not know any thing, so I do not fancy I do. In this trifling particular, then, I appear to be wiser than he, because I do not fancy I know what I do not know. After that I went to another who was thought to be wiser than the former, and formed the very same opinion. Hence I became odious to him and to many others. 1. After this I went to others in turn, perceiving indeed, and grieving and alarmed, that I was making myself odi¬ ous ;"however, it appeared necessary to regard the oracle of the god as of the greatest moment, and that, in order to discover its meaning, I must go to all who had the reputa¬ tion of possessing any knowledge. And by the dog, O Athenians l for I must tell you the truth, I came to some such conclusion as this : those who bore the highest repu¬ tation appeared to me to be most deficient, in my re¬ searches in obedience to the god, and others who were considered inferior more nearly approaching to the pos¬ session of understanding. But I must relate to you my wandering, and the labors which I underwent, in order that the oracle might prove incontrovertible. For after the politicians I went to the poets, as well the tragic as the dithyrambic and others, expecting that here I should in very fact find myself more ignorant than they. Taking up, therefore* some of their poems, which appeared to me most elaborately finished, I questioned them as to then- meaning, that at the same time I might learn something THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 15 from them. I am ashamed, O Athenians! to tell you the truth; however, it must be told. For, in a word, almost all who were present could have given a better account of them than those by whom they had been composed. I soon discovered this, therefore, with regard to the poets that they do not effect their object by wisdom, but by a certain natural inspiration, and under the influence of en¬ thusiasm, like prophets and seers ; for these also say many hue things, but they understand nothing that they* say I he poets appeared to me to be affected in a similar man¬ ner ; and at the same time I perceived that they consider¬ ed themselves on account of their poetry, to be the wisest o men in other things, in which they were not. I left ■ them, therefore, under the persuasion that I was superior to them, in the same way that I was to the politicians. 8. At last, therefore, I went to the artisans. For I was conscious to myself that I knew scarcely any thine but I was sure that I should find them possessed of much beau¬ tiful knowledge. And in this I was not deceived; for they knew things which I did not, and in this respect they were wiser than I. But, O Athenians ! even the best workmen appeared to me to have fallen into the same er¬ ror as the poets; for each, because he excelled in the prac¬ tice of his art, thought that he was very wise in other most important matters, and this mistake of theirs ob¬ scured the wisdom that they really possessed. I therefore asked myself, in behalf of the oracle, whether I should pre¬ fer to continue as I am, possessing none either of their wisdom or their ignorance, or to have both as they have. I answered, therefore, to myself and to the oracle, that it was better for me to continue as I am. -F' 1 orn this investigation, then, O Athenians ! many en- mities have arisen against me, and those the most griev¬ ous and severe, so that many calumnies have sprungfrom them,and among them this appellation of being wise; for those who are from time to time present think that I am vise in those things, with resppct to which I expose the ignoiance of others. -The god, however, O Athenians ! ap¬ pears to be really wise, and to mean this by his .oracle: that human wisdom is worth little or nothingand it is clear that he did not say this of Socrates, but made use of 16 the APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. my name, putting me forward as an example, as if he had said, that man is the wisest among you, who, like Socra¬ tes, knows that he is in reality worth nothing with respect to wisdom. Still, therefore, I go about and search and in¬ quire into these things, in obedience to the god, both among citizens and strangers, if I think any one of them is wise ; and when he appears to me not to be. so, I take the part of the god, and show that he is not wise. And, in consequence of this occupation, I have no leisuie. to at¬ tend in any considerable degree to the affairs of the state or my own ; but X am in the greatest poveity thiough my devotion to the service of the god. 10. In addition to this, young men, who have much lei¬ sure and belong to the wealthiest families, following me of their own accord, take great delight in hearing men put to the test, and often imitate me, and themselves attempt to put others to the test; and then, I think, they find a gieat abundance of men who fancy they know something, although they know little or nothing. Hence those who are put to the test by them are angry with me, and not with them, and say that “ there is one Socrates, a most pestilent fellow, who corrupts the youth.” And when any one asks them by doing or teaching what, they have nothing to say, for they doliot know; but, that they may not seem to be at a loss, they say such things as are ready at hand against all philosophers; “ that he searches into things in heaven and things under the earth, that he does not believe there are god?, and that he makes the worse appear the better rea¬ son.” For they would not, I think, be willing to tell the truth, that they have been detected in pretending to pos¬ sess knowledge, whereas they know nothing. Therefore, I think, being ambitious and vehement and numerous, and speaking systematically and persuasively about me, they have filled your ears, for a long time and diligently calum¬ niating me. From among these, Melitus, Anytus, and IjycorThave attacked me ; Melitus being angry on account of the poets, Anytus on account of the artisans and. politi¬ cians, and Lycon on account of the rhetoricians, feo that, as I said in the beginning, I should wonder, if I were able in so short a time to remove from your minds a calumny that has prevailed so long. This, O Athenians! is the THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 17 truth j and I speak it without concealing or disguising any thing from you, much or little; though I very well know that by so doing I shall expose myself to odium. This, however, is a proof that I speak the truth, and that this is the nature of the calumny against me, and that these are its causes. And if you will investigate the matter, either now or hereafter, you will find it to be so. 11. With respect, then, to the charges which my first accusers have alleged against me, let this be a sufticient apology to you. To Melitus, that good and patriotic man, as he says, and to my later accusers, I will next endeavor to give an answer; and here, again, as there are different accuseis, let us take up their deposition. It is pretty much as follows: “ Socrates,” it says, “acts unjustly in corrupt* ing the youth, and in not believing in those gods in whom the city believes, but in other strange divinities.” Such is the accusation; let us examine each particular of it. It says that I act unjustly in corrupting the youth. But I, O Athenians! say that Melitus acts unjustly, because he jests on serious subjects, rashly putting men upon trial, un¬ der pretense of being zealous and solicitous about things in which he never at any time took any concern. But that this is the case I will endeavor to prove to you. 12. Come, then, Melitus, tell me, do you not consider it of the greatest importance that the youth should be made as virtuous as possible ? Mel. I do. Socr. Well, now, tell the judges who it is that makes them better, for it is evident that you know, since it con¬ cerns you so much ; for, having detected me in corrupting them, as you say, you have cited me here, and accused me: come, then, say, and inform the judges who it is that makes them better. Do you see, Melitus, that you are silent, and have nothing to say ? But does it not appear to you to be disgraceful, and a sufficient proof of what I say, that you never took any concern about the matter ? But tell me, friend, who makes them better ? Mel. The laws. Socr. I do not ask this, most excellent sir, but what man, who surely must first know this very thing, the laws ? Mel. These, Socrates, the judges. 18 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. Socr. How say you, Melitus ? Are these able to in¬ struct the youth, and make them better ? Mel. Certainly. Socr. Whether all, or some of them, and others not ? Mel. All. Socr. You say well, by Juno! and have found a great abundance of those that confer benefit. But what further ? Can these hearers make them better, or not ? Mel. They, too, can. Socr. And. what of the senators ? Mel. The senators also. Socr. But, Melitus, do those who attend the public as¬ semblies corrupt the younger men ? or do they all make them better ? Mel. They too. Socr. All the Athenians, therefore, as it seems, make them honorable and good, except me; but I alone corrupt them. Do you say so ? Mel. I do assert this very thing. Socr. You charge me with great ill-fortune. But an¬ swer me: does it appear to you to be the same with re¬ spect to horses? Do all men make them better, and is there only some one that spoils them ? or does quite the con¬ trary of this take place ? Is there some one person who can make them better, or very few; that is, the trainers ? But if the generality of men should meddle with and make use of horses, do they spoil them ? Is not this the case, Melitus, both with respect to horses and all other animals ? It cer¬ tainly is so, whether you and Anytus deny it or not. For it would be a great good-fortune for the youth if only one person corrupted, and the rest benefited them. However, Melitus, you have sufficiently shown that you never bestow¬ ed any care upon youth ; and you clearly evince your own negligence, in that you have never paid any attention to the things with respect to which you accuse me. 13. Tell us further, Melitus, in the name of Jupiter, whether is it better to dwell with good or bad citizens ? Answer, my friend; for I ask you nothing difficult. Do not the bad work some evil to those that are continually near them, but the good some good ? Mel. Certainly. THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 1 9 Socr. Is there any one that wishes to be injured rather than benefited by his associates ? Answer, good man; for the law requires you to answer. Is there any one who wishes to be injured? Mel. No, surely. Socr. Come, then, whether do you accuse me here, as one that corrupts the youth, and makes them more de¬ praved, designedly or undesignedly ? Mel. Designedly, I say. Socr. What, then, Melitus, are you at your time of life so much wiser than I at my time of life, as to know that the evil are always working some evil to those that are most near to them, and the good some good; but I have arrived at such a pitch of ignorance as not to know that if I make any one of my associates depraved, I shall be in danger of receiving some evil from him; and yet I design¬ edly bring about this so great evil, as you say ? In this I can not believe you, Melitus, nor do I think would any other man in the world. But either I do not corrupt the youth, or, if I do corrupt them, I do it undesignedly: so that in both cases you speak falsely. But if I corrupt them undesignedly, for such involuntary offenses it is not usual to accuse one here, but to take one apart, and teach and admonish one. For it is evident that if I am taught, I shall cease doing what I do undesignedly. But you shunned me, and were not willing to associate with and instruct me; but you accuse me here, where it is usual to accuse those who need punishment, and not instruction. 14. Thus, then, O Athenians! this now is clear that I have said; that Melitus never paid any attention to these matters, much or little. However, tell us, Melitus, how you say I corrupt the youth ? Is it not evidently, according to the indictment which you have preferred, by teaching them not to believe in the gods in whom the city believe^ but in other strange deities ? Do you not say that, by teaching these things, I corrupt the youth ? Mel. Certainly I do say so. Sock By those very gods, therefore, Melitus, of whom the discussion now is, speak still more clearly both to me and to these men. For I can not understand whether you say that I teach them to believe that there are certain gods 20 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. (and in that case I do believe that there are gods, and am not altogether an atheist, nor in this respect to blame), not, however, those which the city believes in, but others; and this it is that you accuse me of, that I introduce others. Or do you say outright that I do not myself believe that there are gods, and that I teach others the same ? Mel. I say this: that you do not believe in any gods at all. Socr. O wonderful Melitus, how come you to say this? Do I not, then, like the rest of mankind, believe that the sun and moon are gods? Mel. No, by Jupiter, O judges! for he says that the sun is a stone, and the moon an earth. Socr. You fancy that you are accusing Anaxagoras, my dear Melitus, and thus you put a slight on these men, and suppose them to be so illiterate as not to know that the books of Anaxagoras of Clazomene are full of such asser¬ tions. And the young, moreover, learn these things from me, which they might purchase for a drachma, at most, in the orchestra, and so ridicule Socrates, if he pretended they were his own, especially since they are so absurd ? I ask then, by Jupiter, do I appear to you to believe that there is no god ? Mel. No, by Jupiter, none whatever. Socr. You say what is incredible, Melitus, and that, as appears to me, even to yourself. For this man, O Athe¬ nians ! appears to me to be very insolent and intemperate, and to have preferred this indictment through downright insolence, intemperance, and wantonness. For he seems, as it were, to have composed an enigma for the purpose of making^ an experiment. Whether will Socrates the wise know that I am jesting, and contradict myself, or shall I deceive him and all who hear me? For, in my opinion, he clearly contradicts himself in the indictment, as if he should say, Socrates is guilty of wrong in not believing that there are gods, and in believing that there are gods. And this, surely, is the act of one who is trifling. 15. Consider with me now, Athenians, in what respect he appears to me to say so. And do you, Melitus, answer me; and do ye, as I besought you at the outset, remember not to make an uproar if. I speak after my usual manner. THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 21 Is there any man, Melitus, who believes that there are human affairs, but does not believe that there are men ? Let him answer, judges, and not make so much noise Is there any one who does not believe that there are horses but that there are things pertaining to horses? or who does not believe that there are pipers, but that there are things pertaining to pipes? There is not, O best of men ! for since you are not willing to answer, I say it to you and to all here present. But answer to this at least: is there any one who believes that there are things relating to de- mons, but does not believe that there are demons ? Mel. There is not. Socr. How obliging you are in having hardly answered, though compehed by these judges ! You assert, then, that do believe and teach things relating to demons, whether they be new or old; therefore, according to your admis¬ sion I do believe in things relating to demons, and this you have sworn in the bill of indictment. If, then, I be- ieve m things relating to demons, there is surely an ab¬ solute necessity that I should believe that there are de¬ mons. Is it not so ? It is. For I suppose you to assent, since you do not answer. But with respect to demons do we not allow that they are gods, or the children of gods ? Do you admit this or not ? Mel. Certainly. Soei .. Since, then, I allow that there are demons, as yon admit, if demons are a kind of gods, this is the point in which I say you speak enigmatically and divert yourself m saying that I do not allow^ there are gods, and again that y, C ° * lo , w there are > Slnce 1 allow that there are demons? But if demons are the children of gods, spurious ones, either from nymphs or any others,' of whom they are re¬ ported to be, what man can think that there are sons of gods, and yet that there are not gods? For it would be just as absurd as if any one should think that there are mules the offspring of horses and asses, but should not think there are horses and asses. However, Melitus, it can not be otherwise than that you have preferred this indictment for the purpose of trying me, or because vou Avei e at a loss what real crime to allege against me; ‘for inat you should persuade any m*an who has the smallest 22 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. decree of sense that the same person can think that there are things relating to demons and to gods, and yet that there are neither demons, nor gods, nor heroes, is utterly impossible. ^ . , , ,. . 16. That I am not guilty, then, O Athenians . according to the indictment of Melitus, appears to me not to require a lengthened defense; but what I have said is sufficient. And as to what I said at the beginning, that theie is a ^reat enmity toward me among the multitude, be assured it is true. And this it is which will condemn me, it 1 am condemned, not Melitus, nor Anytus, but the calumny and envy of the multitude, which have already condemned many others, and those good men, and will, I think, con¬ demn others also; for there is no danger that it will stop with me. Perhaps, however, some one may say, “Are you not ashamed, Socrates, to have pursued a study from which you are now in danger of dying?” To such a peison I should answer with good reason, You do not say well, friend, if you think that a man, who is even of the least value, ought to take into the account the risk of life or death, and ought not to consider that alone when he per¬ forms any action, whether he is acting justly oi unjustly, and the part of a good man or bad man. For, according to your reasoning, all those demi-gods that died at Proy •would be vile characters, as well all the rest as the son of Thetis, who so far despised danger in comparison of sub¬ mitting to disgrace, that when his mother, who was a god¬ dess, spoke to him, in his impatience to kill Hector, some¬ thin 0 * to this effect, as I think, 1 “My son, if you levenge the death of your friend Patroclus, and slay Hector, you will yourself die, for,” she said, “death awaits you imme¬ diately after Hectorbut he, on hearing this, despised death and danger, and, dreading much more to live as a coward, and not avenge his friends, said, “May I die im¬ mediately when I have inflicted punishment on the guilty, that I may not stay here an object of ridicule, by the curved ships, a burden to the ground?”—do you think that he cared for death and danger? For thus it is, O Athenians ! in truth: wherever any one has posted himself, 1 “Iliad,”lib. xviii.*, ver. 94, etc. THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. eitlier thinking it to be better, or has been posted by his cnef, there, as it appears to me, he ought to remain and meet danger, taking no account either of death or any thing else in comparison with disgrace. ^ wW,' ki hen Sll0l J Id b u acting stra ngely, o Athenians! if, when the generals whom you chose to command me as- h.?m C T ir my 1>0 - t a j J ’ ot,lla ‘ n > at Amphipolis, and at De¬ hum, I then remained where they posted me, like any oth- ei person, and encountered the danger of death ; but when the deity, as I thought and believed, assigned it as my duty to pass my life in the study of philosophy, and in examim ng myself and others, I should on that occasion, through ear of death or any thing else whatsoever, desert my post. Stiange indeed would it be ; and then, in truth, any one night justly bring me to trial, and accuse me of not be- !wn S “i *1® , g -° ds ’ from disobeying the oracle, fearing S’ ? nd r i hmblng “y se ! f t0 bo wise when I am not. 1 01 to fear death, O Athenians! is nothing else than to ap- pear to be wise, without being so; for it is to appear to know What one does not know. For no one knows but W ii iVfi h ® S'-ffost of all good to man; but men An i h ;£ t ley l Ve , knew that il is the greatest of evils. tihfl h t°W 1S n °i t US th ? “ 0St reprehensible ignorance, to think that one knows what one does not know ? But I O themails . in this, perhaps, differ from most men; and’ if wonhll be S f y th- at .VT m ‘l ny - th ‘ nS Wiser than another, it of the b th" ■ 1S ’ I T ha , t n0 T h , avln S a competent knowledge Of the things in Hades, I also think that I have not such knowledge. But to act unjustly, and to disobey my supe¬ rior, whether God or man, I know is evil and base, k shall nerer, therefore, fear or shun things which, for aught I Snkw™ 7 be | ood > ^re evils which I know to be evils, o that, even it you should now dismiss me, not yielding to the instances of Anytus, who said that either I should not appear here at all, or that, if I did appear, it was im¬ possible not to put me to death, telling you that if I es- caped, your sons, studying what Socrates teaches, would al L be r ". er y °r,r ed ’ if y° u sh °nld address me thus, We shal1 . n0 ‘ now yteW to Anytus, but dismiss )ou, on this condition, however, that you no longer perse- 1 See the “Crito,”sec. 5. 24 TIIE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. vere in your researches nor study philosophy ; and if here¬ after you are detected in so doing, you shall die if, as I said, you should dismiss me on these terms, I should say to you,“O Athenians! I honor and love you; but I shall obey God rather than you; and so long as I breathe and am able, I shall not cease studying philosophy, and exhort¬ ing you and warning any one of you I may happen to meet, saying, as I have been accustomed to do: £ O best of men ! seeing you are an Athenian, of a city the most pow¬ erful and most renowned for wisdom and strength, are you not ashamed of being careful for riches, how you may acquire them in greatest abundance, and for glory, and honor, but care not nor take any thought for wisdom and truth, and for your soul, how it may be made most per¬ fect ?’ 55 And if any one of you should question my asser¬ tion, and affirm that he does care for these things, I shall not at once let him go, nor depart, but I shall question him, sift and prove him. And if he should appear to me not to possess virtue, but to pretend that he does, 1 shall reproach him for that he sets the least value on things ot the greatest worth, but the highest on things that aie worthless. Thus I shall act to all whom I meet, both youn°" and old, stranger and citizen, but latlici to you, my fellow-citizens, because ye are more nearly allied to me. For be well assured, this the deity commands. And 1 think that no greater good has ever befallen you in the city than my zeal for the service of the god. P oi I go about doing nothing else than persuading you, both young and old, to take no care either for the body, or for riches, prior to or so much as for the soul, how it may be made most perfect, telling you that virtue floes not spring from riches, but riches and all other human blessings, both pri¬ vate and public, from virtue. If, then, by saying these things, I corrupt the youth, these things must be mis¬ chievous; but if any one says that I speak other things than these, he misleads you. 1 Therefore I must say, O Athenians! either yield to Anytus or do not, eithei dis¬ miss me or not, since I shall not act otherwise, even though I must die many deaths. 1 O bSiv \iyu, literally,“he says nothing:” impose, Cousin. on se trompe, on Ton vous * THE APOLOGY OE SOCliATES. 05 18. Murmur not, O Athenians! but continue to attend to my request, not to murmur at what I say, but to listen, for, as I think, you will derive benefit from listening. For I am going to say other things to you, at which, perhaps, you will raise a clamor; but on no account do so. Be well assured, then, if you put me to death, being such a man as I say I am, you will not injure me more than your¬ selves. For neither will Melitus nor Anytus harm me; nor have they the power; for I do not think that it is pos¬ sible for a better man to be injured by a worse. He may perhaps have me condemned to death, or banished, or de¬ prived of civil rights; and he or others may perhaps con¬ sider these as mighty evils: I, however, do not consider them so, but that it is much more so to do what he is now doing, to endeavor to put a man to death unjustly. Now, therefore, O Athenians! I am far from making a defense on my behalf, as any one might think, but I do so on your own behalf, lest by condemning me you should of¬ fend at all with respect to the gift of the deity to you. For, if you should put me to death, you will not easily find such another, though it may be ridiculous to say so, alto¬ gether attached by the deity to this city as to a powerful and generous horse, somewhat sluggish from his size, and requiring to be roused by a gad-fly; so the deity appears to have united me, being such a person as I am, to the city, that I may rouse you, and persuade and reprove ev¬ ery one of you, nor ever cease besetting you throughout the whole day. Such another man, O Athenians ! will not easily be found ; therefore, if you will take my advice, you will spare me. But you, perhaps, being irritated, like drowsy persons who are roused from sleep, will strike me, and, yielding to Anytus, will unthinkingly condemn me to death ; and then you will pass the rest of your life in sleep, unless the deity, caring for you, should send some one else to you. But that I am a person who has been given by the^ deity to this city, you may discern from hence; for it is not like the ordinary conduct of men, that I should have neglected all my own affairs, and suffered my private interest to be neglected for so many years, and that I should constantly attend to your concerns, address- ing myself to each of you separately, like a father, or eld- 2 26 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. er brother, persuading you to the pursuit of virtue. And if I had derived any profit from this course, and had re¬ ceived pay for my exhortations, there would have been some reason for my conduct; but now you see yourselves that my accusers, who have so shamelessly calumniated me in every thing else, have not had the impudence to charge me with this, and to bring witnesses to prove that I ever either exacted or demanded any reward. And I think I produce a sufficient proof that I speak the truth, namely , my poverty. 19. Perhaps, however, it may appear absurd that I, go¬ ing about, thus advise you in private and make myself busy, but never venture to present myself in public before your assemblies and give advice to the city. The cause of this is that which you have often and in many places heard me mention: because I am moved by a certain divine and spiritual influence, which also Melitus, through mockery, lias set out in the indictment. This began with me from childhood, being a kind of voice which, when present, al¬ ways diverts me from what I am about to do, but never urges me on. This it is which opposed my meddling in public politics ; and it appears to me to have opposed me very properly. For be well assured, O Athenians!. if I had long since attempted to intermeddle with' politics, I should have perished long ago, and should not have at all benefited you or myself. And be not angry with me for speaking the truth. For it is not possible that any man should be safe who sincerely opposes either you, or any other multitude, and who prevents many unjust and il¬ legal actions from being committed in a city; hut it is necessary that he who in earnest contends for justice, if he will be safe for but a short time, should li\e piivatel}, and take no part in public affairs. 20. I will give you strong proofs of this, not words, but, what you value, facts. Hear, then, what has happened to me, that you may know that I would not yield to any one contrary to what is just, through fear of death, at the same time that by not yielding I must perish. I shall tell you what will be displeasing and wearisome, 1 yet true. For I, 1 But for the authority of Stallbaurn, I should have translated Sikciviku c ‘ forensic;” that is, such arguments as an advocate would use in a court of justice. THE APOLOGY OF SOCKATES. 27 O Athenians! never bore any other magisterial office in the city, but have been a senator: and our Antiochean tribe happened to supply the Prytanes when you chose to condemn in a body the ten generals, who had not taken off those that perished in the sea-fight, in violation of the law, as you afterward all thought. At that time I alone of the Prytanes opposed your doing any thing contrary to the laws, and I voted against you; and when the orators were ready to denounce me, and to carry me before a mag¬ istrate, and you urged and cheered them on, I thought ! ought rather to meet the danger with law and justice on my side, than, through fear of imprisonment or death, to take part with you in your unjust designs. And this hap¬ pened while the city was governed by a democracy. But when it became an oligarchy, the Thirty, having sent for me with four others to the Tholus, ordered us to bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamis, that he might be put to death; and they gave many similar orders to many others, wishing to involve as many as they could in guilt. Then, however, I showed, not in word but in deed, that I did not care for death, if the expression be not too rude, in the smallest degree; but that all my care was to do nothing unjust or unholy. For that government, strong as it was, did not so overawe me as to make me commit an unjust action; but when we came out from the Tholus, the four went to Salamis, and brought back Leon; but I went away home. And perhaps for this I should have been put to death, if that government had not been speed¬ ily broken up. And of this you can have many witnesses. 21. Do you think, then, that I should have survived so many years, if I had engaged in public affairs, and, acting as becomes a good man, had aided the cause of justice, and, as I ought, had deemed this of the highest importance? Far from it, O Athenians ! nor would any other man have done so. But I, through the whole of my life, if I have done any thing in public, shall be found to be a man, and the very same in private, who has never made a concession to any one contrary to justice, neither to any other, nor to any one of these whom my calumniators say are my dis¬ ciples. I, however, was never the preceptor of any one; but if any one desired to hear me speaking, and to see me 28 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. busied about my own mission, whether he were young or old, I never refused him. Nor do I discourse when I re¬ ceive money, and not when I do not receive any, but I al¬ low both rich and 'poor alike to question me, and, if any one wishes it, to answer me and hear what I have to say. And for these, whether any one proves to be a good man or not, I can not justly be responsible, because I never ei¬ ther promised them any instruction or taught them at all. But if any one says that he has ever learned or heard any thing from me in private, which all others have not, be well assured that he does not speak the truth. 22. But why do some delight to spend so long a time with me ? Ye have heard, O Athenians ! I have told you the whole truth, that they delight to hear those closely questioned who think that they are wise but are not; for this is by no means disagreeable. But this duty, as I say, has been enjoined me by the deity, by oracles, by dreams, and by every mode by which any other divine decree has ever enjoined any thing to man to do. These things, O Athenians! are both true, and easily confuted if not true. For if I am now corrupting some of the youths, and have already corrupted others, it were fitting, surely, that if any of them, having become advanced in life, had discovered that I gave them bad advice when they were young, they should now rise up against me, accuse me, and have me punished; or if they were themselves unwilling to do this, some of their kindred, their fathers, or brothers, or other relatives, if their kinsman have ever sustained any damage from me, should now call it to mind. Many of them, how¬ ever, are here present, whom I see: first, Crito, my contem¬ porary and fellow-burgher, father of this Critobulus ; then Lysanias of Sphettus,father of this Aeschines; again, An¬ tiphon of Cephisus, father of Epigenes. There are those others, too, whose brothers maintained the same intimacy with me, namely, Nicostratus, son of Theosdotidus, brother of Theodotus—Theodotus indeed is dead, so that he could not deprecate his brother’s proceedings—and Paralus here, son of Demodocus, whose brother was Theages ; and Adi- mantus, son of Arjston, whose brother is this Plato; and gEantodorus, whose brother is this Apollodorus. I could also mention many others to you, some one of whom cer- THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 29 tainly Melitus ought to have adduced in*his speech as a witness. If, however, he then forgot to do so, let him now adduce them ; I give him leave to do so, and let him say it, if he has any thing of the kind to allege. But, quite con¬ trary to this, you will find, O Athenians! all ready to as¬ sist me, who have corrupted and injured their relatives, as Melitus and Anytus say. For those who have been themselves corrupted might perhaps have some reason for assisting me; but those who have not been corrupted, men now advanced in life, their relatives, what other reason can they have for assisting me, except that right and just one, that they know that Melitus speaks falsely, and that I speak the truth. 23. Well, then, Athenians, these are pretty much the things I have to say in my defense, and others perhaps of the same kind. Perhaps, however, some among you will be indignant on recollecting his own case, if he, when en¬ gaged in a cause far less than this, implored and besought the judges with many tears, bringing forward his children in order that he might excite their utmost compassion, and many others of his relatives and friends, whereas I do none of these things, although I may appear to be incur¬ ring the extremity of danger. Perhaps, therefore, some one, taking notice of this, may become more determined against me, and, being enraged at this very conduct of mine, may give his vote under the influence of anger. If, then, any one of you is thus affected—I do not, however, suppose that there is—but if there should be, I think I may reasonably say to him: “I, too, O best of men, have relatives; for, to make use of that saying of Homer, I am not sprung from an oak, nor from a rock, but from men, so that I, too, O Athenians ! have relatives, and three sons, one now grown up, and two boys: I shall not, however, bring any one of them forward and implore you to acquit me. Why, then, shall I not do this? Not from contumacy, O Athenians ! nor disrespect toward you. Whether or not I am undaunted at the prospect of death is another ques¬ tion ; but, out of regard to my own character, and yours, and that of the whole city, it does not appear to me to be honorable that I should do any thing of this kind at my age, and with the reputation I have, whether true 6 r false. 30 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. For it is commonly agreed that Socrates in some respects excels the generality of men. If, then, those among you who appear to excel either in wisdom, or fortitude, or any other virtue whatsoever, should act in such a manner as I have often seen some when they have been brought to trial, it would be shameful, who appearing indeed to be something, have conducted themselves in a surprising manner, as thinking they should suffer something dreadful by dying, and as if they would be immortal if you did not put them to death. Such men appear to me to bring dis¬ grace on the city, so that any stranger might suppose that such of the Athenians as excel in virtue, and whom they themselves choose in preference to themselves for magis¬ tracies and other honors, are in no respect superior to women. For these things, O Athenians! neither ought we to do who have attained to any height of reputation, nor, should we do them, ought you to suffer us; but you should make this manifest, that you will much rather con¬ demn him who introduces these piteous dramas, and makes the city ridiculous, than him who quietly awaits your de¬ cision. 24. But, reputation apart, O Athenians! it does not ap¬ pear to me to be right to entreat a judge, or to escape by entreaty; but one ought to inform and persuade him. For a judge does not sit for the purpose of administering justice out of favor, but that he may judge rightly, and he • is sworn not to show favor to whom lie pleases, but that he will decide according to the laws. It is, therefore, right that neither should we accustom you, nor should you ac¬ custom yourselves, to violate your oaths; for in so doing neither of us would act righteously. Think not then, O Athenians! that I ought to adopt such a course toward you as I neither consider honorable, nor just, nor holy, as well, by Jupiter ! on any other occasion, and now especially when I am accused of impiety by this Melitus. For clear¬ ly, if I should persuade you, and by my entreaties should put a constraint on you who are bound by an oath, I should teach you to think that there are no gods, and in reality, while making my defense, should accuse myself of not be¬ lieving in the gods. This, however, is far from being the case; for I believe, O Athenians ! as none of my accusers THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 31 do, and I leave it to you and to the deity to judge con¬ cerning me in such way as will be best both for me and for you. [Socrates Imre concludes his defense, and x the votes be¬ ing taken, he is declared guilty by a majority of voices. He thereupon resumes his address.] 25. That I should not be grieved, O Athenians! at what has happened—namely, that you have condemned me •—as well many other circumstances concur in bringing to pass; and, moreover, this, that what has happened has not happened contrary to my expectation ; but I much rather wonder at the number of votes on either side. For I did not expect that I should be condemned by so small a num¬ ber, but by a large majority; but now, as it seems, if only three more votes had changed sides, I should have been acquitted. So far as Melitus is concerned, as it appears to me, I have been already acquitted ; and not only have I been acquitted, but it is clear to every one that had not Anytus and Lyeon come forward to accuse me, he would have been fined a thousand drachmas, for not having ob¬ tained a fifth part of the votes. 26. The man, then, awards me the penalty of death. Well. But what shall I, on my part, O Athenians! award myself? Is it not clear that it will be such as I deserve? What, then, is that? Do I deserve to suffer, or to pay a fine ? for that I have purposely during my life not remain¬ ed quiet, but neglecting what most men seek after, mon¬ ey-making, domestic concerns, military command, popular oratory, and, moreover, all the magistracies, conspiracies, and cabals that are met with in the city, thinking that I was in reality too upright a man to be safe if I took part in such things, I therefore did not apply myself to those' pursuits, by attending to which I should have been of no service either to you or to myself; but in order to confer the greatest benefit on each of you privately, as I affirm, I thereupon applied myself to that object, endeavoring to persuade every one of you not to take any care of his own affairs before he had taken care of himself, in what way he may become the best and wisest, nor of the affairs o*f the city before he took care of the city itself; and that he should attend to other things in the same manner. What 32 TIIE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. treatment, then, do I deserve, seeing I am such a man ? Some reward, O Athenians! if, at least, I am to be esti¬ mated according to my real deserts; and, moreover, such a reward as would be suitable to me. What, then, is suita¬ ble to a poor man, a benefactor, and who has need of lei¬ sure in order to give you good advice ? There is nothing so suitable, O Athenians! as that such a man should be maintained in the Prytaneum, and this much more than if one of you had been victorious at the Olympic games in a horse-race, or in the two or four horsed chariot race: for such a one makes you appear to be happy,but I, to be so; and he does not need support, but I do. If, therefore, I must award a sentence according to my just deserts, I award this, maintenance in the Prytaneum. 27. Perhaps, however, in speaking to you thus, I appear to you to speak in the same presumptuous manner as I did respecting commiseration and entreaties; but such is not the case, O Athenians! it is rather this: I am per¬ suaded that I never designedly injured any man, though I can not persuade you of this, for we have conversed with each other but for a short time. For if there were the same law with you as with other men, that in capital cases the trial should last not only one day, but many, I think you would be persuaded ; but it is not easy in a short time to do away with great calumnies. Being persuaded, then, that I have injured no one, I am far from intending to in¬ jure myself, and of pronouncing against myself that I am deserving of punishment, and from awarding myself any thing of the kind. Through fear of what? lest I should suffer that which Melitus awards me, of which I say I know not whether it be good or evil ? Instead of this, shall I choose what I well know to be evil, and award that? Shall I choose imprisonment? And why should I live in prison, a slave to the established magistracy, the Eleven? Shall I. choose a fine, and to be imprisoned until I have paid it? But this is the same as that which I just now mentioned, for I have not money to pay it. Shall I, then, award myself exile? For perhaps you would consent to this award. I should indeed be very fond of life, O Athenians ! if I were so devoid of reason as not to be able to reflect that you, who are my fellow-citizens, have been THE APOLOGY OE SOCRATES. 33 unable to endure iny manner of life and discourses, but they have become so burdensome and odious to you that y 011 seek to be rid of them : others, however will easily bear them. Far from it, O Athenians ! A fine life it would be for me at my age to go out wandering, and driven from city to city, and so to live. For I well know that, wherev¬ er I may go, the youth Avill listen to me when I speak as they do here. And if I repulse them, they will themsel’ves drive me out, persuading the elders; and if I do not re¬ pulse them, their fathers and kindred will banish me on their account. 28. Perhaps, however, some one will say, Can you not Socrates, when you have gone from us, live a silent and quiet life, dhis is the most difficult thing of all to per¬ suade some of you. For if I say that that would be to disobey the deity, and that, therefore, it is impossible for me to live quietly, you would not believe me, thinking I spoke ironically. If, on the other hand, I say that this is the greatest good to man, to discourse daily on virtue, and other things which you have heard me discussing, examin¬ ing both myself and others, but that a life without investi¬ gation is not worth living for, still less would you believe me if I said this. Such, however, is the case, as I affirm, O Athenians ! though it is not easy to persuade you. And’ at the same time I am not accustomed to think myself de¬ serving of any ill. If, indeed, I were rich, I would amerce myself m such a sum as I should be able to pay; for then I should have suffered no harm, but now—for I can not unless you are willing to'amerce me in such a sum as I am able to pay. But perhaps I could pay you a mina of sil- ver: in that sum, then, I amerce myself. But Plato here, J Athenians! and Crito Critobulus, and Apollodorus bid me amerce myself in thirty minae, and they offer to be sureties. I amerce myself, then, to you in that sum; and they wifi be sufficient sureties for the money. [The judges now proceeded to pass the sentence, and condemned Socrates to death ; whereupon he continued :] 29. For the sake of no long space of time, O Athenians ! you will incur the character and reproach at the hands of those who wish to defame the city, of having put that " lse inan, Socrates, to death. For those who wish to de- 2 * 34 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. fame you will assert that I am wise, though I am not. If, then, you had waited for a short time, this would have happened of its own accord; for observe my age, that it is far advanced in life, and near death. But I say this not to you all, but to those only who have condemned me to die. And I say this, too, to the same persons. Per¬ haps you think,O Athenians! that I have been convicted through the want of arguments, by which I might have persuaded you, had I thought it right to do and say any thing, so that I might escape punishment. Far otherwise: * I have been convicted through want indeed, yet not of arguments, but of audacity and impudence, and of the in¬ clination to say such things to you as would have been most agreeable for you to hear, had I lamented and be¬ wailed and done and said many other things unworthy of me, as I affirm, but such as you are accustomed to hear from others. But neither did I then think that I ought, for the sake of avoiding danger, to do any thing unworthy of a freeman, nor do I now repent of having so defended myself; but I should much rather choose to die, having so defended myself, than to live in that way. For neither in a trial nor in battle is it right that I or any one else should employ eveuy possible means whereby he may avoid death; for in battle it is frequently evident that a man might escape death by laying down his arms, and throwing him¬ self on the mercy of his pursuers. And there are many other devices in every danger, by which to avoid death, if a man dares to do and say every thing. But this is not difficult, O Athenians! to escape death; but it is much more difficult to avoid depravity, for it runs swifter than death. And now I, being slow and aged, am overtaken by the slower of the two; but my accusers, being strong and active, have been overtaken by the swifter, wickedness. And now I depart, condemned by you to death ; but they condemned by truth, as guilty of iniquity and injustice: and I abide my sentence, and so do they. These things, perhaps, ought so to be, and I think that they are for the best. 30. In the next place, I desire to predict to you who have condemned me, what will be your fate; for I am now in that condition in which men most frequently proph- THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 35 esy—namely, when they are about to die. I say, then, to you, O Athenians! who have condemned me to death, that immediately after my death a punishment will over¬ take yon, far more severe, by Jupiter! than that which you have inflicted on me. For you have done this, thinking you should be freed from the necessity of giving an ac¬ count of your lives. The very contrary, however, as I af¬ firm, will happen to you. Your accusers will be more nu¬ merous, whom I have now restrained, though you did not perceive it; and they will be more severe, inasmuch as they are younger, and you will be more indignant. For if you think that by putting men to death you will re¬ strain any one from upbraiding you because you do not live well, you are much mistaken; for this method of es¬ cape is neither possible nor honorable; but that other is most honorable and most easy, not to put a check upon otheis, but for a man to take heed to himself how he may be most perfect. Having predicted thus much to those of you who have condemned me, I take my leave of you. 31. But with you who have voted for my acquittal I would gladly hold converse on what has now taken place, while the magistrates are busy, and I am not yet carried to the place where I must die. Stay with me, then, so long, O Athenians ! for nothing hinders our conversing with each other, while we are permitted to do so; for I wish to make known to you, as being my friends, the meaning of that which has just now befallen me. To me, then, O my judges ! and in calling you judges I call you rjghtly—a strange thing has happened. For the wonted prophetic voice of my guardian deity on every former oc¬ casion, even in the most trifling affairs, opposed me if I was about to do any thing wrong; but now that has be¬ fallen me which ye yourselves behold, and which any one would think, and which is supposed to be the extremity of evil; yet neither when I departed from home in the morning did the warning of the god oppose me, nor when I came up here to the place of trial, nor in my address when I was about to say any thing; yet on other occa¬ sions it has frequently restrained me in the midst of speak¬ ing. But now it has never, throughout this proceeding, opposed me, either in what I did or said. What, then, do 36 THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. I suppose to be the cause of this? I will tell you : what lias befallen me appears to be a blessing; and it is impos¬ sible that we think rightly who suppose that death is an evil. A great proof of this to me is the fact that it is im¬ possible but that the accustomed signal should have op¬ posed me, unless I had been about to meet with some good. 32. Moreover, we may hence conclude that there is great hope that death is a blessing. For to die is one of two things: for either the dead may be annihilated, and have no sensation of any thing whatever; or, as it is said, there are a certain change and passage of the soul from one place , to another. And if it is a privation of all sensation, as it were a sleep in which the sleeper has no dream, death would be a wonderful gain. For I think that if any one, \ having selected a night in which he slept so soundly as not to have had a dream, and having compared this night with all the other nights and days of his life, should be re¬ quired, on consideration, to say how many days and nights he had passed better and more pleasantly than this night throughout his life, I think that not only a private person, bnt even the great king himself, would find them easy to ! number, in comparison with other days and nights. If, f therefore, death is a thing of this kind, I say it is a gain ; for thus all futuritv appears to be nothing more than one night. But if, on the other hand, death is a removal from ‘ hence to another place, and what is said be true, that all the dead are there, what greater blessing can there be than this, my judges? For if, on arriving at Hades, released from these who pretend to be judges, one shall find those who are true judges, and who are said to judge there, Mi¬ nos and Rhadamanthus, Abacus and Triptolemus, and such others of thedemi-gods as were just during their own life, would this be a sad removal? At what price would you not estimate a conference with Orpheus and Musseus, He¬ siod and Homer? I indeed should be willing to die oft¬ en, if this be true. For to me the sojourn there would be admirable, when I should meet with Palamedes, and Ajax, son of Telamon, and any other of the ancients who has died by an unjust sentence. The comparing my suf¬ ferings with theirs would, I think, be no unpleasing occu- THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 37 pat ion. But the greatest pleasure would be to spend my time in questioning and examining the people there as I have done those here, and discovering who among them is wise, and who fancies himself to be so, but is not. At what price, my judges, would not any one estimate the opportunity of questioning him who led that mighty army against droy, or Ulysses, or Sisyphus, or ten thousand otheis whom one might mention, both men and women_ with whom to converse and associate, and to question them, would be an inconceivable happiness? Surely for that the judges there do not condemn to death; for in other respects those who live there are more happy than those who are here, and are henceforth immortal, if, at least, what is said be true. 33. Aon, therefore, O my judges! ought to entertain good hopes with respect to death, and to meditate on this one truth, that to a good man nothing is evil, neither while living nor when dead, nor are his concerns neglected by the gods. And what has befallen me is not the effect of chance; but this is clear to me, that now to die, and be freed from my cares, is better for me. On this account the warning 111 no way turned me aside; and I bear no lesentment toward those who condemned iiiq, or against my accusers, although they did not condemn and accuse me with this intention,but thinking to injure me: in this they deserve to be blamed. Thus much, however, I beg of them. Punish my sons when they grow up, O judges! paining them, as I have pained you, if they appear to you to care for riches or any thing else before virtue; and if they think themselves to be something when they are nothing, reproach them as I have done you, for not attending to what they ought, and for conceiving themselves to be something when they are Avorth nothing. If ye do this, both 1 and my sons shall have met with just treatment at your hands. But it is now time to depart—for me to die, for you to live. But which of us is going to a better state is un¬ known to every one but God. INTRODUCTION TO THE CRITO. It lias been remarked by Stallbaum that Plato had a twofold design in this dialogue—one, and that the primary one, to free Socrates from the imputation of having at¬ tempted to corrupt the Athenian youth; the other, to es¬ tablish the principle that under all circumstances it is the duty of a good citizen to obey the laws of his country. These two points, however, are so closely interwoven with each other, that the general principle appears only to be illustrated by the example of Socrates. Crito was one of those friends of Socrates who had been present at his trial, and had offered to assist in pay¬ ing a fine, had a fine been imposed instead of the sentence of death. He appears to have frequently visited his friend in prison after his condemnation; and now, having ob¬ tained access to his cell very early in the morning, finds him composed in a quiet sleep. He brings intelligence that the ship, the arrival of which would be the signal for his death on the following day, is expected to arrive forth¬ with, and takes occasion to entreat Socrates to make his escape, the means of which were already prepared. Soc¬ rates thereupon, having promised to follow the advice of Crito if, after the matter had been fully discussed, it should appear to be right to do so, proposes to consider the duty of a citizen toward his country; and, having established the divine principle that it is wrong to return evil for evil, crocs on to show that the obligations of a citizen to INTRODUCTION. 39 his country are even more binding than those of a child to its parent, or a slave to his master, and that therefore it is his duty to obey the established laws, at whatever cost to himself. At length Crito admits that he has no answer to make, and Socrates resolves to submit himself to the will of Providence. CKITO; OR, THE DUTY OF A CITIZEN. Socrates, Crito. Socr. Why have you come at this hour, Crito? Is it not very early ? Cri. It is. Socr. About what time? Cri. Scarce day-break. Socr. I wonder how the keeper of the prison came to admit you. Cri. He is familiar with me, Socrates, from my having frequently come hither ; and he is under some obligations to me. Socr. Have you just now come, or some time since? Cri. A considerable time since. Socr. Why, then, did you not wake me at once, instead of sitting down by me in silence ? Cri. By Jupiter! Socrates,I should not myself like to be so long awake, and in such affliction. But I have been for some time wondering at you, perceiving how sweetly you slept; and I purposely did not awake you,that you might pass your time as pleasantly as possible. And, indeed, I have often before throughout your whole life considered you happy in your disposition, but far more so in the pres¬ ent calamity, seeing how easily and meekly you bear it. Socr. However, Crito, it would be disconsonant for a man at my time of life to repine because he must needs die. Cri. But others, Socrates, at your age have been in- CRITO. 41 volved in similar calamities, yet their age has not hindered their repining at their present fortune. Socr. So it is. But why did you come so early? Cri. Bringing sad tidings, Socrates; not sad to you, as it appeals, but to me, and all your friends, sad and heavv; and which I, I think, shall bear worst of all. Socr. What tidings ? Has the ship 1 arrived from Delos, on the arrival of which I must die? ■Cri. It has not yet arrived; but it appears to me that it will come to-day, from what certain persons report who have come from Sunium, 2 and left it there. It is clear, therefore, from these messengers, that it will come to-day’ and consequently it will be necessary, Socrates, for you to die to-morrow. 2. Socr. But with good fortune, Crito; and if so it please the gods, so be it. I do not think, however, that it will come to-day. Cri. Whence do you form this conjecture ? Socr. I will tell you. I must die on the day after that on which the ship arrives. Cri. So they say 3 4 w r ho have the control of these things. Socr. I do not think, then, that it will come to-day, but to-morrow. I conjecture this from a dream which I had this very night, not long ago; and you seem very oppor¬ tunely to have refrained from waking me. Cri. But what was this dream? Socr A beautiful and majestic woman, clad in wdiite garments, seemed to approach me, and to call to me and PhtV S m Crates ’ three da y s hence you will reach fertile Cri. What a strange dream, Socrates ! Socr. Very clear, however, as it appears to me, Crito. 3. Cri. Very much so, as it seems. But, my dear Soc¬ rates, even now be persuaded by me, and save yourself. I 1 or if you die, not only a single calamity will befall me, but, besides being deprived of such a friend as I shall never meet with again, I shall also appear to many who do 1 See the Phasdo, sec. 1. 2 A promontory at the southern extremity of Attica. 3 The Eleven. 4 See Ilomer's “Iliad,”], ix., v. 3G3. 42 CRITO. not know you and me well, when I might have saved you had I been willing to spend my money, to have neglected to do so. And what character can be more disgraceful than this—to appear to value one’s riches more than one’s friends? For the generality of men will not be per¬ suaded that you were unwilling to depart hence, when we urged you to it. Socr. But why, my dear Crito, should we care so much for the opinion of the many ? For the most worthy men, whom we ought rather to regard, will think that matters have transpired as they really have. Gri. Yet you see, Socrates, that it is necessary to at¬ tend to the opinion of the many. For the very circum¬ stances of the present case show that the multitude are able to effect not only the smallest evils, but even the greatest, if any one is calumniated to them. /Socr. Would, O Crito! that the multitude could effect the greatest evils, that they might also effect the greatest good; for then it would be well. But now they can do neither; for they can make a man neither wise nor fool¬ ish ; but they do whatever chances. 4. Gri. So let it be, then. But answer me this, Soc¬ rates ; are you not anxious for me and other friends, lest, if you should escape from hence, informers should give us trouble, as having secretly carried you off, and so we should be compelled either to lose all our property, or a very large sum, or to suffer something else besides this ? For, if you fear any thing of the kind, dismiss your fears; for we are justified in running this risk to save you—and, if need be, even a greater risk than this. But be persuaded by me, and do not refuse. Socr. I am anxious about this, Crito, and about many other things. Gri. Do not fear this, however; for the sum is not large on receipt of which certain persons are willing to save you, and take you hence. In the next place, do you not see how cheap these informers are, so that there would be no need of a large sum for them ? My fortune is at your service, sufficient, I think, for the purpose: then if, out of regard to me, you do not think right to spend my money, these strangers here are ready to spend theirs. One of CRITO. 43 them, Simmias the Theban, has brought with him a suf. ticient sum for the very purpose. Cebes, too, is ready, and very many others.. So that, as I said, do not, through fears of this kind, hesitate to save yourself, nor let what you said in court give you any trouble, that if you went from hence you would not know what to do with your¬ self. For in many places, and wherever you go, men will love you; and if you are disposed to go to Thessaly, I have friends there who will esteem you very highly, and will insure your safety, so that no one in Thessaly 5 will mo¬ lest you. 5. Moreover, Socrates, you do not appear to me to pur¬ sue a just course in giving yourself up when you might be saved; and you press on the very results with respect to yourself which your enemies would press, and have pressed, in their anxiety to destroy you. Besides this, too, you appear to me to betray your own sons, whom* when it is in your power to rear and educate them,, you will abandon, and, so far as you are concerned, they will meet with such a fate as chance brings them, and, as is probable, they will meet with such things as orphans are wont to experience in a state of orphanage. Surely one ought not to have children, or one should go through the toil of rearing and instructing them. But you appear to me to have chosen the most indolent course; though you ought to have chosen such a course as a good ancf brave man would have done, since you profess to have made vir¬ tue your study through the whole of your life; so that I am ashamed both for you and for us who are your friends, lest this whole affair of yours should seem to be the effect of cowardice on our part—your appearing to stand your trial in the court, since you appeared when it was in your power not to have done so, the very manner in which the trial was conducted, and this last circumstance, as it were, a ridiculous consummation of the whole business; your appearing to have escaped from us through our indolence and cowardice, who did not save you; nor did you save yourself, when it was practicable and possible, had we but exerted ourselves a little. Think of these things, there¬ fore, Socrates, and beware, lest, besides the evi \that will result, they be disgraceful both to you and to us; advise, CRITO. 44 then, with yourself; though, indeed, there is no longer time for advisino-—your resolve should be already made. -Ami there is but one plan ; for in the following, night the whole must be accomplished. If we delay, it will be impossible and no longer practicable. By all means, therefore, bocia- tes.be persuaded by me, and on no account lefuse. 6. JSocr. My dear Crito, your zeal would be very com¬ mendable were it united with right principle; otherwise, by how much the more earnest it is, by so much is it the more sad. We must consider, therefore, whether this plan should be adopted or not. For I not no\v only, but always, am a person who will obey nothing within me but reason, according as it appears to me on mature delibera¬ tion to be best. And the reasons which I formerly pro¬ fessed I can not now reject, because this misfortune has befallen me; but they appear to me in much the same lio-ht, and I respect and honor them as before; so that it we are unable to adduce any better at the present tune, be assured that I shall not give in to you, even though the power of the multitude should endeavor to terrify us like children, by threatening more than it does now, bonds and death, and confiscation of property. . How therefore may we consider the matter most conveniently t hirst ot an, if we recur to the argument which you used about opin¬ ions, whether on former occasions it was rightly resolved or not, that we ought to pay attention to some opinions, and to others not; or whether, before it was necessaiy that I should die, it was rightly resolved ; but now it has become clear that it was said idly for argument s sake, though in reality it was merely jest and trifling. I desire then, Crito, to consider, in common with you, whether it will appear to me in a different light, now that I am in this condition, or the same, and whether we shall give it up or yield to it. It was said, I think, on former occa¬ sions, by those who were thought to speak seriously, as 1 just now observed, that of the opinions which men enter¬ tain some should be very highly esteemed, and others not. By the gods! Crito, does not this appear to you to be well said ? For you, in all human probability, are out.of all danger of dying to-morrow, and the present calamity will not lead your judgment astray. Consider, then; does CBITO. 45 it not appear to you to have been rightly settled that we ought not to respect all the opinions of men, but some we should, and others not ? Nor yet the opinions of all men but of some we should, and of others not? What sav you ? Is not this rightly resolved ? 7 Gri. It is. Socr. Therefore, we should respect the good, but not the bad ? Gri. Yes. Socr. And are not the good those of the wise, and the bad those of the foolish ? Gri. How can it be otherwise? !' Socr. Come, then: how, again, were the following points settled? Does a man who practices gymnastic exercises, and applies himself to them, pay attention to the praise and censure and opinion of every one, or of that one man only who happens to be a physician’ or teacher oi the exercises ? Gri. Of that one only. Socr. lie ought, therefore, to fear the censures and covet the praises of that one, but not those of the multi¬ tude. Gri. Clearly. . Soc ?': He ou S ht > therefore, so to practice and exercise himself, and to eat and drink, as seems fitting to the one uho presides and knows, rather than to all others together Gri. It is so. _ Socr. Well, then, if he disobeys the one, and disregards ins opinion and praise, but respects that of the multitude and of those who know nothing, will he not suffer some evil ? Gri. How should he not? Socr. But what is this evil? Whither does it tend and on what part of him that disobeys will it fall? Gri. Clearly on his body, for this it ruins. /Socr. Ton say well. The case is the same too, Crito, with all other things, not to go through them all. With respect, then, to things just and unjust, base and honorable, good and evil, about which we are now consulting, ought we to follow the opinion of the multitude, and to^respect oi that of one, if there is any one who understands, CBITO. 4G whom we ought to reverence and respect rather than all others together? And if we do not obey him, shall we not corrupt and injure that part of ourselves which be¬ comes better by justice, but is ruined by injustice? We Wl11 give it up. But as to the consideiations which you mention, of an outlay of monev reputation, and the education of children, beware, Crito’ lest such considerations as these in reality belong to these muUitudes, who rashly put one to death, and would restore c to life, if they could do so, without any reason at all. But we, since reason so requires, must consider nothin** else than what we just now mentioned, whether we shall act justly in paying money and contracting obligations to those M ho M ill lead me hence, as well they who lead me as we Mho are led hence; or whether, in truth, we shall not act unjustly in doing all these things. And if we should appear in so doing to be acting unjustly, observe that we must not consider whether from remaining here and continuing quiet 'ye must needs die, or suffer any thing else, rather than whether we shall be acting unjustly. aeethafu" a!?" ^ ^ S ° C ‘' ateS; bnt Socr. Let us consider the matter together, my friend • and it you have any thing to object to what I say, make good your objection, and I will yield to you; but if not so'^ft my nvp mII those oui* former admis- we just now said? Oi have an loose um sions been dissipated in tliese few days; and lia\e we, Crito old men as we are, been for a long time seriously conversing with each other without knowing that wo m no respect differ from children ? Or does the case. beyond all question, stand as we then determined? Whether the multitude allow it or not, and whether ™ * a more severe or a milder punishment than this, still is i Pice on every account feoth evil and disgraceful to him who commits it? Do we admit this, oi no . Cri "YVg do admit it. goer. On no account, therefore, ought we to act un¬ justly. Socr ^Neither ought one who is injured to return the injury, as the multitude think, since it is on no account right to act unjustly. Cri. It appears not. 9 goer. What, then ? Is it right to do evil, Onto, or not. Cri. Surely it is not right, Socrates. goer. But what? To do evil in return when one has been evil-entreated, is that right, or not? Cri. Bv no means. „ . x goer. For to do evil to men differs m no respect from committing injustice. Cri You say truly. . . goer. It is not right, therefore, to return an injury, or to do evil to any man, however one may have suffeied from him. But take care, Onto, that m allowing these things you do not allow them contrary to your opinion; for I know that to some few only these things both do appear and will appear, to be true. They, then, to whom ‘these things appear true, and they to whom they do not, have no sentiment in common, and must needs despise each other, while they look to each other’s opinions Con¬ sider well, then, whether you coincide and think with me, .and whether we can begin our deliberations from this point —that it is never right either to do an injury or to return an injury; or when one has been evil-entreated, to reven & oneWlf bv doing evil in return; or do you dissent from, CRITO. 40 nnd not coincide in, this principle ? For so it appears to me, both long since and now; but if you in any respect think otherwise, say so and inform me. But if you per¬ sist in your former opinions, hear what follows. Cri. I do persist in them, and think with you. Speak on, then. Socr. I say next, then, or rather I ask; whether when a man has promised to do things that are just he ought to do them, or evade his promise ? Cri. He ought to do them. 11. Socr. Observe, then, what follows. By departing hence without the leave of the city, are we no*t doing evfl to some, and that to those to whom we ought least of all to do it, or not? And do we abide by what we agreed on as being just, or do we not? Cri. I am unable to answer your question, Socrates; for I do not understand it. bocr. Then, consider it thus. If, while we were prepar¬ ing to run away, or by whatever name we should call it, the laws and commonwealth should come, and, presenting themselves before us, should say, “ Tell me, Socrates, what do you purpose doing ? Do you design any thing else by this proceeding in which you are engaged than to destroy us, the laws, and the whole city, so far as you are able? Or do you think it possible for that city any longer to subsist, and not be subverted, in which judgments that are passed have no force, but are set aside and destroyed by private persons ?”—what should we say, Crito, to these and similar remonstrances? For any one, especially an orator, would have much to say on the violation of the law, which enjoins that judgments passed shall be en¬ forced. Shall we say to them that the city has done us an injustice, and not passed a right sentence? Shall we say this, or what else ? ... Cri. This, by Jupiter! Socrates. 12. Socr. TV hat, then, if the laws should say, u Socrates, was it not agreed between us that you should abide by the judgments which the city should pronounce ?” And if we should wonder at their speaking thus, perhaps they would s;u, ‘ Wonder not, Socrates, at what we say, but answer, since you arc accustomed to make use of questions and 3 50 CRITO. answers. For, come, what charge have you against us and the city, that you attempt to destroy us ? Did we not first give you being? and did not your father, through us, take your mother to wife and beget you ? Say, then, do you find fault with those laws among us that relate to marriage as being bad?” I should say, “I do not find fault with them.” u Do you with those that relate to youi nurture when born, and the education with which you were instructed? Or did not the laws, ordained on this point, enjoin rightly, in requiring your father to instinct you in music and gymnastic exercises?” I should say, rightly. Well, then, since you were born, nurtured, and educated through our means, can you say, first of all, that you are not both our offspring and our slave, as well you as your ancestors? And if this be so, do you think that there are equal rights between us? and whatever we at¬ tempt to do to you, do you think you may justly do to us in turn? Or had you not equal rights with your father,or master, if you happened to have one, so as to return what you suffered, neither to retort when found fault with, nor, when stricken, to strike again, nor many other things of the kind ; but that with your country and the laws you may do so; so that if we attempt to destroy you, thinking it to be just, you also should endeavor, so far as you are able, in return, to destroy us, the laws, and your country ; and in doing this will you say that you act justly—you who, in reality, make virtue your chief object? Or are you so wise as not to know that one’s country is more honorable, venerable, and sacred, and more highly prized both by gods, and men possessed of understanding, than mother and father,and all other progenitors; and that one ought te reverence, submit to, and appease one’s country, when angry, rather than one’s father; and either persuade it or do°what it orders, and to suffer quietly if it bids one suf¬ fer, whether to be beaten, or put in bonds ; or if it sends one out to battle there to be wounded or slain, this must be done; for justice so requires, and one must not give way, or retreat, or leave one’s post; but that both in war and in a court of justice, and everywhere, one must do what one’s city and country enjoin, or persuade it in such manner as justice allows; but that to offer violence either CRITO. 51 to one’s mother or father is not holy, much less to one’s country ? What shall we say to these tilings, Crito ? That the laws speak the truth, or not ? Cri. It seems so to me. 13. Socr. “ Consider, then, Socrates,” the laws perhaps might say, whethei we say truly that in what you are now attempting you are attempting to do what is not just toward us. For we, having given you birth, nurtured, in¬ structed you, and having imparted to you and all other citizens all the good in our power, still proclaim, by giving the power to every Athenian who pleases, when lie has a v- rived at years of discretion, and become acquainted with the business of the state, and us, the laws, that any one who is not satisfied with us may take his property, and go wherever he pleases. And if any one of you wishes to go to a colony, if he is not satisfied with us and the city, or to migrate and settle in another country, none of us, the laws, hinder or forbid him going whithersoever he pleases, taking with him all his property. But whoever continues with us after he has seen the manner in which we administer justice, and in other respects govern the city, we now say that he has in fact entered into a compact with us to do what we order; and we affirm that he who does not obey is in three respects guilty of injustice—be¬ cause he does not obey us who gave him being, and be¬ cause he does not obey us who nurtured him, and because, having made a compact that he would obey us, he neither does so, nor does he persuade us if we do any thing wrongly; though we propose for his consideration, and do not rigidly command him to do what we order, but leave him the choice of one of two things, either to persuade us, or to do what we require, and yet he does neither of these. 14. “And we say that you, O Socrates ! will be subject to these charges if you accomplish your design, and that not least of the Athenians, but most so of all.” And if I should ask, “ For what reason ?” they would probably just¬ ly retort on me by saying that, among all the Athenians, I especially made this compact with them. For they would say, “ Socrates, we have strong proof of this, that you were satisfied both with us and the city; for, of all the Athe- 52 CRITO. nians, you especially would never have dwelt in it if it had not been especially agreeable to you; for you never went out of the city to any of the public spectacles, except once to the Isthmian games, nor anywhere else, except on military service, nor have you ever gone abroad as other men do, nor had you ever had any desire to become acquainted with any other city or other laws, but we and our city were sufficient for you; so strongly were you at¬ tached to us, and so far did you consent to submit to our government, both in other respects and in begetting chil¬ dren in this city, in consequence of your being satisfied with it. Moreover, in your very trial, it was in your power to have imposed on yourself a sentence of exile, if you pleased, and might then have done, with the consent of the city, what you now attempt against its consent. Then, indeed, you boasted yourself as not being grieved if you must needs die; but you preferred, as you said, death to exile. Now, however, you are neither ashamed of those profes¬ sions, nor do you revere us, the laws, since you endeavor to destroy us; and you act as the vilest slave would act, by endeavoring to make your escape contrary to the con¬ ventions and the compacts by which you engaged to sub¬ mit to our government. First, then, therefore, answer us this, whether we speak the truth or not in affirming that you agreed to be governed by us in deed, though not in word?” What shall we say to this, Crito? Can we do otherwise than assent? Cri. We must needs do so, Socrates. Socr. “ What else, then,” they will say, “ are you doing but violating the conventions and compacts which you made with us, though you did not enter into them from compulsion or through deception, or from being compelled to determine in a short time, but during the space of sev¬ enty years, in which you might have departed if you had been dissatisfied with us, and the compacts had not appear¬ ed to you to be just? You, however, preferred neither Lacedaemon nor Crete, which you several times said are governed by good laws, nor any other of the Grecian or barbarian cities; but you have been less out of Athens than the lame and the blind, and other maimed persons. So much, it is evident, were you satisfied with the city CRITO. 53 and us, the laws, beyond the rest of the Athenians; for who can be satisfied with a city without laws ? But now will you not abide by your compacts? You will, if you are persuaded by us, Socrates, and will not make yourself ridiculous by leaving the city. 15 . “For consider, by violating these compacts and of¬ fending against any of them, what good you will do to yourself or your friends. For that your friends will run the risk of being themselves banished, and deprived of the rights of citizenship, or of forfeiting their property, is pretty clear. And as for yourself, if you should go to one of the neighboring cities, either Thebes or Megara, for both are governed by good laws, you will go there, Soc¬ rates, as an enemy to their polity; and such as have any regard for their country will look upon you with suspicion, regarding you as a corrupter of the laws; and you will confirm the opinion of the judges, so that they will appear to have condemned you rightly, for whoso is a corrupter of the laws will appear in all likelihood to be a corrupter of youths and weak-minded men. Will you, then, avoid these well-governed cities, and the best-ordered men? And should you do so, will it be worth your while to live ? Or will you approach them, and have the effrontery to con¬ verse with them, Socrates, on subjects the same as you did here—that virtue and justice, legal institutions and laws, should be most highly valued by men? And do you not think that this conduct of Socrates would be very indeco¬ rous? You must think so. But you will keep clear of these places, and go to Thessaly, to Crito’s friends, for there are the greatest disorder and licentiousness; and perhaps they will gladly hear you relating how drolly you escaped from prison, clad in some dress or covered with a skin, or in some other disguise such as fugitives are wont to dress themselves in, having so changed your usual appearance. And will no one say that you, though an old man, with but a short time to live, in all probability, have dared to have such a base desire of life as to violate the most sacred laws ? Perhaps not, should you not offend any one. But if you should, you will hear, Socrates, many things utterly un¬ worthy of you. You will live, too, in a state of abject dependence on all men, and as their slave. But what will 54 CRITO. you do in Thessaly besides feasting, as if you had gone to Thessaly to a banquet? And what will become of those discourses about justice and all other virtues? But do you wish to live for the sake of your children, that you may rear and educate them? What, then? Will you take them to Thessaly, and there rear and educate them, making them aliens to their country, that they may owe you this obligation too? Or, if not so, being reared here, will they be " better reared and educated while you are living, though not with them, for your friends will take care of them? Whether, if you go to Thessaly, will they take care of them, but if you go to Hades will they not take care of them ? If, however, any advantage is to be derived from those that say they are your friends, we must think they will. 16. “Then, O Socrates! be persuaded by us who have nurtured you, and do not set a higher value on your chil¬ dren, or on life, or on any thing else than justice, that, when you arrive in Hades, you may have all this to say in your defense before those who have dominion there. For neither here in this life, if you do what is proposed, does it appear to be better, or more just, or more holy to yourself, or any of your friends; nor will it be better for you when you arrive there. But now you depart, if you do depart, unjustly treated, not by us, the laws, but by men; but should you escape, having thus disgracefully re¬ turned injury for injury, and evil for evil, having violated your own compacts and conventions which you made with us, and having done evil to those to whom you least of. all should have done it—namely, yourself, your friends, your country, and us—both we shall be indignant with you as long as you live, and there our brothers, the laws in Hades, wilfnot receive you favorably, knowing that you attempt¬ ed, so far as you were able, to destroy us. Let not Crito, then, persuade you to do what he advises, rather than we.” 17. These things, my dear friend Crito, be assured, I seem to hear as the votaries of Cybele 1 seem to hear the flutes. And the sound of these words booms in my ear, and makes me incapable of hearing any thing else. Be 1 The Covybantes, priests of Cybele, who in their solemn festivals made such a noise with flutes that the hearers could hear no other sound. CRITO. 55 sure, then, so long as I retain my present opinions, if you should say any thing contrary to these, you will speak in vain. If, however, you think that you can prevail at all, say on. Cri. But, Socrates, I have nothing to say. Socr. Desist, then, Crito, and let us pursue this course, since this way the deity leads us. \ * INTRODUCTION TO TIIIJ PIEEDO. This dialogue presents us with an. account of the man¬ ner in which Socrates spent the last day of his life, and how'he met his death. The main subject is that of the soul’s immortality, which Socrates takes upon himself to prove with as much certainty as it is possible for the hu¬ man mind to arrive at. The question itself, though none could be better suited to the occasion, arises simply and naturally from the general conversation that precedes it. When his friends visit him in the morning for the pur¬ pose of spending this his last day with him, they find him sitting up in bed, and rubbing his leg, which had just been freed from bonds. He remarks on the unaccountable al¬ ternation and connection between pleasure and pain, and adds that iEsop, had he observed it, would have made a fable from it. This remark reminds Cebes of Socrates’s having put some of iEsop’s fables into metre since his imprisonment, and he asks, for the satisfaction of the poet Evenus, what had induced him to do so. Socrates ex¬ plains his reason, and concludes by bidding him tell Eve¬ nus to follow him as soon as he can. Simmias expresses his surprise at this message, on which Socrates asks, “ Is not Evenus a philosopher?” and on the question being an¬ swered in the affirmative, he says that he or any philoso¬ pher would be willing to die, though perhaps he would not commit violence on himself. This, again, seems a contra¬ diction to Simmias; but Socrates explains it by showing INTRODUCTION. 57 that our souls arc placed in the body by God, and may not leave it without his permission. Whereupon Cebes ob¬ jects that in that case foolish men only would wish to die, ami quit the service of the best of masters, to which Sim- mias agrees. Socrates, therefore, proposes to plead his cause before them, and to show that there is a great prob¬ ability that after this life he shall go into the presence of God and good men, and'be happy in proportion to the purity of his own mind. He begins 1 by stating that philosophy itself is nothing else than a preparation for and meditation on death! Death and philosophy have this in common: death sepa¬ rates the soul from the body; philosophy draws off the mind from bodily things to the contemplation of truth and virtue: for he is not a true philosopher who is led away by bodily pleasures, since the senses are the source of ignorance and all evil. The mind, therefore, is entirely occupied in meditating on death, and freeing itself as much as possible from the body. How, then, can such a man be afraid of death ? He who grieves at the approach of death can not be a true lover of wisdom, but is a lover of his body. And, indeed, most men are temperate through intemperance; that is to say, they abstain from some pleas¬ ures that they may the more easily and permanently enjoy others. They embrace only a shadow of virtue, not vir¬ tue itself, since they estimate the value of all things by the pleasures they afford. Whereas the philosopher .puri- fies his mind from all such things, and pursues virtue and wisdom for their own sakes. This course Socrates him¬ self had pursued to the utmost of his ability, with what success he should shortly know; and on these grounds he did not repine at leaving his friends in this world, bein- 1 Sec. 21-39. 3* 58 INTRODUCTION. persuaded that in another he should meet with good mas¬ ters and good friends. Upon this Cebes 1 says that he agrees with all else that had been said, but can not help entertaining doubts of what will become of the soul when separated from the body, for the common opinion is that it is dispersed and vanishes like breath or smoke, and no longer exists any¬ where. Socrates, therefore, proposes to inquire into the probability of the case, a fit employment for him under his present circumstances. His first argument 2 is drawn from the ancient belief prevalent among men, that souls departing hence exist in Hades, and are produced again from the dead. If this be true, it must follow that our souls are there, for they could not be produced again if they did not exist; and its truth is confirmed by this, that it is a general law of nature that contraries are produced from contraries the gicatei fiom the less, strong from weak, slow from swift, heat from cold, and in like manner life from death, and vice versa . To explain this more clearly, he proceeds to show that what is changed passes from one state to another, and so undergoes three different states—first, the actual state; then the transition; and, thirdly, the new state; as from a state of sleep, by awaking to being awake. In like manner birth is a transition from a state of death to life, and dying from life to death; so that the soul, by the act of dying, only passes to another state. If it were not so, all nat¬ ure would in time become dead, just as if people did not awake out of sleep all would at last be buried in eternal sleep. 'Whence the conclusion is that the souls of men are not annihilated by death. Cebes 3 agrees to this reasoning, and adds that he is 1 Sec. 30, 40. 2 Sec. 40-40. 3 Sec. 47. INTRODUCTION. 59 further convinced of its truth by calling to mind an argu¬ ment used by Socrates on former occasions, that knowl¬ edge is nothing but reminiscence; and if this is so, the soul must have existed, and had knowledge, before it be¬ came united to the body. i>ut in case Simmias should not yet be satisfied, Socrates 1 proceeds to enlarge on this, his second argument, drawn from reminiscence. We daily find that we are carried from the knowledge of one thing to another. Things per¬ ceived by the eyes, ears, and other senses bring up the thought of other things : thus the sight of a lyre or a gar¬ ment reminds us of a friend, and not only are we thus re¬ minded of sensible objects, but of things which are com¬ prehended by the mind alone, and have no sensitive exist¬ ence. For we have formed in our minds an idea of ab¬ stract equality, of the beautiful, the just, the good; in short, of every thing which we say exists without the aid of the senses, for we use them only in the perception of individual things; whence it follows that the mind did not acquire this knowledge in this life, but must have had it before, and therefore the soul must have existed before. Simmias and Cebes 2 both agree in admitting that Socra¬ tes has proved the pre-existence of the soul, but insist that he has not shown it to be immortal, for that nothing hindeis but that, according to the popular opinion, it may be dispersed at the dissolution of the body. To which Socrates replies, that if their former admissions are joined to his last argument, the immortality, as well as the pre¬ existence, of the soul has been sufficiently proved. For if it is true that any thing living is produced from that which io dead, then the soul must exist after death, otherwise it could not be produced again. 1 Sec. 48-57. 2 Sec. 55-59. 60 INTRODUCTION. However, to remove the apprehension that the soul may be dispersed by a wind, as it were, Socrates pioceeds, in his third argument , 1 to examine that doubt more thorough¬ ly. What, then, is meant by being dispersed but being dissolved into its parts? In order, therefore, to a thing being capable of dispersion it must be compounded of parts. Now, there are two kinds of things —one com¬ pounded, the other simple. The former kind is. subject to change, the latter not, and can be comprehended by the mind alone. The one is visible, the other invisible; and the soul, which is invisible, when it employs the bodily senses, wanders and is confused, but when it abstracts itself from the body it attains to the knowledge of that which is eternal, immortal, and unchangeable. The soul, therefore, being uncompounded and invisible, must be in¬ dissoluble; that is to say, immortal. Still Simmias and Cebes 2 are unconvinced. The former objects that the soul, according to Socrates’s own showing, is nothing but a harmony resulting from a combination of the parts of the body, and so may perish with the body, as the harmony of a lyre does when the lyre itself is broken. And Cebes, though he admits that the soul is more durable than the body, yet objects that it is not, therefore, of necessity immortal, but may in time wear out; and it is by no means clear that this is not its last period. These objections produce a powerful effect on the rest of the company; but Socrates,undismayed, exhorts them not to suffer themselves to be deterred from seeking the truth by any difficulties they may meet with; and then proceeds 3 to show, in a moment, the fallacy of Simnnas’s objection. It was before admitted, he says, that the soul i Spp fil-75. 2 Sec. 7G-84. 3 Sec. 93-99. INTRODUCTION. 61 existed before the body; but harmony is produced after the lyre is formed, so that the two cases are totally differ¬ ent. And, further, there are various degrees of harmony, but every soul is as much a soul as any other. But, then, what will a person who holds this doctrine, that the soul is harmony, say of virtue and vice in the soul ? Will he call them another kind of harmony and discord ? If so, he will contradict himself; for it is admitted that one soul is not more or less a soul than another, and therefore one can not be more or less harmonized than another, and one could not admit of a greater degree of virtue or vice than another; and indeed a soul, being harmony, could not par¬ take of vice at all, which is discord. Socrates, having thus satisfactorily answered the argu¬ ment adduced by Simmias, goes on to rebut that of Cebes , 1 v ho objected that the soul might in time wear out. In oidei to do this, he relates that, when a young man, he at-' tempted to investigate the causes of all things, why they exist and why they perish; and in the course of his re¬ searches, finding the futility of attributing the existence of things to what are called natural causes, he resolved on endeavoring to find out the reasons of things. He there- foie assumed that there are a certain abstract beauty and goodness and magnitude, and so of all other things; the tmth of which being granted, he thinks he shall be°able to prove that the soul is immortal. This, then, being conceded by Cebes, Socrates 2 argues that e\eiy thing that is beautiful is so from partaking of abstract beauty, and great from partaking of magnitude, and little from partaking of littleness. How, it is impos¬ sible, he argues, that contraries can exist in the same thing at the same time; for instance, the same thing can not 1 Sec. 100-112. 2 Sec ii2-128. 62 INTRODUCTION. possess both magnitude and littleness, but one will with¬ draw at the approach of the other; and not only so, but things which, though not contrary to each other, yet al- ways contain contraries within themselves, can not co-ex¬ ist ; for instance, the number three has no contrary, yet it contains within itself the idea of odd, which is the contrary of even, and so three never can become even ; in like man¬ ner heat while it is heat can never admit the idea of its contrary, cold. Now, if this method of reasoning is ap¬ plied to the soul, it will be found to be immortal; for life and death are contraries, and never can co-exist; but wherever the soul is, there is life: so that it contains with¬ in itself that which is contrary to death, and consequently can never admit of death ; therefore it is immortal. With this he closes his arguments in support of the soul’s immortality. Cebes owns himself convinced, but 'Simmias, though he is unable to make any objection to the soundness of Socrates’s reasoning, can not help still entertaining doubts on the subject. If, however, the soul is immortal, Socrates proceeds, 1 great need is there in this life to endeavor to become as wise and good as possible. For if death were a deliverance from every thing, it would be a great gain for the wicked ; but since the soul appears to be immortal, it must go to the place suited to its nat¬ ure. For it is said that each person’s demon conducts him to a place where he receives sentence according to his deserts. He then 2 draws a fanciful picture of the various regions of the earth, to which the good and the bad will respect¬ ively go after death, and exhorts his friends to use every endeavor to acquire virtue and wisdom in this life, “ for, he adds, “ the reward is noble, and the hope great.’ 1 1 90_1 ai. 2 Sor* 1 39-1 IK INTRODUCTION. 63 Having thus brought his subject to a conclusion, Soc¬ rates proposes to bathe himself, in order not to trouble others to wash his dead body. Crito thereupon asks if he has any commands to give, and especially how he would be buried, to which he, with his usual cheerfulness, makes answer, “ Just as you please, if only you can catch me and then, smiling, he reminds them that after death he shall be no longer with them, and begs the others of the party to be sureties to Crito for his absence from the body, as they had been before bound for his presence be¬ fore his judges. After he had bathed, and taken leave of his children and the women of his family, the officer of the Eleven comes in to intimate to him that it is now time to drink the poison. Crito urges a little delay, as the sun had not yet set; but Socrates refuses to make himself ridiculous by showing such a fondness for life. The man who is to administer the poison is therefore sent for; and on his holding out the cup, Socrates, neither trembling nor changing color or countenance at all, but, as he was wont, looking steadfastly at the man, asked if he might make a libation to any one; and, being told that no more poison than enough had been mixed, he simply prayed that his departure from this to another world might be happy, and then drank off the poison, readily and calmly. His friends, who had hitherto with difficulty restrained them¬ selves, could no longer control the outward expressions of grief, to which Socrates said, “ What are you doing, my friends? I, for this reason chiefly, sent away the women, that they might not commit any folly of this kind; for I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up.” When he had walked about for a while his legs began 64 INTRODUCTION. to grow heavy, so he lay down on his hack; and his body, from the feet upward, gradually grew cold and stiff. His last words were, “ Crito, we owe a cock to yEsculapius; pay it, therefore, and do not neglect it.” “ This,” concludes Phaedo, “ was the end of our friend— a man, as we may say, the best of all his time that we have known, and, moreover, the most wise and just. PH/EDO; OR, THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. First Echecrates, Piijedo. Then Socrates, Arollodorus, Cebes, Simmias, and Crito. Ech. Were you personally present, Phaedo, with Socra¬ tes on that day when he drank the poison in prison, or did you hear an account of it from some one else ? Ehced. I was there myself, Echecrates. Ech. What, then, did he say before his death, and how did he die? for I should be glad to hear: for scarcely any citizen of Phlius 1 ever visits Athens now, nor has any stranger for a long time come from thence who was able to give us a clear account of the particulars, except that he had died from drinking poison; but he was unable to tell us any thing more. 2. Ehced. And did you not hear about the trial—how it went off ? Ech. L es j some one told me this j and I wondered that, as it took place so long ago, lie appears to have died long afterward. What was the reason of this, Phtedo ? Ehced. An accidental circumstance happened in his fa¬ vor, Echecrates; for the poop of the ship which the Athe¬ nians send to Delos chanced to be crowned on the day be¬ fore the trial. Ech. But what is this ship? Ehced. It is the ship, as the Athenians say, in which Theseus formerly conveyed the fourteen boys and girls to 1 Phlins, to which Echecrates belonged, was a town of Sicyonia, in Peloponnesus. J 06 PHiEDO. Crete, and saved both them and himself. They, made a vow to Apollo on that occasion, as it is said, that if they were saved they would every year dispatch a sol¬ emn embassy to Delos; which, from that time to the pies- eXthey send yearly to the god 3. When they begin the preparations for this solemn embassy, they have a .law that the oitv shall be purified during tins period, and that no p ibXevem ion hall take place until the ship has reach- I’d Delos, »nd returned to Athens; and this occasionally takes a.long time, when the winds happen to impede then passage. The commencement of the embassy is when the priest°of Apollo has crowned the poop of the ship. Ai lh!s was done, as I said, on the day before the trial: on this account Socrates had a long interval in prison be- tiWeen the trial and his death. 4 r 4. Ech. And what, Fluedo, were the eircmnstances of his death? What was said and done? and who of > friends were with him? or would not the magistrates al¬ low them to he present, hut did he die destitute of fi lends . Phced. By no means; but some, indeed several, weie Pl AhA* Take the trouble, then, to relate to me all the par¬ ticulars as clearly as you can, unless you have any pi ess- “tfhn at leisure, and will endeavor to give you a full account; for to call Socrates to mind, wliethei speak¬ ing myself or listening to some one else, is always most de g S jffXTStindeed, Phicdo, you have others to listen to you who are of the same nnnd. However, endeavoi to relate every thing as accurately as you can. PhcBd I was, indeed, wonderfully affected by being present for I was not impressed with a feeling of pity, like one present at the death of a friend; for the man ap¬ peared to me to he happy Echecrates both from his man- ner and discourse, so fearlessly and nobly did he meet h s death : so much so, that it occurred to me that m going to Hades he was not going without a divine destiny, b when he aTdved tlmrehe would he happy if any one ever was. For this reason I was entirely uninfluenced h> any feelino* 0 f pitv, as would seem likely to he the case with PELEDO. G7 one present on so mournful an occasion; nor was I affect¬ ed by pleasure from being engaged in philosophical dis¬ cussions, as was our custom; for our conversation was of that kind. But an altogether unaccountable feeling pos¬ sessed me, a kind of unusual mixture compounded of pleas- ure and pain together, when I considered that he was im¬ mediately about to die. And all of us who were present were affected in much the same manner, at one time laugh¬ ing, at another weeping—one of us especially, Apollodorus, for you know the man and his manner. Ech. How should I not ? # b. Phced. He, then, was entirely overcome by these emo¬ tions ; and I, too, was troubled, as well as the others. Ech. But who were present, Phasdo ? Phced. Of his fellow-countrymen, this Apollodorus was present, and Critobulus, and his father, Crilo; moreover, Hermogenes,Epigenes, iEschines, and Antisthenes; C tesip- pus the Pteanian, Menexenus, and some others of his coun¬ trymen, were also there: Plato, I think, was sick. Ech. Were any strangers present? Phced. Yes; Simmias the "Eheban, Cebes, and Phaedon- des; and from Megara, Euclides and Terpsion. V. Ech. But what! were not Aristippus and Cleom- brotus present? Phced. No, for they were said to be at iEgina. Ech. Was any one else there ? Pined. I think that these were nearly all who were present. Ech. Well, now, what do you say was the subject of conversation ? Phced. I will endeavor to relate the whole to you from the beginning. On the preceding days I and the others were constantly in the habit of visiting Socrates, meeting early in the morning at the court-house where the trial took place, for it was near the prison. 8. Here, then, we waited every day till the prison was opened, conversing with each other, for it was not opened very early; but as soon as it was opened we went in to Socrates, and usually spent the day with him. On that occasion, however, we met earlier than usual; for on the preceding day, when we left the prison in the evening, we heard that the ship had 68 PHiEDO. arrived from Delos. We therefore urged each other to come as early as possible to the accustomed place. Ac¬ cordingly we came; and the porter, who used to admit us coinirm out, told us to wait, and not to enter until he had called us. “For,” lie said, “the Eleven are now freeing Socrates from his bonds, and announcing to him that lie must die to-day.” But in no long time he returned, and 9 When we entered, we found Socrates just freed from his bonds, and Xantippe, you know her, holding his little boy, and sitting by him. As soon as Xantippe saw us, s le wept aloud, and said such things as women usually do on such occasions-as, “ Socrates, your friends will now con¬ verse with you for the last time, and you with them. But Socrates, looking toward Crito, said, “ Crito, et some one take her home.” Upon which some of Crito s attendants led her away, wailing and beating herself. But Socrates, sitting up in bed, drew up his le^and rubbed it with his hand, and as he rubbed it, said, What an unaccountable thing, my friends that seems to be, which men call pleasure! and how wonderfully is it related to¬ ward that which appears to be its contrary, pain, in that they will not both be present to a man at the same time. Yet if any one pursues and attains the one, he is almost always compelled to receive the other, as if they were both united together from one head. 10. “And it seems to me,” he said, “ that if JEsop had observed this he would have made a fable from.it, how the deity, wishing to reconcile these warring principles, when he could not do so, united their heads together, and from hence whomsoever the one visits the other attends immediately after; as appears to be.the case with me, since I suffered pain in my leg before from the chain, but now pleasure seems to have succeeded. „ T . . Hereupon Cebes, interrupting him, said, By Jupitei . Socrates, you have done well in reminding, me : with re¬ spect to the poems which you made, by putting into metre those Fables of JEsop and the hymn to Apollo, several other persons asked me, and especially Evenus leccn \, with what design you made them after you came here, whereas before you had never made any. 11. H, there- PH^EDO. 6f> fore, you care at all that I should be able to answer Eve- mis when he asks me again—for I am sure he will do so —tell me what I must say to him.” ’fell him the truth, then, Cebes,” he replied, “that I dm not make them from a wish to compete with him or us poems, for I knew that this would be no easy matter; but that I might discover the meaning of certain dreams and discharge ruy conscience, if this should happen to be t ie music which they have often ordered me to apply my¬ self to. For they were to the following purport: often U y^ uy llfe the same dream visited me, appearing at diffeient times in different forms, yet always saying the same thing — Socrates,’ it said,‘apply yourself to and piactice music. 12. And I formerly supposed that it ex- mited and encouraged me to continue the pursuit I was engaged in, as those who cheer on racers, so that the dream encouraged me to continue the pursuit I was engaged in —namely, to apply myself to music, since philosophy is the highest music, and I was devoted to it. But, now since my trial took place, and the festival of the god retarded my death, it appeared to me that if by chance the dream so frequently enjoined me to apply myself to popular music I ought not to disobey it, but do so, for that it would be safer for me not to depart hence before I had discharged my conscience by making some poems in obe¬ dience to the dream. Thus, then, I first of all composed a i)mn to the god whose festival was present; and after the god, considering, that a poet, if he means to be a poet ought to make fables, and not discourses, and knowing that I was not skilled in making fables, I therefore put into verse those Fables of iEsop, which were at hand, and iv ere known to me, and which first occurred to me. , I, 3, “ t 1 hi ‘\ thei h t0 Even us, Cebes, and bid him fare- avo , and, if he is .wise, to follow me as soon as he can. ut 1 depart, as it seems, to-day; for so the Athenians order. . To this Simmias said, “What is this, Socrates, which you exhort Evenus to do? for I often meet with him-' •uk , loin what I know of him, I am pretty certain that 1G « wi 0t al be willing to comply with your advice.” W hat, then, said he, “is not Evenus a philosopher?” 70 PHiEDO. “ To me he seems to be so, said Simmia- (( “Then he will be willing,’ rejoined Sociates a, 1 will every one who worthily engages in this study. r Sau m isi? tKt'arSi.t heard?” . “'N’othin 0 * very clearly, bocrates. „ t «i however, peak only from hearsay; what, hen I we think it is. What else can one do in the mteiuil be f °‘‘Why! t then, Socrates, do they say that it is not allowa- 11 mil onp’s self? for I, as you asked just now, have heard both Philolaus, when he lived with »s, and severa others, say that it was not right to do this, b it 1 net he “ l 5 d « ^hen 1 'you^houldTonsider ifatteitively,” said Soe- ^lG^Then Cebes, gently smiling, said, speaking in his own dialect, 3 “Jove be witness!’ 1 A Pythagorean of Crotona. 2 gamely, “ that it is better t ; that it is better to die than to Ike. 3 Tlrontinn ' PHiEDO. 71 “ And, indeed,” said Socrates, “ it would appear to be unreasonable; yet still, perhaps, it has some reason on its Side I he maxim indeed, given on this subject in the mystical doctrines, 1 that we men. are in a kind of prison and that we ought not to free ourselves from it and es¬ cape, appears to me difficult to be understood, and not t0 P enet ‘' ate - This, however, appears to me, Cebes, to be well said : that the gods take care of us, and that we mcn^are one of their possessions. Does it not seem so to “ does,” replied Cebes. . “ Therefore,” said lie, “ if one of your slaves were to kill umsell, without your having intimated that you wished urn to die, should you not be angry with him, and should you not punish him if you could ?” “ Certainly,” he replied. T erlia ps, then, in this point of view, it is not unreason- able to assert that a man ought not to kill himself before the deity lays him under a necessity of doing so, such as that now laid on me. 17. “This, indeed,” said Cebes, “appears to be probable, -but what you said just now, Socrates, that-philosophers should be very willing to die, appears to be an absurdity, it w hat we said just now is agreeable to reason—that it is txod who takes care of us, and that we are his property. *or that the wisest men should not be grieved at leaving that service in which they govern them who are the best ot all masters-namely, the gods-is not consistent with i eason; for surely he can not think that he will take bet¬ ter care of himself when he has become free. But a fool¬ ish man might perhaps think thus, that he should fly from his master, and would not reflect that he ought not to fly from a good one, but should cling to him as much as pos¬ sible ; therefore he would fly against all reason; but a man of sense would desire to be constantly with one better than himself . Thus, Socrates, the contrary of what you just now said is likely to be the case; for it becomes the wise to be grieved at dying, but the foolish to rejoice.” i8. hocrates, on hearing this, appeared to me to be p eased with the pertinacity of Cebes, and, looking toward 1 Of Pythagoras. PHiEDO. 72 us said, “ Cebes, you sec, always searches out arguments, and is not at all willing to admit at once any thing one has said.” Whereupon Simmias. replied, “But, indeed, Socrates, Cebes appears to me now to say something to the pur¬ pose ; for with what design should men really wise fly from masters who are better than themselves, and so read¬ ily leave them? And Cebes appears to me to direct his argument against you, because you so easily endui e to abandon both us and those good rulers, as you youiselt “You speak justly,” said Socrates, for I think you mean that I ought to make my defense to this charge, as if I were in a court of justice. “ Certainly,” replied Simmias. , , , 19. “Come, then,” said he, “I will endeavor to defend myself more successfully before, you than before t e fudges For ” he proceeded, “ Simmias and Cebes, it 1 did not think that I should go, first of all, among other deities who are both wise and good, and, next, among men who have departed this life, better than any here, I should be wrong in not grieving at death; but now be assured, 1 hope to go among good men, though I would not positive¬ ly asserCit. That, however, I shall go among gods who •ire perfectly good masters, be assured I can positively as- sert Uiis' if I can any thing of the kind So that, on this account, I am not so much troubled, but I entertain a •rood hope that something awaits those who die, and that, as was said long since, it will be far better for the gooi than the^ dieti, Socrates,” said Simmias, “ would you go away keeping this persuasion to yourself, or would you impart it to us? For this good appears to me to be also common to us; and at the same time it will be an apology for you, if yon can persuade us to believe what you say. “I will endeavor to do so,” he said, “But first lot us attend to Critodiere, and see wlmt it is be seems to ha\o for some time wished to say. , . , “What else, Socrates,” said Crito, but what he who is to give you the poison told me some time ago, that I should tell you to speak as little as possible, h or lie says PlIiEDO. 13 that men become too much heated by speaking, and that nothing of this kind ought to interfere with the poison; and that, otherwise, those who did so were sometimes com¬ pelled to drink two or three times.” To which Socrates replied, “Let him alone, and let him attend to his own business, and prepare to give it me twice, or, if occasion require, even thrice.” 21. “I was almost certain what you would say,” an¬ swered Crito, “ but he has been some time pestering me.” “ Never mind him,” he rejoined. “But now I wish to render an account to you, my judges, of the reason why a man who has really devoted his life to philosophy, when he is about to die, appears to me, on good grounds, to have confidence, and to entertain a firm hope that the greatest good will befall him in the other world when he has departed this life. How, then, this comes to pass, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavor to explain. “For as many as rightly apply themselves to philosophy seem to have left all others in ignorance, that they aim at nothing else than to die and be dead. If this, then, is true, it would surely be absurd to be anxious about nothing else than this during their whole life, but, when it arrives, to be grieved at what they have been long anxious about and aimed at.” 22. Upon this, Simmias, smiling, said, “By Jupiter ! Soc¬ rates, though I am not now at all inclined to smile, you have made me do so; for I think that the multitude, if they heard this, would think it was very well said in refer¬ ence to philosophers, and that our countrymen particular¬ ly would agree with you, that true philosophers do desire death, and that they are by no means ignorant that they deserve to suffer it.” “And, indeed, Simmias, they would speak the truth, ex¬ cept in asserting that they are not ignorant; for they are ignorant of the sense in which true philosophers desire to die, and in what sense they deserve death, and what kind of death. But,” he said, “ let us take leave of them, and speak to one another. Do we think that death is any thing?” “ Certainly,” replied Simmias. 4 74 PHiEDO. 23. Is it any tiling else than the separation of the soul from the body ? And is not this to die, for the body to be apart by itself separated from the soul, and for t le soul to subsist apart by itself separated from the body. Is death any thing else than this ?” “ No, but this,” he replied. “ Consider, then, my good friend, whether you are of the same opinion as I; for thus, I think, we shall understand better the subject we are considering. Boes it appeal to you to be becoming in a philosopher to be anxious about pleasures, as they are called, such as meats and drinks i “ By no means, Socrates,” said Simmias. ^ “But what? about the pleasures of love? a ^sfotj at all.” 24. “ What, then ? Does such a man appear to you to think other bodily indulgences of value? For instance, does he seem to you to value or despise the possession ot magnificent garments and sandals, and other ornaments of fhe body, except so far as necessity compels him to use them ?” “The true philosopher,” he answered, “appears to me to despise them.” • . . , . “ Does not, then,” he continued, “ the whole employment of such a man appear to you to be, not about the body, but to separate himself from it as much as possible, and be occupied about his soul ?” “ It does.” . “First of all, then,in such matters,does not the philoso¬ pher, above all other men, evidently free his soul as much as he can from communion with the body ? “ It appears so.” .. , 25. “And it appears, Simmias, to the generality or mei , that he who takes no pleasure in such things, and who does not use them, does not deserve to live; but that he nearly approaches to death who cares ^nothing for the pleasures that subsist through the body. “You speak very truly.” . .. , . , 9 “But what with respect to the acquisition ot wisdom/ Is the body an impediment, or not, if any one takes it with him as a partner in the search ? What I mean is tlds- Do sisrht and hearing convey any truth to men, or PII^EDO. are they such as the poets constantly sing, who say that we neither hear nor see any thing with accuracy? If, however, these bodily senses are neither accurate nor clear, much less can the others be so; for they are all far in¬ ferior to these. Do they not seem so to you ?” “ Certainly,” he replied. 26. “ When, then,” said he, “ does the soul light on the truth? for when it attempts to consider anything in conjunc¬ tion with the body, it is plain that it is then led astray by it.” “ You say truly.” “ Must it not, then, be by reasoning, if at all, that any of the things that really are become known to it?” “ Yes.” “And surely the soul then reasons best when none of these things disturb it — neither hearing, nor sight, nor pain, nor pleasure of any kind; but it retires as much as •possible within itself, taking leave of the body; and, so far as it can, not communicating or being in contact with it, it aims at the discovery of that which is.” “ Such is the case.” “Does not, then, the soul of the philosopher, in these cases, despise the body, and flee from it, and seek to retire within itself?” “ It appears so.” 27. “But what as to such things as these, Simmias? Do we say that justice itself is something or nothing?” “ We say it is something, by Jupiter!” “And that beauty and goodness are something?” “How not?” “Now, then, have you ever seen any thing of this kind with your eyes ?” “ By no means,” he replied. “Did you ever lay hold of them by any other bodily sense? But I speak generally, as of magnitude, health, strength, and, in a word, of the essence of every thing; that is to say, what each is. Is, then, the exact truth of these perceived by means of the body, or is it thus, who¬ ever among us habituates himself to reflect most deeply and accurately on each several thing about which he is considering, he will make the nearest approach to the knowledge of it ?” o 76 PHiEDO. ic (Jci’t-milly 28. “ Would not he, then, do this with the utmost pu¬ rity, who should in the highest degree approach each sub¬ ject by means of the mere mental faculties, neitnei em¬ ploying the sight in conjunction with the reflective faculty, nor introducing any other sense together with reasoning, but who, using pure reflection by itself, should attempt to search out each essence purely by itself, freed as much as possible from the eyes and ears, and, in a word, from the whole body, as disturbing the soul, and not suffering it to acquire truth and wisdom, when it is in communion with it. Is not he the person, Simraias, if any one can, who will arrive at the knowledge of that which is ? ^ 29. “You speak with wonderful truth, Socrates, re¬ plied Simmias. • ■ • 1 f .. , u “ Wherefore,” he said, “it necessarily follows from all this that some such opinion as this should be entei tamed by genuine philosophers, so that they should speak among themselves as follows: ‘A by-path, as it were, seems to lead us on in our researches undertaken by reason, because so lono* as we are encumbered with the body, and our soul is contaminated with such an evil, we can never fully_at- tain to what we desire; and this, we say, is truth. Por the body subjects us to innumerable hinderances on ac¬ count of its necessary support; and, moreover, if any dis¬ eases befall us, they impede us in our search after that which is; and it fills us with longings, desires, fears, all kinds of fancies, and a multitude of absurdities, so that, as it is said in real truth, by reason of the body it is never possible for us to make any advances in wisdom. . 30. Por nothing else than the body and its desires occasion wars, seditions, and contests; for all wars among us arise on ac¬ count of our desire to acquire wealth: and we are com¬ pelled to acquire wealth on account of the body, being en¬ slaved to its service; and consequently on all these accounts we are hindered in the pursuit of philosophy. But the worst of all is, that if it leaves us any leisure, and we ap¬ ply ourselves to the consideration of any subject, it con¬ stantly obtrudes itself in the midst of our researches, and occasions trouble and disturbance, and confounds us so that we are not able, by reason of it, to discern the tiutn. PILZEDO. n It has, then, in reality been demonstrated to us that if we are ever to know any thing purely, we must be separated from the body, and contemplate the things themselves by the mere soul; and then, as it seems, we shall obtain that which we desire, and which we profess ourselves to be lovers of—wisdom—when we are dead, as reason shows, but not while we are alive. 31. For if it is not possible to know any thing purely in conjunction with the body, one of these two things must follow, either that we can never acquire knowledge, or only after we are dead; for then the soul will subsist apart by itself, separate from the body, but not before. And while we live we shall thus, as it seems, approach nearest to knowledge, if we hold no intercourse or communion at all with the body, except what absolute necessity requires, nor suffer ourselves to be polluted by its nature, but purify ourselves from it, un¬ til God himself shall release us. And thus being pure, and freed from the folly of body, we shall in all likelihood be with others like ourselves, and shall of ourselves know the whole real essence, and that probably is truth; for it is not allowable for the impure to attain to the pure. Such things, I think, Simmias, all true lovers of wisdom must both think and say to one another. Does it not seem so to you ?” “Most assuredly, Socrates.” 32. “If this,then,” said Socrates, “is true, my friend, there is great hope for one who arrives where.I am going, there, if anywhere, to acquire that in perfection for the sake of which we have taken so much pains during our past life; so that the journey now appointed me is set out upon with good hope, and will be so by any other man who thinks that his mind lias been, as it were, purified.” “ Certainly,” said Simmias. “ But does not purification consist in this, as was said in a former part of our discourse, in separating as much as possible the soul from the body, and in accustoming it to gather and collect itself by itself on all sides apart from the body, and to dwell, so far as it can, both now and hereafter, alone by itself, delivered, as it were, from the shackles of the body?” “ Certainly,” lie replied. 78 PHiEDO. 33. “Is this, then, called death, this deliverance and sep¬ aration of the soul from the body ?” “Assuredly,” he answered. “But, as we affirmed, those who pursue philosophy rightly are especially and alone desirous to delivei it; and this is the very study of philosophers, the deliverance and separation of the soul from the body, is it not # ? “ It appears so.” . , , “ Then, as I said at first, would it not be ridiculous tor a man who has endeavored throughout his life to live as near as possible to death, then, when death arrives, to grieve? would not this be ridiculous? “How should it not?” “In reality, then, Simmias,” he continued, “those who pursue philosophy rightly, study to die; and to them, of all men, death is least formidable.- Judge from this. Since they altogether hate the body and desire to keep the soul by itself, would it not be irrational if, when this conies to pass, they should be afraid and grieve, and not be glad to go to that place where, on their arrival, they may hope to obtain that which they longed for throughout life ?. But they longed for wisdom, and to be freed from association with that which they hated. 34. Have many of their own accord wished to descend into Hades, on account of human objects of affection, their wives and sons, induced by this very hope of their seeing and being with those whom they have loved? and shall one who really loves wisdom, and firmly cherishes this very hope, that he shall nowhere else attain it in a manner worthy of the name, except in Hades, be grieved at dying, and not gladly go there? We must •think that he would gladly go, my friend, if he be in truth a philosopher; for he will be firmly persuaded of this, that he will nowhere else than there attain wisdom in its pu¬ rity; and if this be so, would it not be very irrational, as I just now said, if such a man were to be afraid of death?” “ Very much so, by Jupiter !” he replied. 35. “Would not this, then,” he resumed, “be a suffi¬ cient'proof to you, with respect to a man whom you should see grieved when about to die, that he was not a lovei of wisdom, but a lover of his body ? And this same person PHJEDO. 19 is probably a lover of riches and a lover of honor, one or both of these.” “ It certainly is as you say,” he replied. “ Does not, then,” he said, “ that which is called forti¬ tude, Simmias, eminently belong to philosophers?” “ By all means,” lie answered. “And temperance also, which even the multitude call temperance, and which consists in not being carried away by the passions, but in holding them in contempt, and keeping them in subjection, does not this belong to those only who most despise the body, and live in the study of philosophy?” “ Necessarily so,” he replied. 36. “For,” he continued, “if you will consider the for¬ titude and temperance of others, they will appear to you to be absurd.” “ How so, Socrates ?” “ Do you know,” he said, “ that all others consider death among the great evils ?” “ They do, indeed,” he answered. “Then, do the brave among them endure death, when they do endure it, through dread of greater evils ?” “ It is so.” “All men, therefore, except philosophers, are brave through being afraid and fear; though it is absurd that any one should be brave through fear and cowardice.” “ Certainly.” “But what, are not those among them who keep their passions in subjection affected in the same way? and are they not temperate through a kind of intemperance? And although we may say, perhaps, that this is impossi¬ ble, nevertheless, the manner in which they are affected with respect to this silly temperance resembles this; for, fearing to be deprived of other pleasures, and desiring them, they abstain from some, being mastered by others. And though they call intemperance the being governed by pleasures, yet it happens to them that, by being mastered by some pleasures, they master others; and this is similar to what was just now said, that in a certain manner they become temperate through intemperance.” “ So it seems.” 80 PHiEDO. 37. “ My dear Simmias, consider that this is not a right exchange for virtue, to barter pleasures for pleasures, pains for pains, fear for fear, and the greater for the lesser, like pieces of money; but that that alone is the right coin, for which we ought to barter all these things, wisdom; and for this, and with this, every thing is in reality bought and sold. Fortitude, temperance, and justice, and, in a word, true virtue, subsist with wisdom, whether pleasures and fears, and every thing else of the kind, are present or absent; but when separated from wisdom, and changed one for another, consider whether such virtue is not a mere outline, and in reality servile, possessing neither soundness nor truth. But the really true virtue is a purification from all such things; and temperance, justice, fortitude, and wisdom itself, are a kind of initiatory purification. 38. And those who instituted the mysteries for us appear to have been by no means contemptible, but in reality to have intimated long since that whoever shall arrive in Hades unexpiated and uninitiated shall lie in mud, but he that arrives there purified and initiated shall dwell with the gods. ‘ For there are,’ say those who preside at the mysteries, c many wand-bearers, but few inspired.’ 1 hese last, in my opinion, are no other than those who have pur¬ sued philosophy rightly: that I might be of their num¬ ber, I have, to the utmost of my ability, left no means un¬ tried, but have endeavored to the utmost of my power. But whether I have endeavored rightly, and have in an^ respect succeeded, on arriving there I shall know clearly, if it please God—very shortly, as it appears to me. 39. “ Such, then, Simmias and Cebes,” he added, “ is the defense I make, for that I, on good grounds, do not repine or grieve at leaving you and my masters heic, be¬ ing persuaded that there, no less than here, I shall meet with good masters and friends. But to the multitude this is incredible. If, however, I have succeeded better with you in my defense than I did with the Athenian judges, it is well.” When Socrates had thus spoken, Cebes, taking up the discussion, said, a Socrates, all the rest appears to me to be said rightly; but what you have said respecting the soul will occasion much incredulity in many from the appre- PHJEDO. 81 hension that, when it is separated from the body, it no longer exists anywhere, but is destroyed and perishes on the very day in which a man dies; and that immediately it is separated and goes out'from the body, it is dispersed, and vanishes like breath or smoke, and is no longer any¬ where ; since, if it remained anywhere united in itself, and freed from those evils which you have just now enumer¬ ated, there would be an abundant and good hope, Socra¬ tes, that what you say is true. 40. But this, probably, needs no little persuasion and proof, that the soul of a man who dies, exists, and possesses activity and intelli¬ gence.” “ You say truly, Cebes,” said Socrates; “ but what shall we do ? Are you willing that we should converse on these points, whether such is probably the case or not?” Indeed,” replied Cebes, “ I should gladly hear your opinion on these matters.'” u I do not think,” said Socrates, “ that any one who should now hear us, even though he were a comic poet, would say that I am talking idly, or discoursing on sub¬ jects that do not concern me. If you please, then, we will examine into it. Bet us consider it in this point of view, Avhether the souls of men who are dead exist in Hades, or not. This is an ancient saying, which we now call to mind, that souls departing hence exist there, and return hither again, and are produced from the dead. 41. And if this is so, that the living are produced again from the dead, can there be any other consequence than that our souls are there ? for surely they could not be produced again if they did not exist; and this would be a sufficient proof that these things are so, if it should in reality be evident that the living are produced from no other source than the dead. But, if this is not the case, there will be need of other arguments.” “ Certainly,” said Cebes. “ You must not, then,” he continued, “ consider this only with respect to men, if you wish to ascertain it with great¬ er certainty, but also with respect to all animals and plants, and, in a word, with respect to every thing that is subject to generation. Let us see whether they are not all so pro¬ duced, no otherwise than contraries from contraries, wher- 4* PHiEDO. 82 ever they have any such quality; as, for instance, the hon¬ orable is contrary to the base, and the just to the unjust, and so with ten thousand other things. 42. Let us consider this, then, whether it is necessary that all things which have a contrary should be produced from nothing else than their contrary.' As, for instance, when any thing becomes greater, is it not necessary that, from being previously smaller, it afterward became greater?” « Yes.” “And if it becomes smaller, will it not, from being pie- viously greater, afterward become smallei ? “ It is so,” he replied. «And from stronger, weaker ? and from slower, swift¬ er ?” “ Certainly.” ., . “ What then ? If any thing becomes worse, must it not become so from better? and if more just, from more un¬ just?” “How should it not?” . ,. “We have, then,” he said, “sufficiently determined this, that all things are thus produced, contraries from con¬ traries ?” “ Certainly.” “What next? Is there also something of this kind in them; for instance, between all two contraries a mutual twofold production, from one to the other, and from that other back again? for between a greater tiling and a small¬ er there are increase and decrease, and do we not accord¬ ingly call the one to increase, the other to decrease . “ Yes,” he replied. . , 43. “And must not to be separated and commingled, to orow cold and to grow warm, and every thing in the same manner, even though sometimes we have not names to designate them, yet in fact be everywhere thus circum¬ stanced, of necessity, as to be produced from each othei, and be subject to a reciprocal generation?’ “ Certainlv,” he replied. “What, then?” said Socrates, “has life any contrary, as waking has its contrary, sleeping?” « Certainly,” he answered. “What ?” PHJEDO. 83 “ Death,” he replied. “Are not these, then, produced from each other, since they are contraries; and are not the modes by which they are produced twofold, intervening between these two ?” “How should it be otherwise?” “ I, then,” continued Socrates, “ will describe to you one pair of the contraries which I have just now mentioned, both what it is and its mode of production; and do you describe to me the other. I say that one is to sleep, the other to awake; and from sleeping awaking is produced, and from awaking sleeping, and that the modes of their production are, the one to fall asleep, the other to be roused. 44. Have I sufficiently explained this to you, or not ?” “ Certainly.” “ Do you, then,” he said, “ describe to me, in the same manner, with respect to life and death ? Do you not say that life is contrary to death?” “ I do.” “And that thev are produced from each other?” « Yes.” “ What, then, is produced from life ?” “ Death,” he replied. “ What, then,” said he, “ is produced from death ?” “ I must needs confess,” he replied, “ that life is.” “From the dead, then, O Cebes! living things and liv¬ ing men are produced.” “ It appears so,” he said. “ Our souls, therefore,” said Socrates,“exist in Hades.” “ So it seems.” “With respect, then, to their mode of production, is not one of them very clear ? for to die surely is clear, is it not ?” “ Certainly,” he replied. “What, then, shall we do?” he continued; “shall we not find a corresponding contrary mode of production, or will nature be defective in this ? Or must we discover a contrary mode of production to dying?” “ By all means,” he said. “What is this?” “ To revive.” 84 PHiEDO. « Therefore,” he proceeded, “ if there is sijcli a thing as to revive, will not this reviving be a mode of production from the dead to the living? “Certainly.” , . ... __ “Thus, then, we have agreed, that the living aio mo- duced from the dead, no less than the dead fiom the In- ino-; but, this being the case, there appears to me suffi¬ cient proof that the souls of the dead must necessaii y exist somewhere, from whence they are again produced. 45. “ It appears to me, Socrates, he said that 4h s must necessarily follow from what has been admitted. “ See now, O Cebes 1” he said,“that we have not agreed on these things improperly, as it appears to me: for i one class of things were not constantly given back in the place of another, revolving, as it were, in a circle, but generation were direct from one thing alone into its opposite, and did not turn round again to the other, or retrace its course, do you know that all things would at length have the sail e form, be in the same state, and cease to be produced . “ How say you ?” he asked. ^ “ It is by no means difficult,” he replied “ to understand w hat I mean ; if, for instance, there should be such a thing ns falling asleep, but no reciprocal waking again P' od "“ from a state of sleep, you know that at length all things would show the fable of Endynnon to be a jest, and it would be thought nothing at all of, because every t ing else would belli the same state as he —namely, asleep. And if all things were mingled together, but never sep. - rated that doctrine of Anaxagoras would soon be verified, ‘all things would be together.’ 46. Likewise, my deal Cebes,if all things that partake of life should die, and a - er thev are dead should remain in this state of death, ai not revive again, would.it not necessarily follow that at length all things should be dead, and nothing alive ? Toi if lfvin" beings are produced from other things, and livm 0 beings°lie, what could prevent their being all absorbed in d^Nothing whatever, I think, Socrates,” replied Cebes; “ but you appear to me to speak the exact truth. “For, Cebes,” he continued, “as it seems to me such undoubtedly is the case, and we have not admitted thes PHiEDO. 85 tilings under a delusion, for it is in reality true that there is a reviving again, that the living are produced from the dead, that the souls of the dead exist, and that the condi¬ tion of the good is better, and of the evil, worse.” 47. “And, indeed,” said Cebes, interrupting him, “ac¬ cording to that doctrine, Socrates, which you are frequent¬ ly' in the habit of advancing, if it is true, that our learning is nothing else than reminiscence, according to this it is surely necessary that we must at some former time have learned what we now remember. But this is impossible, unless our soul existed somewhere before it came into this human form; so that from hence, also,the soul appears to be something immortal.” “But, Cebes,” said Simmias, interrupting him, “what proofs are there of these things ? Remind me of them, for I do not very well remember them at present.” 48. “It is proved,” said Cebes, “ by one argument, and that a most beautiful one, that men, when questioned (if one questions them properly) of themselves, describe all things as they are: however, if they had not innate knowl- age and right reason, they would never be able to do this. Moreover, if one leads them to diagrams, or any thing else of the kind, it is then most clearly apparent that this is the'case.” “But if you are not persuaded in this way, Simmias,” said Socrates, “ see if you will agree with us on consider¬ ing the matter thus. For do you doubt how that which is called learning is reminiscence?” “ I do not doubt,” said Simmias; “ but I require this very thing of which we are speaking, to be reminded; and, indeed, from what Cebes has begun to say, I almost now remember, and am persuaded; nevertheless, however, I should like to hear now how you would attempt to prove it.”* “I do it thus,” he replied: “we admit, surely, that if any one be reminded of any thing, he must needs have known that thing at some time or other before.” “ Certainly,” he said. 49. “Do we,then, admit this also, that when knowledge comes in a certain manner it is reminiscence? But the manner I mean is this: if any one, upon seeing or hearing, 86 PHiEDO. or perceiving through the medium, of any othei sense, some particular thing, should not only know that, but also form an idea of something else, of which the knowledge is not the same, but different, should we not justly say that he remembered that of which he received the idea? “How mean you?” . a For instance, the knowledge of a man is different liom that of a lyre.” “How not?” “Do you not know, then, that lovers when they see a lyre, or a garment, or any thing else which their favorite is accustomed to use, are thus affected; they both i©cog¬ nize the lyre, and receive in their minds the form of the person to whom the lyre belonged? r I his is reminiscence . just as any one, seeing Simmias, is often reminded of Cebes, and so in an infinite number of similar instances. “An infinite number, indeed, by Jupiter!” said Simmias. “ Is not, then,” he said, “ something of this sort a kind of reminiscence, especially when one is thus affected with respect to things which, from lapse of time, and not think¬ ing of them, one has now forgotten ?” “ Certainly,” he replied. 50 . “But what?” he continued. “Does it happen that when one sees a painted horse or a painted lyre one is re¬ minded of a man, and that when one sees a picture of Sim¬ mias one is reminded of Cebes ?” “ Certainly.” “And does it not also happen that on seeing a picture of Simmias one is reminded of Simmias himself ? “ It does, indeed,” he replied. “Does it not happen, then, according to all this, that reminiscence arises partly from things like, and paitly from things unlike?” “ It does.” .... “ But when one is reminded by things like, is it not necessary that one should be thus further affected, so as to perceive whether, as regards likeness, this falls short or not of the thing of which one has been reminded?” “It is necessary,” he replied. “ Consider, then,” said Socrates, “ if the case is thus. Do we allow that there is such a thing as equality ? I do PHJEDO. 87 riot mean of one log with another, nor one stone with an¬ other, nor any thing else of this kind, but something alto¬ gether different from all these—abstract equality; do we allow that there is any such thing, or not?” “By Jupiter! we most assuredly do allow it,” replied Sim mi as. 51. “And do we know what it is itself?” “ Certainly,” he replied. “Whence have we derived the knowledge of it? Is it not from the things we have just now mentioned, and that from seeing logs, or stones, or other things of the kind, equal, we have from these formed an idea of that which is different from these—for does it not appear to you to be different ? Consider the matter thus. Do not stones that are equal, and logs sometimes that are the same, ap¬ pear at one time equal, and at another not?” “ Certainly.” “ But what ? Does abstract equality ever appear to you unequal? or equality inequality?” “ Never, Socrates, at any time.” “ These equal things, then,” he said, “ and abstract equal¬ ity, are not the same ?” “ By no means, Socrates, as it appears.” “ However, from these equal things,” he said, “ which are different from that abstract equality, have you not formed your idea and derived your knowledge of it?” “You speak most truly,” he replied. “ Is it not, therefore, from its being like or unlike them?” “ Certainly.” “But it makes no difference,” he said. “When, there¬ fore, on seeing one thing, you form, from the sight of it, the notion of another, whether like or unlike, this,” he said, “ must necessarily be reminiscence.” “ Certainly.” 52. “What, then, as to this?” he continued. “Are we affected in any such way with regard to logs and the equal things we have just now spoken of? And do they appear to us to be equal in the same manner as abstract equality itself is, or do they fall short in some degree, or not at all, of being such as equality itself is ?” “They fall far short,” he replied. 88 PII2ED0. “ Do we admit, then, that when one, on beholding some particular thing, perceives that it aims, as that which I now see, at being like something else that exists, but tails short of it, and can not become such as that is, but is in¬ ferior to it—do we admit that he who perceives this niust necessarily have had a previous knowledge of that which he says it resembles, though imperfectly ? “ It is necessary.” . “What, then? Are we affected in some such way, or not, with respect to things equal and abstract equality it¬ self?” “Assuredly.” “It is necessary, therefore, that we must have known abstract equality before the time when, on first seeing equal things, we perceived that they all aimed at lesem- bling equality, but failed in doing so. “ Such is the case.” 53 “ Moreover, we admit this too, that we perceived this, and could not possibly perceive it by any other means than the sight, or touch, or some other of the senses, for I say the same of them all.” «For they are the same, Socrates, so far as our argu¬ ment is concerned.” “ However, we must perceive, by means of the senses, that nil things which come under the senses aim at that abstract equality, and yet fall short of it; oi how shall w e say it is ?” “ Even so.” “Before, then, we began to see, and hear, and use our other senses, we must have had a knowledge of equality i tse lf — what it is, if we were to refer to it those equal thino-s that come under the senses, and observe that all such things aim at resembling that, but fall far short of it.” “This necessarily follows, Socrates,from what has been already said.” “ But did we not, as soon as we were born, see and near, and possess our other senses ?” “ Certainly.” “ But, we have said, before we possessed these, we must have had a knowledge of abstract equality ?” riliEDO. 89 “ Yes.” “We must have had it, then, as it seems, before we were born.” “ It seems so.” 54. “ If, therefore, haying this before we were born, we were born possessing it, we knew, both before we were born and as soon as we were born, not only the equal and the greater and smaller, but all things of the kind; for our present discussion is not more respecting equality than the beautiful itself, the good, the just, and the holy, and, in one word, respecting every thing which we mark with the seal of existence, both in the questions we ask and the answers we give. So that we must necessarily have had a knowl¬ edge of all these before we were born.” “ Such is the case.” “And if, having once had it, we did not constantly for¬ get it, we should always be born with this knowledge, and should always retain it through life. For to know "is this, when one has got a knowledge of any thing, to retain and not lose it; for do we not call this oblivion, Simmias, the loss of knowledge?” “Assuredly, Socrates,” he replied. 55. “ But if, having had it before we were born, we lose it at our birth, and afterward, through exercising the senses about these things, we recover the knowledge which we once before possessed, would not that which we call learning be a recovery of our own knowledge? And in saying that this is to remember, should we not say right¬ ly?” “ Certainly.” “For this appeared to be possible, for one having per¬ ceived any thing, either by seeing or hearing, or employ¬ ing any other sense, to form an idea of something differ¬ ent from this, which he had forgotten, and with which this was connected by being unlike or like. So that, as I said, one of these two things must follow: either we are all born with this knOAvledge, and we retain it through life, or those whom we say learn afterward do nothing else than remember, and this learning will be reminiscence.” “ Such, certainly, is the case, Socrates.” 56. “Which, then, do you choose, Simmias: that we are 90 PHiEDO. born with knowledge, or that we afterward remember what we had formerly known ?” “At present, Socrates, I am unable to choose.” “But what? Are you able to choose in this case, and what do you think about it ? Can a man who possesses knowledge give a reason for the things that he knows, or not?” « He needs must be able to do so, Socrates, he replied. “And do all men appear to you to be able to give a rea¬ son for the things of which we have just now been speak- in 0 ' ?” «I wish they could,” said Simmias; “ but I am much more afraid that at this time to-morrow there will no longer be any one able to do this properly.” “A)o not all men, then, Simmias,” he said, “ seem to you to know these things?” “ By no means.” “ Do they remember, then, what they once learned? “ Necessarily so.” “When did our souls receive this knowledge? Mot surely, since we were born into the world.” “Assuredly not.” “ Before, then ?” “ Yes.” « Our souls, therefore, Simmias, existed before they were in a human form, separate from bodies, and possessed in¬ telligence.” . . . . . , 57. “Unless, Socrates, we receive this knowledge at our birth, for this period yet remains.” “Be it so, my friend. But at what other time do we lose it? for we are not born with it, as we have just now admitted. Do we lose it, then, at the very time in which we receive it? Or can you mention any other tune?” “By no means, Socrates; I was not aware that I was saying nothing to the purpose.” . „ . “ Does the case then stand thus with us, Simmias . lie proceeded: “If those things which lie aie continually talking about really exist, the beautiful, the good, and ev¬ ery such essence, and to this we refer all things that come under the senses, as finding it to have a prior existence, and to be our own, and if we compare these things to it, PHiEDO. 91 it necessarily follows that as these exist, so likewise our soul exists even before we are born; but if these do not exist, this discussion will have been undertaken in vain, is it not so ? And is there not an equal necessity both that these things should exist, and our souls also, before we are born ; and if not the former, neither the latter ?” 58. “Most assuredly, Socrates,” said Simmias, “there appears to me to be the same necessity; and the argument admirably tends to prove that our souls exist before we are born, just as that essence does which you have now mentioned. For I hold nothing so clear to me as this, that all such things most certainly exist, as the beautiful, the good, and all the rest that you just now spoke of; and, so far as I am concerned, the case is sufficient.lv demonstrated.” “ But how does it appear to Cebes ?” said Socrates; “ for it is necessary to persuade Cebes too.” “He is sufficiently persuaded, I think,” said Simmias, “ although he is the most pertinacious of men in distrust¬ ing arguments. Yet I think he is sufficiently persuaded of this, that our soul existed before we were born. But whether, when we are dead, it will still exist docs not ap¬ pear to me to have been demonstrated, Socrates,” he con¬ tinued; “but that popular doubt, which Cebes just now mentioned, still stands in our way, whether, when a man dies, the soul is not dispersed, and this is the end of its existence. 59. For what hinders it being born, and form¬ ed from some other source, and existing before it came into a human body, and yet, when it has come, and is sep¬ arated from this body, its then also dying itself, and being destroyed ?” “ \ ou say well, Simmias,” said Cebes; “ for it appears that only one half of what is necessary has been demon¬ strated— namely, that our soul existed before we were born; but it is necessary to demonstrate further, that when we are dead it will exist no less than before we were born, if the demonstration is to be made complete.” “This has been even now demonstrated, Simmias and Cebes,” said Socrates, “ if you will only connect this last argument with that which Nve before assented to, that every thing living is produced from that which is dead. For if the soul exists before, and it is necessary for it 92 PIIiEDO. when it enters into life, and is born, to be produced from nothing else than death, and from being dead, how is it not necessary for it also to exist after death, since it must needs be produced again ? 60 . What you require, then, has been already demonstrated. However, both you and Simmias appear to me as if you wished to sift this argu¬ ment more thoroughly, and to be afraid, like children, lest, on the soul’s departure from the body, the winds should blow it away and disperse it, especially if one should hap¬ pen to die, not in a calm, but in a violent storm. Upon this Cebes, smiling, said, “ Endeavor to teach us better, Socrates, as if we were afraid, or rather not as it we were afraid, though perhaps there is some boy within us who has such a dread. Let us, then, endeavor to pei suade him not to be afraid of death, as of hobgoblins. “But you must charm him every day, said Socrates, “ until you have quieted his fears.” “But whence, Socrates,” he said, “can we procure a skillful charmer for such a case, now that you are about to leave us?” ., .. _ „ , . ., 61 “ Greece is wide, Cebes,’ he replied, and in it suie- lv there are skillful men. There are also many barbarous rations, all of which you should search through, seeking such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil, as theie is nothin" on which you can more seasonably spend your money You should also seek for him among yourselves; for perhaps you could not easily find any more competent than yourselves to do this.” “ This shall be done,” said Cebes; but, if it is agreea¬ ble to you, let us return to the point from whence we di- & “It will be agreeable to me,for how should it not?” “You say well,” rejoined Cebes. “We ought, then,” said Socrates, “to ask ourselves some such question as this: to what kind of thing it ap¬ pertains to be thus affected—namely, to be dispersed and for what we ought to fear, lest it should be so affect¬ ed and for what not. And after this we should consider which of the two the soul is, and in the result should either be confident or fearful for our soul.” 1 Srtmn Vmvi'iTi snirit. PH^EDO. 93 “ You speak truly,” said he. 62. “Does it not, then, appertain to that which is formed by composition, and is naturally compounded, to be thus affected, to be dissolved in the same manner as that in which it was compounded; and if there is any thing not compounded, does it not appertain to this alone, if to any thing, not to be thus affected ?” “ It appears to me to be so,” said Cebes. “ Is it not most probable, then, that things which are al¬ ways the same, and in the same state, are uncompounded, but that things which are constantly changing, and are never in the same state, are compounded?” “To me it appears so.” “Let us return, then,” he said, “to the subjects on which we before discoursed. Whether is essence itself, of which we gave this account that it exists, both in our questions and answers, always the same, or does it some¬ times change ? Does equality itself, the beautiful itself, and each several thing which is, ever undergo any change, however small ? Or does each of them which exists, be¬ ing an unmixed essence by itself, continue always the same, and in the same state, and never undergo any variation at all under any circumstances ?” “They must of necessity continue the same and in the same state, Socrates,” said Cebes. 63. “But what shall we say of the many beautiful things, such as men, horses, garments, or other things of the kind, whether equal or beautiful, or of all things syn¬ onymous with them ? Do they continue the same, or, quite contrary to the former, are they never at any time, so to say, the same, either with respect to themselves or one another ?” “These, on the other hand,” replied Cebes, “never con¬ tinue the same.” “These, then, you can touch, or see, or perceive by the other senses; but those that continue the same, you can not apprehend in any other way than by the exercise of thought; for such things are invisible, and are not seen ?” “ You say what is strictly true,” replied Cebes. 6-f. “We may assume, then, if you please,” he contin- 94 FHiEDO. ued, “ tliat there are two species of tilings; the one visible, the other invisible ?” “ We may,” he said. . _ , , “And the invisible always continuing the same, but tne visible never the same?” “ This, too,” he said, “ we may assume. « Come, then,” he asked, “ is there any thing else be- lono-ino- to us than, on the one hand, body, and, on the other, soul ? “Nothing else,” he replied. , _ . “To which species, then, shall we say the body is more like, and more nearly allied ?” «It is clear to every one,” he said, that it is to the ' “But what of the soul? Is it visible or invisible?” “ It is not visible to men, Socrates,” he replied. « But we speak of things which are visible, or not so, to the nature of men; or to some other nature, think you ?” “To that of men.” , , , . . . , « What, then, shall we say of the soul—that it is visible, or not visible?” “ Not visible.” “ Is it, then, invisible?” “ Yes.” “ The*soul, then, is more like the invisible than the body; and the body, the visible ?” “ It must needs be so, Socrates.” 65 . “And did we not, some time since, say this too, that the soul, when it employs the body to examine any thin", either by means of the sight or hearing, or any oth¬ er sense (for to examine any thing by means of the body is to do so bv the senses), is then drawn by the body to things that never continue the same, and wanders and is confused, and reels as if intoxicated, through coming into contact with things of this kind?” “ Certainly.” “ But when it examines any thing by itself, does it approach that which is pure, eternal, immortal, and un¬ changeable, and, as being allied to it, continue constantly withlt, so long as it subsists by itself, and has the power, PHyEDO. 95 and does it cease from its wandering, and constantly con¬ tinue the same with respect to those things, through com¬ ing into contact with things of this kind? And is this affection of the soul called wisdom?” “ You speak,”he said, “in every respect, well and truly, Socrates.” “To which species of the two, then, both from what was before and now said, does the soul appear to you to be more like and more nearly allied?” 66. “ Every one, I think, would allow, Socrates,” he re¬ plied, “even the dullest person, from this method of rea¬ soning, that the soul is in every respect more like that . which continues constantly the same than that which does not so.” “But what as to the body?” “ It is more like the other.” “ Consider it also thus, that, when soul and body are to¬ gether, nature enjoins the latter to be subservient and obey, the former to rule and exercise dominion. And, in this way, which of the two appears to you to be like the. divine, and which the mortal? Does it not appear to you to be natural that the divine should rule and command, but the mortal obey and be subservient?” “ To me it does so.” “ Which, then, does the soul resemble ?” “ It is clear, Socrates, that the soul resembles the divine; but the body, the mortal.” “ Consider, then, Cebes,” said he, “ whether, from all * that has been said, these conclusions follow, that the soul is most like that which is divine, immortal,, intelligent, uniform, indissoluble, and which always continues in the same state; but that the body, on the other hand, is most like that which is human, mortal, unintelligent, multiform, dissoluble, and which never continues in the same state. Can we say any thing against this, my dear Cebes, to show that it is not so ?” “ We can not.” 67. “ What, then ? Since these things are so, does it not appertain to the body to be quickly dissolved, but to the soul, on the contrary, to be altogether indissoluble, or near¬ ly so ?” 96 PKiEDO. a TTow not?” “ You perceive, however,” he said, “ that when a man dies, the visible part of him, the body, which is exposed to smht, and which we call a corpse, to winch it appertains to be dissolved, to fall asunder and be dispersed does not immediately undergo any of these affections, but remains for a considerable time, and especially so if any one should die with his body in full vigor, and at a corresponding ao-e - 1 for when the body has collapsed and been embalmed, as those that are embalmed in Egypt, it remains almost entire for an incredible length of time; and some parts of the body, even though it does decay, such as the bones and nerves, and every thing of that kind, are, nevertheless, as one may say, immortal. Is it not so ? j 08 “ Can the soul, then, which is invisible, and which goes to another place like itself, excellent pure, and invisi¬ ble, and therefore truly called the invisible world, to the presence of a good and wise God wlnther if God wih, my soul also must shortly go)—can this soul of oms I . , beiim such and of such a nature, when separated bom the body, be immediately dispersed and destroyed, as mos men assert? Far from it, my dear Cebes and Simmias But the case is much rather thus: if it ^paiated ‘ pure state, taking nothing of the body with it, as.no• hav¬ ing willingly communicated with it in the present life, but having shunned it, and gathered itself within itself as .con¬ stantly studying this (but this is nothing else than to pui sue philosophy aviglit, and in reality to study how to die easily), would not this be to study how to die i “ Most assuredly.” , . . “Does not the soul, then, when in this state, depart to that which resembles itself, the invisible, the divine mi- mortal, and wise? And on its arrival there, is it.not its lot to be happy, free from error, ignorance, feais, wild pas¬ sions', and aTthe other evils, to which Unman natural is subject; and, as is said of the initiated, does it not in tiuth 1 That is at a time of life*when the body is in fall vigoi. ^ 3 In the original there is a play on the words Aidns and atiSp c, which lean only attempt to retain by departing from the usual vendenng of former word. PHJEDO. ) 97 * pass the rest of its time with the gods? Must we affirm that it is so, Cebes, or otherwise?” “ So, by Jupiter!” said Cebes. 69. “ But, I think, if it departs from the body polluted and impure, as having constantly held communion with the body, and having served and loved it, and been be¬ witched by it, through desires and pleasures, so as to think that there is nothing real except what is corporeal, which one can touch and see, and drink and eat, and employ for sensual purposes; but what is dark and invisible to the eyes, which is intellectual and apprehended by philoso¬ phy, having been accustomed to hate, fear, and shun this, do you think that a soul thus affected can depart from the body by itself, and uncontaminated ?” “ By no means whatever,” he replied. “But I think it will be impressed with that which is corporeal, which the intercourse and communion of the body, through constant association and great attention, have made natural to it.” “ Certainly.” “We must think, my dear Cebes, that this is ponderous and heavy, earthly and visible, by possessing which such a soul is weighed down, and drawn again into the visible world through dread of the invisible and of Hades, wan¬ dering, as it is said, among monuments and toilibs, about which, indeed, certain shadowy phantoms of souls have been seen, being such images as those souls produced which have not departed pure from the body, but which partake of the visible; on which account, also, they are vis¬ ible.” “ That is probable, Socrates.” 70. “ Probable indeed, Cebes; and not that these are the souls of the good, but of the wicked, which are com¬ pelled to wander about such places, paying the penalty of their former conduct, which was evil; and they wander about so long, until, through the desire of the corporeal nature that accompanies them, they are again united to a body; and they are united, as is probable, to animals hav¬ ing the same habits as those they have given themselves up to during life.” . “ But what do you say these are, Socrates ?” 98 PH2ED0. « For instance, those who have given themselves up to o-luttony, wantonness, and drinking, and have put no re¬ straint on themselves, will probably be clothed in the form of asses and brutes of that kind. Do you not think so ? “ You say what is very probable.” “ And that such as have set great value on injustice, tyr¬ anny, and rapine, will be clothed in the species of wolves, hawks, and kites ! Where else can we say such souls oro ?” ° « Without doubt,” said Cebes, “ into such as these.” “Is it not, then, evident,” he continued, “as to the rest, whither each will go, according to the resemblances of their several pursuits ?” 71. “It is evident,” he replied. “How not? « Of these, then,” he said, “ are not they the most hap¬ py, and do they not go to the best place, who have prac¬ ticed that social and civilized virtue which they call tem¬ perance and justice, and which is produced from habit and exercise, without philosophy and reflection ?” “In what respect are these the most happy?” « Because it is probable that these should again migrate into a corresponding civilized and peaceable kind of ani¬ mals, such as bees perhaps, or wasps, or ants, or even into the same human species again, and from these become moderate men.” “ It is probable.” “But it is not lawful for any one who has not studied philosophy, and departed this life perfectly pure, to pass into the rank of gods, but only for the true lover, of wis¬ dom. And on this account, my friends Simmias and Cebes, those who philosophize rightly abstain from all bodily desires, and persevere in doing so, and do not give themselves up to them, not fearing the loss of property and poverty, as the generality of men and. the lovers of wealth ; nor, again, dreading disgrace and ignominy, like those who are lovers of power and honor, do they then abstain from them.” « For it would not become them to do so, Socrates, says Cebes. 72. “ It would not, by Jupiter !” he rejoined. “ Where¬ fore Cebes, they who care at all for their soul, and do not PlIiEDO. 99 spend their lives in the culture of their bodies, despising .nil these, proceed not in the same way with them, as being ignorant whither they are going, but, being convinced that they ought not to act contrary to philosophy, but in ac¬ cordance with the freedom and purification she affords, they give themselves up to her direction, following her wherever she leads.” “ How, Socrates?” “I will tell you,” he replied. “The lovers of wisdom know that philosophy, receiving their soul plainly bound and glued to the body, and compelled to view things through this, as through a prison, and not directly by herself, and sunk in utter ignorance, and perceiving, too, the strength of the prison, that it arises from desire, so that he that is bound as much as possible assists in bind¬ ing himself. 73. I say, then, the lovers of wisdom know that philosophy, receiving their soul in this state, gently« exhorts it, and endeavors to free it, by showing that the view of things by means of the eyes is full of deception, as also is that through the ears and the other senses; per¬ suading an abandonment of these so far as it is not abso¬ lutely necessary to use them, and advising the soul to be collected and concentrated within itself, and to believe nothing else than herself, with respect to what she herself understands of things that have a real subsistence; and to consider nothing true which she views through the medi¬ um of others, and which differ under different aspects; 1 for that a thing of this kind is sensible and visible, but that what she herself perceives is intelligible and invisible. The soul of the true philosopher, therefore, thinking that she ought not to oppose this deliverance, accordingly ab¬ stains as much as possible from pleasures and desires, griefs and fears, considering that when any one is exceed¬ ingly delighted or alarmed, grieved or influenced by de¬ sire, he does not merely suffer such evil from these things as one might suppose, such as either being sick or wasting his property through indulging his desires; but that which 1 Bv this I understand him to mean that the soul alone can perceive the truth, but the senses, as they are different, receive and convey differ¬ ent impressions of the same thing;-thus, the eye receives one impression of an object, the car a totally different one. 100 PHiEDO. is the greatest evil, and the worst of all, this he suffeis, and is not conscious of it.” “But what is this evil, Socrates?” said Cebes. 74. “ That the soul of every man is compelled to be either vehemently delighted or grieved about some par¬ ticular thing, and, at the same time, to consider that the thing'about which it is thus strongly affected is most real and most true, though it is not so. But these are chiefly visible objects, are they not?’ “ Certainly.” • . . , “ In this state of affection, then, is not the soul especial¬ ly shackled by the body ?” “ How so ?” . .. “ Because each pleasure and pain, having a nail, as it were, nails the soul to the body, and fastens it to it, and causes it to become corporeal, deeming those things to be •true whatever the body asserts to be so. For, in conse¬ quence of its forming the same opinions with the body, and delighting in the same things, it is compelled, I thin , to possess similar manners, and to be similarly nourished; so that it can never pass into Hades in a pure state, but must ever depart polluted by the body, and so quickly falls again into another body, and grows up as it it were sown, and consequently is deprived of all association with that which is divine, and pure, and uniform.” “ You speak most truly, Socrates,” said Cebes. 75. “ For these reasons, therefore, Cebes, those who are truly lovers of wisdom are moderate and resolute, and not for the reasons that most people say. Do you think as they do ?” “Assuredly not.” “ No truly. But the soul of a philosopher would rea¬ son thus, and would not think that philosophy ought to set it free, and that when it is freed it should give itself up a^ain to pleasures and pains, to bind it down again, and make her work void, weaving a kind of Penelopes web the reverse way. On the contrary, effecting a calm of the passions, and following the guidance of reason, and being always intent on this, contemplating that which is true and divine, and not subject to opinion; and being nour¬ ished by it, it thinks that it ought to live in this manner PHjEDO. 101 as long as it does live, and that when it dies it shall go to a kindred essence, and one like itself, and shall be freed from human evils. From such a regimen as this the soul has no occasion to fear, Simmias and Cebes, while it strict¬ ly attends to these, things, lest, being torn to pieces at its departure from the body, it should be blown about and dissipated by the winds, and no longer have an existence anywhere.” 76. When Socrates had thus spoken, a long silence en¬ sued ; and Socrates himself was pondering upon what had been said, as he appeared, and so did most of us; but Cebes and Simmias were conversing a little while with each other. At length Socrates, perceiving them, said, “ What think you of what has been said ? Does it appear to you to have been proved sufficiently ? for many doubts and objections still remain if any one will examine them thoroughly. If, then, you are considering some other subject, I have nothing to say; but if you are doubting about this, do not hesitate both yourselves to speak and express your opinion, if it appears to you in any respect that it might have been argued better, and to call me in again to your assistance, if you think you can be at all benefited by my help.” Upon this Simmias said, “Indeed, Socrates, I will tell you the truth: for some time each of us, being in doubt, has been urging and exhorting the other to question you, from a desire to hear our doubts solved; but we were afraid of giving you trouble, lest it should be disagreeable to you in your present circumstances.” 77. But he, upon hearing this, gently smiled, and said, “ Bless me, Simmias; with difficulty, indeed, could I per¬ suade other men that I do not consider my present condi¬ tion a calamity, since I am not able to persuade even you; but you are afraid lest I should be more morose now than during the former part of my life. And, as it seems, I appear to you to be inferior to swans with respect to div¬ ination, who, when they perceive that they must needs die, though they have been used to sing before, sing then more than ever, rejoicing that they are about to depart to that deity whose servants they are. But men, through their own fear of death, belie the swans too, and say that PIHEDO. 102 they, lamenting their death, sing their last song through grief; and they do not consider that no bird sings when it fs hungry or cold, or is afflicted with any other pain, not even the nightingale, or swallow, or the hoopoes, which, they say, sing lamenting through grief. But neither do these birds appear to me to sing through sorrow, nor yet do swans; but, in my opinion, belonging to Apollo, they are prophetic, and, foreseeing the blessings of Hades, they sing and rejoice on that day more excellently than at any preceding time. 78. But I, too, consider myself to be a fellow-servant of the swans, and sacred to the same god; and that I have received the power of divination from our common master no less than they, and that I do not de¬ part from this life with less spirits than they. On this account, therefore, it is right that you should both speak and ask whatever you please, so long as the Athenian Eleven permit.” “ You say well,” said Simmias,“and both I will tell you what are my doubts, and he, in turn, how far he does not assent to what has been said. For it appears to me, Soc¬ rates, probably as it does to you with respect to these matters, that to know them clearly in the present life is either impossible, or very difficult: on the other hand, however, not to test what has been said of them in e\- erv possible way, so as not to desist until, on examining them in every point of view, one has exhausted every ef¬ fort, is the part of a very weak man. For we ought, with respect to these things, either to learn from others how they stand, or to discover them for one’s self; or, if both these are impossible, then, taking the best of human rea¬ sonings and that which is the most difficult to be confuted, and embarking on this, as one who risks himself on a raft, so to sail through life, unless one could be carried more safely, and with less risk, on a surer conveyance, or some divine reason. 79. I, therefore, shall not now be ashamed to question you, since you bid me do so, nor shall I blame myself hereafter for not having,now told you what I think; for to me, Socrates, when I consider the matter, both with myself and with Cebes, what has been said does not ap¬ pear to have been sufficiently proved.” Then said Socrates, “ Perhaps, my friend, you have the PHiEDO. 103 truth on your side; but tell me in what respect it was not sufficiently proved.” “In this,” he answered,“because any one might use the same argument with respect to harmony, and a lyre, and its chords, that harmony is something invisible and incor¬ poreal, very beautiful and divine, in a well-modulated lyre; but the lyre and its chords are bodies, and of corporeal form, compounded and earthly, and akin to that which is mortal. When any one, then, has either broken the lyre, or cut or burst the chords, he might maintain from the same reasoning as yours that it is necessary the har¬ mony should still exist and not be destroyed; for there could be no possibility that the lyre should subsist any longer when the chords are burst; and that the chords, which are of a mortal nature, should subsist, but that the harmony, which is of the same nature and akin to that which is divine and immortal, should become extinct, and perish before that which is mortal; but he might say that the harmony must needs subsist somewhere, and that the wood and chords must decay before it can undergo any change. 80 . For I think, Socrates, that you yourself have arrived at this conclusion: that we consider the soul to be pretty much of this kind—namely, that our body being compacted and held together by heat and cold, dryness and moisture, and other such qualities, our soul is the fusion and harmony of these, when they are well and duly com¬ bined with each other. If, then, the soul is a kind of har¬ mony, it is evident that when our bodies are unduly re¬ laxed or strained, through diseases and other maladies, the soul must, of necessity, immediately perish, although it is most divine, just as other harmonies which subsist in sounds or in the various works of artisans; but that the remains of the body of jeach person last for a long time, till they are either burned or decayed. Consider, then, what we shall say to this reasoning, if any one should maintain that the soul, being a fusion of the several qual¬ ities in the body, perishes first in that which is called death.” 81 . Socrates, therefore, looking steadfastly at us, as he was generally accustomed to do, and smiling, said, “Sim- mias indeed speaks justly. If, then, any one of you is 104 PII2EDO. move prompt than I am, why does he not answer, for he seems to have handled my argument not badly? It ap¬ pears to me, however, that before we make our reply we should first hear from Cebes, what he, too, objects to our argument, in order that, some time intervening, we may consider what we shall say, and then when we have heard them, we may give up to them, if they appear to speak agreeably to truth ; or, if not, we may then uphold our own argument. Come, then, Cebes,” he continued,“say what it is that disturbs you, so as to cause your unbelief. “ I will tell you,” said Cebes; “ the argument seems to me to rest where it was, and to be liable to the same ob¬ jection that we mentioned before. For, that our soul ex¬ isted even before it came into this present form, I do not denv has been very elegantly, and, if it is not too much to say so, very fully, demonstrated ; but that it still exists anywhere when we are dead does not appear to me. to have been clearly proved; nor do I give in to the objec¬ tion of Simmias, that the soul is not stronger and more durable than the body, for it appears to me to excel very far all things of this kind. 82. ‘Why,then,’ reason might say, ‘ do you still disbelieve ? for, since you see that when a man dies his weaker part still exists, does it not appear to you to be necessary that the more durable part should still be preserved during this period?’ . Consider, then, whether I say any thing to the purpose in reply to this. For I, too, as well as Simmias, as it seems, stand in need of an illustration; for the argument appears to me to have been put thus, as if any one should advance this argument about an aged weaver who had died, that the man has not yet perished, but perhaps still exists somewhere; and, as a proof, should exhibit the garment which he wore and had woven himself, that it is entire and has not perished; and if any one should disbelieve him, he.would ask, which of the two is the more durable, the species, of a man or of a garment, that is constantly in use and being worn; then, should any one answer that the species of man is much more durable, he would think it demonstrated that, beyond all question, the man is preserved, since that which is less durable has not perished. 83. But I do not think, Sim¬ mias, that this is the case, and do you consider what I say, PHiEDO. 105 for every one must think that he who argues thus argues foolishly. For this weaver, having worn and woven many such garments, perished after almost all of them, but be¬ fore the last, I suppose; and yet it does not on this ac¬ count follow any the more that a man is inferior to or weaker than a garment. And, I think, the soul might ad¬ mit this same illustration with respect to the body, and he who should say the same things concerning them would appear to me to speak correctly, that the soul is more du¬ rable, but the body weaker and less durable; for he would say that each soul wears out many bodies, especially if it lives many years; for if the body wastes and is dissolved while the man still lives, but the soul continually weaves anew what is worn out, it must necessarily follow that when the soul is dissolved it must then have on its last garment, and perish before this alone; but when the soul has perished the body would show the weakness of its nat¬ ure, and quickly rot and vanish. 84. So that it is not by any means right to place implicit reliance on this argu¬ ment, and to believe that when we die our soul still exists somewhere. For, if any one should concede to him who admits even more than you do, and should grant to him that not only did our soul exist before we were born, but that even when we die nothing hinders the souls of some of us from still existing, and continuing to exist hereafter, and from being often born, and dying again—for so strong is it by nature, that it can hold out against repeated births —if he granted this, he would not yet concede that it does not exhaust itself in its many births, and at length perish altogether in some one of the deaths. But he would say that no one knows this death and dissolution of the body, which brings destruction to the soul; for it is impossible for any one of us to perceive.it. If, however, this be the case, it follows that every one who is confident at the ap¬ proach of death is foolishly confident, unless he is able to prove that the soul is absolutely immortal and imperisha¬ ble ; otherwise it necessarily follows that he who is about to die must be alarmed for his soul, lest in its present dis¬ union from the body it should entirely perish.” 85. Upon this, all of us who had heard them speaking were disagreeably affected, as we afterward mentioned to 5* PILZEDO. 106 each other; because, after we had been fully persuaded by the former arguments, they seemed to disturb us anew, and to cast us into a distrust, not only of the arguments already adduced, but of such as might afterward be urged, for fear lest we should not be fit judges of any thing, or lest the things themselves should be incredible. " Echec. By the gods ! Pluedo, I can readily excuse you ; for while I am now hearing you, it occurs to me to ask myself some such question as this, What arguments can we any longer believe? since the argument which bocra- tes advanced, and which was exceedingly credible, has now fallen into discredit. For this argument, that our soul is a kind of harmony, produces a wonderful impression on me both now and always, and in being mentioned, it has reminded me, as it were, that I, too, was formerly of the same opinion; so that I stand in need again, as it from the very beginning, of some other argument which may persuade me that "the soul of one who dies does not die with the body. Tell me, therefore, by Jupiter! how Soc¬ rates followed up the argument; and whether he, too, as you confess was the case with yourselves, seemed discon¬ certed at all, or not, but calmly maintained his position; and maintained it sufficiently or defectively. Relate eveiy tiling to me as accurately as you can. 86. Phced. Indeed, Echecrates, though I have often ad¬ mired Socrates, I was never more delighted than at being with him on that occasion. That he should be able to say something is perhaps not at all surprising; but I espe¬ cially admired this in him-—first of all, that he listened to the aro-ument of the young men so sweetly, affably, and ap¬ provingly ; in the next place, that he so quickly perceived how we were affected by their arguments; and, lastly, that he cured 11 s so well an,d recalled us, when we were put to flight, as it were, and vanquished, and encouraged iis to accompany him, and consider the argument with him. Echec. How was that ? .... Phcecl. I will tell you : I happened to be sitting fit lus vio-ht hand, near the bed, upon a low seat, but he himsel sat much higher than I. Stroking my head, then, and lay¬ ing hold of the hair that hung on my neck—for he used, PHiEDO. 107 often, to play with my hairs—“ To-morrow,” he said, “per¬ haps, Phiedo, you will cut off these beautiful locks?” “ It seems likely, Socrates,” said I. 87. “Not if you are persuaded by me.” “ Why so?” I asked. “ To-day,” he replied, “ both I ought to cut off mine and you yours, if our argument must die, and we are unable to revive it. And I, if I were you, and the arguments were to escape me, would take ail oath, as the Argives do, not to suffer my hair to grow until I had renewed the contest, and vanquished the arguments of Siminias and Cebes.” “ But,” I said, “ even Hercules himself is said not to have been a match for two.” “ Call upon me, then,” he said, “ as your Iolaus, while it is yet day.” “ I do call on you, then,” I said, “ not as Hercules upon Iolaus, but as Iolaus upon Hercules.” “ It will make no difference,” he replied. “ But, first of all, we must beware lest we meet with some mischance.” “What?” I asked. “That we do not become,” he answered, “haters of rea¬ soning, as some become haters of men; for no greater evil can happen to any one than to hate reasoning. 88. But hatred of reasoning and hatred of mankind both spring from the same source. For hatred of mankind is pro¬ duced in us from having placed too great reliance on some one without sufficient knowledge of him, and from having considered him to be a man altogether true, sincere, and faithful, and then, after a little while, finding him depraved and unfaithful, and after him another. And when a man has often experienced this, and especially from those Avhom he considered his most intimate and best friends, at length, having frequently stumbled, he hates all men, and thinks that there is no soundness at all in any of them. Have you not perceived that this happens so ?” “ Certainly,” I replied. “Is it not a shame?” he said. “And is it not evident that such a one attempts to deal with men without suffi¬ cient knowledge of human affairs? For if he had dealt -with them with competent knowledge, as the case really is, so he would have considered that the good and the bad 108 PHiEDO. arc each very few in number, and that those between both are most numerous.” 89. “How say you?” I asked. “In the same manner,” he replied,“ as with things 'veiy little and very large. Do you think that any^ thing is more rare than to find a very large or a very little man, or door, or any thing else? and, again, swift or slow, beau¬ tiful or ugly,white or black? Do you not perceive that of all such things the extremes are rare and few, but that the intermediate are abundant and numerous? “ Certainly,” I replied. . - “Do you not think,then,”he continued,“that if a con¬ test in wickedness were proposed, even here very few would be found pre-eminent?” “ It is probable,” I said. . «It is so,” he said; “ but in this respect reasonings do not resemble men, for I was just now following you as my leader; but in this they do resemble them,when any one believes in any argument as true without being skilled in the art of reasoning, and then shortly afterward it appeals to him to be false, at one time being so and at another time not, and so on with one after another ; l and especially they who devote themselves to controversial arguments, you are aware, at length think they have become very wise, and have alone discovered that there is nothing sound and stable either in things or reasonings, but that all things that exist, as is the case with the Eunpus, are in a con¬ stant state of flux and reflux, and never continue in one condition for any length of time. “You speak perfectly true,” I said. 90. “ Would it not, then, Phsedo,” he said, “be a thin a- if, when there is a true and sound reasoning, and such° as one can understand, one should then, tlnough lighting upon such arguments as appear to be at one time true and at another false, not blame one’s self and one s 1 koi avQiq erepog K«i erspog, that is, “ with one argument after anoth¬ er.” Though Cousin translates it et successivement tout different delui - vieme, and Ast, et rursus alia atque alia , which may be taken ln eit ier sense: vet it anpears to me to mean that, when a man repeatedly d - covers the fallacy of arguments which he before believed to be true, he distrusts reasoning altogether, just as one who meets with friend aitei friend who proves unfaithful becomes a misanthrope. any sad PIIiEDO. 109 own want of skill, but at length, through grief, should anxiously transfer the blame from one’s self to the argu¬ ments, and thereupon pass the rest of one’s life in hating and reviling arguments, and so be deprived of the truth and knowledge of things that exist?” “By Jupiter!” I said, “it would be sad indeed.” “ In the first place, then,” he said, “ let us beware of this, and let us not admit into our souls the notion that there appears to be nothing sound in reasoning, but much rath¬ er that we are not yet in a sound condition, and that we ought vigorously and strenuously to endeavor to become sound, you and the others, on account of your whole future life, but I, on account of my death, since I am in danger, at the present time, of not behaving as becomes a philoso¬ pher with respect to this very subject, but as a wrangler, like those who are utterly uninformed. 91. For they, when they dispute about any thing, care nothing at all for the subject about which the discussion is, but are anxious about this, that what they have themselves advanced shall appear true to the persons present. And I seem to myself on the present occasion to differ from them only in this respect; for I shall not be anxious to make what I say ap¬ pear true to those who are present, except that may hap¬ pen by the way, but that it may appear certainly to be so to myself. For I thus reason, my dear friend, and observe how interestedly. If what I say be true, it is well to be persuaded of it; but if nothing remains to one that is dead, I shall, at least, during the interval before death be less disagreeable to those present by my lamentations. But this ignorance of mine will not continue long, for that would be bad, but will shortly be put an end to. Thus prepared, then, Simmias and Cebes,” he continued, “ I now proceed to my argument. Do you, however, if you will be persuaded by me, pay little attention to Socrates, but much more to the truth; and if I appear to you to say any thing true, assent to it; but if not, oppose me with all your might, taking good care that in my zeal I do not de¬ ceive both myself and you, and, like a bee, depart leaving my sting behind. 92. “ But let us proceed,” he said. “ First of all, remind me of what you said, if I should appear to have forgotten PHiEDO. 110 it. For, Simmias, as I think, is in doubt, and feats lest the soul, though more divine and beautiful than the bod\, should perish before it, as being a species of harmony. But Cebes appeared to me to grant me this, that the soul is more durable than the body; but he argued that it is uncertain to every one, whether when the soul has worn out many bodies, and that repeatedly, it does not, on leav¬ ing the last body, itself also perish, so that this veiy thing is°death,the destruction of the soul, since the body never ceases decaying. Are not these the things, Simmias and Cebes, which we have to inquire into?” They both agreed that they were. . “ Whether, then,” he continued, “ do you reject all our former arguments, or some of them only, and not otheis? “ Some we do,” they replied, “ and others not.” “ What, then,” he proceeded, “ do you say about that argument in which we asserted that knowledge is remi¬ niscence, and that, this being the case, our soul must nec¬ essarily have existed somewhere before it was inclosed in the body ?” . , 93. “I, indeed,” replied Cebes, “was both then wonder¬ fully persuaded by it, and now persist in it, as in no other argument ^ “And I too,” said Simmias,« am of the same mind, and should very much wonder if I should ever think otherwise on that point.” . . . . “Then,” Socrates said, “you must needs think other¬ wise my Theban friend, if this opinion holds good, that harmony is something compounded, and that the soul is a kind of harmony that results from the parts compacted together in the body. For surely you will not allow your¬ self to say that harmony was composed prior to the things from which it required to be composed. Would you allow this?” “By no means, Socrates,” he replied. “ Bo you perceive, then,” he said, “ that this results 11 om what you say, when you assert that the soul existed befoic it came into a human form and body, but that it was com¬ posed from things that did not yet exist ? For harmony is not such as that to which you compare it; but first the lyre and the chords, and the sounds yet unharmomzed, PIIiEDO. Ill exist, and, last of all, harmony is produced, and first per¬ ishes. How, then, will this argument accord with that?” “ Not at all,” said Simmias. 94. “And yet,” he said, “if in any argument, there ought to be an accordance in one respecting harmony.” “ There ought,” said Simmias. “ This of yours, however,” he said, “ is not in accord¬ ance. Consider, then, which of these two statements do you prefer—that knowledge is reminiscence, or the soul harmony ?” “ The former by far, Socrates,” he replied ; “ for the lat¬ ter occurred to me without demonstration, through a cer¬ tain probability and speciousness whence most men derive their opinions. But I am well aware that arguments which draw their demonstrations from probabilities are idle; and, unless one is on one’s guard against them, they are very deceptive, both in geometry and all other subjects. But the argument respecting reminiscence and knowledge may be said to have been demonstrated by a satisfactory hypothesis. For in this way it was said that our soul ex¬ isted before it came into the body, because the essence that bears the appellation of £ that which is ’ belongs to it. But of this, as I persuade myself, I am fully and rightly con¬ vinced. It is therefore necessary, as it seems, that I should neither allow myself nor any one else to maintain that the soul is harmony.” 95. “But what, Simmias,” said he, “if you consider it thus? Does it appear to you to appertain to harmony, or to any other composition, to subsist in any other way than the very things do of which it is composed?” “ By no means.” “And indeed, as I think, neither to do any thing, nor suffer any thing else, besides what they do or suffer.” He agreed. “ It does not, therefore, appertain to harmony to take the lead of the things of which it is composed, but to fol¬ low them.” Pie assented. “ It is, then, far from being the case that harmony is moved or sends forth sounds contrariwise, or is in any other respect opposed to its parts?” 112 PHJEDO. “ Far, indeed,” he said. «What, then? Is not every harmony naturally har¬ mony, so far as it has been made to accord ? “ I do not understand you,” he replied. “ Whether,” he said, “ if it should be in a greater de¬ cree and more fullv made to accord, supposing that were possible, would the harmony be greater and more lull; but if in a less degree and less fully, then would it be inferior and less full?” “ Certainly.” . , “Is this, then, the case with the soul that, even m t e smallest extent, one soul is more fully and in a greater degree, or less fully and in a less degree, this very thing, a soul, than another ?” “In no respect whatever,” he replied. ^ 96 . ‘‘Well, then,” he said,“ by Jupiter ! is one soul said to possess intelligence and virtue, and to be good, and an¬ other follv and vice, and to be bad? and is this said with truth?” “ With truth, certainly.” “ Of those, then, who maintain that the soul is harmony, what will anv one say that these things are in the soul, virtue and vice? Will he call them another kind of har¬ mony and discord, and say that the one, the good soul, is harmonized, and, being harmony, contains within itself an¬ other harmony, but that the other is discordant, and does not contain within itself another harmony?” < . «I am unable to say,” replied Simmias; “ but it is clear that he who maintains that opinion would say something of the kind.” “But it has been already granted, said he, that one soul is not more or less a soul than another; and this is an admission that one harmony is not to a greater degiee or more fully, or to a less degree or less fully, a harmony, than another; is it not so?” “ Certainly.” “And that that which is neither more nor less harmony is neither more nor less harmonized: is it so ?” “ But does that which is neither more nor less harmonized partake of more or less harmony, or an equal amount ?” PHiEDO. 113 “ An equal amount.” 97. “A soul, therefore, since it is not more or less this very thing, a soul, than another, is not more or less har¬ monized ?” “ Even so.” “ Such, then, being its condition, it can not partake of a greater degree of discord or harmony ?” “ Certainly not.” “And, again, such being its condition, can one soul par¬ take of a greater degree of vice or virtue than another, if vice be discord, and virtue harmony ?” “ It can not.” “ Or rather, surely, Simmias, according to right reason, no soul will partake of vice, if it is harmony; for doubt¬ less harmony, which is perfectly such, can never partake of discord?” “ Certainly not.” “ Neither, therefore, can a soul which is perfectly a soul partake of vice.” “How can it,from what has been already said?” “From this reasoning,then, all souls of all animals will be equally good, if, at least, they are by nature equally this very thing, souls ?” “It appears so to me,Socrates,” he said. “And does it appear to you,” he said, “to have been thus rightly argued, and that the argument would lead to this result, if the hypothesis were correct, that the soul is harmony ?” 98. “ On no account whatever,” he replied. “ But what,” said he, “of all the things that are in man ? Is there any thing else that you say bears rule except the soul, especially if it be wise ?” “ I should say not.” “ Whether by yielding to the passions in the body, or by opposing them? My meaning is this: for instance, when heat and thirst are present, by drawing it the con¬ trary way, so as to hinder it from drinking; and when hunger is present, by hindering it from eating; and in ten thousand other instances we see the soul opposing the desires of the body. Do we not ?” “ Certainly.” 114 PHiEDO. “But have wo not before allowed that if the soul were harmony, it would never utter a sound contiaiy to the ten¬ sion, relaxation, vibration, or any other affection to which its component parts are subject, but would follow, and nev¬ er govern them ?” “ We did allow it,” he replied, “ for how could we do otherwise ?” “ What, then ? Does not the soul now appear to act quite the contrary, ruling over all the parts from which any one might say it subsists, and resisting almost all of them through the whole of life, and exercising dominion over them in all manner of ways; punishing some more severely even with pain, both by gymnastics and medicine, and others more mildly; partly threatening, and partly admonishing the desires, angers, and fears, as if, being it¬ self of a different nature, it were conversing with some¬ thing quite different? 99. Just as Homer has done m the Odyssey, 1 where he speaks of Ulysses—‘ Having struck his breast, he chid his heart in the following words: Bear up my heart; ere this thou hast borne far worse.’ Do you think that he composed this in the belief that the soul was harmony, and capable of being led by the passions of the body, and not rather that it was able to lead and govern them, as being something much more divine than to be compared with harmony ?” “ By Jupiter ! Socrates, it appears so to me. “Therefore, my excellent friend, it is on no account cor¬ rect for us to say that the soul is a kind of haimonyj foi, as it appears, we should neither agree with Homer, that divine poet, nor with ourselves.” « Such is the case,” he replied. 1 “ Be it so, then,” said Socrates, “ we have already, as it seems, sufficiently appeased this Theban harmony. But how, Cebes, and by what arguments, shall we appease this Cadmus?” 2 . ... , 100. “You appear to me,” replied Cebes, to be likely 1 Lib. 2 Hi them, and says that, having overcome Simmias, the advocate ot Hai- mony, he must now deal with Cebes, who is represented by Cadmus. armony was the wife of Cadmus, the founder of Ihebes ; Sociates, ore, compares bis two Theban friends, Simmias and Cebes, with i . i • Q i rvA tvi i n o fit a nn vnontp. OT H ill’- PlIiEDO. 115 to find out; for you have made out this argument against harmony wonderfully beyond my expectation. For when Simmias was saying what his doubts were, I wondered very much whether any one would be able t'o answer his reasoning. It, therefore, appeared to me unaccountable that he did not withstand the very first onset of your ar¬ gument. I should not, therefore, be surprised if the argu¬ ments of Cadmus met with the same fate.” “My good friend,” said Socrates, “ do not speak so boastfully, lest some envious power should overthrow the argument that is about to be urged. These things, how¬ ever, will be cared for by the deity; but let us, meeting hand to hand, in the manner of Homer, try whether you say any thing to the purpose. This, then, is the sum of what you inquire: you require it to be proved that our soul is imperishable and immortal; if a philosopher that is about to die, full of confidence and hope that after death he shall be far happier than if he had died after leading a different kind of life, shall not entertain this confidence foolishly and vainly. 101. But to show that the soul is something strong and divine, and that it existed before we men were born, you say not at all hinders, but that all these things may evince, not its immortality, but that the soul is durable, and existed an immense space of time be¬ fore, and knew and did many things. But that, for all this, it was not at all the more immortal, but that its very entrance into the body of a man was the beginning of its destruction, as if it were a disease; so that it passes through this life in wretchedness, and at last perishes in that which is called death. But you say that it is of no consequence whether it comes into a body once or often, with respect to our occasion of fear;, for it is right he should be afraid, unless he is foolish, who does not know, and can not give a reason to prove, that the soul is im¬ mortal. Such, I think, Cebes, is the sum of what you say; and I purposely repeat it often, that nothing may escape us, and, if you please, you may add to or take from it.” Cebes replied, “I do not wish at present either to take from or add to it; that is what I mean.” 102. Socrates, then having paused for some time, and PHJEDO. 116 considered something within himself, said, “You inquiie into no easy matter, Cebes; for it is absolutely necessary to discuss the whole question of generation and corrup¬ tion. If ydu please, then, I will relate to you what hap¬ pened to me with reference to them; and afterward, it any thing that I shall say shall appear,to you useful to¬ ward producing conviction on the subject you aie now treating of, make use of it.” “ I do indeed wish it,” replied Cebes. « Hear my relation, then. When I was a young in an, Cebes I was wonderfully desirous of that wisdom whic 1 they call a history of nature; for it appeared to me to be a very sublime thing to know the causes of eveiy thing . why each thing is generated, why it perishes, and why it exists. And I often tossed myself upward and downward, considering first such things as these, whether when heat and cold have undergone a certain corruption, as some say, then animals are formed; and whether the blood is that by means of which we think, or air, or fire, or none of these, but that it is the brain that produces the percep¬ tions of hearing, seeing, and smelling; and that from these come memory and opinion; and from memory and opinion, when in a state of rest, in the same way knowledge is pro¬ duced. 103. And, again, considering the corruptions ot these, and the affections incidental to the heavens and the earth, I at length appeared to myself so unskillful in these speculations that nothing could.be more so. But 1 will o-ive you a sufficient proof of this; for I then became, by these very speculations, so very blind with respect to things which I knew clearly before, as it appeared to my¬ self and others, that I unlearned even the things which 1 thought I knew before, both on many other subjects and also this, why a man grows. For, before, I thought this was evident to every one—that it proceeds from eating and drinking; for that, when, from the food, flesh is add¬ ed to flesh, bone to bone, and so on -in the same propor¬ tion, what is proper to them is added to the several other parts, then the bulk which was small becomes afterward laro-e and thus that a little man becomes a big one. buch was my opinion at that time. Does it appear to you COr- VPP.t?” PIPE DO. m “ To me it does,” said Cebes. 104. “Consider this further. I thought that I had formed a right opinion, when, on seeing a tall man stand¬ ing by a short one, I judged that he was taller by the head, and, in like manner, one horse than another; and, still more clearly than this, ten appeared to me to be more than eight by two being added to them, and that two cubits are greater than one cubit by exceeding-it a half.” But now, said Cebes, “ what think you of these mat¬ ters ?” “By Jupiter!” said he, “I am far from thinking that I know the cause of these, for that X can not even per¬ suade myself of this: when a person has added one to one, whether the one to which the addition has been made has become two, or whether that which has been added, and that to which the addition has been made, have become t\\ o by the addition of the one to the other. For I won¬ der if, when each of these was separate from the other, each was one, and they were not yet two; but when they have approached nearer each other, this should be the cause of their becoming two—namely, the union by which they have been placed nearer one another. 105. Nor yet, if any person should divide one, am I able to persuade myself that this, their division, is the cause of its becom¬ ing two. .For this cause is the contrary to the former one of their becoming two; for then it was because they were brought nearer to each other, and the one was added to the other; but now it is because one is removed and separated from the other. Nor do I yet persuade myself that I know why one is one, nor, in a word, why any thing else is produced, or perishes, or exists, according to this method of proceeding; but I mix up another method of my own at random, for this I oan on no account give in to. “ But, having once heard a person reading from a book, written, as he said, by Anaxagoras, and which said that it is intelligence that sets in order and is the cause of all things, I was delighted with this cause, and it appeared to me in a manner to be well that intelligence should be the cause of all things, and I considered with myself, if this is so, that the regulating intelligence orders all things, and disposes each in such way as will be best for it. 106. If 118 PiliEDO. an v one, then, should desire to discover the cause of every thin", in what way it is produced, or perishes, or exists, lie must discover this respecting it—in .what way it is host for it either to exist, or to suffer, or do any thing else. From this mode of reasoning, then, it is proper that a man should consider nothing else, both with respect to himse and others, than what is most excellent and best , and it necessarily follows that this same person must also know that whdi is worst, for that the knowledge of both of them is the same. Thus reasoning with myself, I w as de¬ lighted to think I had found in Anaxagoras a preceptoi who would instruct me in the causes of things, agieeably to my own mind, and that he would inform me, fiist, whether the earth is flat or round, and, when he had in¬ formed me, would, moreover, explain the cause neces¬ sity of its being so, arguing on the principle of the bettei , and showing that it is better for it to be such as it is, and if he should say that it is in the middle, that he would, moreover, explain how it is better for it to be in the mid¬ dle • and if lie should make all this clear to me, I was pre¬ pared no longer to require any other species of cause. 107 I was in"like manner prepared to inquire respecting the'sun and moon and the other stars, with respect to their velocities in reference to each other, and their 1 evo¬ lutions and other conditions, in what way it is better ±01 both to act and be affected as it does and is. For I never thought that after he had said that these things were set in order by intelligence, be would introduce any othei cause for them than that it is best for them to be as they are. Hence, I thought, that in assigning the cause to each of them, and to all in common, he would explain that which is best for each, and the common good of all. And I would not have given up my hopes for a good deal; bu«, having taken up his books with great eagerness, I read through them as quickly as I could, that I might as soon as possible know the best and the woist. 108. “ From this wonderful hope, however, my friend, 1 was speedily thrown down, when, as I advance and read over his works, I meet with a man who makes no use of intelligence, nor assigns any causes for the ordering of all things' but makes the causes to consist of ail, cthei, and PlIvEDO. 119 water, and many other things equally absurd. And he appeared to me to be very like one who should say that whatever Socrates does he does by intelligence, and* then, attempting to describe the causes of each particular action, should say, first of all, that for this reason I am now sit¬ ting here, because my body is composed of bones and sinews; and that the bones are hard, and have joints sep¬ arate from each other, but that the sinews, being capable of tension and contraction, cover the bones, together with tiie flesh and skin which contain them. The bones, there¬ fore, being suspended in their sockets, the nerves, relaxing and tightening, enable me to bend my limbs as I now do, and from this cause I sit here bent up. 109. And if, again, lie should assign other similar causes for my conversing with you, assigning as causes voice, and air, and hearing^ and ten thousand other things of the kind, omitting to mention the real causes, that since it appeared better to the Athenians to condemn me, I therefore thought it better to sit here, and more just to remain and submit to the pun¬ ishment which they have ordered ; for, by the dog 1 I think these sinews and bones would have been long ago either in Megara or Boeotia, borne thither by an opinion of that which is best, if I had not thought it more just and hon¬ orable to submit to whatever sentence the city might or¬ der than to flee and run stealthily away. But to call such /things'causes is toolxbsirfdr But if any one should say that without possessing such things as bones and sinews, i ! ftnd whatever else I h ave, I could not do what I pleased, fV would speak the truth; but to say that I do as I do - through them, and that I act thus by intelligence, and not from the choice of what is best, would be a great and ex¬ treme disregard of reason. 110. For this would be not to be able to distinguish that the real cause is one thing, and that another, without which a cause could not be a cause; which, indeed, the generality of men appear to me to do, fumbling, as it were, in the dark, and making use of strange names, so as to denominate them as the very cause. Where¬ fore one encompassing the earth with a vortex from heav¬ en makes the earth remain fixed ; but another, as if it were a broad trough, rests it upon the air as its base; but the power by which these things are now so disposed that 120 PHjEDO. t w miv be placed in the best manner possible, this they *3*5* ~ “4£ C! in reality, the good, and that which ought to hold tncm together and contain them, they take no account of at all T then should most gladly have become the disciple of a’nv one who would tefch me of such a cause, m what way it fs But when I was disappointed of this, and was ne tlier able to discover it myself, nor to learn it from anoth¬ er, do you wish, Cebes, that I should showyouin. what way I set out upon a second voyage in seal ch ot the caus . Ill “ I wish it exceedingly,’ be replied. “it - appeared to me, then,” said he, “ a ter thiii when I w „« -wearied with considering things that exist, t < ought to beware lest I should suffer in the * way they do who look at and examine an eclipse of the sun, some lose the sight of their eyes, unless theybehold its ima „ e in water, or some similar medium. _ And i w as footed with a similar feeling, and was afraid lest I shou ^ be mtteTly blinded in my -uj through beholduig things — d rSea t£nm! 'thereby that I Suth h of V togs" "perhaps, ho’wever this £ sons considers them in t ‘° Ti owever I proceeded IliSpliiii the cause and every thing el. , ^ wUh tQ explain my meanfn^fo'you 8 in°a clearer manner; for I think that you do not yet understand roe.” “ No by Jupiter!” said Cebes,« not well. . “ However ” continued he, “ I am now saying . noth '”f new, but what I have always at other times am in a f mer part of this discussion, never ceased to say. PHiEDO. 121 cced, then, to attempt to explain to you that species of cause which I have busied myself about, and return again to those well-known subjects, and set out from them, lay¬ ing down as an hypothesis, that there is a certain abstract beauty, and goodness, and magnitude, and so of all other things; which if you grant me, and allow that they do exist 5 ,1 hope that I shall be able from these to explain the cause to you, and to discover that the soul is immortal.” “ But,” said Cebes, “ since I grant you this, you may draw your conclusion at once.” “ But consider,” he said, “ what follows from thence, and see if you can agree with me. For it appears to me that if there is any thing else beautiful besides beauty itself, it is not beautiful for any other reason than because it par¬ takes of that abstract beauty; and I say the same of ev¬ ery thing. Bo you admit such a cause ?” “I do admit it,” he replied. 113. “I do not yet understand,” he continued,“ nor am I able to conceive, those other wise causes; but if any one should tell me why any thing is beautiful, either because it has a blooming florid color, or figure, or any thing else of the kind, I dismiss all other reasons, for I am confound¬ ed by them all; but I simply, wholly, and perhaps foolish¬ ly, confine myself to this, that nothing else causes it to be beautiful except either the presence or communication of that abstract beauty, by whatever means and in whatever way communicated; for I can not yet affirm this with certainty, but only that by means of beauty all beautiful things become beautiful. For this appears to me the safest answer to give both to myself and others ; and, ad¬ hering to this, I think that I shall never fall, but that it is a safe answer both for me and any one else to give— that by means of beauty beautiful things become beauti¬ ful. Does it not also seem so to you ?” “ It does.” “And that by magnitude great things become great, and greater things, greater; and by littleness less things become less ?” “ Yes.” 114. “You would not, then, approve of it, if any one said that one person is greater than another by the head, 0 122 PHJEDO. and that the less is less by the very same thing ; but you would maintain that you mean nothing else than that ev¬ ery t hino- that is greater than another is greatei by noth- hm elsewian ma|n>tude, and that it. is greater on this account_that is, on account of magnitude; and that the less is less by nothing else than littleness, and on this ac¬ count less—that is, on account of littleness ; being a iau , I think, lest some opposite argument should meet you you should say that any one is greater ^d less by t head • as, first, that the greater is greatei, and the less le.s, bv the very same thing; and, next, that the greatei is o-reater bytfie head, which is small; and that it is mon- strons to suppose that any one is great through somethin,, small. Should you not be a raid of this t „ To which said Cebes, smilingly,“Indeed I should. «Should you not,then,” he continued,“be afraid to say that ten is more than eight by two, and for this cause ex¬ ceeds it, and not by number, and on account of numbei . and that two cubits are greater than one cubit by half, and not by magnitude (for the fear is surely the same ). « Certainly,” he replied. _ J 115 “ What, then ? When one lias been added to one, would you not beware of saying that the addition is the cause of its being two, or division when it has been di¬ vided- and would you not loudly assert that you know no other way in which each thing subsists, than by partaking of the peculiar essence of each of which it partakes, and that in these cases you can assign no °* el \ c ™;f ° f ^ coming two than its partaking of duality, and that sic things as are to become two must needs partake of th , and what is to become one, of unity; but these divisions and additions, and other such subtleties, you would dis¬ miss, leaving them to be given as answers by persons wiser than yourself; whereas you, fearing, as it is said your own shadow and inexperience, would adhci e tc> tl is safe hypothesis, and answer accordingly? but it any one H assail this hypothesis of yours, would you no d,s- miss him, and refrain from answering him till you had considered the consequences resulting from it, whethei in ymir opinion they agree with or differ from each oth- Rut, when it should be necessary for you to give a P1LZED0. 123 reason for it, would you give one in a similar way, by ao-aiu laying down another hypothesis, which should ap¬ pear the best of higher principles, until you arrived at something satisfactory; but, at the same time, you would avoid making confusion, as disputants do, m treating of the first principle and the results arising from it, it you really desire to arrive at the truth of things? 116. For they perhaps, make no account at all of this, nor pay any attention to it; for they are able, through their wisdom, to mingle all things together, and at the same time please themselves. But you, if you are a philosopher, would act, I think, as I now describe.” . “You speak most truly,” said Simmias and Cebes to- getlier. ., . . Echec. By Jupiter! Phsedo, they said so with good rea¬ son; for he appears to me to have explained these things with wonderful clearness, even to one endued with a small degree of intelligence. . , . „ Ehcecl Certainly, Echecrates, and so it appeared to all who were present. . , , Echec. And so it. appears to me, who was absent, and now hear it related. But what was said after this. As well as I remember, when these things had been granted him, and it was allowed that each several idea ex¬ ists of itself,' and that other things partaking of them re- ceive their denomination from them, he next asked: f > then,” he said, “you admit that things are so, whether when you sav that Simmias is greater than Socrates, but less than Phiedo, do you not then say that magnitude and littleness-are both in Simmias?” “ I do ” 117. “And yet,” he said, “you must confess that Sim- mias’s exceeding Socrates is not actually true m the man¬ ner in which the words express it; for Simmias does not naturally exceed Socrates in that he is Simmias, but in consequence of the magnitude which he happens to have; nor, again, does he exceed Socrates because Socia es is Socrates, but because Socrates possesses littleness m com¬ parison with his magnitude?” “ True^’ 1 tiva'i ti, literally, “is something. 124 PHiEDO. “ Nor, again, is Simmias exceeded by Phsedo, because Phsedo' 1 is Phsedo, but because Phsedo possesses magnitude in comparison with Simmias’s littleness?” ((It is so. 75 « Thus, then, Simmias has the appellation of being both little and great, being between both, by exceeding the lit¬ tleness of one through his own magnitude, and to the oth¬ er yielding a magnitude that exceeds his own littleness. And at the same time, smiling,he said,“I seem to speak with the precision of a short-hand writer; however, it is as I say.” He allowed it. 118. “ But I say it for this reason, wishing you to be of the same opinion as myself. For it appears to me, not only that magnitude itself is never disposed to be at the same time great and little, but that magnitude in us never admits the little, nor is disposed to be exceeded, but one of two things, either to flee and withdraw when its con¬ trary, the little, approaches it, or, when it has actually come, to perish; but that it is not disposed, by sustaining and receiving littleness, to be different from what it was. Just as I, having received and sustained littleness, and still continuing the person that I am, am this same little person; but that, while it is great, never endures to be little. And, in like manner, the little that is in us is not disposed at any time to become or to be great, nor is any thing else among contraries, while it continues what.it was, at the same time disposed to become and to be its contrary; but in this contingency it either departs or perishes.” 119. “It appears so to me,” said Cebes, “in every re¬ spect.” But some one of those present, on hearing this, I do not clearly remember who he was, said, “ By the gods ! was not the very contrary of what is now asserted admitted in the former part of our discussion, that the greater is produced from the less, and the less from the greater, and, in a word, that the very production of contraries is from contraries? But now it appears to me to be asserted that this can never be the case.” Upon this Socrates, having leaned his head forward and PIOEDO. 125 listened, said,“You have reminded me in a manly way; you do not, however, perceive the difference between what is now and what was then asserted. For then it was said that a contrary thing is produced from a contrary; but now, that a contrary can never become contrary to itself— neither that which is in us, nor that which is in nature. For then, my friend, we spoke of things that have contra¬ ries, calling them by the appellation of those things; but now we are speaking of those very things from the pres¬ ence of which things so called receive their appellation, and of these very things we say that they are never dis¬ posed to admit of production from each other.” 120. And, at the same time looking at Cebes, “ Has any thing that has been said, Cebes, disturbed you?” “Indeed,” said Cebes, “I am not at all so disposed; however, I by no means say that there aie not many things that disturb me.” “Then,” he continued,“ we have quite agreed to this, that a contrary can never be contrary to itself.” “ Most certainly,” he replied. “But, further,” he said, “consider whether you will agree with me in this also. Ho you call heat and cold any thing ?” “ I do.” “ The same as snow and fire ?” “By Jupiter ! I do not.” “ But heat is something different from fire, and cold something different from snow ?” “ Yes.” “ But this, I think, is apparent to you—that snow, while it is snow, can never, when it has admitted heat, as we said before, continue to be what it was, snow and hot; but, on the approach of heat, it must either withdraw or perish ? “ Certainly.” “And, again, that fire, when cold approaches it, must ei¬ ther depart or perish ; but that it will never endure, when it has admitted coldness, to continue what it was, fire and cold ?” 121. “You speak truly,” he said. “ It happens, then,” he continued, u with respect to some of such things, that not only is the idea itself always 126 PII2ED0. thought worthy of the same appellation, but likewise some¬ thing else which is not, indeed, that idea itself, but con¬ stantly retains its form so long as it exists. What I mean will perhaps be clearer in the following examples: the odd in number must always possess the name by which we now call it, must it not ?” “ Certainly.” . « Must it alone, of all things—for this I ask—or is there any thin 0, else which is not the same as the odd, but }et which we must always call odd, together with its own name, because it is so constituted by nature that it can never be without the odd? But this, I say,is the case with the number three, and many others. For consider with respect to the number three: does it not appear to you that it must always be called by its own name, as well as by that of the odd, which is not the same as the num¬ ber three? Yet such is the nature of the number three, five and the entire half of number, that though they are not 5 the same as the odd, yet each of them is always odd. And, ao-ain, two and four, and the whole other series ot number, though not the same as the even, are nevertheless each of them always even : do you admit this, or not. 122. “ How should I not?” he replied. . “ Observe, then,” said he, “ what I wish to prove. It is this—that it appears not only that these contraries do not admit each other, but that even such things as are not con¬ trary to each other, and yet always possess contraries, do not appear to admit that idea which is contrary to the idea that exists in themselves, but, when it approaches, perish or depart. Shall we not allow that the number three would first perish, and suffer. any thing whatev¬ er, rather than endure, while it is still three, to become even ?” “ Most certainly,” said Cebes. “And yet,” said he, “ the number two is not contrary to three.” “ Surely not.” “Not only,then,do ideas that are contrary never allow the approach of each other, but some other things also do not allow the approach of contraries.” “You say very truly,” he replied. PHJEDO. 127 “Do you wish, then,” he said, “ that, if we are able, we should define what these things are?” “ Certainly.” “ Would they not, then, Cebes,” he said, “ be such things as, whatever they occupy, compel that thing not only to retain its own idea, but also that of something which is al¬ ways a contrary ?” “ How do you mean?” 123. “As we just now said. For you know, surely, that whatever things the idea of three occupies must of neces¬ sity not only be three, but also odd ?” “ Certainly.” “ To such a thing, then, we assert, that the idea contrary to that form which constitutes this can never come.” “ It can not.” “ But did the odd make it so ?” “ Yes.” “And is the contrary to this the idea of the even?” “ Yes.” “ The idea of the even, then, will never come to the three?” “No, surely.” “ Three, then, has no part in the even?” “ None whatever.” “ The number three is uneven ?” “ Yes.” “What, therefore, I said should be defined — namely, what things they are which, though not contrary to. some particular thing, yet do not admit of the contrary itself; as, in the present instance, the number three, though not contrary to the even, does not any the more admit it, for it always brings the contrary with it, just as the number two does to the odd, fire to cold, and many other particu¬ lars. Consider, then, whether you would thus define, not only that a contrary does not admit a contrary, but also that that which brings with it a contrary to that to which it approaches will never admit the contrary of that which it brings with it. 124. But call it to mind again, for it will not be useless to hear it often repeated. Five will not admit the idea of the even, nor ten, its double, that of the odd. This double, then, though it is itself contrary to 128 PILEDO. something else, 1 yet will not admit the idea of the odd; nor will half as much again, nor other things of the kind, such as the half and the third part, admit the idea of the whole, if you follow me, and agree with me that it is so.” “ I entirely agree with you,” he said, “ and follow you.” “Tell me again, then,” he said, “from the beginning; and do not answer me in the terms in which I put the question, but in different ones, imitating my example. For I say this because, besides that safe mode of answer¬ ing which I mentioned at first, 2 from what has now been said, I see another no less safe one. For if you should ask me what that is which, if it be in the body, will cause it to be hot, I should not give you that safe but unlearned answer, that it is heat, but one more elegant, from what we have just now said, that it is fire; nor, if you should ask me what that is which, if it be in the body, will cause it to be diseased, should I say that it is disease, but fever; nor if you should ask what that is which, if it be in num¬ ber, will cause it to be odd, should I say that it is uneven¬ ness, but unity; and so with other things. But consider whether you sufficiently understand what I mean.” 125. “Perfectly so,” he replied. “Answer me, then,” he said, “what that is which, when it is in the body,the body will be alive?” “ Soul,” he replied. “Is not this, then, always the case?” “ How should it not be ?” said he. “ Does the soul, then, always bring life to whatever it occupies ?” “It does indeed,” he replied. “ Whether, then, is there any thing contrary to life or not?” “There is,” he replied. “ What ?” “ Death.” “The soul, then, will never admit the contrary of that which it brings with it, as has been already allowed ?” “ Most assuredly,” replied Cebes. “What, then? IIow do we denominate that which does not admit the idea of the even?” 1 That is, to single. 2 Sec. 113. PILED 0. 129 “Uneven,” he replied. “And that which does not admit the just, nor the mu¬ sical ?” / “Unmusical,” he said,“and unjust” “Be it so. But what do we call that which does not admit death ?” “ Immortal,” he replied. “Therefore, does not the soul admit death?” « No.” “ Is the soul, then, immortal ?” “ Immortal.” 126. “ Be it so,” he said. “ Shall we say, then, that this has been now demonstrated? or how think you?” “ Most completely, Socrates.” “ What, then,” said he, “ Cebes, if it were necessary for the uneven to be imperishable, would the number three be otherwise than imperishable ?” “ How should it not ?” “If, therefore, it were also necessary that what is with¬ out heat should be imperishable, when any one should in¬ troduce heat to snow, would not the snow withdraw itself, safe and unmelted ? For it would not perish; nor yet would it stay and admit the heat.” “You say truly,” he replied. “ In like manner, I think, if that which is insusceptible of cold were imperishable, that when any thing cold ap¬ proached the fire, it would neither be extinguished nor perish, but would depart quite safe.” “ Of necessity,” he said. “Must we not, then, of necessity,” he continued, “speak thus of that which is immortal? if that which is immor¬ tal is imperishable, it is impossible for the soul to perish, when death approaches it. For, from what has been said already, it will not admit death, nor will ever be dead; just as we said that three will never be even, nor, again, will the odd; nor will fire be cold, nor yet the heat that is in fire. 127. But some one may say, what hinders, though the odd can never become even by the approach of the even, as we have allowed, yet, when the odd is de¬ stroyed, that the even should succeed in its place? We could not contend with him who should make this objec- G* 130 PHiEDO. tion that it is not destroyed, for the uneven is not imper¬ ishable; since, if this were granted us, we might easily have contended that, on the approach of the even, the odd and the three depart; and we might have contended in the same way with respect to tire, heat, and the rest, might we not?” “ Certainly.” . . £ . “Wherefore, with respect to the immortal, 11 we nave allowed that it is imperishable, the soul, in addition to its being immortal, must also be imperishable; if not, there will be need of other arguments.” . “ But there is no need,” he said, “ so far as that is con¬ cerned ; for scarcely could any thing not admit of cor¬ ruption, if that which is immortal and eternal is liable 128. “ The deity, indeed, I think,” said Socrates, u and the idea itself of life, and if any thing else is immortal, must be allowed by all beings to be incapable of dissolu- • * % tion. “ By Jupiter !” he replied, “ by all men, indeed, and still more, as I think, by the gods.” ... “ Since, then, that which is immortal is also incorrupti¬ ble, can the soul, since it is immortal, be any thing else than imperishable?” “It must, of necessity, be so.” “When, therefore, death approaches a man, the mortal part of him, as it appears, dies, but the immortal part de¬ parts safe and uncorrupted, having withdrawn itself from death ?” “ It appears so.” “The soul, therefore,” he said,“ Cebes, is most certainly immortal and imperishable, and our souls will really exist in Hades.” “ Therefore, Socrates,” he said, “ I have nothing further to say against this, nor any reason for doubting your ai- guments. But if Simmias here, or any one else, has anv thing to say, it were well for him not to be silent, foi I know not to what other opportunity beyond the present any one can defer it, who wishes either to speak or hear about these things.” 129. “But, indeed,” said Simmias, “neither have I any PEMSDO. 131 reason to doubt what has been urged; yet, from the mag¬ nitude of the subject discussed, and from my low opinion of human weakness, I am compelled still to retain a doubt within myself with respect to what has been said.” “Not only so, Simmias,” said Socrates, “but you say this well; and, moreover, the first hypotheses, even though they are credible to you, should nevertheless be examined more carefully; and if you should investigate them suffi¬ ciently, I think you will follow my reasoning as far as it is possible for man to do so; and if this very point be¬ comes clear, you will inquire no further.” “You speak truly,” he said. “ But it is right, my friends,” he said, “ that we should consider this—that if the soul is immortal, it requires our care not only for the present time, which we call life, but for all time; and the danger would now appear to be dreadful if one should neglect it. 130. For if death were a deliverance from every thing, it would be a great gain for the wicked, when they die, to be delivered at the same time from the body, and from their vices together with the soul; but now, since it appears to be immortal, it can have no other refuge from evils, nor safety, except by be¬ coming as good and wise as possible. For the soul goes to Hades, possessing nothing else than its discipline and education, which are said to be of the greatest advantage or detriment to the dead, on the very beginning of his journey thither. For, thus, it is said that each person’s demon who was assigned to him while living, when ho dies conducts him to some place, where they that are as¬ sembled together must receive sentence, and then proceed to Hades with that guide who has been ordered to con¬ duct them from hence thither. But there having received their deserts, and having remained the appointed time, an¬ other guide brings them back hither again, after many and long revolutions of time. The journey, then, is not such as the Telephus of iEschylus describes it; for he says that a simple path leads to Hades ; but it appears to me to be neither simple nor one, for there would be no need of guides, nor could any one ever miss the way, if there were but one. But now it appears to have many divisions and windings; and this I conjecture from our religious and 132 PHiEDO. funeral rites. 1 131. The well-ordered and wise soul, then, both follows, and is not ignorant of its present condition ; but that which through passion clings to the body, as I said before, having longingly fluttered about it for a long time, and about its visible place, 2 after vehement resistance and great suffering, is forcibly and with great difficulty led away by its appointed demon. And when it arrives at the place where the others are, impure and having done any such thing as the committal of unrighteous murders or other similar actions, which are kindred to these, and are the deeds of kindred souls, every one shuns it and turns away from it, and will be neither its fellow-traveler nor guide; but it wanders about, oppressed with every kind of helplessness, until certain periods have elapsed; and when these are completed, it is carried, of necessity, to an abode suitable to it. But the soul which has passed through life with purity and moderation, having obtained the gods for its fellow - travelers and guides, settles each in the place suited to it. 132. There are, indeed, many and wonderful places in the earth, and it is itself neither of such a kind nor of such a magnitude as is supposed by those who are accustomed to speak of the earth, as I have been persuaded by a certain person.” Whereupon Simmias said, “ How mean you, Socrates ? For I, too, have heard many things about the earth—not, however, those things which have obtained your belief. I would, therefore, gladly hear them.” “ Indeed, Simmias, the art of Glaucus 3 docs not seem to me to be required to relate what these things are. That they are true, however, appears to me more than the art of Glaucus can prove, and, besides, I should probably not be able to do it; and even if I did know how, what re¬ mains to me of life, Simmias, seems insufficient for the length of the subject. However, the form of the earth, such as I am persuaded it is, and the different places in it, nothing hinders me from telling.” 1 It is difficult to express the distinction between octet and rc/u/m. The former word seems to have reference to the souls ot the dead; the latter, to their bodies. 2 Its place of interment. 3 A proverb meaning “a matter of great difficulty.” PHiEDO. 133 “ Bat that will be enough,” said Simmias. “I am persuaded, then,” said he, “in the first place, that, if the earth is in the middle of the heavens, and is of a spherical form, it has no need of air, nor of any other similar force, to prevent it from falling; but that the simi¬ larity of the heavens to themselves on every side, and the equilibrium of the earth itself, are sufficient to support it; for a thing in a state of equilibrium when placed in the middle of something that presses it equally on all sides can not incline more or less on any side, but, being equal¬ ly affected all around, remains unmoved. 133. In the first place, then,” he said, “I am persuaded of this.” “And very properly so,” said Simmias. “ Yet, further,” said he, “ that it is very large, and that we who inhabit some small portion of it, from the river Phasis to the pillars of Hercules, dwell about the sea, like ants or frogs about a marsh; and that many others else- where dwell in many similar places, for that there are everywhere about the earth many hollows of various forms and sizes into which there is a confluence of water, mist, and air; but that the earth itself, being pure, is situated in the pure heavens, in which are the stars, and which most persons who are accustomed to speak about such things call ether; of which these things are the sedi¬ ment, and are continually flowing into the hollow parts of the earth. 134. That we are ignorant, then, that we are dwelling in its hollows, and imagine that we inhabit the upper parts of the earth, just as if any one dwelling in the bottom of the sea should think that he dwelt on the sea, and, beholding the sun and the other stars through the water, should imagine that the sea was the heavens; but, through sloth and weakness, should never have reached the surface of the sea; nor,.having emerged and risen up from the sea to this region, have seen how much more pure and more beautiful it is than the place where he is, nor has heard of it from any one else who has seen it. This, then, is the very condition in which we are; for, dwelling in some hollow of the earth, we think that we dwell on the surface of it, and call the air heaven, as if the stars moved through this, being heaven itself. But this is because, by reason of our weakness and sloth, we are un- 134 PHiEDO. able to reach to the summit of the air. Since, if any one could arrive at its summit, or, becoming winged, could fly up thither, or, emerging from hence, he would see—just as with us, fishes, emerging from the sea, behold what is here, so any one would behold the things there; and if his na¬ ture were able to endure the contemplation, he would know that that is the true heaven, and the true light, and the true earth. 135. For this earth and these stones, and the whole region here, are decayed and corroded, as things in the sea by the saltness; for nothing of any value grows in the sea, iror, in a word, does it contain any thing per¬ fect; but there are caverns and sand, and mud in abun¬ dance, and filth, in whatever parts of the sea there is earth, nor are they at all worthy to be compared with the beau¬ tiful things with us. But, on the other hand, those things in the upper regions of the earth would appear far more to excel the things with us. For, if we may tell a beauti¬ ful fable, it is well worth hearing, Simmias, what kind the things are on the earth beneath the heavens.” . “ Indeed, Socrates,” said Simmias, “ we should be very glad to hear that fable.” 136. “ First of all, then, my friend,” he continued, “ this earth, if any one should survey it from above, is said to have the appearance of balls covered with twelve different pieces of leather, variegated and distinguished with colors, of which the colors found here, and which painters use, are, as it were, copies. But there the whole earth is com¬ posed of such, and far more brilliant and pure than these; for one part of it is purple, and of wonderful beauty, part of a golden color, and part of white, more white than chalk or snow, and, in like manner, composed of other colors, and those more in number and more beautiful than any we have ever beheld. And those very hollow* parts of the earth, though filled with water and air, exhibit a certain species of color, shining among the variety of other colors, so that one continually variegated aspect presents itself to the view. In this earth, being such, all things that grow, grow in a manner proportioned to its nature—trees, fiow- ers, and fruits; and, again, in like manner, its mountains and stones possess, in the same proportion, smoothness and transparency, and more beautiful colors; of which the well- PHiEDO. 135 known stones here that are so highly prized are but frag¬ ments, such as sardine-stones, jaspers, and emeralds, and all of that kind. But there, there is nothing subsists that is not of this character, and even more beautiful than these. 137. But the reason of this is, because the stones there are pure, and not eaten up and decayed, like those here, by rottenness and saltness, which flow down hither together, and which produce deformity and disease in the stones and the earth, and in other things, even animals and plants. But that earth is adorned with all these, and, moreover, with gold and silver, and other things of the kind: for they are naturally conspicuous, being numerous and large, and in all parts of the earth; so that to behold it is a sight for the blessed. There are also many other animals and men upon it, some dwelling in mid-earth, others about the air, as we do about the sea, and others in islands which the air flows round, and which are near the continent; and, in one word, what water and the sea are to us, for our necessities, the air is to them; and what air is to us, that ether is to them. 138. But their seasons are of such a temperament that they are free from disease, and live for a much longer time than those here, and surpass us in sight, hearing, and smelling, and every thing of this kind, as much as air excels water, and ether air, in purity. More¬ over, they have abodes and temples of the gods, in which gods really dwell, and voices and oracles, and sensible vis¬ ions of the gods, and such-like intercourse with them; the sun, too, and moon, and stars, are seen by them such as they really are, and their felicity in other respects is cor¬ respondent with these things. “And such, indeed, is the nature of the whole earth, and the parts about the earth ; but there are many places all round it throughout its cavities, some deeper and more open than that in which we dwell; but others that are deeper have a less chasm than our.region, and others are shallower in depth than it is here, and broader. 139. But all these are in many places perforated one into another under the earth, some with narrower and some with wider channels, and have passages through, by which a great quantity of water flows from one into another, as into basins, and there are immense bulks of ever-flowing rivers 136 PHiEDO. under the earth, both of hot and cold water, and a great quantity of fire, and mighty rivers of fire, and many .of liquid mire, some purer, and some more miry, as in Sicily there are rivers of mud that flow before the lava, and the lava itself, and from these the several places are filled, according as the overflow from time to time happens to come to each of them. But all these move up and down, as it were, by a certain oscillation existing in the earth. And this oscillation proceeds from such natural cause as this; one of the chasms of the earth is exceedingly large, and perforated through the entire earth, and is that which Homer 1 speaks of, ‘ very far off, where is the most pro¬ found abyss beneath the earth,’ which elsewhere both he and many other poets have called Tartarus. For into this chasm all rivers flow together, and from it flow out again ; but they severally derive their character from the earth through which they flow. 140. And the reason why all streams flow out from thence, and flow into it, is because this liquid has neither bottom nor base. Therefore, it oscil¬ lates and fluctuates up and down, and the air and the wind around it do the same; for they accompany it both when it rushes to those parts of the earth, and when to. these. And as in respiration the flowing breath is continually breathed out and drawn in, so there the wind oscillating with the liquid causes certain vehement and irresistible winds both as it enters and goes out. When, therefore, the water rushing in descends to the place which we call the lower region, it flows through the earth into the streams there, and fills them, just as men pump up water. But when again it leaves those regions and rushes hither, it again fills the rivers here; and these, when filled, flow through channels and through the earth, and, having, sev¬ erally reached the several places to which they, are jour¬ neying, they make seas, lakes, rivers, and fountains. 141. Then, sinking again from thence beneath the earth, some- of them having gone round longer and more numerous places, and others round'fewer and shorter, they again dis¬ charge themselves into Tartarus—some much lower than they were drawn up, others only a little so; but all of them liow in again beneath the point at which they llowed out. 1 “ Iliad,”lib. viii., v. 14. PELEDO. 137 And some issue out directly opposite the place by which they flow in, others on the same side. There are also some which, having gone round altogether in a circle, folding themselves once or several times round the earth, like ser¬ pents, when they have descended as low as possible, dis¬ charge themselves again; and it is possible for them to descend on either side as far as the middle, but not be¬ yond; for in each direction there is an acclivity to the streams both ways. “Now,there are many other large and various streams; but among this great number there are four certain streams, of which the largest, and that which flows most outwardly round the earth, is called Ocean; but directly opposite this, and flowing in a contrary direction, is Ache¬ ron, which flows through other desert places, and, more¬ over, passing under the earth, reaches the Acherusian lake, where the souls of most who die arrive; and, having re¬ mained there for certain destined periods, some longer and some shorter, are again sent forth into the generations of animals. 142. A third river issues midway between these, and, near its source, falls into a vast region, burning with abundance of fire, and forms a lake larger than our sea, boiling with water and mud. From hence it proceeds in a circle, turbulent and muddy, and, folding itself round it, reaches both other places and the extremity of the Acherusian lake, but does not mingle with its water; but, folding itself oftentimes beneath the earth, it discharges itself into the lower parts of Tartarus. And this is the river which they call •Pyriphlegethon, whose burning streams emit dissevered fragments in whatever part of the earth they happen to be. Opposite to this, again, the fourth river first falls into a place dreadful and savage, as it is said, having its whole color like cyanus this they call Stygian, and the lake which the river forms by its discharge, Styx. This river, having fallen in here, and received awful power in the water, sinking beneath the earth, proceeds, folding itself round, in an opposite course to Pyriphlegethon, and meets it in the Acherusian lake from a contrary direction. Neither does the water of this 1 A metallic substance of a deep-blue color, frequently mentioned by the earliest Grecian writers, but of which the nature is unknown. 138 PILZEDO. river mingle with any other; but it, too, having gone round in a circle, discharges itself into Tartarus, opposite to Pyriphlegethon. Its name, as the poets say, is Cocytus. 143. “These things being thus constituted, when the dead arrive at the place to which their demon leads them severally, first of all they are judged, as well those who have lived well and piously, as those who have not. And those who appear to have passed a middle kind of life, proceeding to Acheron, and embarking in the vessels they have, on these arrive at the lake, and there dwell; and when they are purified, and have suffered punishment for the iniquities they may have committed, they are set free, and each receives the reward of his good deeds, according to his deserts. But those who appear to be incurable, through the magnitude of their offenses, either from having committed many and great sacrileges, or many unjust and lawless murders, or other similar crimes, these a suitable destiny hurls into Tartarus, whence they never come forth. 144. But those who appear to have been guilty of curable yet great offenses—such as those who, through anger, have committed any violence against father or mother, and have lived the remainder of their life in a state of penitence, oi they who have become homicides in a similar niannei these must, of necessity, fall into Tartarus. But aftei they have fallen, and have been there for a year, the wave casts them forth, the homicides into Cocytus, but the pan icicles and matricides into Pyriphlegethon. But when, being borne along, they arrive at the Acherusian lake, there they cry out to and invoke, some those whom they slew, otheis those whom they injured ; and, invoking them, they entreat and implore them to suffer them to go out into the lake, and to receive them; and if they persuade them, they go out, and are freed from their sufferings; but if not, they are borne back to Tartarus, and thence again to the rivers. And they do not cease from suffering this until, they have persuaded those whom they have injured, for this sentence was imposed on them by the judges. 145. But those "who are found to have lived an eminently holy life, these, ai e they who, being freed and set at large from these legions in the earth, as from a prison, arrive at the pure abode above, and. dwell on the upper parts of the eaith. And PH2ED0. 139 among those, they who have sufficiently purified them¬ selves by philosophy shall live without bodies, throughout all future time, and shall arrive at habitations yet more beautiful than these, which it is neither easy to describe, nor at present is there sufficient time for the purpose. “ But, for the sake of these things which we have de¬ scribed, we should use every endeavor, Simmias, so as to acquire virtue and wisdom in this life; for the reward is noble, and the hope great. “To affirm positively, indeed, that these things are ex¬ actly as I have described them does not become a man of sense. That, however, either this, or something of the kind, takes place with respect to our souls and their habitations —since our soul is certainly immortal—this appears to me most fitting to be believed, and worthy the hazard for one who trusts in its reality; for the hazard is noble, and it is right to allure ourselves with such things, as with enchant¬ ments ; for which reason I have prolonged my story to such a length. 14G. On account of these things, then, a man ought to be confident about his soul who, during this life, has disregarded all the pleasures and ornaments of the body as foreign from his nature; and who, having thought that they do more harm than good, has zealously applied himself to the acquirement of knowledge; and who, hav¬ ing adorned his soul, not with a foreign, but its own prop¬ er ornament—temperance, justice, fortitude, freedom, and truth—thus waits for his passage to Hades, as one who is ready to depart whenever destiny shall summon him. You, then,” he continued, “Simmias and Cebes, and the rest, will each of you depart at some future time; but now destiny summons me, as a tragic writer would say, and it is nearly time for me to betake myself to the bath; for it appears to me to be better to drink the poison after I have bathed myself, and not to trouble the women with wash¬ ing my dead body.” 147. When he had thus spoken, Crito said,“So be it, Socrates; but what commands have you to give to these or to me, either respecting your children, or any other mat¬ ter, in attending to which we can most oblige, you?” “What I always say, Crito,” he replied, “ nothing new: that by taking care of yourselves you will oblige both me 140 PHtEDO. and mine, and yourselves, whatever you do, though you should not now promise it; and if you neglect yourselves, and will not live, as it were, in the footsteps of what has been now and formerly said, even though you should promise much at present, and that earnestly, you will do no good at all.” “ We will endeavor, then, so to do,” he said. “ But how shall we bury you ?” “Just as you please,” he said, “ if only you can catch me, and I do not escape from you.” 148. And, at the same time smiling gently, and looking round on us, he said, “ I can not persuade Crito, my friends, that I am that Socrates who is now conversing with you, and who methodizes each part of the discourse ; but he thinks that I am he whom he will shortly behold dead, and asks how he should bury me. But that which I some time since argued at length, that when I have drunk the poison I shall no longer remain with you, but shall depart to some happy state of the blessed, this I seem to have urged to him in vain, though I meant at the same time to console both you and myself. Be ye, then, my sureties to Crito,” he said, “ in an obligation contrary to that which he made to the judges (for he undertook that I should remain); but do you be sureties that, when I die, I shall not remain, but shall depart, that Crito may more easily bear it; and, when lie sees my body either burned or buried, may not be af¬ flicted for me, as if I suffered some dreadful thing; nor say at my interment that Socrates is laid out, or is carried out, or is buried. 149. For be well assured,” he said,“most excellent Crito, that to speak improperly is not only culpa¬ ble as to the thing itself,but likewise occasions some injury to our souls. You must have a good courage, then, and say that you bury my body, and bury it in such a manner as is pleasing to you, and as you think is most agreeable to our laws.” When he had said thus,he rose, and went into a cham¬ ber to bathe, and Crito followed him, but he directed us to wait for him. We waited, therefore, conversing among ourselves about what had been said, and considering it again, and sometimes speaking about our calamity, how severe it w T ould be to us, sincerely thinking that, like those PHiEDO. 141 who are deprived of a father, we should pass the rest of our life as orphans. When he had bathed, and his chil¬ dren were brought to him (for he had two little sons and one grown up), and the women belonging to his family were come, having conversed with them in the presence of Crito, and given them such injunctions as he wished, he directed the women and children to go away, and then returned to us. And it was now near sunset; for he spent a considerable time within. 150. But when he came from bathing he sat down, and did not speak much after¬ ward ; then the officer of the Eleven came in, and, stand¬ ing near him, said, “ Socrates, I shall not have to find that fault with you that I do with others, that they are angry with me, and curse me, when, by order of the archons, I bid them drink the poison. But you, on all other occa¬ sions during the time you have been here, I have found to be the most noble, meek, and excellent man of all that ever came into this place; and, therefore, I am now well convinced that you will not be angry with me (for you know who are to blame), but with them. Now, then (for you know what I came to announce to you), farewell, and endeavor to bear what is inevitable as easily as possible.” And at the same time, bursting into tears, he turned away and withdrew. 151. And Socrates, looking after him, said, “And thou, too, farewell. We will do as you direct.” At the same time turning to us, he said, “How courteous the man is! During the whole time I have been here he has visited me, and conversed with me sometimes, and proved the worthiest of men ; and now how generously he weeps for me! But come, Crito, let us obey him, and let some one bring the poison, if it is ready pounded ; but if not, let the man pound it.” Then Crito said, “But I think, Socrates,that the sun is still on the mountains, and has not yet set. Besides, I know that others have drunk the poison very late, after it had been announced to them, and have supped and drunk freely, and some even have enjoyed the objects of their love. Do not hasten, then, for there is yet time.” Upon this Socrates replied, “ These men whom you mention, Crito, do these things with good reason, for they 142 PHiEDO. think they shall gain by so doing; and I, too, with good reason, shall not do so ; for I think I shall gain nothing by drinking a little later, except to become ridiculous to my¬ self in being so fond of life, and sparing of it, when none any longer remains. Go, then,” he said,“ obey, and do not 152. Crito, having heard this, nodded to the boy that stood near. And the boy, having gone out and staid tor some time, came, bringing with him the man that was to administer the poison, who brought it ready pounded m a cup. And Socrates, on seeing the man, said, “ V\ ell, my o-ood friend, as you are skilled in these matters, what must Ido?” , , i “ Nothing else,” he replied, “ than, when you have drunk it,walk about until there is a heaviness in your legs; then lie down: thus it will do its purpose.” And at the same time he held out the cup to Socrates. And he having received it very cheerfully, Bchecrates, neithei tienabling, nor changing at all in color or countenance, but, as he w as wont, looking steadfastly at the man, said, “What say you of this potion, with respect to making a libation to any one, is it lawful or not ?” “We only pound so much, Socrates, he said, as we think sufficient to drink.” % . . . , 153. “I understand you,” he said; “but it is certainly both lawful and right to pray to the gods, that my depart¬ ure hence thither may be happy; which, therefore, I pray, and so may it be.” And as he said this, he drank it ott readily and calmly. Thus far, most of us were with diffi¬ culty able to restrain ourselves from weeping; but when we saw him drinking, and having finished the draught,we could do so no longer; but, in spite of myself, the tears came in full torrent, so that, covering my face, I wept for myself; for I did not weep for him, but for my own fortune, m be- ino- deprived of such a friend. But Crito, even before me, when he could not restrain his tears, had risen up. 154. But Apollodorus, even before this, had not ceased weep¬ ing ; and then, bursting into an agony of grief, weeping and lamenting, he pierced the heart of every one present, except Socrates himself. But he said, “ What are you doing, my admirable friends ? I, indeed, for this reason PILZEDO. 143 chiefly, sent away the women, that they might not com¬ mit any folly of this kind. For I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up.” When we heard this, we were ashamed, and restrained our tears. But he, having walked about, when he said that his legs were growing heavy, lay down on his back; for the man had so directed him. And, at the same time, he who gave him the poison, taking hold of him, after a short interval, examined his feet and legs; and then, hav¬ ing pressed his foot hard, he asked if he felt it: he said that he did not. And after this he pressed his thighs; and, thus going higher, he showed us that he was growing cold and stiff. Then Socrates touched himself, and said that when the poison reached his heart he should then depart. 155. But now the parts around the lower belly were almost cold; when, uncovering himself, for he had been covered over, he said (and they were his last words), “ Crito, we owe a cock to Aesculapius; pay it, therefore, and do not neglect it.” “ It shall be done,” said Crito; “ but consider whether you have any thing else to say.” To this question he gave no reply; but, shortly after, he gave a convulsive movement, and the man covered him, and his eyes were fixed; and Crito, perceiving it, closed his mouth and eyes. . This, Echecrates, was the end of our friend,—a man, as we may say, the best of all of his time that we have known, and, moreover, the most wise and just. INTRODUCTION TO THE GORGIAS. Callicles and Polus, two friends of Gorgias, the fa¬ mous orator of Leontium in Sicily, happening to meet with Socrates and Chserephon, tell the former that he has sustained a great loss in not having been just now present when Gorgias was exhibiting his art. Charephon admits that the fault was his, but adds that, as Gorgias is his friend, he can easily persuade him to exhibit to them ei- ther then or at a future time. They accordingly, all four, adjourn to the house of Callicles, where Gorgias is stay¬ ing. When arrived there, Chsereplion, at the suggestion of Socrates, proposes to question Gorgias as to the art he professes; but Polus, his pupil, somewhat impertinently offers to answer for him, on the ground that Gorgias is fatigued. Chsereplion, therefore, asks, what is the art in which Gorgias is skilled, and what he ought to be called ? To which Polus answers, “The finest of the arts. Soc¬ rates, not satisfied with this, as being no answer at all, begs Gorgias himself to answer. He says that rhetoric is the art he professes, and that he is a rhetorician, and able to make others rhetoricians. Socrates, having got Gorgias to promise that he would answer briefly, proceeds to ask him about what rhetoric is employed, and of what it is the science. Gorgias says, “Of words;” but Socrates shows that other aits, in va¬ rious degrees, make use of words; and that some, such as arithmetic and geometry, are altogether conversant with 1 Sec. 1-7. INTRODUCTION. 145 words. He, therefore, requests him to distinguish between these arts and rhetoric, and to explain about what partic¬ ular thing these words are employed. Gorgias confident¬ ly answers, about “ the greatest of all human concerns, and the best.” But the physician, the teacher of gymnastics, the money-getter—in short, all men—would say that the end which their own art aims at is the best. What, then, is this good which you say is the greatest good to men? Gorgias answers that it is the power of persuading by words. But Socrates objects that other arts do the same, for that every one who teaches any thing persuades what he teaches; you must, therefore, say of what kind of per¬ suasion, and on what subject rhetoric is the art. It is that which is produced in courts of justice and other pub¬ lic assemblies, and relates to matters that are just and un¬ just. But here, again, Socrates makes Gorgias admit that there are two kinds of persuasion: one that produces belief without knowledge, the other that produces knowl¬ edge. Which of these two, then, does rhetoric produce ? Doubtless the former. But supposing the question is about the choice of physicians or shipwrights, or the building of walls, or the construction of ports or docks, will a rhetorician be consulted, or a person skilled in these several matters? Here Gorgias answers that on these and all other subjects a rhetorician will speak more per¬ suasively than any other artist whatever. But it is his duty to use his art justly; though if he uses it unjustly, he, and not his teacher, is to blame . 1 Socrates here, perceiving an inconsistency in Gorg'ias’s statement, after deprecating his being offended at the course the discussion might take, asks whether, by saying that a rhetorician can speak more persuasively to the mul- 1 Sec. 8-28. 1 4 146 INTRODUCTION. titude on any art than a person skilled in that art, he does not mean the ignorant by the multitude 5 and, that being admitted, whether it does not follow that one who is ig¬ norant will be more capable of persuading the ignorant than one who possesses knowledge? Gorgias allows this to be the case. Is the case, then, the same with respect to what is just and unjust, base and honorable, good and evil ? Can a rhetorician persuade the multitude on these subjects, himself being ignorant of them, 01 must he know them before he learns rhetoric, or will the teacher of lhet- oric instruct him in these? Gorgias professes that if a pupil does not know these things, he would learn them from him. But surely he who has learned carpenteiing is a carpenter; music, a musician ; medicine, a physician. Does it not follow, then, that he who has learned justice must be just, and wish to do just actions? Gorgias ad¬ mits this too; and yet he had just now allowed that a rhetorician might make an unjust use of his art, and said that, in that case, the teacher ought not to be blamed, but the person who acts unjustly ought to be punished. 1 At this point Bolus takes up the discussion, and, having elected to ask questions, instead of answering them, begins by asking. Socrates what kind of art he considers rhetoiic to be. Socrates answers that he does not think it is any art at all, but a kind of skill, employed for procuring grat¬ ification and pleasure; in other words, a species of flattery, of which there are many divisions. Polus asks what di¬ vision it is. u Rhetoric, in my opinion,” says Socrates, is a semblance of a division of the political art,” and as such is base. This answer, however, is not intelligible either to Gorgias or Polus. At the request of the former, there¬ fore, Socrates explains himself more clearly. 2 1 Sec. 29-37. 2 Sec. 38-43. INTRODUCTION. 147 As there are two kinds of subject matter, lie says— namely, soul and body—so there are two arts. That which relates to the soul is political. The other, relating to the body, he is not able to describe by one name; but there are two divisions of it, gymnastics and medicine. In the political art legislation corresponds to gymnastics, and the judicial art to medicine. But flattery, perceiving that these four take the best possible care of the soul and body respectively, has divided itself fourfold, and feigns itself to be what it pretends, not really caring for what is best, but seducing ignorance by means of pleasure. Thus cook¬ ery puts on the garb of medicine, and pretends that it knows the aliment best for the body; and, again, personal decoration feigns itself to be gymnastics. Then, he adds, what personal decoration is to gymnastics, that is sophis¬ try to legislation; and what cookery is to medicine, that is rhetoric to justice; and so, being proximate to each other, sophists and rhetoricians are confounded with legislators and j udges. 1 Are good rhetoricians, then, asks Polus, to be esteemed as vile flatterers in cities? Socrates replies that they ap¬ pear to him to be of no estimation at all. But have they not the greatest power in cities? Not, if to have power is a good to him who possesses it. For what is it to have power ? Is it to do what one wishes, or what appears to one to be best? Polus admits that it is not good for a person devoid of understanding to do what appears to him to be best. He must therefore prove that rhetoricians possess understanding; otherwise, since tb have power is a good, they can not do what they wish. Polus, however, is unable to distinguish between doing what one wishes and doing what appears to be best; and, therefore, agrees J Sec. 44-47. 148 INTRODUCTION. to change positions with Socrates, and to answer instead of asking questions. 1 Socrates then asks, Do men wish what they do for the sake of the thing itself, or for some other end? For in¬ stance, do men take medicine because they wish to take it, or in order to health ? Again, do men incur the perils of the sea because they wish to be in peril, or for the sake of riches? Clearly the latter, in both and all similar cases. Nowq some things—such as wisdom, health, and riches— are good, but their contraries evil; but whatever we do, we do for the sake of that which is good. So that if we kill or banish a person, if it is good to do so, we wish it, and do what we wish; but if it is really evil, though it ap¬ pears to us to be good, we do not what we wish. Polus sees the force of Socrates’s argument, and can only object to it that Socrates himself would like to do what he pleased, and would envy another whom he saw slaying, or spoiling, or imprisoning whom he pleased. But Socrates resolutely denies this, and insists that if he must necessa¬ rily either act unjustly or suffer unjustly, he should choose the latter; for that it is better to suffer than to commit injustice. 2 Polus imagines that even a child could confute such a position as this; and, in order to do so, mentions instances of men whom all have accounted happy, though they were unjust, especially that of Archelaus, king of Macedonia. But Socrates denies that any one who acts unjustly can be happy; and, further than this, he contends that a per¬ son who acts unjustly, and does not suffer punishment, is more miserable than one who meets with punishment for his injustice. To prove this, he argues that it is more base to commit injustice than to suffer it; and, if more 1 Sec. 48-50. 2 Sec. 51 r 57. INTRODUCTION. 149 base, it must also be worse. Polus admits the premise, but denies the conclusion. Socrates, therefore, endeavors to make his opponent admit this also by the following arguments; beautiful things are esteemed beautiful, either on account of their usefulness, or the pleasure they occa¬ sion, or both ; and, in like manner, base things are deemed base on account of the pain or evil they occasion, or both. So that when of two things one is more beautiful than the other, it is so because it excels in pleasure or utility, or both; and when of two things one is more base, it must be because it exceeds in pain or evil. But Polus has al¬ ready admitted that it is more base to commit injustice than to suffer it; it must, therefore, be so because it ex¬ ceeds in pain or evil, or both. But to commit injustice does not exceed the suffering it in pain; it remains, there¬ fore, that it must exceed it in evil: consequently, it must be worse, for whatever exceeds another thing in evil must necessarily be worse. 1 Having established his point thus far, he now goes on to prove that it is the greatest of evils for one who has committed injustice not to be punished. To suffer pun¬ ishment and to be justly chastised are one and the same thing. But all just things are beautiful. Moreover, wherever there is an agent, there must also be a patient. And the patient suffers what the agent does; so that if the agent punishes justly, the patient also suffers justly. But it has been just admitted that all just things are beautiful; and it was proved before that all beautiful things are good, either because they are pleasant or useful. Whence it follows that he who is punished suffers that which is good, and is benefited in being freed from the greatest evil, which is depravity in the soul. From all 1 Sec. 58-69. 150 INTRODUCTION. this, it is evident that rhetoric can he of no nse whatever; for it is generally employed for the purpose of excusing injustice, and screening men from the punishment they deserve, which, on the contrary, they ought rather to court than to shun. 1 Polus having been thus completely silenced, Callicles takes up the argument, and begins by asking whether Socrates is really in earnest. Finding that he is so, he blames Polus for having granted that it is more base to commit injustice than to suffer it; for that there is a dif¬ ference between nature and law, which Socrates perceiving, confounded that which is more base by nature with that which is so by law, and so made that which is more base by law appear to be more so by nature; whereas by nat¬ ure it is more base to suffer injustice than to commit it. For the weak and the many make laws with a view to their own advantage; but nature herself avows that it is just that the better should have more than the worse, and the more powerful than the weaker. Callicles then pro¬ ceeds to inveigh against philosophy and philosophers; and when he has done, Socrates, after having indulged in a vein of pleasant irony at his expense, returns to the sub¬ ject, and asks what he means by the superior, the better, and the stronger—whether they are the same, or different. Callicles says they are the same. Socrates objects that if that is the case, the many, being stronger, are also the bet¬ ter; and so, inasmuch as they make the laws, law and nat¬ ure are not contrary to each other. Callicles, therefore, is compelled to change his ground, and next says that by the better and superior lie means the more wise; and at last he says that they are those who are skilled and courageous in administering the affairs of a city. lie adds that it is 1 Sec. 70-80*. INTRODUCTION. 151 just that the governors should have more than the gov¬ erned. Socrates, hereupon, asks whether they ought not to govern themselves also, and be temperate; which elicits from Callicles the shameless avowal that a man should have as large desires as he can, and indulge them without restraint. 1 Socrates, having in vain endeavored to persuade Callicles to change his opinion by two similitudes of a perforated cask, and a full and an empty one, to which he compares the soul, proceeds to combat his assertion that a happy life consists in having and indulging as large desires as possible. If happiness consists in being hungry and eat¬ ing, thirsty and drinking, it must follow that to be scabby and itch and scratch one’s self is to live happily. Callicles is forced to admit that this is to live pleasantly; and then, if pleasantly, happily; and at length is driven to assert that the pleasant and the good are the same. In order to confute this opinion, Socrates leads him to maintain that science and courage differ from each other and from the good; and then, by a series of most subtle questions, too minute to be abbreviated, forces him to this absurd conclusion, that if the pleasant and the good are the same, a bad man, inasmuch as he oftentimes receives more pleas¬ ure than a good man, must be accounted better than a good one. Callicles, to evade this absurdity, is compelled to admit that some pleasures are better than others. From this concession Socrates shows that the end of all human ac¬ tions is the good, and not the pleasant; for so far is it from being the case that we do any thing merely for the sake of pleasure, that we pursue pleasure itself for the sake of the good. 2 1 Sec. 81-103. 2 Sec. 118-119. 152 INTRODUCTION. Having established this point, Socrates brings back the discussion to the original subject, and proposes to inquire whether it is better to live in such a manner as Callicles ad¬ vises—namely, to devote one’s self to public business and to study rhetoric—or in such a manner as philosophy per¬ suades. He recurs, therefore, to his own former arguments, in which he stated that as there are certain skills, not arts, employed for the gratification of the body, so there are other corresponding ones made use of to please the soul, such as flute-playing, harp-playing, dithyrambic and even tragic poetry. Now, take from these last melody, rhythm, and measure, and what else remains but words; that is to say, a kind of flattery addressed to the multitude? And is not popular rhetoric similar ? Callicles answers that there is a difference to be observed in this respect, for that some do, as Socrates has observed, speak only in order to please, but that others look to the interest of the citizens. “That is enough,” says Socrates. At all events,one part of rhetoric is flattery; and when has an instance of that which is honorable, which strives to speak what is best, whether it be pleasant or unpleasant to the hearers, ever been seen ? Callicles instances Themistocles, Cimon, Mil- tiades, and Pericles; but Socrates will by no means admit that any of these really endeavored to make the people better. But, before this, Callicles, being hard pressed in argument, breaks off the discussion; and Socrates, at the request of Gorgias, carries it on by himself, and shows at length, and with great force and perspicuity, the advan¬ tages of a virtuous and well-regulated life; and, in con¬ clusion, he describes the future judgment when each man will give account of himself in another world, and be re¬ warded or punished according as he has lived a good or a bad life. GORGIAS; OR, OX RHETORIC. Callicles, Socrates, Cilerephon, Gorgias, and Polus. Cal. They say, Socrates, that we should thus take part in war and battle. 1 Socr. Have we, then, as the saying is, come after the feast, and are we too late ? Cal. And a very elegant feast. For Gorgias has just now exhibited many fine things to us. Socr. Chserephon here, Callicles, is the cause of this, by having compelled us to waste our time in the forum. Cheer. It’s of no consequence, Socrates; for I will also find a remedy. For Gorgias is my friend; so that he will exhibit to us now, if you please, or, if you prefer it, at some future time. 2 . Cal. What, Chserephon ? is Socrates desirous of hear¬ ing Gorgias ? Cheer. We are come for this very purpose. Cal. Whenever you please, then, come to my house. Gorgias lodges with me, and will exhibit to you. Socr. You say well, 2 Callicles. But would he be in¬ clined to converse with us? For I wish to learn from him what is the power of his art, and what if is that he professes and teaches: the rest of the exhibition, as you say, he may make at some other time. Cal. There is nothing like asking him, Socrates, for this is one part of his exhibition: he just now bade all that 1 That is, come too late, and so take no part at all. 2 Or, “yon are very obliging.” 7 * 154 GORGIAS. were in tlie house ask what question they pleased, and promised to answer every thing. . 3 . /Socr. You say well, in truth. Ask lnm, Ghserephon. Cheer. What shall I ask him? Socr. What he is. Cheer. How mean you ? Socr. Just as, if he happened to he a maker of shoes, . he would surely answer you that he is a shoe-inakei. Ho you not understand what I mean? Cheer. I understand, and will ask him. Tell me, Gor- gias, does Callicles here say truly that you promised to answer whatever any one should ask you ? Gorg. Truly, Clnerephon, for I just now made that very promise; and I affirm that, for many yeai s, no one has asked me any thing new. Cheer. Without doubt, then, you will answer easily, Gorgias. Gorg. You may make trial of that, Chserepnon. •Pol. By Jupiter ! Cluerephon, if you please, make trial of me j for Gorgias appears to me to be fatigued, as he has just now been speaking a great deal. 4 . Cheer. What, Polus, do you think you can answer better than Gorgias? Pol . What- matters that, if I answer well enough tor you ? Cheer. Not at all. Since you wish it, then, answer. Pol. Ask. . Cheer. I ask, then, If Gorgias happened to be skilled in the same art as his brother Herodicus is skilled, what name should we rightly give him? Would it not be the same as his brother ? Pol. Certainly. Cheer. In calling him a physician, then, we should speak correctly ? Pol. Yes. Cheer. But if he were skilled in the same art as Aristo- phon, son of Aglaophon, or his brother, what should we properly call him ? Pol. Evidently, a painter. Cheer. But now, since he is skilled in a certain art, what can we properly call him? GORGIAS. 155 6 . Pol. Choerephon, there are many arts among men * >j experience experimentally discovered; for experience ' causes our life to proceed according to art, but inexpe¬ rience according to chance. Of each of these, different persons partake of different arts, in different manners; but the best, of the best; in the number of whom is Gor- gias here, who possesses the finest of the arts. Socr. Polus appears, Gorgias, to be very well prepared for speaking; but he does not do what he promised Cha3- * rephon. Gorg. How so, Socrates ? Socr. He does not appear to me to answer the question that was asked. 6 . Gorg. Do you, then, if you please, ask him. Socr. No; but if yourself would be willing to answer me, I would much rather ask you. For it is evident to me that Polus, from what he has said, has studied more what is called rhetoric than conversation. Pol. Why so, Socrates ? Socr. Because, Polus, when Chaerephon asked you in what art Gorgias was skilled, you praised his art, as if some one had blamed it; but you did not say what the art itself is. Pol. Did I not answer that it was the finest of all arts ? Socr. Certainly. But no one asked you what was the quality of the art of Gorgias, but what it was, and by what name we ought to call Gorgias; just as Chaerephon proposed the former questions to you, and you answered y him well and in few words. Now, therefore, tell me, in the same manner, what art Gorgias we ought to call him. Or, rather, Gorgias, do you tell us yourself what we ought to call you as skilled in what art. Gorg. In rhetoric, Socrates. 7 . Socr. Ought we,then, to call you a rhetorician? Gorg. And a good one, Socrates, if you wish to call me, as Homer says, what “ I boast myself tq be.” Socr. But I do wish. • Gorg. Call me so, then. Socr. Shall we sny, too, that you are able to make oth¬ ers rhetoricians? Gorg. I profess this, not only here, but elsewhere. 156 GORGIAS. \ Socr. Are you willing, then, Gorgias, to continue, as we are now doing, partly to ask questions and partly to answer, and to defer to some other occasion that piolixity of speech such as Polus just now began with? But do not belie what you promised, but be willing to answer each question briefly. Gorg. There are some answers, Socrates, which must necessarily be made at length; however, I will endeavor to make them as short as possible. For this is one of the things which I profess, that no one can say the same things in fewer words than I. 8. Socr. There is need of this now, Gorgias. Give me, therefore, a specimen of this very thing, conciseness of speech, and of prolixity at some other time. Gorg. I will do so; and you will admit that you nevci heard any one speak more concisely. Socr. Well, then, since you say that you are skilled m the art of rhetoric, and that you can teach another this art, tell me about what is rhetoric employed? just as the art of weaving is employed in the making of garments, is it not so ? Gorg. It is. Socr. And is not music also employed in the composing of melodies ? Gorg. Yes. Socr. By Juno! Gorgias,! admire your answers, tor you answer as briefly as possible. Gorg. I think, Socrates, that I do this well enough. 9 . Socr. You say well. Come, then, answer me thus re¬ specting rhetoric. Of what is it the science? Gorg. Of words. Socr. What kind of words, Gorgias? Are they such as inform the sick by what kind of diet they may become well? Gorg. N«o. Socr. Rhetoric, then, is not concerned with all kinds of words ? Gorg. Certainly not. Socr. Yet it makes men able to speak? Gorg. Yes. Socr. And does it not enable men to think on the same things on which it enables them to speak? GORGIAS. 157 Gorg. Without doubt. Socr. Does not, then, the medicinal art, of which we just now spoke, make men able to think and speak about the sick ? Gorg. Necessarily so. Socr. The medicinal art, then, as it appears, is conver¬ sant with words ? Gorg. Yes. Socr. And those that concern diseases ? Gorg. Just so. Socr. And is not the gymnastic art also conversant with words that relate to the good and bad habit of bodies? Gorg. Certainly. JO. Socr. And it is the same with other arts, Gorgias; each of them is conversant with those words that are em¬ ployed about that particular thing of which each is the art ? Gorg. It appears so. Socr. Why, then, do you not call other arts rhetorical, as being conversant with words, since you call that rhet¬ oric which is employed about words ? Gorg. Because, Socrates, almost the whole 1 science of other arts is conversant with manual operations and such¬ like actions; in rhetoric, however, there is no such man¬ ual operation, but all its activity and efficiency are by means of words. For this reason, I consider that the art of rhetoric is conversant with words, herein speaking cor¬ rectly, as I affirm. Socr. Do I understand what kind of art you wish to call it ? But I shall soon comprehend it more clearly. However, answer me. We have arts, have we not? Gorg. Yes. 11 . Socr. Of all the arts, some, I think, consist princi¬ pally in workmanship, and stand in need of but few words, and others of none at all, but their work may be accom¬ plished in silence, as painting, statuary, and many others. With such arts, you appear to me to say, rhetoric has nothing to do, is it not so? Gorg. You apprehend my meaning perfectly, Socrates. 1 The expression ojq tnrog UTttiv qualifies the word 7rd Pol. What, then, Socrates ? Have you really such an opinion of rhetoric as you now say? Or do you not think that Gorgias was ashamed not to acknowledge that the rhetorician knows what is just, beautiful, and good; and that, if any one should come to him ignorant Qf these things, he himself would teach them? Then, perhaps from this admission some inconsistency in his arguments followed; the very thing which you love, yourself leading the way to such questions. For who, do you think, will deny that he knows what is just, and can teach it to oth¬ ers ? To lead the discussion to such matters is a piece of great rusticity. jSocr. Most excellent Polus! we get ourselves friends and sons for this express purpose, that when we, through being advanced in years, fall into error, you that are younger, being with us, may correct our life both in deeds and words. If, then, Gorgias and I have fallen into any error in our arguments, do you who are present correct us: you ought to do so. And I wish that, if any of the things that have been granted appear to you to have been improperly granted, you would retract whatever you please; only I beg you beware of one thing. Pol. What is that? 39. Socr. That you would restrain that prolixity of speech which at first you attempted to employ. Pol. What ? Shall I not be allowed to speak as much as I please ? Socr. You would, indeed, be very badly treated, my excellent friend, if, having come to Athens, where, of all Greece, there is the greatest liberty of speech, you alone GORGIAS. 172 should here be deprived of this liberty. But set this against it: if you speak in a prolix manner, and will not answer a question put to you, should not I be badly tient- ed if I am not allowed to go away and.not listen to you ? But if you feel any interest in the discussion that has taken place, and wish to correct it, as I just now said, re¬ tract whatever you please, and, questioning and being questioned in turn, as Gorgias and I did, confute and be confuted. For you profess, surely, to know the same things as Gorgias; is it not so? Pol. I do. Socr. Will not you, then, also, bid any one ask you what question he pleases, as knowing how to answer him? Pol Assuredly. Socr. Then, do whichever of these you please, ask or answer. 40. Pol. I will do so; and do you answer me, Socrates. Since Gorgias appears to you to be in doubt respecting rhetoric, what do you say it is?. . Socr. Do you ask me what kind of art I say it is. Pol. I do. Socr. To tell you the truth, Polus, it does not appear to me to be an art at all. Pol. What, then, does rhetoric appear to you to be? Socr. A thing which you say produced art in the tiea- tise which I lately read. Pol. What do you say this is ? Socr. A certain skill. Pol. Does rhetoric, then, appear to you to be skill ? Socr. To me it does, unless you say otherwise. Pol. Of what is it the skill ? Socr. Of procuring a certain gratification and pleasure. Pol. Does not rhetoric, then, appear to you to be a beautiful thing, since it is able to gratify mankind? Socr. What, Polus ? Have you already heard from me what I say it is, that you afterward ask me if it does not appear to me to be beautiful ? . Pol. Did I not hear you say that it is a certain skill ? Socr. Since, then, you prize giving pleasure, are you willing to give me a little pleasure ? Pol. I am. GORGIAS. 173 41. Socr. Ask me, then, what kind of art cookery ap¬ pears to me to be. Pol. I do ask you; what kind of.an art is cookery? /Socr. None at all, Polus. Pol. What is it ? say. /Socr. I say, then, it is a certain skill. Pol. Of what ? say. Socr. I say, of procuring gratification and pleasure, Polus. Pol. Are cookery and rhetoric the same thing ? Socr. By no means, but a part of the same study. Pol. Of what study are you speaking ? Socr. I fear it would be too rude to speak the truth, for I hesitate to speak on account of Gorgias, lest he should think that I ridicule his profession. But I know not whether this is the rhetoric which Gorgias studies; for it was not at all clear, from our late discussion, what his opinion is. But what I call rhetoric is a part of a certain thing which does not rank among things beautiful. Gorg. Of what thing, Socrates ? say, without fear of offending me. Socr. It appears to me, then, Gorgias, to be a certain study that does not belong to art, but to a soul that is sagacious and manly, and naturally powerful in its inter¬ course with men. The sum of it I call flattery. 42. Of this study there appears to me to be many other divisions, and one of them is that of cookery; which, indeed, appears to be an art, but, as I maintain, is not an art, but skill and practice. I also call rhetoric a division of this, and per¬ sonal decoration, and sophistry, these four divisions re¬ lating to four particulars. If, therefore, Polus wishes to inquire, let him inquire, for he has not yet heard what di¬ vision of flattery I assert rhetoric to be. But he did not observe that I had not yet finished my answer; neverthe¬ less, he asks me if I do not think that it is beautiful. But I shall not answer him, whether I think rhetoric is beau¬ tiful or base, till I have first answered what it is. For that would not be right, Polus. If, then, you wish to in¬ quire, ask me what division of flattery I assert rhetoric to be. Pol. I ask, then, and do you answer, what division it is. GORGIAS. 174 Socr. Will you understand me when I answer? For rhetoric, in my opinion, is a semblance of a division of the political art. Pol. What, then ? Do you say that it is beautiful, or base ? Socr. Base, I say; for I call evil things base: since I must answer vou, as now knowing what I mean. 43. Gorg. By Jupiter! Socrates, but I do not myself understand what you mean. Socr. Very likely, Gorgias; for I have not yet spoken clearly. But Bolus here is young and hasty. Gorg. But leave him alone; and tell me in what way you say that rhetoric is a semblance of a division of the political art. Socr. I will endeavor to tell you what rhetoric appears to me to be. And if it is not such as I describe it, Polus here will confute me. Do you not call body something, and soul something? Gorg. How not ? Socr. Do you not, then, think that there is a certain good habit of each of these ? Gorg. I do. Socr. What, then? an apparent good habit, which is not really so ? For instance, to explain my meaning, many ap¬ pear to have a good constitution of body, whom no one but a physician, and a teacher in gymnastics, could easily perceive not to have a good constitution. Gorg. You say truly. Socr. I say that there is something of this kind both in the body and in the soul, which causes the body and the soul to appear to be in a good condition when they are any thing but so. 44. Gorg. Such is the case. Socr. Come now, if I can, I will explain to you more clearly what I mean. As there are two subject matters, I say there are two arts, and that which relates to the soul I call political, but that which relates to the body I am not able to describe to you off-hand by one name. But of the culture of the body, which is one, I say there are two divisions—one gymnastics, the other medicine. But in the political art I lay down legislation, as correspond- GORGIAS. 175 ing to gymnastics, and the judicial to medicine. Now, these respectively communicate with eacli other, as being concerned about the same subject, medicine with gymnas¬ tics, and the judicial art with legislation; yet they in some respect differ from each other. These, then, being four, and always taking the best possible care, the former of the body, and the latter of the soul, flattery perceiving this (I do not say knowing, but sagaciously guessing it), and hav¬ ing divided itself fourfold, and having stealthily put on the garb of each of these divisions, feigns itself to be . that which it has put on. And it is not in the least con- • cerned for what is best; but, by means of that which is most pleasant, captivates and seduces ignorance, so as to appear to be of great value. 45. Cookery, therefore, puts on the garb of medicine, and pretends that it knows the aliment best for the body. So that if a cook and a physi¬ cian had to contend before boys, or before men as foolish as boys, which of the two was acquainted with good and bad aliments, the physician or the cook, the physician would die of hunger. This, then, I call flattery; and I say that a thing of this kind is base, Polus (for I say this to you), because it looks to what is agreeable without regard to what is best; and I affirm that it is not an art, but skill, because it has no knowledge of the things which it em¬ ploys, what they severally are in their nature, so that it is unable to tell the use of each. But I do not call that an art which is a thing without reason. If you are doubt¬ ful about these things, I am willing to give you a reason for \hem. The flattery, then, pertaining to cookery, as I have said, is concealed under medicine; and, in the same manner, under gymnastics, personal decoration, which is mischievous, deceitful, ignoble, and illiberal, deceiving by means of gestures and colors, by smoothness and outward appearance; so as to make men put on an adventitious beauty, and neglect that which is their own, and is ac¬ quired by gymnastics. 46. That I may not, then, be pro¬ lix, I wish to tell you, after the manner of geometricians (for perhaps you can now follow me), that what personal decoration is to gymnastics, that is cookery to medicine: or rather thus, that what personal decoration is to gym¬ nastics, that is sophistry to legislation; and that what > 176 GORGIAS. cookery is to medicine, that is rhetoric to justice. As I have said, they are thus different in their nature; but, as they are proximate to each other, 1 sophists and rhetoricians are confounded with legislators and judges , and are em¬ ployed about the same things, and know not what to make of themselves, nor other men of them. For if the soul did not preside over the body, but the body over itself, and cookery and medicine were not examined into and distin¬ guished by the soul, but the body itself decided, estimat¬ ing things by its own gratifications, that tenet of Anax¬ agoras would prevail extensively, friend Polus (for you surely are acquainted with it); that is, all things would be confounded together—things medicinal, and healthy, and pertaining to cookery, being undistinguished from each other. 47. You have heard, therefore, what I consider rhetoric to be, corresponding to cookery in the soul, as that in the body. Perhaps, however, I have acted ab¬ surdly in that, though I do not allow you to make a long speech, I myself have extended mine to a great length. But I deserve to be pardoned; for when I spoke briefly you did not understand me, nor were you able to make use of the answer that I gave you, but required an ex¬ planation. If, therefore, when you answer, I in my turn shall not know what to make of it, do you also prolong your discourse; but if I do know, suffer me to do so, for that is fair. And now, if you can make any use of this answer, do so. Pol. What do you say, then ? Does rhetoric appear to you to be flattery ? fiocr. I said, indeed, that it was a division of flattery. But do not you remember, Polus, though so young? What will you do by-and-by ? Pol. Does it seem to you, then, that good rhetoricians are to be esteemed as vile flatterers in cities ? Socr. Do you ask this as a question, or are you begin¬ ning an argument ? Pol. I ask a question. 48. jSocr. They appear to me to be of no estimation at all. 1 Bekker omits the words ocxpiaTcti Kai ppropte, and Ast suggests ducac- rai for ffocpiaral, in either of which cases the addition of the words in ital¬ ics would be unnecessary. —- GORGIAS. 177 Pol. How to be of no estimation ? Have they not the greatest power in cities ? jSocr. Not, if you mean that to have power is a good to him who possesses it. Pol. But I do say so. Socr. In that case, rhetoricians appear to me to possess the least power of all men in cities. Pol. But what? do they not, like tyrants, slay whom¬ ever they please, and deprive of their property and ban¬ ish from cities whomever they think fit ? Socr. By the dog! Polus, I am doubtful with respect to. each of the things you say, whether you assert these things yourself, and declare your own opinion, or ask me. Pol. I ask you. Socr. Be it so, my friend. Then, you ask me two ques¬ tions at once. Pol. How two? Socr. Did you not just now say that rhetoricians, like tyrants, slay whomever they please, and deprive them of their property, and banish from cities whomever they think fit? Pol. I did. 49. Socr. I say, then, that these are two questions, and ^1 will give you an answer to both. For I affirm, Polus, that rhetoricians and tyrants have very little power in cities, as I just now said ; for they do scarcely any thing that they wish, though they do what to them'appears to be best. Pol. Is not this, then, to possess great power? Socr. It is not, at least as Polus says. Pol. I say not? On the contrary,! say it is. Socr. By Jupiter ! not you. For you said that to have great power is a good to him who possesses it. Pol. And I repeat it. Socr. Do you think, then, it is a good for any one to do what appears to him to be best, when he is void of under¬ standing? And do you call this to possess great power? 50. Pol. Not I. Socr. Prove, therefore, that rhetoricians are possessed of understanding, and that rhetoric is an art, and not flat- tery, if you mean to confute me. But, if you will leave 8 * m GORGIAS. me unconfuted, rhetoricians and tyrants, who do in cities whatever they please, will derive no good from thence. Power is, as you say, good; but to do, without under¬ standing, whatever one pleases, you yourself admit is an (evil. Is it not so ?” Pol. I do. Socr. How, then, can rhetoricians or tyrants have great power in cities, unless Socrates is persuaded by Polus to admit that they do what they wish ? Pol. What a strange man ! Socr. I deny that they do what they wish; but con¬ fute me. Pol. Did you not just now admit that they do what appears to them to be best ? Socr. And I now admit it. Pol. They do, therefore, what they wish. Socr. I deny it. Pol. But they do what appears best to them? Socr. I grant it. Pol. You speak absurdly and monstrously, Socrates. 51 . Socr. Do not accuse me, most excellent Pollus, that I may address you in your own style. But, if you have any other question to ask me, show that I am deceived; if not, do you answer me. Pol. I am willing to answer, in order that I may know what you mean. Socr. Whether, then, do men appear to you to wish the thing that they do from time to time, or that for the sake of which they do the thing that they do ? As, for instance, do those who drink medicine from physicians appear to you to wish the thing that they do—namely, to drink the medicine, and suffer pain—or do they vvish to be well, for the sake of which they drink the medicine ? • Pol. It is clear they wish to be well, for the sake of which they drink the medicine. Socr. In like manner, those who sail on the sea, and those who carry on any other commercial business, do not wish the thing that they do from time to time (for who wishes to sail and to encounter danger, and to be harassed with business?); but the object for which they sail is to acquire riches, for they sail for the sake of riches. GORGIAS. 179 Pol. Certainly. Socr. Is it not so, then, in all cases — whosoever does any thing for the sake of something else does not wish the thing that he does, but that for the sake of which he does it? Pol. Yes. 52. Socr. Is there any thing in the world, then, that is not either good or evil, or between these, neither good nor evil ? Pol. It must needs be so, Socrates. Socr. Do you not admit, then, that wisdom, and health, and riches, and other things of the same kind, are good, but their contraries evil? Pol. I do. Socr. By the things that are neither good nor evil do you not mean such as sometimes partake of good, some¬ times of evil, and sometimes of neither; as to sit, to walk, to run, and to sail; and, again, stones, wood, and other things of the same kind ? Are not these the things that you mean ? Or do you call certain other things neither good nor evil? Pol. No, but these. Socr. Whether, therefore, do men, when they do these intermediate things, do them for the sake of the good, or the good for the sake of the intermediate. Pol. The intermediate, surely, for the sake of the good. Socr. Pursuing the good, therefore, we both walk when we walk, thinking it better; and, on the contrary, we stand when we stand, for the sake of the same thing—namely, the good. Is it not so ? Pol. Yes. 53. Socr. Do we not, therefore, if we slay any one, slay, or banish, or deprive him of his possessions, thinking that it is better for us to do so than not ? Pol. Certainly. Socr. They, therefore, who do these things do them all for the sake of good. Pol. I allow it. Socr. Are we not agreed, then, that we do not wish _ & ^ which we do for the sake of something else, but that for the sake of which we do them ? 180 GORGIAS. Pol. By all means. _ Socr. We do not, then, wish simply to slay, or banish from cities, or deprive any one of his possessions. But if these things are useful, we wish to do them; but if they are hurtful, we do not wish to do them. For we wish, as you admit, things that are good ; but we do not wish such as are neither good nor evil, nor such as are evil. Is it not so ? Bo I seem to you, Bolus, to speak the truth, or not? Why do you not answer? Pol. You speak the truth. /Socr. Since, then, we are agreed on these things, if any one slays, banishes from a city, or deprives another of his possessions, whether he is a tyrant or a rhetorician, think¬ ing that it is better for him so to do, though it is really worse, he surely does what seems fit to him, is it not so ? Pol. Yes. /Socr. Does he, then, do what he wishes, if. these things are really evil? Why do you not answer? Pol . Fie does not appear to me to do what he wishes. ,r 54 y'iSocr. Is it possible, then, that such a man can have gfeSt power in the supposed city, if, according to your ad¬ mission, to have great power is a good? Pol. It is not possible. t Socr. I spoke truly, then, when I said that it is possi¬ ble for a man to do what he pleases in a city, and yet not have great power, nor do what he wishes. Pol. As if, Socrates, you yourself would not like to be allowed to do what you please in a city, rather than not, and would not be envious when you saw any one eithei slaying whom he pleased, or taking away his possessions, or putting him in bonds. Socr. Do you mean justly or unjustly? Pol. Whichever he should do, is he not in either case to be envied ? Socr. Good words, I pray you, Polus. Pol. But why ? Socr. Because it is not right, either to envy those that are not to be envied, or the wretched; but to pity them. Pol. What say you? Does such appear to you to be the case with the men of whom I am speaking? 55. Socr. IIow can it be otherwise? GORGIAS. 181 Pol. Does be, then, who slays whom he pleases, slaying him justly, appear to you to be wretched, and ail object of pity ? . Socr. Not at all; nor, indeed, is he to be envied. Pol. Did you not say just now that lie was wretched? Socr. I said, my friend, that he is wretched who slays another unjustly, and, more than that, to be pitied; but that he who slays another justly is not to be envied. Pol. He, surely, who dies unjustly is to be pitied, and is wretched. Socr. Less so, Polus, than he who slays him; and less than he who dies justly. jPol. How so, Socrates ? Socr. Thus; because to act unjustly is the greatest of evils. Pol. But is this really the greatest of evils ? Is it not a greater evil to suffer unjustly? Socr. By no means. Pol. Had you, then, rather suffer unjustly than act un¬ justly? Socr. I should wish neither of these; but if I must nec¬ essarily either act unjustly or suffer unjustly, I should choose rather to suffer unjustly than to act unjustly. Pol. Would you not, then, consent to be a tyrant? Socr. I would not, if by being a tyrant you mean the same that I do. Pol. I mean by it what I just now said, to have the power to do in a city whatever one pleases; to slay and banish, and do every thing according to one’s own pleasure. 56. Socr. My excellent friend, attend to what I say, and confute me if you can. If, when the forum is full, 1 should take a dagger under my arm, and say to you, “Polus, a certain wonderful power and tyranny have just now fallen to my lot; for, if it seems tit to me that any one of these men whom you see ought immediately to die, he shall die; and if it seems fit to me that any one of them ought to have his head broken, he shall immediately have it broken ; or if that his garment should be torn to pieces, it shall be torn to pieces: so great is the poAver I possess in the city.” And if, on your disbelieving me, I should show you the dagger, perhaps, on seeing it, you would 182 GORGIAS. say, “According to this, Socrates, all men may have great power, since any house that you please might be burned in this way; and even the dock-yards of the Athenians, and the triremes, and all the shipping, as well public as private.” But surely this is not to possess great power, to do whatever one pleases. Do you think so? Pol. Certainly not, in this way. /Socr. Can you tell me, then, why you blame a power of this kind ? Pol. I can. Socr. Why, then ? tell me. Pol. Because it must needs be that one who acts thus should be punished. Socr. But is not the being punished an evil? Pol. Certainly. 57. Socr. Therefore, my excellent friend, to have great power appears to you to be when advantage attends one’s doing what one pleases, and then it is a good; and this, as it seems, is to have great power; but if not, it is an evil, and to have little power. Let us consider this, too. Are we not agreed that it is sometimes better to do the things which we just now spoke of—to slay, to banish men, and deprive them of their property, and sometimes not? Pol. Certainly. Socr. This, then, as it seems, is agreed on both by you and me? Pol. Yes. Socr. When, then, do you say it is better to do these things? Tell me what limit you establish ? Pol. Do you, Socrates, answer this question. Socr. I say, then, Polus, since it is more agreeable to you to hear it from me, when any one does these things justly, it is better; but when unjustly, it is worse. Pol. Forsooth, it is difficult to confute you, Socrates! but could not even a child convince you that you do not speak the truth ? Socr. I should be very much obliged to the child, and equally so to you, if you can confute me, and free me from my extravagances. But be not weary in obliging a mail who is your friend, but confute me. GORGIAS. 183 58. Pol. However, Socrates, there is no need to confute you by ancient examples. For things that have recently happened are sufficient to confute you, and to prove that many men who have acted unjustly are happy. Socr. What are these ? Pol. Do you not see, for instance, this Archelaus, son of Perdiccas, ruler of Macedonia ? /Socr. If not, at all events I hear of him. Pol. Does he appear to you to be happy or miserable? Socr. I do not know, Polus; for I have never yet had any intercourse with him. Pol. What, then ? If you had intercourse with him, should you know ? And do you not know otherwise, from the circumstances of the case, that he is happy ? Socr. By Jupiter! certainly not. Pol. It is evident, then, Socrates, you will say, that you do not even know whether the great king is happy? Socr. And I should say the truth. For I do not know what his state is with regard to enlightenment and justice. Pol. What! Does all happiness consist in this? Socr. In my opinion, Polus. For I say that an honest and good man or woman is happy; but an unjust or wicked one is miserable. Pol. This Archelaus, then, is miserable, according to your account ? Socr. At least, my friend, if he is unjust. 59. Pol. But how can he be otherwise than unjust who had no right to the empire which he now possesses, as he was born of a woman who was the slave of Alcetas, broth¬ er of Perdiccas, and, according to justice, was the slave of Alcetas; and, if he had wished to do what is just, would have served Alcetas as a slave, and would have been hap¬ py, according to your account? Whereas now he has become wonderfully miserable, since he has committed the greatest injustice. For, first of all, having sent for this his master and uncle, as if he would restore the government which Perdiccas had taken from him, and having enter¬ tained and intoxicated both him and his son Alexander, his own cousin, and nearly his equal in age, he forced them into a carriage; and, having carried them off by night, had their throats cut, and made away with them both. / 184 G011GIAS. And after he had committed these wrongs, he was not aware that he had become most miserable, and did not repent; but, shortly afterward, he did not wish to become happy by nurturing his legitimate brother, the son of Per- diccas, a child about seven years of age, to whom the gov¬ ernment of right belonged, and by restoring it to him ; but, having thrown him into a well, and suffocated him, he told his mother, Cleopatra, that he had fallen in in pursu¬ ing a goose, and so met with his death. 60 . TVherefoie, since he has committed the greatest wrongs of all in Mac¬ edonia, he is the most miserable of all the Macedonians, and not the most happy. And perhaps there are some among the Athenians, beginning with you, who would rather be any other of the Macedonians than Archelaus. Socr. At the beginning of our conference, Polus, I praised you, because you appeared to me to be well in¬ structed in rhetoric, though you had neglected the ait of dialectics. And, now, what else is this reasoning, by which even a child could confute me, and I, as you suppose, am now confuted by this reasoning of yours, when I said that a man who acts unjustly is not happy? How so, my friend? For I do not grant you any one of the things you assert. Pol. Because you are not willing to do so; though it appears to you as I say. Socr. My excellent friend, you attempt to confute me rhetorically, like those who think they confute their adver¬ saries in courts of justice. For there some fancy they con¬ fute others when they produce many reputable witnesses in favor of what they say, whereas the adverse party pro¬ duces some one only, or none at all. 61 . But this mode of confutation is worth nothing with reference to truth. For sometimes a man may be borne down by the false testimony of many witnesses who seem to be somewhat. And, now, with respect to what you say, almost all the Athenians and strangers will agree with you; and if you wish to produce witnesses against me to prove that I do not speak the truth, there will testify for you, if you wish it, Nicias, son of Niceratus, and his brothers with him, who gave the tripods that stand in a row in the temple of Bac¬ chus; or, again, if you wish it, Aristocrates, son of Scellius, GORGIAS. 185 who gave that beautiful offering in the temple of Pythian Apollo; or, if you wish it, the whole house of Pericles, or any other family that you may think proper to choose out of this city. Put I, who am but one, clo not agree with you. h or you do not convince me by arguments, but, producing many false witnesses against me, you endeavor to eject me from my substance and the truth. But I, un¬ less I shall be able to adduce you, who are one, as a wit¬ ness agreeing with what I say, shall think that I have ac¬ complished nothing worthy of mention with respect to the subject of our discussion ; nor shall I think that you have done so, unless I, being one, alone testify for you, and you dismiss all those others. 62. This, then, is one mode of refutation, as you and many others think; but there is also another mode, which, on the contrary, I adopt. Let us, therefore, compare them with each other, and consider whether they differ at all from one another. For the matters about which we differ are by no means trifling; but they are, indeed, such as to know which is most hon- 01 able, and not to know most disgraceful; for the sum of them is to know, or to. be ignorant, who is happy, and who is not. For instance, in the first place, with respect to the subject of our present discussion, you think it possible that a man may be happy who acts unjustly and is unjust; since you think that Archelaus, though unjust, is happy. Must we not suppose that such is your opinion ? Pol. Certainly. tbocr. But I say it is impossible. On this one point, then, ve differ. Be it so. But will he who acts unjustly be happy if he meet with justice and be punished? Pol. By no means, for in that case he would be most miserable. Socr. If, therefore, he who acts unjustly does not meet with the punishment he deserves, according to your ac¬ count he will be happy. Pol. So I say. 63. Socr. But, according to my opinion, Polus, he who acts unjustly, and is* unjust, is in every way miserable; though more miserable if he does not suffer punish¬ ment, and does not meet with chastisement for his un¬ just actions; but less miserable if he suffers punish- 186 GORGIAS. ment, and meets with his just deserts both from gods and men. Pol. You attempt, Socrates, to advance strange para¬ doxes. Socr. Yet I shall endeavor, my friend, to make you say the same things as I do; for I consider you as a friend. Now, then, the things about which we differ are these, and do you also consider: I said in a former part of our discussion that to commit an injustice is worse than to suffer one. Pol. Just so. Socr. But you say it is worse to suffer an injustice. Pol. Yes. Socr. And I said that they who act unjustly are miser¬ able, and was confuted by you. Pol. You were so, by Jupiter! Socr. At least, as you think, Polus. Pol. And I probably thought the truth. Socr. But you, on the contrary, said that they who act unjustly are happy, if they do not suffer punishment. Pol. Certainly. Socr. But I say that they are most miserable; and that they who suffer punishment are less so. Do you wish to refute this also ? 64. But this is more difficult to rofute than the former, Socrates. Socr. By no means, Polus, but it is impossible; tor truth can never be refuted. Pol. How say you? If a man should be detected act¬ ing unjustly, as in attempting to compass absolute powei, and, being detected, should be put to the toituie, be mu¬ tilated, and have his eyes burned out; and, after having himself suffered many other great and various torments, and having, moreover, seen his children and wife suffer the same, should at last be crucified, or covered with pitch and burned, will he be more happy than if, having escaped punishment, he should become a tyrant, and, ruling in the city, should pass through life doing whatever he pleases, being envied, and accounted happy, both by citizens, and strangers ? Do you say. that it is impossible to refute these things? GORGIAS. 187 Socr. You are now trying to terrify me, noble Polus, and do not refute me; but just now you adduced wit¬ nesses. However, remind me of a trifling circumstance. Did you say, if a person should attempt unjustly to com¬ pass absolute power ? Pol. I did. Socr. In that case, neither of them will ever be happier than the other; neither he who has unjustly acquired ab¬ solute power, nor he who has been punished. For, of two miserable persons, one can not be happier than the other; but he is more miserable who escapes punishment and acquires absolute power. 65. What is this, Polus? do you laugh ? Is this another species of refutation, when any one asserts any thing, to laugh at him, and not refute him ? Pol. Do you not think you are already refuted, Socra¬ tes, when you say such things as no man in the world • would assert ? for ask any one of these. Socr. Polus,I am not among the number of politicians; and last year, happening to be chosen a senator, since my tribe held the presidency, and it was necessary for me to collect the votes, I occasioned laughter because I did not know how to collect them. Do not, then, require me to collect the votes of those who are present. But if you have no better mode of refutation than this, as I just now said, give the question up to me in my turn, and make trial of that^mode of refutation which I think ought to be adopted. For I know how to procure one witness of what I say, that is, the person with whom I am discoursing, but I let alone the multitude; and I know how to take the vote of one person, but I do not even discourse with the multitude. Consider, then, whether you are willing i n your turn, to give me an opportunity of refuting by An¬ swering the questions I shall put to you. For I think that you and I, and other men, are of opinion that to commit injustice is worse than to suffer it; and not to be pun¬ ished, than to be punished. 66. Pol. But I, on the contrary, think that neither my¬ self nor any other man is of this opinion. For would you rather suffer injustice than commit it? Socr. Yes, and you, and all other men. GORGIAS. 188 Pol. Far from it; neither would you, nor I, nor any other man. Socr. Will you not answer, then? . Pol. By all means. For I am anxious to know what you will say. ., T i i Socr. Tell me, then, that you may know, as if I asked you from the beginning: whether does it appear to you, Polus, worse to commit an injustice or to suiter one? . . . Pol. To suffer one, in my opinion. Socr. What, then ? Whether is it more base to com¬ mit an injustice or to suffer one? Answer me. Pol. To commit an injustice. ... 0 Socr. Is it not, therefore, worse, since it is more base . Pol. By no means. Socr. I understand. You do not think, as it seems, that the beautiful and the good, and the evil and t le base, are the same? Pol. Certainly not. . Socr. But what do you say to this? Beautiful things in general, such as bodies, colors, forms, sounds, and pur¬ suits, do you call them severally beautiful without refer¬ ence to any thing else? As,for instance,first of all, with respect to beautiful bodies, do you not say that they aie beautiful on account of their usefulness, in reference to the particular thing for which each is useful, or on ac¬ count of some pleasure, if in being seen they give delight to the beholders? Have you any thing else besides this to say respecting beauty of body ? Pol. I have not. . , , . 67. Socr. Do you not, then, denominate all other things in the same manner beautiful, such as forms and colors, either on account of some pleasure or utility, or both. Pol. I do. , Socr. And is not the case the same as to sounds, and every thing that relates to music ? Pol. Yes. • . Socr. And, moreover, with respect to laws and pursuits _they,* surely, are beautiful, for no other reason except that they are either useful or pleasant, or both ? Pol. So it appears to me. GORGIAS. 189 Socr. And is it not the same with the beauty of the sciences ? J x n°^' Certainty. now ’ Socrates, you define beauti¬ fully in defining the beautiful by pleasure and good. Socr. Must not, therefore, the base be defined by the contrary, by pain and evil ? Pol. Necessarily so. Socr. When, therefore, of two beautiful things one is more beautiful than the other, it is more beautiful because it excels m one or both of these, either in pleasure or util¬ ity, or both. Pol. Certainly. Socr. And when of two things one is more base than the other, it must be more base because it exceeds in pain or evil: is not this necessarily so ? Pol. Yes. 68.. Socr. Come, then; what did we say just now re¬ specting committing injustice and suffering it? Did you not say that to suffer injustice is more evil; but to com¬ mit it, more base ? Pol. I did say so. . Soc [' Therefore, since it is more base to commit injus¬ tice than to suffer it, it must be more base because it is more painful, and exceeds in pain or evil, or both. Is not this, also, necessary ? Pol. How can it be otherwise ? . ^oor. First, then, let us consider whether to commit injus¬ tice exceeds in pain the suffering it; and whether they who commit injustice feel greater pain than they who suffer it. dot. this is by no means the case, Socrates. Socr. It does not, then, exceed in pain ? Pol. By no means. Socr. Therefore, if it does not exceed in pain, it will no longer exceed in both. 1 5 Pol. It appears not. iocr.lt remains, therefore, that it exceeds in the other Pol. Yes. Socr. In the evil. Pol. So it seems. Socr. Since, therefore, to commit injustice exceeds in owl, it must be more evil than to suffer injustice. 190 GORG1AS. Pol. Evidently so. - G9. Socr. Was it not admitted by men in general, and by you to me formerly, that it is more base to commit in- j ustice than to suffer it ? Pol Yes. Socr. Now, however, it appears to be worse. Pol. So it seems. . . Socr. Would you, then, rather choose that which is worse and more base, than that which is less so ? . Do not hesitate to answer, Polus (for you will not be injured by so doing); but answer, giving yourself up generously to the discussion as to a physician; and either admit or deny the question I ask. . Pol. Then, I should not rather choose it, Socrates. Socr. Would any other man in the world ? Pol. To me it appears not, according to what has been said. . T Socr. I, therefore, said truly, that neither you, nor 1, nor any other man in the world, would rather choose to com¬ mit injustice than to suffer it; for it is worse to do so. Pol. So it appears. Socr. You see, then, Polus, that my mode of proof, when compared with your mode of proof, does not at all resemble it; but all others agree with you, except myself. For my part, you alone are sufficient for my purpose, agreeing with me and testifying for me; and I, having asked your opin¬ ion only, disregard that of others. VO. Let this, then, be settled between us. And, next, let us proceed to consider that which we doubted about in the second place—name¬ ly, whether it is the greatest of evils for one who has com¬ mitted injustice to be punished, as you thought; or wheth¬ er it is not a greater evil not to be punished, as I thought. And let us consider it thus: To suffer punishment and to be justly chastised, when one has committed injustice, do you not call the same thing ? Pol. I do. Socr. Can you say, then, that all just things are not beautiful, so far as they are just? When you have well considered, answer me. Pol. It appears to me that they are, Socrates. Socr. Consider this, also : When a man' does any thing, GOliGIAS. 191 1 must there not necessarily be something which is passive to him as an agent? Pol. It appears so to me. Socr. And does not the patient suffer what the a^ent does, and just such a thing as the agent does ? I mean in this way: If any one strikes, is it not necessary that some¬ thing should be struck ? Pol. It is necessary. Socr. And if the striker strikes hard or swiftly must not the thing struck be stricken accordingly ? Pol. Yes. ° ( Socr. That which is struck, then, undergoes a passion -corresponding to that which the striker does. Pol. Certainly. 71. Socr. In like manner, if any one burns, is it not nec¬ essary that something should be burned ? Pol. How can it be otherwise ? Socr : And if he burns vehemently or painfully, that which is burned must be burned according as the burner burns ? Pol. Certainly. Socr. So if any one cuts any thing, is not the reasoning the same? for something is cut. Pol. Yes. And if the cut is large, or deep, or painful, that m hich is cut is cut with such a cut as the cutter cuts. Pol. It appears so. Socr. In a word, then, see if you grant what I just now said respecting every thing—namely, that according as the agent does, so the patient suffers. Pol. I do grant it. Socr. These things, then, being agreed on, whether is the being punished, to suffer, or to do somethin"-? Pol. Necessarily, Socrates, it is to suffer. Socr. Must it not, therefore, be by some agent ? Pol. Undoubtedly: by him who chastises* . cr * ^ut does not he who chastises rightly, chastise ] ustly ? ° ^ Pol. Yes. Socr. Doing what is just, or not? Pol. What is just. 192 GORGIAS. goer. Then, does not he who is chastised, when he is deservedly punished, suffer justly? goer. But what is just has been acknowledged to be beautiful. goer. Of these, then, the one does, and the other, he that is chastised, suffers that which is beautifu . goer. And if beautiful, then good; for that which is beautiful is either pleasant or useful. Pol. Necessarily so. . . , . , goer. He, therefore, who is puuished suffers that which. is good. ' Pol. So it seems. 72. goer. He is, therefore, benefited. Pol yes Socr. Is it with such a benefit as I suppose? Does he become better as to his soul, since he is chastised justly . Pol. That is probable. . , _ . , , , goer. He, therefore, who is punished is freed from a vice of the soul. ^."if'ho not freed, then, from the greatest evil? Consider the matter thus: in the condition of a man property do you perceive any other evil than poveity . Pol. No other than poverty. n aii goer. Well, in the constitution of the body, would you say that weakness, disease, deformity, and the like, are evils ? Pol. I should. , - . , . goer. Do you not think, too, that there is a certain de¬ pravity in the soul? Pol. How otherwise ? .... goer. Do you not, then, call this injustice, ignorance, cowardice, and the like ? Pol. Certainly. . , goer. Have you not said, then, that of these three, prop¬ erty, body, and soul, there, are three corresponding evi s poverty, disease, injustice ? Pol. Yes. GORGIAS. 193 Socr. Then, which of these evils is the most base? Is it not injustice, and, in a word, the depravity of the soul? Pol. By far. Socr. But if it is most base, then, is it not also the worst ? Pol. How mean you, Socrates? -*73. Socr. Thus: In every case,that which is most base is so because, from what has been before admitted, it oc¬ casions the greatest pain or harm, or both. r Pol. By all means. \ Socr. But injustice and the whole depravity of the soul nave been just now admitted by us to be most base. Pol. They have been so admitted. Socr. Is it not, therefore, the most troublesome and most base of these depravities, because it exceeds either in troublesomeness or hurtfulness, or both? Pol. Necessarily so. Socr. Is, then, the being unjust, intemperate, cowardly, and ignorant, more painful than to be poor and diseased ? Pol. It does not appear so to me, Socrates, from what fhas been said. Socr. The depravity of the soul, then, is the most base of all, because it exceeds the others by some extraordi¬ narily great harm and wonderful evil, since, according to your argument, it is not exceeded in painfulness. Pol. So it appears. Socr. But, surely, that which exceeds in the greatest harmfulness must be the greatest evil of all ? Pol. Yes. Socr. Then, injustice, intemperance, and the other de¬ pravities of the soul, are the greatest evils of all. Pol. So it appears. 74. Socr. What art, then, frees from poverty? Is it not that of money-making ? Pol. Yes. Socr. What from disease? Is it not the medicinal? Pol. Necessarily so. Socr. What from depravity and injustice? If in this way you can not readily answer, consider it thus : Whith¬ er, and to whom, do we take those that are diseased in body ? 9 194 GORGIAS. Pol. To physicians, Socrates. Socr. Whither those who act unjustly and are intem¬ perate ? Pol. Do you mean to the judges? Socr. Is it not, then, that they may be punished? Pol. I grant it. VSocr^) Do not, then, those who chastise rightly, chastise by employing a certain justice? Pol. Clearly. Socr. The art of money - making, therefore, frees from poverty 5 medicine, from disease 5 and justice, from intem¬ perance and injustice. Pol. So it appears. Socr. Which of these,therefore, is the most beautiful? Pol. Of what are you speaking? Socr. The art of money-making, medicine, and justice. Pol. Justice, Socrates, is far superior. Socr. Does it not, then, produce the greatest pleasure or utility, or both, since it is the most beautiful ? Pol. Yes. 75. Socr. Is it, then, pleasant to be under the care of a physician ? And do they who are under such charge re¬ joice ? Pol. It does not appear so to me. Socr. But it is useful. Is it not? Pol. Yes. '•Socr. For they are freed from a great evil; so that it is advantageous to endure pain and be restored to health. Pol. IIow can it be otherwise ? Socr. Would the man, then, thus be most happy with respect to his body who is under the care of a physician, or who is not diseased at all? Pol. Clearly, he that is not diseased.. Socr. For this is not happiness, as it seems, the being freed from evil; but the never possessing it at all. Pol. It is so. Socr. But what ? Of two men that have evil, either in body or soul, which is the more miserable, he that is un¬ der the care of a physician, and is freed from the evil, or he that is not under* the care of a physician, and retains the evil? t GORGIAS. 195 Pol. It appears to me, he that is not under the care of a physician. Socr. And is not punishment the being freed from the greatest evil, depravity ? Pol. It is. i Socr. For justice produces a sound mind, makes men more just,and becomes the medicine of depravity? Pol. Yes. . ' 76 * Socr. He, then, is most happy who has no vice in his soul, since this is proved to be the greatest of evils. Pol. It is evident. Socr. The second, surely, is he who is freed from it. Pol. So it seems. Socr. But this is lie who is admonished, reproved, and punished. Pol. Yes. . *Socr. He, therefore, lives worst who is afflicted with in¬ justice, and is not freed from it. Pol. It appears so. Socr. Is not, then, he one who, having committed the gieatest injustice, and employing the greatest injustice, contrives that he may be neither admonished, nor chas¬ tised, nor punished, as you said was the case with Arche- laus, and other tyrants, rhetoricians, and powerful men ? Pol. So it seems. Socr. For these, my excellent friend, have managed much the same as one who, being afflicted with the worst diseases, should contrive not to have his bodily maladies corrected or subjected to medical treatment, fearing, as if he were a child, to be burned and cut, because these ojiera- tions are painful. Does it not appear so to you ? Pol. It does. Socr. Being ignorant, as it seems, of what health is, and a good habit of the body. 77. Now, from what we have just agreed on, Polus, those who flee from punishment ap¬ pear to do something of this kind; they look to the pain attending it, but are blind to its utility, and are ignorant how much more miserable than an unhealthy body it is to dwell with an unhealthy soul, that is corrupt, unjust, and impious. Whence they do every thing that they may not be punished, or freed from the greatest evil, procuring for G- fi <>■'-> dbu GORGIAS. 196 themselves riches and friends, and the power of speaking as persuasively as possible. But if we have agreed on what is true, Bolus, do you perceive what consequences result from our discourse ? Do you wish that we should draw the conclusions from them ? Pol. I do, unless you think otherwise. Socr. Does it not follow that injustice, and to act un¬ justly, is the greatest evil? Pol. It appears so. , , Socr. And to suffer punishment was proved to be a means of freedom from this evil. Pol. It appears to be so. # Socr. But not to suffer punishment is a continuance oi the evil. Pol "Yes. To act unjustly, therefore, is the second of evils in magnitude; but to act unjustly and not to suiter pun¬ ishment is the greatest and chief of all evils. Pol. So it seems. p . _ . . . IS. Socr. Was not this the point, my friend, with respect to which we differed, you considering Archelaus happy, for that, having committed the greatest injustice, he silt¬ 's fers no punishment; but I, on the contrary, thinking that whether Archelaus, or any other man whatever, is not pun¬ ished when he commits injustice, he must needs be fai more wretched than all other men; and that he who com¬ mits injustice is ever more wretched than he who suffers it, and he that is not punished than he that is. Are not these the things that I said ? Pol Yes. Socr. And has it not been demonstrated that they were said truly ? Pol. It appears so. . Socr. Well, then, if these things are true, Polus, what is the great utility of rhetoric? For, from what has been now agreed on, every one ought especially to bewaie ot acting unjustly, for that, if he does so act , he will sustain great evil. Is it not so ? Pol. Certainly. . . Socr. And if a man has committed injustice, either him¬ self, or any one else for whom he has regard, he ought of GOKGIAS. 1A7- his own accord to betake himself thither, where as soon as possible he will be punished, to a judge as to a physi¬ cian, taking every pains lest the disease of injustice, be¬ coming inveterate, should render the soul corrupt and in¬ curable; or what must we say, Polus, if our former admis¬ sions are to stand ? Do not these things necessarily har¬ monize with the former in this, but in no other way ? 79. Pol. For what else can we say, Socrates? Socr. For the purpose, then, of excusing injustice, our own, or that of our parents, or friends, or children, or country, when it acts unjustly, rhetoric is of no use to us at all, Polus, unless, on the contrary, any one supposes that he ought especially to accuse himself, and afterward his relatives, and any other of his friends, who may have acted unjustly, and not conceal the crime, but bring it to light, , in order that he may be punished, and restored to health; moreover, that he should compel both himself and the oth¬ ers to lay aside fear, and with his eyes shut, and in a man¬ ly way, deliver himself up, as to a physician, to be cut and cauterized, pursuing the good and the beautiful, without paying any regard to what is painful; if he has committed a wrong worthy of stripes, delivering himself up to be beaten; if of bonds, to be bound; if of a fine, to pay it; if of exile, to be banished; if of death, to die ; being him¬ self the first accuser of himself, and others his relatives, not sparing either himself or them, but employing rheto¬ ric for this very purpose, that, the crimes being exposed, they may be freed from the greatest of evils, injustice. Shall we say thus, Polus, or not? 80. Pol. These things appear to me, Socrates, to be ab¬ surd; but it must be admitted, they accord with what was before said. Socr. Must not, therefore, either our former conclusions be done away with, or these results necessarily follow. Pol. Yes ; such is the case. Socr, Contrariwise, if it is requisite to do ill to any one, whether to an enemy or any other person, provided only that he is not himself injured by his enemy, for this is to be guarded against; but if an enemy injures another, we should endeavor by all possible means, both by actions and words, that he may not be punished, nor brought before a 198 GORGIAS. judge; but if he is brought before him, we should con¬ trive so that our enemy may escape, and not suffer punish¬ ment ; and if he has robbed us of a great quantity of gold, that he should not restore it, but should retain it, and spend it on himself and his associates unjustly and impi¬ ously; and if he has committed an injustice worthy of death, we should contrive that he may not die—if possible, never—but that he may be immortal in depravit y, or if this can not be, that he may live in this state for as long a period as possible. 81. For such purposes, Polus, rhet¬ oric appears to me to be useful, since to him who does not intend to act unjustly its utility does not appear to me to be great, if indeed it is of any utility at all, as in the former part of our discussion it appeared in no re¬ spect to be. Cal. Tell me, Chserephon, does Socrates say these things seriously, or is he jesting? Cheer. He appears to me, Callicles, to speak most seri¬ ously ; but there is nothing like asking him himself. Cal. You are right, by the gods ! and I desire to do it. Tell me, Socrates, whether we must say that you are now speaking seriously, or jesting? For, if you are speaking seriously, and if what you say is true, is not our human life altogether subverted ; and are not all our actions, as it seems, contrary to what they ought to be ? Socr. If there were not a certain passion, Callicles, com¬ mon to men—to some, one, to others, another, but each of us had a peculiar passion different from others—it would not be easy for one to make known one’s own affection to another. 82. I speak thus because I perceive that you and I are now affected in the same manner; for, being two, we each of us love two things: I, Alcibiades, son of Clinias, and philosophy ; you, the Demus 1 of the Atheni¬ ans, and the son of Pyrilampes. Now, I continually per¬ ceive that you, eloquent as you are, are unable to contra- 1 That is, “ the people of Athens.” It is necessary to retain the orig¬ inal word because of the play on the word Demus, which was the name of the son of Pyrilampes, a person distinguished for his personal beauty. Socrates means to insinuate that while he loves the inward beauty of Al¬ cibiades and philosophy, Callicles loves the external beauty of the people and Demus, son of Pyrilampes. GORGIAS. 199 diet tlie objects of your love in whatever they may say, and in whatever manner they may assert a thing takes place; but you are changed by them upward and down¬ ward. For, in the assembly, if, when you say any thing, the Athenian people say that it is not so, you, changing your opinion, say what they wish ; and you are affected in the same manner toward that beautiful youth, the son of Pyrilampes; for you can not bring yourself to oppose the wishes and discourses of the objects of your love: so that if any one, when from time to time you say what you do to please them, should wonder at its absurdity, perhaps you would say to him, if you wished to speak the truth, that unless some one shall cause the objects of your love to desist from such discourses, neither can you desist from saying what you do. Thyik, therefore, that you need to hear the like from me; and do not wonder that I speak thus, but cause Philosophy, my favorite, to desist from speaking so. For, my dear friend, she always says what you now hear from me, and is much less fickle than my other loves. 83. For the son of Clinias, here, says different things at different times; but Philosophy always the same. And she says the things that you now wonder at; and you have just heard what she said. Either,there¬ fore, confute her, as to what I just now said, and prove that to act unjustly, and, when one has acted unjustly, not to suffer punishment, is not the worst of all evils; or, if you suffer this to remain unconfuted, then, by the dog! the deity of the Egyptians, Callicles will not agree with you, but will differ with you, Callicles, through the whole of his life. However, I think, my excellent friend, that it would be better for me that my lyre should be out of tune and discordant, and the choir of which I might be the leader, and that most men should not agree with me, but oppose what I say, rather than that I, being one, should be discordant with and contradict myself. Gal. You seem to me, Socrates, to act the boaster in your discourses—as being, in truth, a mob-orator; and now you thus declaim, since Polus has met with the same treatment as he objected Gorgias met with from you. 84. For he said that Gorgias, when asked by you whether, if one should come to him wishing to learn rhetoric with- 200 GORGIAS. out being acquainted with justice, Gorgias would teach him, was ashamed, and said that he would teach him, on account of the custom among men, because they would be displeased if any one were to refuse 5 and that from this admission Gorgias was compelled to contradict himself, and you were delighted with this very circumstance; for which he then ridiculed you, as it appeared to me, \eiy properly. And now he himself has, in turn, been treat¬ ed the very same way. I, however, in this particular, do not commend Polus, because he lias conceded to you that to commit injustice is more base than to suffer it; for, from this admission, he, being entangled' by you in the discussion, has been brought to a check, because he was ashamed to say what he thought. For you, in reality, ( Socrates, while you profess to be in search of truth, lead to such vulgar and popular things as these which are not \ beautiful by nature, but by law. For these are, for the most part, contrary to each other, nature and law. 85. If any one, therefore, is ashamed, and dares not say what he thinks, he is compelled to contradict himself. And you, having perceived this subtle distinction, deal unfaiily in the discussion; for, if any one speaks of any thing apcord- in«* to law, you cunningly ask him about it according to nature; and if he speaks of things according to natuie, you ask him about them according to law; as, just now, m the present discussion, respecting committing injustice and suffering it, when Polus spoke of that 1110011 is moie base according to nature, you followed up the law as if it , were according to nature; for by nature every thing is more base which is also worse, as to suffer injustice; but by law, to commit it. For to submit to injustice is not the condition of*a man, but of a slave, to whoin it is better to die than to live; since, being injured and disgraced, he is unable to defend himself, or any one else for whom he has regard. But, I think, those who make the laws are the weak and the many: they, therefore, make laws with a view to themselves and their own advantage, and with the same view they bestow praise and impute blame; and, to terrify such men as are stronger, and who are able to ac¬ quire more, that they may not acquire more than them¬ selves, they say that it is base and unjust to obtain a su- [Jof d GORGIAS. 201 V pcriority; and that to endeavor to acquire more than oth¬ ers is to commit injustice. 86. For they are content, I think, if they, being weaker, have an equal portion. For this reason, therefore, by law it is said to be unjust and base to endeavor to possess more than the many; and they i call this committing an injustice. But nature herself, I think, evinces, on the contrary, that it is just that the better should have more than the worse, and the more 'powerful than the weaker. And it is evident in many in¬ stances that it is so, both in other animals, and in whole cities and races of men, that the just is so settled that the superior should rule over the inferior, and possess more than they, hoi’, with what justice did Xerxes make war upon Greece, or his father on the Scythians ? or ten thou¬ sand other instances which one might adduce? But I think they do these things according to n atural jus tice, and,by Jupiter! according to the law of nature; not, per- haps,according to that law which we have framed. Taking the best and strongest among us from their youth, like lions, we tame them by incantations and juggleries, telling them that it is right to preserve equality, and that this is the beautiful and the just. 87. But, I think, if there should be a man found with sufficient natural power, hav¬ ing shaken off all these trammels, and broken through,/ and abandoned, and trampled underfoot our written ordi¬ nances, and quackeries, and incantations, and laws con¬ trary to nature, he, from being our slave, would rise up and prove himself our master; and then natural justice would shine forth. Pindar, too, appears to me to have declared what I now assert, in the ode in which he says that “law is the king of all, both mortals and immortals; and,” he adds, “he, with most powerful hand, makes use of might, calling it right; and this I infer from the deeds of Hercules, since he drove away the oxen of Geryon un¬ bought.” He speaks pretty much in this manner; for 1^ do not remember the ode by heart. He says, then, that Hercules drove away the oxen of Geryon, without having^ either bought them, or received them as a gift—as if this were naturally just, that both oxen, and all other posses¬ sions, when the property of the worse and inferior, belong to the better and superior. Such, then, is the truth; and 9 * 202 GORGIAS. you will know that it is so, if, dismissing philosophy, you betake yourself to greater things. 88. For philosophy, Socrates, is an elegant thing, if one handles it moderately in youth; but if one dwells upon it longer than is becoming, it is the ruin of men. For if a man should have excellent abilities, and should study philosophy beyond the period of youth, he must necessarily become unskilled in all things in which he ought to be skilled, who desires to be a wor¬ thy, good, and distinguished man. For such men are un¬ skilled in the laws of the city, and in those arguments which any one must use who is conversant with the busi¬ ness transactions of men, both privately and publicly: they are likewise altogether unskilled in human pleasures and desires, and, in short, in the manners of men. When, therefore, they engage in any private or public business, they make themselves ridiculous, just as, I think, politi¬ cians are ridiculous when they meddle with your dispu¬ tations and arguments. For that saying of Euripides 1 is verified i ii Every one shines in this, and to this applies himself, consuming the greater part of the day in what¬ ever he most excels.” But that wherein a man is weak he avoids, and abuses it, and praises the other through self-love, thinking thereby to praise himself; but, I think, the most correct way is to partake of both. 89. Of phi¬ losophy, indeed, so far as is requisite for education, it is well to partake, nor is it any disgrace for one who is young to study philosophy; but when a man who has reached an advanced age still studies philosophy, Socra¬ tes, the thing becomes ridiculous; and I have very much the same feeling toward those who study philosophy as to those who stammer and sport. For, when I see a child whom it still becomes to talk thus stammering and sporting, I am delighted, and his conduct appears to me to be graceful and liberal, and suited to the age of a child. But when I hear a little boy talking with precision, it seems a disagreeable thing to me, and offends my ears, and appears to be somewhat servile. When, however, one hears a man stammering, or sees him sporting, it ap¬ pears to be ridiculous, unmanly, and worthy of stripes. 1 From the “Antiope ” of Euripides. See Valckenaer Diatrib. in Eu- rip. Reliquias, p. 76. GORGIAS. 203 Now, I have this same feeling toward those who study philosophy. h or, when I see philosophy in .a young man, I am delighted, and it appears to me becomin^and I consider such a man to be of a liberal mind; but if he does not study philosophy, I consider him illiberal, and i- one who will never think himself worthy of any noble or generous action. When, however, I see a man advanced in years still studying philosophy, and not having aban¬ doned it, such a man, Socrates, appears to me to"be de¬ serving of stripes. 9a For, as I just now said, such a man, even though he has excellent abilities, must needs become unmanly by avoiding the public places of the caty, and the forum, in which, as the poet 1 says, men ac¬ quire celebrity; and, by concealing himself from the pub¬ lic view, he passes the remainder of his life with three or tour boys, whispering in a corner, but never utters any thing liberal, great, and becoming. But I, Socrates, am very friendly-disposed toward you; and I seem to have the same feeling as Zethus toward Amphion’in Euripides whom I just now mentioned; for it occurs to me to say to you the same that he said to his brother,—that you neglect, Socrates, what you ought to attend to, and strive to adorn the nature of a soul thus generous by a certain juvenile form ; nor in deliberations of justice are you able to advance an argument correctly, nor lay hold of what is probable and persuasive, nor can you suggest vigorous advice for others. 91. However, my dear Socrates (and ut repeat it to me again from the 206 GORGIAS. beginning. How say you and Pindar is the case with nat¬ ural justice? is it that the superior should take by force from the inferior, and that the better should rule over the worse, and that the more excellent should have more than the depraved ? Do you say that the just is any thing else than this ? or do I remember rightly ? Cal. These tilings I said then, and I say now. Socr. But do you call the same person better and supe¬ rior? For I was not able at the time to understand you, what you meant: whether do you call the stronger supe¬ rior, and must the weaker submit to the stronger; as you seemed to me to intimate when you said that great cities attack little ones by natural justice,because they are supe¬ rior and stronger; as if the superior, the stronger, and the better were the same; or is it possible to be better and at the same time inferior and weaker, and to be superior, but more depraved? or is there the same definition of the better and the superior? Define this clearly for me: ar<* the superior the better, and the stronger .the same, or dif/ ferent? / Cal. Then, I tell you clearly that they are the same/ 96 . Socr. Are not, then, the many, by nature, superior to one, since they establish laws for the one, as you just now said ? Cal. How can it be otherwise? /Socr. The laws, then, of the many are those of such as are superior? Cal. Certainly. /Socr. Therefore, of the better? For, according to your account, the superior are far better. Cal. Yes. /Socr. Are not, then, their laws, by nature, beautiful, since they are superior ? Cal. I admit it. Socr. Now, do not the many think thus, as you just now said, that it is just to possess the equal, and that it is more base to injure than to be injured? Is this so, or not? And take care that you are not detected here in being shamefaced. Do the many think, or not, that to possess the equal, but not more, is just? and that it is more base to injure than to be injured? Do not refuse me an an- GORGIAS. 207 swer to this, Callicles, in order that, if you agree with me, I may be confirmed in my opinion by you, seeing that a man competent to decide has agreed with me. 97. Cal. The many, then, do think thus. Socr. Not, therefore, by law only, but by nature also, it is more base to injure than to be injured, and just to pos¬ sess the equal. So that jou appear not to have spoken the ti uth before, nor to accuse me rightly, in saying that law and nature are contrary to each other, and that I knowing this, deal unfairly in the discussion,—if any one speaks according to nature, by leading him to law, and if any one speaks according to law, by leading him to nature. 0 Cal. This man will not cease trifling. Tell me Socra¬ tes, are you not ashamed, at your age, to catch at words, and, if any one makes a mistake in an expression, to con¬ sider it an unexpected gain ? For, do you think that by the superior I mean any thing else than the better? Did I not tell you long since that I consider the better and the superior to be the same ? Do you suppose I mean that if a crowd of slaves, and all sorts of men of no worth, except perhaps for bodily strength, should meet together, that what they should say 1 would be legal institutions? Socr. Be it so, most wise Callicles: is that your mean¬ ing? J Cal. Certainly. 98. Socr. But I, sir, long since suspected that you meant some such thing by the superior; and therefore I repeat the question, desiring to understand clearly what you do mean; for you surely do not think that two are better than one, nor that your slaves are better than you because they are stronger than you. Tell me, then, from the be¬ ginning, whom you mean by the better, since you do not mean the stronger. And, my admirable friend, teach me in the outset in a milder manner, that I may not leave you. Cal. You are bantering, Socrates. Socr. By Zethus ! no, Callicles, in whose name you just now bantered me a good deal. But come; tell me who do you mean are the better ? ov, oi (t)ui(Tiv, aura tcivtci tcvcii vofufiuj, as if aura tcivtci preceded a av , probablv, is somewhat absurd ; nevertheless, it shows that by proof of which I wish, if by any means I can to per¬ suade you to change your opinion, and to prefer to an in¬ satiable and intemperate life one that is well regulated, and that is satisfied and contented with the things that are from time to time present. But do I persuade you at all, and do you change your opinion, and admit that the moderate are more happy than the intemperate . OH I produced no impression; and, though I tell you may such fables, will you not be any the more disposed to C ^Cal In'this you have spoken more truly, Socrates. 106 Socr. Come, then, I will mention to you another similitude from tlie same school as the pieceding. J o , consider whether you would speak thus of each kind life, the temperate and the intemperate, as if two men had each many casks; and that those of one were sound and full one of wine, another of honey, a third of milk, and many others of other things; that the fountains of each were 7 rare, and difficult to be obtained, and could only be procured by many and severe toils; that the one, then, bavino- filled his casks, pours no more into them, noi is at all concerned about them, but on this score is at ease; that the fountains of the other, as of the former one, are possible to be procured, though with difficulty; that his vessels are perforated and defective, and he compelled, both uight and dav to fill them, or suffer the most extreme pam. When such is the life of each, do you say that of the intemperate is more happv than that of the moderate man ? Ho 1 pci- GORGIAS. 213 \ suade you at all, by relating these things, to grant that a moderate life is better than an intemperate one, or do I not persuade you? Cal. You do not persuade me, Socrates. For he that has filled his casks has no longer any pleasure; but this is what I just now mentioned, to live like a stone, when he has filled them, neither rejoicing any more nor grievino*; but a pleasant life consists in as much flowing in as pos¬ sible. 1 107. Socr. Is it not, therefore, necessary, if much flows in, that much also should go out, and that there should be certain large holes fof its flowing out ? Cal. Certainly. Socr. You speak now of the life of a sea-lark, 1 and not of a corpse or a stone. But tell me: Do you mean such a thing as being hungry, and, when hungry, eating ? Cal. I do. Socr. And of being thirsty,and, when thirsty,drinking? Cal. I do mean that; and that he who has all other de¬ sires, and, having the power to do so, satisfies them, lives a joyful and happy life. Socr. Well done, my excellent friend ! Proceed as you have begun, and take care not to be ashamed. But it is light, too, as it seems, that neither should I be ashamed. And, first of all, tell me if, when a man who is scabby, and itches, is able to scratch himself without stint, and passes his life in scratching himself, this is to live happily? Cal. How absurd you are, Socrates, and a mere babbler ! Socr. Hence it is, Callicles, that I have astonished Po- lus and Gorgias, and made them ashamed. You, how¬ ever, will not be astonished nor ashamed, for you are cour¬ ageous ; but only answer me. 108. Cal. I say, then, that he who scratches himself lives pleasantly. Socr. Therefore, if pleasantly, also happily? Cal. Certainly. Socr. W ill this be the case if he only itches in his head, or must I ask you still further ? Consider, Callicles, * Xapadpibg, a bird which Aristotle tells us (“Hist. Anim.,” 1. ix., c. 11) “appears in the night, and runs off in the day.” See note to Cary’s Birds of Aristophanes,” act i., sc. 4. 214 GORGIAS. what answer you would give if any one asks you respect¬ ing all the parts of the body in succession. And to take that which is the chief of all, is not the life of catamites dreadful, base, and wretched ? Will you dare to call them happy, if they have what they desire, without stint? . Cal. Are you not ashamed, Socrates, to lead the discus¬ sion to such subjects? Socr. Do I lead it hither, noble sir? Or does he who asserts thus broadly that such as rejoice, in whatever way they rejoice, are happy,and does not distinguish between pleasures, what are good and what are bad? hut tell me further still, whether do you say that the pleasant and the good are the same, or that there is something pleasant which is not good? Cal. In order that my argument may not contradict it¬ self if I should say they are different, I say that they are the same. ~ ir 109. Socr. You subvert your former statements, Calii- cles, and no longer search for the truth with me properly, if you speak contrary to your real opinion. Cal. And you do the same, Socrates. . Socr. Neither, then, do I act rightly, if I do so, nor do you. But, good sir, consider whether to rejoice in any way be not good. For it is clear that many base conse¬ quences, which were just now hinted at, will follow, if this should be the case, and many others besides. Cal. As you think, at least, Socrates. Socr. Do you in reality, Callicles, persist in your asser¬ tion ? Cal. I do. • . Socr. Shall we, then, enter on the discussion as it you were in earnest ? Cal. Most certainly. Socr. Come, then, since you are of that opinion, explain this to me. Do you call science any thing? Cal. I do. . Socr. And did you not jnst now say that theie is a cei- tain courage joined with science. Cal. I did say so. Socr. Did you speak of these two as'if courage were different from science ? GORGIAS. 215 Cal. Certainly. Socr. But what? Are pleasure and science the same or different ? Cal. Different, surely, most wise friend. Socr. Is courage also different from pleasure ? Cal. Undoubtedly. 110. Socr. Come, then, let us retain these things in our memory—that Callicles of Acharne said that the pleasant and the good aie the same, but that science and courage are different both from each other and the good. Cal. But Socrates of Alopecia does not agree to this • does he agree ? Socr. He does not agree; and, I think, neither will Calli¬ cles, when he has rightly examined himself. For, tell me, do you not think that those who fare well are affected in a manner quite contrary to those who fare ill ? Cal. I do. Socr. If these, therefore, are contrary to each other, is it not necessary that the case should be the same with them as it is with health and disease ? For, surely, a man is not at the same time well and diseased, nor at the same time separated from health and disease. Cal. How say you? Socr. For instance, take any part of the body yon please, and consider. Plas not a man sometimes a disease m the eyes which is called ophthalmia? Cal. Undoubtedly. AW. And his eyes, surely, are not at the same time well ? Cal. Certainly not. Socr. But what? When he is freed from the ophthal¬ mia, does he, then, also lose the health of his eyes, and in a word, is he at the same time freed from both ? Cal. By no means. Socr. lor that, I think, would be wonderful and absurd. Would it not? Cal. Assuredly. 111. Socr. But, I think, he alternately receives one and loses the other. Cal. I admit it. Socr. And will it not be the same with regard to strength and weakness ? 216 GOItGIAS. Cal. Yes. < Socr. And swiftness and slowness . Cal. Certainly. . _ , . Socr. And with respect to things good and happiness, and their contraries, things evil and wretchedness, does he receive and part from each of these alternately t Cal. Most assuredly. . . . , . , Socr If, therefore, we should find certain things which a man at the same time parts from and possesses, it is clear that these would not be both good and evil. Do wc agree to this? Consider well,and answer me. & Cal. I agree entirely. Socr. Let us, then, recur to wliat was before agreed on. Did you say that to be hungry is pleasant, or paintui. I mean the very fact of being hungry. , Cal. I said it was painful; though to eat when hungi y 1S understand you: but to be hungry of itself is painful, is it not so ? Cal. I admit it. JSocr. And also to be thirsty ? Ill' Socr! Whether, then, shall I ask you any more questions? Or do you allow that all want and desire are painful ? Cal I allow it; so do not ask. JSocr. Be it so. And do you not say that for a man to drink when he is thirsty is pleasant ? Socr. ^In°the instance, then, of which you are speaking, to be thirsty is, doubtless, painful ? Cfll Yes -t Socr. But to drink is the satisfying of a want, and a pleasure ? /7 sy 7 V A g Soar. Therefore, as to drinking, you say that the man rejoices? Cal. Certainly. Socr. But as to being thirsty ? Cal. I say— Socr. That he suffers pain? GORGIAS. 217 Cal. Yes. Socr. Do you perceive, then, what follows? that you say he who is in pain at the same time rejoices, when you say that he who is thirsty drinks. And does not this happen at the same place and time with respect either to the soul or body, whichever you please? For I think there is no difference. Is this so,or not? Cal. It is. Socr. You admitted, however, that it was impossible for one who fares well at the same time to fare ill. Cal. I allow it. Socr. But you have granted that it is possible for one who is in pain to rejoice. Cal. It appears so. Socr. To rejoice, therefore, is not to fare well, nor to be in pain, ill; so that the pleasant is different from the good ? Cal. I know not what subtleties you are using, Socrates. 113. Socr. You know, though you pretend not, Callicles. Cal. Proceed still further, trifling as you are, that you may know how wise you are who take upon yourself to admonish me. Socr. Does not each of us at the same time cease to be thirsty, and to receive pleasure from drinking? Cal. I do not know what you mean. Gorg. Say not so, Callicles; but answer for our sakes, that the discussion mav be brought to a conclusion. Cal. But this is always the way with Socrates, Gorgias; lie asks trifling questions, and things that are of no con¬ sequence, and then refutes them. Gorg. But what difference does that make to you ? That is no concern at all of yours; but suffer Socrates to argue in whatever way he pleases. Cal. Ask, then, these trifling and petty questions, since Gorgias thinks proper. Socr. You are happy, Callicles, in that you have been initiated in the great mysteries before you were in the small: but I thought that was not allowed. Answer me, then, from the point where you left off: Does not each of us at the same time cease, to be thirsty, and to receive pleasure ? 10 218 GORGIAS. Cal. I admit it. _ , . Socr. And does not one cease to be hungry, and to ieel other desires and pleasures at the same time i Cal. Such is the case. . Socr. Does one not, then, at the same time cease to leel both pains and pleasures ? Gal. Yes. . 114. Socr. However, one does not at the same time cease to experience good and evil, as you admitted ; but now do you not admit it? Cal. I do. But what then ? ' /Socr. It follows, my friend, that good things are not the same with such as are pleasant, nor evil things with such as are painful. For, from these one ceases at the same time, but not from those, because they are different. Ilow, therefore, can pleasant things be the same with such^ as are good, or painful things with such as are e\il? But, if you please, consider it in this way; for I think that you are not even thus agreed with yourself. Consider, then : Do you not call the good good, from the presence of good things, just as you call those beautiful to whom beauty is present ? Cal. I do. Socr. But what ? Do you call foolish men and cowards good men? For you did not just nowJ but you said the brave and prudent were so. Do you not call these good ? Cal. Certainly. Socr. But what? Have you ever seen a boy without understanding rejoicing ? Cal. I have. • Socr. And have you not also seen a man without under¬ standing rejoicing? . Cal. I think I have. But to what purpose is this ? Socr. Nothing: answer, however. Cal. I have seen it. /Socr. But what ? Have you seen a man endued with intellect grieving and rejoicing? Cal I have. 115. /Socr. But which rejoice and grieve the more the wise or the foolish ? GORGIAS. 219 Cal. I think there is not much difference. oc) * d-^hat is enough. Iii war have you ever seen a coward ? Cal. Most assuredly. boo. \Y hat then ? On the departure of the enemy which appeared to you to rejoice the more, the cowards or the brave ? Cal. Loth appeared to me to rejoice more; or, if not in nearly the same degree. Socr. It is of no consequence. Cowards, then, also re¬ joice? Cal. Very much so. Soar. And the foolish, as it seems ? Cal. Yes. Socr. But, when the enemy approaches, do cowards only grieve, or do the brave also ? Cal. Both. Socr. In an equal degree? Cal. Cowards, perhaps, more. Socr. But, when the enemy departs, do they not rejoice more ? Cal. Perhaps so. Socr. Do not, therefore, as you say, the foolish and the wise, cowards and the brave, similarly grieve and rejoice, much in the same degree; but cowards more than the brave? Cal. I admit it. Socr. The wise, however, and the brave are good, but cowards and the foolish bad? Cal. Yes. Socr. .The good and the bad, therefore, rejoice and grieve equally? Cal. I admit it. 116. Socr. Are, then, the good and the bad, good and bad in an equal degree? Or are the bad yet more ^ood and bad ? Cal. By Jupiter! I do not know what you mean. Socr. Do you not know' that you said the good are good through the presence of good things, and the bad through the presence of evil things; and that pleasures are good things, and pains evil ? 2 2o GORG1AS. Cal. I did. Socr. Are not, therefore, good tilings — namely, pleas¬ ures—present with those that rejoice, if they do lejoice? Cal. Undoubtedly. Socr. And since good things are present, are not they who rejoice good ? Cal Yes. Socr. But what ? Are not evil things—namely, pains- present with those that suffer pain? Cal. They are present. . Socr. But do you not say that the bad aie bad thiougli the presence of evil things? Or do you say so no longei ? Cal. I do. ’ Socr. Those, therefore,that rejoice are good; but those that suffer pain are bad ? Cal. Certainly. Socr. And those that are more so, more; but those that are less so,less; and those that are equally so,equally? Cal. Yes. Socr. Do you not say, then, that the wise and the fool¬ ish, cowards and the brave, rejoice and grieve in an equal decree, or cowards even more? Ijal. I do. 117. Socr. Now, in common with me, draw the infer¬ ences that result from these admissions. For, they say, it is beautiful to repeat and consider beautiful things twice, and even thrice. We say that the prudent and brave man is good, do we not ? Cal. Yes. Socr. But that the foolish man and coward is bad ? Cal. Certainly. Socr. Again, that he who rejoices is good ? Cal. Yes. Socr. And that he who suffers pain is bad ? Cal. Necessarily so. Socr. And that the good and the bad suffer pain and rejoice equally, but perhaps the bad more ? . Cal. Yes. Socr. Therefore, the bad man becomes equally bad and good with the good man, or even more good ? Do not these results follow, as well as the former ones, if one says GORGIAS. 221 that the pleasant and the good are the same? Are not these consequences necessary, Callicles ? Cal. I have been long listening to you, Socrates, and making concessions,.considering with myself that if any one grants you any thing, even in jest, you seize it eagerly as boys do. And can you suppose that I, or any other person in the world, does not believe that some pleasures are better, and others worse ? 118. Socr. Ho-ho! Callicles, how cunning you are! You treat me as a child, now asserting that these things are in this manner, and now in another manner, trying to deceive me; though, at the outset, I did not think that I should be purposely deceived by you, because you are my friend. But now I have been mistaken, and, as it seems, must needs, according to the old proverb, make good use of what I have, and receive what you give me. What you now say, as it appears, is this: thatf some pleasures are good, others bad) Is it not so ? Cal. Yes. Socr. And are not the profitable good, and the noxious bad ? Cal. Certainly. /Socr. And those which effect a certain good are profit¬ able ; but those which effect a certain evil, bad ? Cal. I admit it. /Socr. Do you not speak, then, of such as the following; as, for instance, with respect to the body, those pleasures which we just now mentioned of eating and drinking; and if some of these produce in the body health or strength, or some other bodily excellences, are they not good; but those that produce the contraries of these, evil? Cal. Certainly. /Socr. And are not pains, in like manner, some beneficial, others injurious? Cal. Undoubtedly. f Socr. Ought we not, therefore, both to choose and to exercise ourselves in such pleasures and pains as are bene¬ ficial ? Cal. Certainly. Socr. But not such as are injurious? Cal. That is evident. 222 GORGIAS. 119. Socr. For, if you remember, it was agreed between us, Polus and me, that all things should be done for the sake of what is good. And do you agree with us in thinking that the good is the end of all actions, and that all other things ought to be done for its sake, but not it for the sake of other things ? Do you accord with us, and make up the third ? Cal. I do. (Socr) We ought, then, to do both all other things and such as are pleasant, for the sake of tilings good, but not good things for the sake of such as are pleasant ? Cal. Certainly. Socr. Is every man, therefore, able to choose among pleasant things such as are good, and such as are evil ? Or is there need of a person skilled in each case? Cal. Of a person skilled. Socr. Let us, then, again call to mind what I said to Polus and Gorgias. I said, if you remember, that there are certain occupations which regard pleasure, and are oc¬ cupied in this alone, but are ignorant of the better and the worse; but there are others that know both what is good and what is evil. And I have placed among those which have pleasure for their object cookery, as a skill re¬ lating to the body, but not an art; and among those that have°the good for their object I placed the medicinal art. 120. And, by the god of friendship ! Callicles, think not that you ought to jest with me, nor give any answer that may occur to you contrary to your opinion, nor receive what I say as if I were in jest. For you see that our dis¬ course is on a subject than which there is none that a man endued even with the smallest understanding would take .more pains about—namely, in what way we ought to live, whether in such a way as that to which you exhort me, engaging in such employments of a man as speaking among the people, cultivating rhetoric, and applying one’s self to political affairs, in the manner which you now do; or whether we should devote ourselves to a philosophic life, and in what the latter differs from the former. Per¬ haps, then, it is best, as I just now attempted, to make a distinction; and when we have distinguished and agreed with each other that these are two kinds of life, then to GORGIAS. 223 consider in what they differ from each other, and which of them ought to be pursued. Perhaps, however, you do not yet understand what I mean. 121. Cal. I do not, indeed. r Socr. I will explain it to you more clearly. Since we I have agreed, you and I, that there is something good and \ something pleasant, and that the pleasant is different from the good^ and that there are a certain study and prepa¬ ration for the acquirement of each of them, one being a search after the pleasant, and the other after the good— however, first of all, grant me this, or not; do you grant it ? Cal. I do. Socr. Come, then, concede to me also what I said to these men, if at the time I appeared to you to speak the truth. I said that cookery does not appear to me to be an art, but a skill; and that medicine is an art; for I said that medicine considers the nature of that which it cures, and the cause of the things that it cures, and the cause of the things that it does, and is able to give an account of each of these; but that the other, being con¬ cerned about pleasure, to which its whole attention is di¬ rected, proceeds to it without any art at all, neither con¬ sidering the nature nor the cause of pleasure, altogether without reason, and, in a word, incapable of giving any ac¬ count of itself, a mere practice and skill; only preserving the memory of that which usually takes place, by which, also, it supplies pleasures. 122. First of all, then, con¬ sider whether these things appear to you to have been suf¬ ficiently established, and that there are also certain other corresponding studies relating to the soul, of which some follow rules of art, and regard what is best for the soul; but others that neglect this, and consider only, as in the former case, the pleasure of the soul, in what way it may be procured, but paying no attention to which pleasure is better or worse, nor caring for any thing else than gratifi¬ cation only, whether it be better or worse. For my part, Callicles, there appears to me to be such studies; and I say that such a thing is flattery, as well in relation to the body as the soul, and to any tiling else the pleasure of' which one sedulously attends to, without paying any re¬ gard to the better and the worse. But do you entertain A 224 GORGIAS. the same opinion as we do respecting these things, or do you gainsay it? Cal. No; but I yield this point in order that our dis¬ cussion may be brought to a close,’and that I may giatify Gorgias here. Socr. Does this take place with respect to one soul, but not with respect to two, and several ? Cal. No; but it takes place with respect to two, and several. Socr. Is it not, then, possible to gratify a number of souls collected together, without considering at all what is best? 123 . Cal. I think so. Socr. Can you tell me, then, what those studies are which produce this effect ? Or rather, if you please, on my asking, whichever appears to you to be one of these, say so, and which not, deny it. And, first of all, let us consider flute-playing. Does it not appear to you to be such a thing, Callicles, as pursues only our pleasure, but regards nothing else ? Cal. It appears so. Socr. And is it not the case with all such studies, as, for instance,harp-playing in the public games? Cal. Yes. Socr. And what as to the representation of choruses and dithyrambic poetry ? Does it not appear to you to be of the same kind ? Do you think that Cinesias, son of Meles, cares at all to express himself in such a way that his hearers may become better, or rather what will gratify the crowd of spectators? Cal. The latter is clearly the case, Socrates, with respect to Cinesias. Socr. But what as to his father, Meles ? Did he appear to you to play on the harp, looking to that which is^best? Or did not he look to what was most pleasant? For, in singing, he offended the audience. Consider, however: Do & not all harp-playing and dithyrambic poetry appear to you to have been invented for the sake of pleasuie? Cal. They do. 124 . Socr. But what of that venerable and wonderful art, tragic poetry, at what does it aim? Do its endeavor G011GIAS. 225 and aim appear to you to be only to gratify the specta¬ tors? Or does it strive, if any thing should be pleasin and grateful to them, but mischievous, to avoid sayin this; but if it happens to be unpleasant and beneficial, to say and sing this, whether it gratifies the spectators or not? In which of these two ways do you think tragic poetry is framed? Cal. This is clear, Socrates, that it rather aims at pleas¬ ure, and the gratification of the spectators. Socr. Did we not just now say, Callicles, that a thing of this kind is flatterv? «/ Cal. Certainly. Socr. Come, then, if any one should take from all po¬ etry melody, rhythm, and measure, would any thing else than words remain? Cal. Necessarily so. Socr. Are not these words, then, addressed to a great multitude, and to the people ? Cal. I admit it. Socr. Poetry, therefore, is a kind of popular speaking. Cal. It appears so. Socr. Therefore, it must be a rhetorical method of pop¬ ular speaking; for do not poets appear to you to employ rhetoric in the theatres ? Cal. They do. 125. Socr. Now, therefore, we have found a certain rhet¬ oric among the people, consisting, at the same time, of boys and women and men, slaves and freemen, of which we do not altogether approve; for we have called it flattery. Cal. Certainly. Socr. Well, then. But as to the rhetoric addressed to the Athenian people, and the people in other cities con¬ sisting of freemen, what shall we say as to that ? Do the rhetoricians appear to you always to speak with a view to what is best, aiming at this, that the citizens may be made as good as possible by their discourses? Or do they, too, endeavor to gratify the citizens, and, neglecting the public interest for the sake of their own private advantage, do they treat the people as children, trying only to gratify them, without being in the least concerned whether they shall become better or worse by these means? JO* bo be 226 GORGIAS. Cal. This is not a simple question that you ask me. For there are some who, looking to the interest of the citizens, say what they do; but others are such as you de¬ scribe. . ... r i i 126. Socr. That is enough. For, if this also is twofold, one part of it will be flattery, and a base popular speak¬ ing ; but the other will be honorable—namely, that which endeavors to make the souls of the citizens as good as possible, and strives to speak what is best, whether it be pleasant or unpleasant to the hearers. But you have never yet seen this kind of rhetoric. Or if you can mention any one of the rhetoricians who is of this stamp, why do you not tell me who he is? Cal. But, by Jupiter! I can not instance to you any of the rhetoricians of the present day. Socr. But what ? Can you instance any one of the an¬ cients through whose means the Athenians have become better, after he had begun to harangue them, when pie- viously they had been worse? For I know not who such a one is. Cal. What? Have you not heard that Themistoclcs was a good man, and Cimon, and Miltiadcs, and Peiicles, who died lately, whom you have also heard ? Socr. If that is true virtue, Callicles, which you before mentioned as such—namely, for a man to gratify both his own desires and those of others. But if this is not the .case, but, as we were afterward compelled to confess, those desires which, when satisfied, make a man better, N ought to be indulged, but those which make him worse, not so; and if there is a certain art in this, can you say that any one of these was a man of this kind? Cal. I know not what to say. 127. Socr. But if you seek well, you will find out. Let us, however, consider, and see quietly if any one of these \was such. For come: Is it not true that a good man, I who says what he says with a view to the best, does not /speak at random, but looking to some end?—just as all other artists, looking each to his own work, does not take at random and employ what he employs in his work, but so that the subject he^is at work upon may have a certain form ; for instance, if you will look at painters, architects, GORGIAS. 227 shipwrights, and any other artists you please, you will see that each places whatever he employs in a certain order, and compels one thing to adapt itself to and harmonize with another, until the whole workmanship is compacted together with order and regularity. And, moreover, those other artificers, whom we just now mentioned, who are employed about the body, teachers of gymnastics, and physicians, adorn the body in a way, and dispose it in an orderly manner. Do we allow that this is so, or not? Gal. Let it be so. 128. Socr. A house, then, that has acquired order and regularity will be a good house; but when disorder, a bad one. Gal. I admit it. Socr. And a ship in like manner? Gal. Yes. Socr. And do we not say the same with respect to our bodies ? Gal. Certainly. Socr. But what as to the soul ? When in a state of dis¬ order, will it be in a good condition; or when it is in a state of order and regularity ? Gal. From what lias been said, it is necessary to grant that the latter must be the case. Socr. What, then, in the body, is the name of that which results from order and regularity? Gal. Y ou probably mean health and strength. Socr. I do. But what, again, is the name of that which subsists in the soul from order and regularity? Endeavor to discover and mention it, as you did the name of the former. Gal. Why do not you say what it is yourself, Socrates? Socr. If it pleases you better, I will. But do you, if I seem to you to speak well, assent; if not, confute, and do not spare me. To me, then, it appears that the name be¬ longing to the orderly disposition of the body is the health¬ ful, from which health springs, and every other excellence of the bodv. Is it so, or not? Gal. It is. Socr. But the name belonging to the orderly and reg- 1 ular disposition of the soul is the legitimate, and law; » 228 gorgias. . whence men become, obedient to law, and orderly; bnt j these are justice and temperance. Do you admit this, or f-not? Cal. Be it so. ■ . .. , 129. Boer. Will not, then, that good rhetorician who follows the rules of art, looking to these things, address the arguments he uses and all his actions to souls? And if he should bestow a gift, will he not bestow it? And if he should take any thing away, will he not take it away with the same end, always directing his attention to this, * that justice may be produced in the souls of his fellow- * citizens, and injustice banished; that temperance may be * produced in them, and intemperance banished; and,in short, that every virtue may be planted in them, but vice driven out? Do you grant this, or not ? Cal. I do grant it. . . Boer. For where is the utility, Callicles, in giving a body diseased and ill-disposed abundance of the most agreeable food or drink, or any thing else, which will not be more profitable to it than the contrary, but, according to right reason, even less ? Is this so ? Cal. Be it so. Boer. For I think it is of no advantage for a man to live with a miserable state of body; for thus it would be nec¬ essary for him to live miserably: is it not so ? Cal Yes. Boer. And do not physicians generally allow a man m health to satisfy his desires: as, for instance, when hungry, to eat as much as he pleases; or, when thirsty, to drink; but when ill, they scarcely ever allow him to satisfy him¬ self with what he desires ? Do you grant this too? Cal. I do. . 130. Boer. And should not the same method, my excel¬ lent friend, be adopted with respect to the soul ? So long as it is depraved, as being without understanding, mtem- \ perate, unjust, and unholy, one ought to restrain it liom 1 the indulgence of its desires, and not permit it to do any \thing except what will render it better? Do you admit Ithis,or not? Cal. I do. f Boer. For this, surely, is better for the soul itself. GORGIAS. 229 Cal. Certainly. /Soar. And is not to restrain any one from what he de-l sires, to punish him ? Cal. Yes. Socr. To be punished, therefore, is better for the soul 1 ! than intemperance, as you just now thought. Cal. I don’t know what you mean, Socrates: ask some one else. Socr. This man will not submit to be benefited, and to suffer the very thing of which we are speaking—namely, punishment. Cal. I don’t at all heed what you say; I only answered you thus far for the sake of Gorgias. 131. Socr. Be it so. . What shall we do, then? Shall we break off the discussion in the midst? Cal. You shall determine. Socr. But they say it is not right to leave even fables in the midst, but a head should be placed on them, that they may not wander without a head. Answer, there¬ fore to what remains, that our discussion may have a head to it. _ Cal. How importunate you are, Socrates ! But, if you will be persuaded by me, you will give up this discussion, or carry it on with some one else. Socr.' Who else is willing? for we must not leave the discussion unfinished. Cal. Can not you go through with it yourself, either speaking by yourself or answering yourself ? Socr. That the saying of Epicharmus may be verified in me: “ What two men said before, I alone am able to say.” But it appears to be very necessary. If, however, we shall do so, I think we ought all of us to strive hearti¬ ly, that we may understand what is true and what false with respect to the subject we are treating of; for it is for the common interest of all that>this should become clear. 132. I will, therefore, go through the matter under discussion, as it appears to me to be; but, if I shall seem to any of you to grant myself what is not true, he must take me up and confute me. For I do not say what I say as knowing it, but I am inquiring in common with you, so that, if he who disputes with me should appear to say any 230 GORGIAS. thing to the purpose, I shall be the first to give in to him. I say this, however, in case you think the discussion ought to be finished ; but if you do not wish it, let us give it up, and depart. Gorg. But it appears to me, Socrates, that we should not depart yet, but that you should pursue the argument; and it is evident that the others think so. And I, for my part, wish to hear you go through the remainder of the subject. tSocr. But, indeed, Gorgias, I would gladly have con¬ tinued to carry on the discussion with Callicles here, until I had given him back the saying of Amphion for that of Zethus; 1 but since you are not willing, Callicles, to finish the discussion with me, yet listen to me at least, and take me up if I appear to you to say any thing incorrectly. And if you shall confute me, I shall not be angry with you, as you are with me, but you shall be recorded by me as my greatest benefactor. Gal. Speak, then, yourself, my good friend, and finish the argument. 133. Socr. Hear me, then, repeating the argument from the beginning. Are the pleasant and the good the same? They are not the same, as I and Callicles have agreed. But whether is the pleasant to be done for the sake of the good, or the good for the sake of the pleasant? The pleasant for the sake of the good. But is the pleasant that with which, when present, we are pleased? and the good that by which, when present, we are good ? Cer¬ tainly. Now, we are good, both ourselves and all other things that are good, when a certain virtue is present? To me this appears to be necessary, Callicles. But the virtue of each thing, whether instrument, or body, or soul, and, moreover, of every animal, does not reach a high pitch of perfection by chance, but by order, and rectitude, and the art that is attributed to each of them. Is this so ? I admit it. The virtue, then, of every thing is regulated and adorned by order? I should say so. A certain or¬ der, then, proper to each, becoming inherent in each, makes each thing good ? It appears so to me. The soul, there¬ fore, that has its own order is better than that which is 1 See before, sec. 90. GORGIAS. 231 without order ? Necessarily so. That, however, which has order is orderly? How should it not? And that which is orderly is temperate? Most necessarily. 134. A temperate soul, then, is good ? I am not able to say thing against this, my dear Callicles; but do you, if you can do so, inform me. Cal. Proceed, my good friend. Socr. I say, then, that if a temperate soul is good, that which is affected contrariwise to the temperate is base; and this, surely, is the foolish and intemperate? Certain¬ ly. Moreover, a temperate man would act becomingly both toward gods and toward men ; for he would not be temperate if he acted unbecomingly? It must needs be so. Moreover, by acting becomingly toward men, he would act justly, and toward the gods piously; but it is necessary that he who acts justly and piously should be just and pious? It must be so. It is, moreover, necessa¬ ry that he should be brave ; for it is not the part of a tem¬ perate man either to pursue or avoid what is not becom- ing, but to pursue and avoid those tilings and men, pleas¬ ures and pains, which he ought, and to endure patiently wherever he ought, 135. So that it is absolutely neces¬ sary, Callicles, that the temperate man, as we have de¬ scribed him, being just, brave, and pious, should be a per¬ fectly good man ; and that a good man should do whatever he does well and honorably; and that he who does well l J should be blessed and happy; but that the wicked, who does ill, should be wretched: but this latter would be di¬ rectly contrary to the temperate man—namely, the intern-' perate—whom you praised. I, therefore, thus lay down these things, and affirm that they are true. But if they are true, as it seems, he who wishes to be happy must pur¬ sue and practice temperance, and must avoid intemper- 17 ance, every one of us with all his might, and must endeav¬ or never to stand in need of punishment; but if he does need it, either he or any of his family, whether it be the case of a private person, or a city, justice must be admin¬ istered, and punishment inflicted, if he is to be happy, this appears to me to be the mark to which we ought to look for the guidance of our life, and referring all private and public actions to this point, that justice and temper- 232 GORGIAS. ance may be ever present with him who will be blessed, and to act accordingly; not suffering his desires to be in¬ temperate, nor endeavoring to satisfy them ; which is an irremediable evil, causing a man to live like a robber. For such a one could neither be dear to any other man, nor to God; for it is impossible there can be any com¬ munion between them; and where there is no communion there can be no friendship. 136. The sages, 1 too, say, Callicles, that heaven and earth, gods and men, are held together by communion, friendship, order, temperance, and justice ; and for this reason, my friend, they call this universe order, 2 and not disorder or intemperance. You, however, appear to me not to attend to these things, and this though you are wise; but it has escaped your obser¬ vation that geometrical equality has great power both among gods and among men; on the contrary, you think that every one should strive to get more than others; for vou neglect geometry. Well,then; either this argument of mine must be confuted, cincl it ?nust be shown that the happy are not happy from the possession of justice and temperance, and the wretched, wretched from viceor, if the argument is true, we must consider what are its re¬ sults. Now, Callicles, all those things before mentioned, with respect to which you asked me if I was speaking in earnest, result from it, to the effect that a man should ac¬ cuse himself, his son, and his friend, if he committed any injustice, and should employ rhetoric for this purpose. And what you thought Polus granted through shame was, therefore, true, that by how much it is more base to do an injury than to be injured, by so much is it worse: and that he who would be a good orator ought to be just and skilled in the knowledge of things just; which, again, Po¬ lus said Gorgias acknowledged through shame. 137. This, then, being the case, let us consider what it is that you find fault with in me, and whether you are right or not in saying that I can neither assist myself, nor any of my friends or domestics, nor save myself from the greatest dangers; but that I am in the power of any one who chooses, like men marked with infamy, if he pleases, 1 The Pythagoreans, especially Empedocles. 2 K ov/xog, “order,” signifying, also, “the world. GORGIAS. 233 according to that petulant expression of yours, to strike me on the face, or to take away my property, or expel me from the city, or, worst of all, to kill me; and that to be thus circumstanced is the most disgraceful of all things, according to your opinion. But mine is this (it has, in¬ deed, been often mentioned, yet nothing prevents its being again repeated): I deny, Callicles, that to be struck in the face unjustly is most disgraceful, or for my body or purse to be cut; but that to strike unjustly, and to cut me and mine, is both more disgraceful and worse; and that to rob, enslave, break open a house, and, in short, to injure in any respect me and mine, is both more disgraceful and worse for him who does the injury than for me who am injured. 138. These things, that were proved to be thus in the former part of our discussion, as I affirm, are held and bound (though it is somewhat rude to say so) in rea¬ sons of iron and adamant, as would really appear to be the case; so that unless you, or some one stronger than you, can break them, it is not possible that any one who says otherwise than as I now say can speak correctly. For my statement is always the same, that I know not how these things are; but that of all the persons with whom I have ever conversed, as now with you, no one who says otherwise can avoid being ridiculous. I, therefore, again assert that these things are so. But if this is the case, and injustice is the greatest of evils to him that com¬ mits it; and if, great as this evil is, it is still a greater, if possible, for one who acts unjustly not to be punished, what kind of help will that be which, if a man can not procure for himself, he would be really ridiculous ? Will it not be that which Avould avert from us the greatest harm ? But there is an absolute necessity that this should be most disgraceful for a man not to be able to assist ei¬ ther himself or his friends and domestics; next to that, an inability to avoid the second evil; and the third, an in¬ ability to avoid the third evil, and so on with the rest. In proportion to the magnitude of each evil, so is it beautiful to be able to avoid each of them, and disgraceful not to be able. Is the case thus or otherwise, Callicles? Cal. No otherwise. 139. Socr. Of these two things, then, the doing injus- 234 GORGIAS. tice and receiving an injury, we say that to do injustice is a greater evil, but to receive an injury a less one. By re¬ course to what means, then, could a man so assist himself as to have both these advantages, that of not doing injus¬ tice, and that of not receiving an injury? Is it by power, or will? I mean thus: whether if a man wishes not to be injured, will he not be injured ? or, if he has acquired the power of not being injured, will he not be injured ? Cal. It is clear that he will not, if he has acquired the power. Socr. But what with respect to doing in j ustice ? Wheth¬ er if any one wishes not to do injustice, is this sufficient (for in that case he will not do it), or, besides this, is it requisite to acquire a certain power and art, so that, unless he has learned and practiced them, he will do injustice? Come, then, answer me this question, Callicles: W hether do Polus and I appear to you to have been compelled, rightly or not, to make that admission in the former part of our discussion, when we admitted that no one willingly commits injustice, but that all who do commit it do so un¬ willingly? Cal. Let that point be granted, Socrates, in order that you may bring the argument to a conclusion. Socr. For this purpose, then, as it appears, we must ac¬ quire a certain power and art, in order that we may not commit injustice. Cal. Certainly. . r 140. Socr. What, then, is the art by means of which a ? man will receive no injury at all, or scarcely any? Con- \ sider if it appears to you the same as it does to me. \ For to me it appears thus: either that he ought to gov- \ ern in a city, or even have absolute power, or be_ _a fiieiid v of the ex i sting gov ernment. -)-* ^CctL~Uo you observe, Socrates, how ready I am to praise you, if you say any thing well? dhis you appeal to me to have said remarkably well. Socr. Consider, also, whether I appear to you to say this well: Each person seems to me, for the most part, to be a friend to each, according as the ancient sages say “like to like.” Does it not seem so to you? Cal. It does. GOIIGIAS. 235 Socr. Wherever, therefore, a savage and uneducated tyrant governs, if there should be any one in the city much better than he, would not the tyrant fear him, and never be able to be cordially his friend ? Cal. Such is the case. Socr. Nor yet, if any one should be much worse than the tyrant, would he become his friend; for the tyrant would despise him, nor ever feel any affection for him as a friend. Cal. This, also, is true. 141. Socr. It remains, therefore, that he alone would be a friend worthy of notice to such a man, who, having a similar disposition, should blame and praise the same things, and be willing to be governed by and submit to his sway. Such a person will have great influence in this city, and no one will injure him with impunity. Is it not so? Cal. Yes. Socr. If, therefore, any young man in -this city should consider within himself, “ How could I obtain influence, and be injured by no one?” this, as it seems, must be his method : he must, from his very youth, accustom himself to rejoice and grieve at the same things as the despot, and contrive to make himself as like him as possible. Is it not so ? Cal. Yes. Socr. Will not he, then, have managed so as not to be injured, and to have great power in that city according to your argument? Cal. Certainly. Socr. Will he also manage not to commit injustice, or far from it; since he will be like the governor, who is un¬ just, and will have great influence with him? I think, for my part, that, quite contrariwise, he will contrive so as to be able to commit the greatest injustice, and not to be punished for it. Will he not? Cal. It appears so. Socr. Will not, then, the greatest evil befall him, in conse¬ quence of being depraved in his soul, and tainted, through imitation of the despot and his influence with him? 142. Cal. I know not, Socrates, how you always turn 236 GORGIAS. the arguments upside down. Do you not know that he who imitates can kill him who does not imitate tJie despot , if he pleases, and deprive him of his property? /Socr. I do know it, good Callicles, unless I am deaf; since I have just now heard it often both from you and Polus, and from almost every one else in the city. But do you, in your turn, listen to me: he will kill him if he pleases; but a depraved man, one who is upright and good. Ccd. And is not this a thing to be indignant at? Socr. Not to a man of sense, as our argument proves. Do you think that a man should aim at this: to live as long as possible, and should study those arts which always preserve us from dangers, as rhetoric, which you bid me study, and which saves us in courts of justice ? Ccd. I do, by Jupiter! and therein I advise you well. 143. Socr. What, then, my excellent friend? Does the science of swimming, too, appear to you to be very fine? Ccd. No, by Jupiter ! Socr. And yet this, too, saves men from death, when they fall into such a danger as requires this science. But if this appears to you to be mean, I will mention to you one more important than this—namely, that of piloting a ship, which not only saves lives, but also bodies and prop¬ erty, from extreme danger, just as rhetoric does. And this art is moderate and modest, and does not brag and strut as if it accomplished something wonderful; but when it has accomplished the same thing as the forensic art, if it has brought us safe here from .^Egina, it demands, I think, two oboli; and if from Bgypt or the Pontus, foi so great a benefit in having brought safe what I now men¬ tion, ourselves and children, our property and wives, and in having landed them in port, it usually demands two drachmas. And the man who possesses this art, and ac¬ complishes these things, when he has disembarked, walks by the sea and his ship with a modest gait. 144. For he knows, I think, how to reason with himself: that it is un¬ certain whom of his passengers he has benefited by not allowing them to be drowned, and whom he has injured knowing that he has not put them ashore in any respect better than they were when they went on board, either as GORGIAS. 237 to their souls or bodies. He, therefore, reasons with him¬ self,-that if one who is afflicted in his body with severe and incurable diseases should happen not to be drowned, such a man is indeed miserable for having escaped death, and has received no benefit from him; but if any one labors under many and incurable diseases in that which is more precious than the body, his soul, such a one ought 1 not to* live; nor would he benefit him if he saved him from the sea, or from a court of justice, or from any other danger; for he knows that it is not better for a depraved man to live, because he must needs live badly. For this reason, it is not usual for a pilot to boast, although he saves our lives; nor, my admirable friend, is it usual for an engi¬ neer, who is sometimes able to save, no less than a general of an army, not to mention a pilot or any other person; for sometimes he saves whole cities. Does it not appear to you that he is fit to be compared with a forensic orator? though, if he chose to speak, Callicles, as you do, extolling his own art, he would overwhelm you with words, urging and exhorting you to the fitness of your becoming an en¬ gineer, for that other things are of no consequence; and he would have enough to say. 145. You, however, would nevertheless despise him and his art, and, by way of re¬ proach, would call him an engineer, and would neither give your daughter to his son, nor accept his daughter for your son. Though if from the reasons for which you praise your own art, on what just pretext do you despise the en¬ gineer, and the others whom I have just now mentioned? I know that you would say you are better, and of a better family. But if that which is better is not what I say it is, but if excellence consists in this, for a man to save himself and his property, whatever kind of man he may be, then your contempt for the engineer and the physician, and for whatever other arts are pursued for the purpose of pres¬ ervation, is ridiculous. But, my good friend, consider whether that which is |noble and good is not something else than to save and be saved; and whether that principle/that one should live as long as one can, is not to be given up by one who is _ 1 The negative particle here expressed is in the original at the begin¬ ning of the paragraph, \oyt%ercu ovv, on ovk. See Stallbaum’s lucid note. ft 238 GORGIAS. truly a man, and life not too fondly loved; but that leav¬ ing these things to the care of the deity, and believing the women, ivho say that no man can avoid his fate, one should consider this, by what means one may pass the remainder of one’s life in the best possible manner, whether by con¬ forming one’s self to the government under which one ^Zlwells.° 146. And, in that case, whether it is right that you should resemble as much as possible the Athenian people, if you wish to be dear to them, and to. have great influence in their city ? Consider whether this is advan¬ tageous to you and to me, lest, my admirable friend, we should suffer what they say the Thessalian 1 witches did, who drew down the moon, and our choice of this power in the city should be attended with the loss of what is dear¬ est to us. If, however, you think that any man in the world can teach you any such art as will cause you to have great power in this city, while you are unlike the chaiactei of the people, whether for the better or the worse, as ap¬ pears to me, Callicles, you are not rightly advised. Foi you must not only be an imitator of, but like them in your natural disposition, if you mean to do any thing effectual toward gaining the friendship of the Athenian people; and, by Jupiter! you must toward that of the son of Py- rilampes. AVhoover, therefore, shall make you most like them, will make you a politician and an orator, such as j-ou desire to be. For all men are delighted with arguments suited to their own dispositions, but are angry with such as are strange to them; unless you,my dear friend,have any thing to say to the contrary. 147. Have we any ob¬ jection to make to this, Callicles ? Cal. I do not know how it is, Socrates; you appear to/ me to speak well. Yet that which happens to most hap¬ pens to me; I am not quite persuaded by you. Socr. For the love of the people, Callicles, dwelling in your soul,resists me; but,perhaps,if we should often, and more fully, examine into these same matters, you would be persuaded. Remember, then, that we said there were two methods for the cultivation of each, both the body and the soul; and that one had reference to pleasure, but the other to that which is best; not by gratifying, but 1 They are said to have lost the use of their eyes and feet. GOKGIAS. 239 opposing the inclinations. Is not this what we before settled ? Gal. Certainly. Socr. The one, then, that looks to pleasure is ignoble, and nothing else than flattery, is it not? Cal. Be it so, if you please. Socr. But the other endeavors that that which we cul¬ tivate may be made as excellent as possible, whether it be the body or the soul ? Cal. Certainly. Socr. Must we, then, so endeavor to cultivate the city and the citizens that we may make the citizens themselves as good as possible? For, without this, as we discovered before, it is of no advantage to confer any other benefit upon them, unless the mind of those who are about to re¬ ceive either great riches or dominion, or any other power, be upright and good. Shall we lay this down as being so ? Cal. Certainly, if it is more agreeable to you. 148. Socr. If, therefore, Callicles, when setting about some public works, we were to exhort one another to works of architecture, as to very large buildings of walls, or docks, or temples, would it be necessary that we should consider and examine ourselves, first, whether we are skill¬ ed, or not, in the art of architecture, and from whom we learned it? Would this be necessary,or not ? Cal. Certainly. Socr. Then, secondly, we should consider this: whether we have ever constructed any private building, either for any one of our friends or for ourselves, and whether this building is beautiful or ugly. And if, on examination, we found that our masters had been good and famous, and that.we had constructed, in conjunction with our mas¬ ters, many and beautiful buildings, and many privately by ourselves, after we had left our masters, in that case it would become men of sense to undertake public works: but if we were not able to show that we had a master, nor any building at all, or many, and those of no account, it would surely in that case be foolish to attempt public works, and to exhort one another to undertake them. Shall we admit that this is well said, or not? Cal. Certainly. 240 GOItGIAS. 149. Socr. And is not this the case with all other things ? And if, attempting to serve the public in the capacity of physicians, we should exhort each other as if weweie skill¬ ful physicians, should not you and I examine each othei thus: “ By the gods ! in what state is Socrates with respect to bodily health? Has any other person, whether slave or freeman, been cured by Socrates of any disease? And I too, I think, should make similar inquiries about you. And if we did not find that any one, whether stranger or citizen, man or woman, had been improved in health by our means; by Jupiter! Callicles, would it not be truly ridiculous that men .should come to such a pitch of folly as, before they had practiced much in private as best they could, and had succeeded in many cases, and thoroughly exercised the art, to attempt to learn the pottei s ait in making a pitcher, as the proverb goes, and attempt to serve the public in the capacity of physician, and exhort others to do the same? Does it not appear to you that it would be foolish to act thus? Cal. It does. 150. Socr. But now, O best of men! since you have yourself just now begun to busy yourself pi affairs of state, and you exhort and reprove me because I do not busy myself about them, should we not examine each oth- / er ? Come, then ; whom of the citizens has Callicles yet made better? Is there any one who, being before de¬ praved, unjust, intemperate, and foolish, has become up- rio’ht and good through Callicles, whether stranger or citV izen, slave of freeman ? Tell me, Callicles, if any one - should ask you these questions, what will you say ? Who y will you say has been made better by associating with ■ you? Are you ashamed to answer whether you have done any such work while you were in a private capacity, before you attempted to interfere in public affairs ? Cal. You are caviling, Socrates. . Socr. I do not ask you from a desire to cavil, but real¬ ly wishing to know in what way you think public_att^i_rs outfit to be conducted by us; whether, on undertaking the management of affairsjxf sfate^W-C Ouglit Jo qttend to any thing else than how we may become as goo dcitizens 'nspossible. Have we not already often admitted that a GORGIAS. 241 politician ought to do this? Have we admitted it, 01 not? Answer. AVe have admitted it; I will answer foi you. 151. If, then, a good man ought to endeavor to procure this for his city, now call to mind and say, with respect to those men whom you a little before mentioned, whether they still appear to you to have been good citizens—Peri¬ cles, Cimon, Miltiades, and Themistocles. Cal. To me they do. . Socr. If, therefore, they were good citizens, it is evident that each of them made their fellow-citizens bettei instead of worse. Did they so, or not? Cal Yes. Socr. When Pericles, therefore, began to speak in pub¬ lic, were the Athenians worse than when he addressed them for the last time ? Cal. Perhaps so. Socr. There is no “ perhaps ” in the case, my good friend; but this is a necessary consequence from what has been admitted, if he really was a good citizen. Cal. But what then ? Socr. Nothing. But tell me this, moreover, whether the Athenians are supposed to have become better through Pericles, or, quite the contrary, to have been corrupted by him. For so I hear, that Pericles made the Athenians idle, cowardly, talkative, and avaricious, having been the first to give them pay. Cal. You hear this, Socrates, from those whose ears have been bruised. 1 152. Socr. However, I no longer hear this; but I know well, and so do you, that Pericles at first bore a high char¬ acter, and that the Athenians passed no ignominious sen¬ tence upon him when they were worse; but when, by his means, they had become upright and good, toward the close of the life of Pericles, they condemned him for pec¬ ulation, and were on the point of sentencing him to death, clearly as being a bad citizen. Cal. What, then? Was Pericles on this account a bad man ? Socr. Such a one, indeed, would be thought a bad man¬ ager of asses, horses, and oxen, if, having received them, 1 The Spartans. See the ‘‘ Protagoras,” sec. 80. 11 242 GORGIAS. neither kicking, nor butting, nor biting, he should make them do all these things through vice. Does not every trainer of any animal whatever appear to you to be a bad one, who, having received it gentle, has made it more vi¬ cious than he received it? Does he appear so, or not? Cal. Certainly, that I may gratify you. Socr. Gratify me, then, by answering this too, whether man is of the class of animals,or not? Cal. How should he not be ? jS her. Had not Pericles, then, the care of men ? Cal. Yes. 153. Socr. What, then? Ought they not, as we just now admitted, to have become more just, instead of more unjust, under his management, if he who took charge of them was a good politician ? Cal. Certainly. Socr. And are not the just gentle, as Homer 1 says? What say you ? Is it not so ? Call Yes. ^ Socr. However, he made them more savage than he liad v ' received them, and this against himself—which he would J least of all have wished. Gal. Do you wish that I should agree with you ? Socr. If I seem to you to speak the truth. Cal. Be it so, then. Socr. If, then, he made them more savage, he must have / made them more unjust, and worse? Cal. Be it so. Socr. According to this reasoning, then, Pericles was not a good politician ? Cal. Not, as you say. Socr. By Jupiter! nor as you say either, from what you have admitted. But, again, tell me with respect to Cimon. Did not they whom he took care of pass a sentence of os¬ tracism upon him, in order that they might not hear his voice for ten years ? And did they not do the very same to Themistocles, and, besides, punish him with exile ? And did they not sentence Miltiades, the conqueror at Mara¬ thon, to be thrown into the Barathrum; and but for the Prytanis, would he not have been thrown into it ? These, 1 “Odyss.,”vii., 120. GORGIAS. 243 however, if they had been good men, as you say, would never have suffered these tilings. 154. Good drivers, sure¬ ly, do not at first keep themselves from falling from their ears; but, when they have trained their horses, and have Jiemselves become better drivers, then fall off. This is lever the case, either in driving, or in any other employ¬ ment. Does it appear so to you? Cal. To me it does not. Soar. Our former statements, then, as it appears, are true, that we do not know any man who has been a good politician in this city. You admit that you know of none at present, but you say that formerly there were some, and you have selected these men : but these have appeared to be much the same as those of the present day; so that, if they were orators, they did not make use of the true rhetoric (for in that case they would not have fallen), nor yet did they employ flattery. Cal. However, Socrates, it is far from being the case that any one of the present day will ever do such deeds as were done by any one of those. Socr. Neither, my excellent friend, do I blame these men, as servants of the city; but they appear to me to have been more efficient thamthose of the present day, and better able to procure for the city what it desired. But in changing and repressing their desires, by persuading and compelling them to such a course as would make the citizens become better, they scarcely differed at all from those of the present day; yet that is the only duty of a good citizen. But, with respect to providing ships, walls, and docks, and many other such things, I agree with you, that they were more able than the men of our day. 155. You and I, however, act ridiculously in our discus¬ sion. For during the whole time that we have been con¬ versing we have not ceased to go round and round the same subject, and to misunderstand each what the other says. I think that you have often admitted and acknowl-' edged that there is a twofold method of treatment, both with respect to the body and with respect to the soul; and that the one is ministerial, by which we are enabled to procure food, if our bodies are hungry; drink, if they are thirsty; and if they are cold, garments, coverlets, 244 GORGIAS. shoes, and all other things which the body stands in need of. And I purposely speak to you through these images, in order that you may understand me more easily. For when any one supplies these things, being either a retail tradesman or a merchant, or a manufacturer of any of them, a baker, a cook, a weaver, a shoe-maker, or tanner, it is not at all surprising that such a person should ap¬ pear, both to himself and others, to be concerned in the care of the body; that is, to all who are ignorant that, be¬ sides all these, there are a gymnastic and a medicinal art to which the care of the body really belongs, and whose duty it is to rule over all these arts, and to use their respective productions, through knowing what meats or drinks are good and bad for the health of the body, whereas all those others are ignorant of this; for which reason, all those- other arts are servile, ministerial, and base, as regards the management of the body; but the gymnastic art and med¬ icine are justly the mistresses of these. 156. That the case is the same with respect to the soul, you at one time appeared to me to have understood, and admitted it as if you knew what I meant; but shortly afterward you went on to say that there have been good and upright men in this city; and when I asked-you who they were, you ap¬ peared to me to adduce men very similar with respect to politics, as if, on my asking with respect to gymnastics, who have been or are good managers of the body, you had very seriously said to me, Thearion, the baker; Mithm- cus, who wrote on Sicilian cookery; and Sarambus, the tavern-keeper; and that they take wonderful care of the body; the first making admirable bread; the second, made- dishes ; and the third, wine. Perhaps, then, you would be angry if I said to you, “My friend, you know nothing about gymnastics; you tell me of men who are ministers and purveyors to desires, but who do not understand any thing great and good respecting them, and who, it may so hap¬ pen, having filled men’s bodies, and made them gross, and having been praised by them, end by ruining their old flesh.” These men, on the other hand, through their igno¬ rance, will not blame those who have pampered their ap¬ petites, as being the causes of their diseases, and of the loss of their old flesh, but they who may happen to have been GORGIAS. 245 with them, and to have given them some advice, when, after a long time, repletion, having been indulged in with¬ out any regard to health, comes, bringing disease with it: these they will accuse and blame, and do them some mis¬ chief if they can ; but those others, who are the causes of their maladies, they will extol. 157. And now you, Calli- cles, act in very much the same way; you extol men who have pampered the Athenians by satiating their desires, and who, they say, have made the city great; and they do biot perceive that it is swollen and unsound through means lof those ancient politicians; for, without considering tem¬ perance and justice, they have filled the city with harbors and docks, and walls and tributes, and such trifles. When, therefore, the crisis of their weakness comes, they will blame the advisers who are then present, but will extol Themistocles, Cimon, and Pericles, who were the causes of the mischief: and you, perhaps, unless you are on your guard, and my friend Alcibiades, they will seize, when they have lost what they had before, in addition to what they have acquired; although you are not the causes of the mischief, but, perhaps, accomplices. 158. Moreover, I both now see a very foolish thing happening, and I hear of it with respect to former times. For I perceive that when a city punishes any of its politicians as guilty of wrong, Ithey are angry, and complain bitterly that they are treated f shamefully; and having done the city many good services, they are then unjustly ruined by it, as they allege. But the whole is a falsehood. For no president of a city can ever be unjustly ruined by the very city over which he presides. For the case seems to be the same with such as profess themselves to be politicians, as it is with the soph¬ ists. For the sophists, though wise in other things, com¬ mit this absurdity: whereas they affirm that they are teachers of virtue, they often accuse their disciples of act¬ ing unjustly toward them, by defrauding them of their wages, and not making other requitals for the benefits they have received from them. But what can be more unreasonable than such language as this, that men who have become good and just, who have been freed from in¬ justice by their teacher, and have acquired justice, should yet act unjustly from that very quality which they have 246 GORGIAS. not? Does not this, my friend, appear to you to be ab¬ surd? Of a truth, Cubicles, you have compelled me to make a speech, by your unwillingness to answer me. 159. Cal. But should you not be able to speak unless some one answered you ? Socr. It seems as if I could; for now I have carried my discourse to a great length, seeing that you will not answer me. But, my good friend, tell me, by Jupiter, the guardian of friendship, does it not appear to you unrea¬ sonable, that a man who says he has made another person good should blame that person, because having been made good through his means, and being so, he has afterward become bad ? Cal. To me it appears so. Socr. Do you not, then, hear those speak in this man¬ ner who profess to instruct men in virtue ? Cal. I do. But what can you say of men of no worth ? Socr. What, then, can you say of those who, while they profess to preside over the city, and to take care that it shall be as good as possible, then accuse it, when it so hap¬ pens, as being very bad ? Do you think that these differ at all from the former ? My good man, a sophist and an orator are the same thing, or nearly so, and very like, as I said to Polus. 1 But you, through ignorance, think that rhetoric is something exceedingly beautiful, and despise the other. But, in truth, the sophist’s art is as much more beautiful than rhetoric, as the legislative is than the judi-f cial, and the gymnastic art than medicine. ICO. But I, for my part, think that public speakers and sophists alone ought not to complain of the very thing that they teach, as being mischievous to themselves, or that in the very same charge they should at the same time accuse them¬ selves for not having at all benefited those whom they profess to have benefited. Is it not so? Cal. Certainly. Socr. And surely, to impart a benefit without a stipu¬ lated reward, as is probable, is proper for these men only, if they assert what is true. For one who has received any other kind of benefit, as, for instance, who has ac¬ quired swiftness of foot through the instructions of a 1 See sec. 46. GORGIAS. 24V teacher of gymnastics, perhaps might deprive him of his gratuity, if the teacher of gymnastics had left it to him, without having made an agreement for a fixed price, that he should be paid the money as nearly as possible at the same time that he imparted his skill to him. For men, I think, do not act unjustly through slowness, but through injustice. Do they not? Cal. Yes. Socr. If, therefore, any one should take away this—I mean injustice—there would be no danger of his ever be¬ ing treated unjustly; but he alone might safely impart this benefit, if in truth he is able to make men good. Is it not so ? Cal. I admit it. 161. Socr. For this reason, then, as it appears, it is not at all disgraceful to take money for giving advice about oth¬ er things, as, for instance, about architecture, or other arts. Cal. So it appears. Socr. But with respect to this study, by what means a man may become as good as possible, and may best gov¬ ern his own family or a city P it is reckoned disgraceful to withhold advice, except one should give him money. Is it not so ? Cal. Yes. Socr. For it is evident that this is the reason that this alone of all benefits makes the person who has received it desirous of requiting it; so that it appears to be a good sign, if he who has imparted this benefit shall be recom¬ pensed in return ; but otherwise no t. Is this so ? Cal. It is. Socr. To which method, then, of taking care of the city do you advise me? Explain to me: whether to that of thwarting the Athenians, in order that they may become as good as possible, as if I were a physician, or to that by which I should serve them, and curry favor with them. Tell me the truth, Callicles. For, as you began to speak freely to me, it is right you should continue to say what you think. And now speak well and nobly. Cal. I say, then, that I advise you to serve them. 162. Socr. You advise me, therefore, most noble s>r, to employ flattery. # GORGIAS. 248 Cal. Unless you prefer calling him a Mysian, 1 Socrates; for if you will do so— Socr. Do not repeat what you have often said, that any one who pleases will kill me, lest I, too, should say again that a bad man would slay a good one; nor that he will take away my property, if I have any, lest I, too, should say again that, after he has taken it away, he will not be ^ able to make any use of it; but as he has unjustly taken ( it from me, so having got it, he will maive an unjust use G of it; and if unjustly, basely; and if basely,wickedly. J Cal. How confident you seem to me to be, Socrates, that you will never suffer any of these things, as being one who lives out of harm’s way, and who can never be brought before a court of justice by a man, perhaps, uttei- ly depraved and vile! JSocr. I should indeed be foolish, Callicles, if I did not think that any one in this city might suffer any thing that might happen. This, however, I well know, that if I should go before a court of justice, and be exposed to any of the dangers you mention, he who takes me thither will * be a bad man; for no good man would accuse one who i lias not committed injustice. And it would not be at all | wonderful if I should be condemned to death. Do J'OU * wish I should tell you why I expect this? Cal. By all means. 163. Socr. I think that I, in conjunction with a few Athenians (that I may not say alone), apply myself to the true political art, and alone of those of the present day perform the duties of a citizen. Since, then, in the con¬ versations which I enter into from time to time, I dp -not jgj^ pnlr for the - purpo se- of conciliating p opular favor, but with a view to that..which h jfficsh and no t t ojthjrt which islnost agreeable; and as I am not willing to do those fine things that you advise, I shall not have any thing to say in a court of justice. And the same illustration oc¬ curs to me that I mentioned to Polus. For I should be judged as a physician would be judged by children, with a cook for his accuser. For, consider what defense such a man would make when taken before them, if one should accuse him as follows: “ O boys ! this man has done you a 1 A name of the utmost contempt. GORGIAS. 249 great deal of mischief, and destroys both you and even the youngest of you; for, by cutting, cauterizing, weakening, and choking you, he reduces you to great straits, giving you the bitterest draughts, and compelling you to hunger and thirst; not as I do, who feed you with many sweet and various dainties.” What do you think a physician, when brought to such an extremity, would have to say? If he should say the truth, “ I did all these things, boys, for your health,” what a clamor do you think such judges would raise against him ? Would it not be loud ? Cal. Probably; one must think so, at least. 164. Socr. Do you not think, then, that he would be altogether at a loss what to say? Cal. Certainly. Socr. And I know that I should be treated just in the same way, if I came before a court of justice. For I should not be able to mention any pleasures which I had procured for them, which they consider as benefits and advantages; but I neither envy those who procure them, nor those for whom they are procured. And if any one should say that I corrupt younger men by causing them to doubt, or that I revile the elder men by speaking bit¬ ter words, either privately or publicly, I should not be able to say the truth, that “I say and do all these things justly, and for your advantage, judges, and nothing else.” So that I should probably suffer whatever might happen. Cal. Does a man, then, appear to you, Socrates, to be well off in a city who is thus circumstanced, and is unable to help himself? 165. Socr. If there is that in him, Callicles, which you have often allowed—namely, if he can assist himself, by neither having said or done any thing unjust toward men or toward gods. For this aid has often been acknowl¬ edged by us to be the best that a man can have for him¬ self. If, therefore, any one could convict me of being lin¬ kable to afford this assistance either to myself or another, If should be ashamed, whether convicted before many or A few, or alone by myself; and if I should be put to death for this inability, I should be deeply grieved; but if I should die through want of flattering rhetoric, I well know that you would behold me meeting death cheerfully. For 11 * 250 GORGIAS. death itself no one fears who is not altogether irrational and cowardly, but he does fear to commit injustice; for to go to Hades - with a soul full of crimes is the worst of all , evils. But, if you please, I will tell you a story, to showj that such is the case. Cal . Since you have brought the rest to a conclusion, bring this to a conclusion also. 166. /Socr. Hear, then, as they say, a very beautiful tale —which you will consider a fable, as I think, but I a tale; for what I am about to tell you, I tell you as being true. As Homer says, 1 then, Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto divided the government among themselves, after they had received it from their father. "This law, then, respecting men was in existence in the time of Saturn, and always was, and^ still is, established among the gods, that a man who hasjj passed through life justly and piously, when he dies should? go to the isles of the blessed, and dwell in all perfect hap-l piness, free from evil; but that he who has lived unjustly and impiously should go to a prison of punishment and justice, which they call Tartarus. During the reign of Saturn, and even recently when Jupiter held the govern¬ ment, there were living judges of the living, who passed sentence on the very day on which any one was about to die. In consequence of this, sentences were awarded bad¬ ly. Pluto, therefore, and the guardians of the blessed isles, went to Jupiter, and informed him that men came to them who did not deserve either sentence. 167. Jupiter, there¬ fore, said, “I will prevent this in future. For now sen¬ tences are badly awarded, because those that are judged are judged clothed, for they are judged while living. Many, therefore,” he continued, “ whose souls are depraved are invested with beautiful bodies, nobility of birth, and riches; and, when the judgment takes place, many wit¬ nesses come in their behalf to testify that they have lived justly* Hence the judges are awed by these things; and, moreover, they, too, pass sentence when clothed, for their minds are veiled with eyes and ears, and the whole body. All these things, then, are obstacles to them, as well their own clothing as that of those that are judged. First of all, then, they must no longer be allowed to know before- 1 “Iliad,” xv., 187. GORGIAS. 251 hand the time of their death ; for at present they do know it beforehand. Prometheus, therefore, lias orders to de- prive them of this power; next, they must be judged di¬ vested of all these things, for they must be judged after they are dead; the judge, too, must be naked and dead, And examine with his soul the soul of each immediately after death, destitute of all his kindred, and leaving all that ornament on the earth, in order that the judgment may be ‘just. 168. Now, I had observed these things before you, and, accordingly,have appointed my sons as judges—two from Asia, Minos and Khadamanthus; and one from Eu¬ rope, iEacus. These, then, when they are dead, shall judge in the meadow, at the three roads, of which two lead one to the isles of the blessed, the other to Tartarus. And Rhadamanthus shall judge those from Asia, and MCacus those from Europe. But to Minos I will give the prerog¬ ative of deciding in case any doubt occurs to the two oth¬ ers, in order that the judgment respecting the path men are to take may be as just as possible.” These are the things, Callicles, which I have heard, and believe to be true: and from these statements I infer the 1 following results. Death, as it appears to me, is nothing ( else than the separation of two things—the soul and the body—from each other. But when they are separated from each other, each of them possesses pretty much the same habit that the man had when alive, the body its own nature, culture, and affections, all distinct. 169. So that if any one’s body, while living, was large by nature or food, or both, his corpse, when he is dead, is also large; and if corpulent,his corpse is corpulent when he is dead; and so with respect to other things. And if, again, he took pains to make his hair grow long, his corpse also has long hair. Again, if any one has been well whipped, and, while living, had scars in his body, the vestiges of blows, either from scourges or other wounds, his dead body also is seen to retain the same marks.* And if the limbs of any one were broken or distorted while he lived, these same defects are distinct when he is dead. In a word : of what¬ ever character any one has made his body to be. while liv¬ ing, such will it distinctly be, entirely or for the most part, for a certain time after he is dead. The sanie thing, too. 252 GORGIAS. Callicles, appears to me to happen with respect to the soul. All things are distinctly manifest in the soul after it is divested of body, as well its natural disposition as the affections which the man has acquired in his soul from his various pursuits. 170. When, therefore, they come to the judge, those from Asia to Rhadamanthus, Rhadaman- thus, having made them stand before him, examines the soul of each, not knowing whose it is; but often meeting with the soul of the great king, or of some other king or potentate, he sees nothing sound in the soul, but finds it thoroughly marked with scourges and full of scars, through perjuries and injustice, which the actions of each have imprinted on his soul, and he finds all things distorted through falsehood and arrogance, and nothing upright, in ^ consequence of its having been nurtured without truth; he also sees the soul full of disproportion and baseness, through power, luxury, wantonness, and intemperate con¬ duct. On seeing it, he forthwith sends it ignominiously to prison, where, on its arrival, it will undergo the punish- ment it deserves. But it is proper that every one who is punished, if he is rightly punished by another, should ei¬ ther become better, and be benefited by it, or should be an example to others, that they, beholding his sufferings, may be made better through fear. 171. But those that are J benefited, at the same time that they suffer punishment both from gods and men, are such as have been guilty of curable offenses; their benefit, however, both here and in Hades, accrues to them through means of pain and tor¬ ments; for it is not possible to be freed from injustice in any other way. But those who have committed the most extreme injustice, and have become incurable through such crimes,serve as examples to others; and these are not bene¬ fited at all, as being incurable, but others are benefited by beholding them suffering forever the greatest, most bitter, and most dreadful punishments for their sins, being sus¬ pended in the prison of Hades altogether as examples—a spectacle and warning to the unjust men who are constant¬ ly arriving. Of these, I say, Archelaus will be one, if Bo¬ lus says true, and every other tyrant that resembles him. I think, too, that the most of these examples will consist of tyrants, kings, and potentates, and such as have gov-J GORGIAS. 253 erned the affairs of cities; for these, through their power, commit the greatest and most impious crimes. 172. Ho¬ mer 1 also bears witness to this; for he makes those to be kings and potentates who are punished forever in Hades— Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Tityus; but Thersites, or any other private man who was depraved, no one has represented as suffering great punishments as if incurable; for I think it was not in his p’ower to commit them; on which account, j he was more happy than those who had the power. But, I Callicles, the most wicked men are among the powerful. Nothing, however, hinders but that good men may be j found among them; and when they are found, they de¬ serve the highest admiration; for it is a difficult thing, | Callicles, and deserves high praise, when one who has 'great power of acting unjustly passes through life justly. There are, however, a few men of this kind, for they have existed both here and elsewhere; and I think there will be hereafter good and upright men, endued with the virtue of administering justly whatever is committed to their charge. There has been one who is very celebra¬ ted among all the -Greeks, Aristides, son of Lysimachus. |But, my excellent friend, the generality of potentates prove wicked. 173. As I said, then, when Rhadaman- thus has got any such person in his power, he knows nothing else about him—neither who he is, nor who are his parents, but only that he is wicked; and, on dis¬ cerning this, he sends him away to Tartarus, signifying, at r the same time, whether he appears to be curable or in- i curable; but he, arriving thither, suffers according to his deserts. Sometimes, Rhadamanthus beholding another soul that has passed through life piously, and with truth, whether it be of some private man, or any other—but I say, Callicles, especially of a philosopher, who has attended to his own affairs, and has not made himself very busy during life—he is delighted, and sends it to the isles of the blessed. AEacus, too, does the very same things. And each of them passes sentence, holding a rod in his hand. But Minos sits apart, looking on, and is the only one that has a golden sceptre; as the Ulysses of Homer 2 says he saw him, “ bearing a golden sceptre, and administering 1 “ Odyss.,” xi., 575, etc. 3 Ibid., xi., 5G8. 254 GORGIAS. justice to the dead.” I, therefore, Callicles, am persuaded by these accounts, and consider how I may exhibit my soul before the judge in the most healthy condition. Where¬ fore, disregarding the honors that most men value, and } looking to the truth, I shall endeavor, in reality, to live as virtuously as I can ; and wheii I die, to die so. 174. And I invite all other men, to the utmost of my power, and you too I, in turn, invite, to this life and this ‘contest, which, I affirm, surpasses all contests here; and I upbraid you be¬ cause you will not be able to assist yourself when you will have to undergo the sentence and judgment which I have just now mentioned ; but when you shall come before the judge, the son of iEgina, and when he shall seize you and bring you before his tribunal, you will there gape and be¬ come dizzy, no less than I should here; and perhaps some one will strike you ignominiously on the face, and treat you with every species of contumely. Perhaps, however, these things appear to you to be like an old woman’s fable, and you accordingly despise them. And it would not be at all wonderful that we should de¬ spise them, if, on investigation, we could find any thing better and more true than they. But now you see that you three, who are the wisest of the Greeks of this day— you, Polus, and Gorgias — are unable to prove that wo ' Vv> ought to live any other life than such as appears to be ' -advantageous hereafter; but among so many arguments, while others have been refuted, this alone remains un- c (5) shaken—that we ought to beware of committing injustice (v, o rather than of being injured; and that, above all, a man g o ought to study not to appear good, but to be so, both pri- o ya tely and publicly; and that if any one is in any respect OCywicked, he should be punished; and that this is the next c good to the being j'ust, to become so, 1 and to submit to the ^punishment one deserves; and that all flattery, whether pears to ask what is just, in requiring that lie may be al¬ lowed to converse as lie pleases, and you as you please.” Alcibiades, thereupon, taking up the discourse, said, “You do not speak fairly, Caliias; for Socrates here ad¬ mits that he has not the faculty of making long speeches, and yields to Protagoras; but in the power of conversing, and knowing how to give and receive a reason, I should wonder if he yielded to any man. If, then, Protagoras confesses that he is inferior to Socrates in conversing, that is enough for Socrates; but if he pretends to rival him, let him carry on the conversation by question and answer, not making a long speech in answer to each question, evading the argument, and not choosing to give a reason, but prolonging his speech until most of the hearers forget what the question was about. For as for Socrates, I will be his surety that he will not forget, notwithstanding he jests, and says he is forgetful. To me, therefore, Socrates appears to make the fairer proposition; for it is right that every one should declare his own opinion.” PROTAGORAS. 293 67. After Aleibiades, it was Critias, I think, who said, “ Prodicus and Hippias, Callias appears to me to be very much on the side of Protagoras; but Aleibiades is always fond of contention, to whatever he applies himself. We, however, ought not to contend with each other, either for Socrates or Protagoras, but we should join in requesting them both not to break up the conference in the middle. When he had spoken thus, Prodicus 1 said, “You seem to me to say well, Critias; for it is right that those who are present at discussions of this kind should be common, but not equal, hearers of both speakers. For it is not the same thing; for it is requisite to hear both in common, but not to give equal attention to each of them; but to the wiser more, and to the less learned less. 68. I, too, Protagoras and Socrates, beg of you to make concessions to each other, and to argue with one another, but not to wrangle; for friends argue with friends out of good-will, but adversaries and enemies wrangle with one another. And thus the conference will be most admirably conduct¬ ed. For you, the speakers, will thus be highly approved, not praised by us, the hearers; for approbation is felt in the mind of the hearers, and is without deception; but praise is bestowed in words, by persons often who speak untruly, contrary to their real opinion. Again, we, the, hearers, shall thus be highly delighted, not pleased; for delight takes place when one learns something, and ac¬ quires wisdom in one’s mind, but pleasure when one eats something, or experiences some other agreeable sensation in one’s body.” 69. When Prodicus had thus spoken, many of those that were present approved of what he said. But after Prodicus, Hippias the wise spoke: “ My friends who are here present,” said he, “ I regard you all as kinsmen, rela¬ tives, and fellow-citizens by nature, though not by law; for like is by nature akin to like; but law, being a tyrant over men, compels many things to be done contrary to nature. It were disgraceful, then, for us to know the nat¬ ure of things, to be the wisest of the Creeks, and in this 1 It will be observed that Prodicus’s method of drawing nice distinc¬ tions between words nearly resembling each other in meaning is here ridiculed. 294 PROTAGORAS. very character to have met together in the city of Greece, which is the very prytaneum of wisdom, and in the no¬ blest and wealthiest house in this city, and then to exhibit nothing worthy of this high rank, but, like the lowest of men, to disagree with each other. 70, I, therefore, botli entreat and advise you, Protagoras and Socrates, to come to terms under our authority, who as arbitrators will bring you to an agreement; and neither do you, Socrates, require that, exact form of dialogue, which is so very concise, un¬ less it is agreeable to Protagoras; but relax somewhat, and give the reins to your discourse, that it may appear to us with more majesty and grace; nor, on the other hand, do you, Protagoras, stretching every rope, and carrying all sail, scud to an ocean of words out of sight of land, but both of you keep a middle course. Do thus, then, and be persuaded by me to choose a moderator, president, and prytanis, who will oblige you to keep within moderate bounds on either side.” This pleased those that were present, and all approved ; and Callias said that he would not let me go, and they urged .me to choose a president. 71. I said, therefore, “ that it would be a shame to choose an umpire for our arguments; for if the person chosen should be our inferi¬ or, it would not be right that the inferior should preside over his superiors; nor, if he should be equal, would this be right, for one that is equal will act the same as we do, so that the choice will be superfluous. But you will choose some one better than we are. In reality, I think it im¬ possible for you to choose any one wiser than Protagoras here; but if you should choose one in no respect superior, though you shall affirm that he is, this also will be a dis¬ grace to him to have a president chosen for him, as if he were a common person; for as to myself it makes no dif¬ ference. I am willing, then, to act as follows, that our con¬ ference and conversation may continue, which you so ear¬ nestly desire. If Protagoras is not willing to answer, let him ask questions, and I will answer; and at the same time I will endeavor to show him how I say one who an¬ swers ought to answer. But when I have answered all the questions that he chooses to ask, let him, in his turn, in like manner, reply to me. If, however, he should not PROTAGORAS. 295 appear disposed to answer the exact question put to him, both you and I will join in entreating of him, as you now do of me, not to destroy the conversation. And for this purpose there is no occasion for one president to be ap¬ pointed, but you will all be presidents in common.” 12 . It appeared to all that this was what ought to be done. And though Protagoras was not very willing to comply, yet he was compelled to consent to ask questions, and, when he had asked enough, in his turn to reply to my questions with brevity. He began, therefore, pretty nearly as follows: “ I think,” said he, “ Socrates, that the most important part of a man’s education consists in being skilled in poet¬ ical composition; that is, to be able to understand what lias been said by the poets, both what has been correctly composed and what incorrectly, and to know how to dis¬ tinguish and to give a reason when asked about them. And now the question shall be on the very subject about which you and I have been conversing, virtue; but it shall be transferred to poetry. For Simonides somewhere says to Scopas, son of Creon the Thessalian, ‘that to become a good man is truly difficult, square as to his hands and feet and mind, fashioned without fault.’ Do you know the ode, or shall I repeat the whole to you ?” 13 . I said,“There is no necessity; for I know it, and have studied the ode with great attention.” “You say well,” he then observed. “Whether does it appear to you to have been composed beautifully and cor¬ rectly, or not?” « Certainly,” said I, “ both beautifully and correctly.” “ But does it appear to you to have been composed beau¬ tifully if the poet contradicts himself?” “ Not beautifully,” I replied. “ Consider it, then, more attentively,” said he. ^ . “ But, my good friend, I have examined it sufficiently.” “You know, then,” said he,“that in the course of the ode he says somewhere, ‘ That saying of Pittacus does not please me, though uttered by a wise man, wherein he says it is difficult to continue to be good.’ Do you observe that the same person makes both this and the former remark ?” “ I know it,” I replied. 296 PROTAGORAS. “Does it appear to yon, then,” said he,“that the one agrees with the other?” “It appears so to me.” And at the same time I was afraid lest there should be something in what he said. “But,”said I, “does not it appear so to you?” “ How can he who made both these assertions aoree with himself, who first of all laid it down in his own per¬ son that it is truly difficult to become a good man ; and a lit¬ tle further on this person forgets himself and blames Pit- tacus for saying the same thing that he had said himself, ‘ that it is difficult to be good,’ and asserts that he can not approve of his saying the very same thing as himself. Surely, in blaming a man who says the same things as himself, it is clear that he blames himself; so that in the former or the latter place he does not speak correctly.” '74. In saying this, he elicited applause and praise from many of the hearers. And I, at first, as if I had been hit by a skillful boxer, was blinded, and made giddy, by his saying this, and by the applause of the others; but aft¬ erward, to tell you the truth, that I might have time to consider what the poet meant, I turned to Prodicus, and, calling out to him, said, “ Prodicus, Simonides was your fellow-citizen; you are bound to assist the man. I seem, then, to call upon you in the same manner as Homer 1 says Scamander, when assailed by Achilles, called upon Simois, saying, ‘ Dear brother, let us unite to repel the prowess of this man.’ So I call upon you, let not Protagoras over¬ throw Simonides. For the defense of Simonides requires that exquisite skill of yours by which you distinguish be¬ tween to will and to desire, as not being the same, and by which you just now established many and beautiful dis¬ tinctions. And now consider, whether your opinion agrees with mine; for Simonides does not appear to me to con¬ tradict himself. But do you, Prodicus, first declare your opinion. Does it appear to you that to become and to be are the same, or different?” “Different,by Jupiter!” said Prodicus. 75 . “Has not Simonides himself, then,” said I,“in the first passage, declared liis own opinion, that it is, in truth, difficult to become a good man ?” 1 “ Iliad,” xxi., 308. PROTAGORAS. 297 “You say truly,” replied Prodicus. “ But he blames Pittacus,” I continued, “ not, as Protag¬ oras thinks, for saying the same thing that he had said, but something different. For Pittacus does not say that this is the difficulty, to become a good man, as Simonides does, but this, to be so ; but Protagoras, as Prodicus here says, to be and to become are not the same; and if to be and to become are not the same, Simonides does not contradict himself. And perhaps Prodicus here, and many others, may say, with Hesiod, 1 ‘ that it is difficult to become good, for that the gods have placed sweat before virtue; but when any one has reached its summit, it is then easy to acquire, though before it was difficult.’ ” 76. Prodicus, on hearing this, commended me; but Protagoras said, “Your defense, Socrates, is more errone¬ ous than the passage which you defend.” And I said, “ Then, I have done ill, as it seems, Protag¬ oras, and I am an absurd physician. In attempting to cure, I make the disease worse.” “ So it is, however,” he said. “ But how ?” I asked. “ Great must have been the poet’s ignorance,” he replied, “ if he asserts that virtue is so easy a thing to be acquired ; whereas it is the most difficult of all, as all men think.” 77. And I said, “By Jupiter! Prodicus here is very op¬ portunely present at our discussion. For the wisdom of Prodicus appears, O Protagoras! to have been of old di¬ vine, whether it began with Simonides, or is even still more ancient. But you, who are skilled in many other things, appear to be unskilled in this, and not skilled in it as I am, from being the disciple of this Prodicus. And now you appear to me not to be aware that Simonides proba¬ bly did not understand this word ‘ difficult ’ in the same sense as you understand it; but as with the word hivoQ (terrible and clever), Prodicus here is continually taking me to task. When in praising you or any one else, I say that Protagoras is a wise and terrible man, he asks if I am not ashamed of calling good things terrible; for what is terrible, he says, is evil. Hence no one ever speaks of terrible riches, or terrible peace, or terrible health, but 1 “Opp. et Dier.,” v., 287, etc. 13 * ’ 298 PROTAGORAS. every one says terrible disease, and terrible war, and ter¬ rible poverty ; since whatever is terrible is evil. Perhaps, therefore, the Ceans and Simonides understand by the word ‘difficult’ either that which is bad, or something else that you are not aware of. 78. Let us, then, ask Prodi- cus; for it is right to inquire of him the meaning of words used by Simonides. What, Prodicus, does Simonides mean by the word ‘ difficult ?’ ” “Evil,” he replied. “For this reason, then,” I continued, “Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying that it is difficult to be good, as if he had heard him say that it is evil to be good.” “ But what else but this, Socrates,” he asked, “ do you think Simonides meant and found fault with in Pittacus, that he did not know how to distinguish terms rightly, as being a Lesbian, and educated in a barbarous dialect ?” “Do you hear Prodicus,” said I, “ Protagoras ? And have you any objection to make to this ?” Thereupon Protagoras said, 79. “This is far from be¬ ing the case, Prodicus; for I am very sure that Simoni¬ des meant by the word ‘difficult’ the same that we all do ; not what is evil, but that which is not easy, but is accom¬ plished by much toil.” “And 1, too, think, Protagoras,” I said, “ that Simonides meant this, and that Prodicus here knows he did; but he is jesting, and is willing to try whether you are able to maintain your own assertion. For that Simonides does not by the word ‘difficult’ mean ‘ evil’ is strongly confirmed by the expression immediately after this.; for he says that ‘ God alone possesses this privilege,’ not surely meaning that it is evil to be good. Then he adds that God alone possesses this, and he attributes this privilege to God alone; for in that case Prodicus would call Simonides a profligate, and by no means a Cean. But I am willing to tell you what appears to me to have been the design of Simonides in this ode, if you think proper to make trial of my poetical skill, as you call it; or, if you prefer it, I will listen to you.” 80. Protagoras, therefore, hearing me speak thus, said, “If you please, Socrates;” but Prodicus, Hippias, and the rest urged me very much. PROTAGORAS. 299 “I will endeavor, then,” said I, “to explain to you what I think of this ode. Philosophy is most ancient, and most prevalent in Crete and Lacedaemon of all Greece, and soph¬ ists are more numerous there than anywhere else. They deny it, however, and pretend to be ignorant, in order that they may not be discovered to surpass the rest of the Greeks in wisdom, like those sophists whom Protagoras mentioned, but that they may appear to excel in fighting and courage, thinking that, if it were known in what they excel, all men would engage in the same pursuit. But now, concealing this, they deceive those who affect Spar¬ tan manners in other cities ; for some, in imitation of them, have their, ears bruised, and bind their arms with the thongs of the cestus, and devote themselves to gym¬ nastic exercises, and wear short garments, as if in these things the Lacedaemonians excelled the other Greeks. But the Lacedaemonians, now that they wish to converse without restraint with the sophists among them, and are wearied with conversing with them in secret, expelling these imitators of Spartan manners, and any other stran¬ ger that is living in their country, converse with the soph¬ ists unknown to all strangers ; and they do not suffer any of their young men to go out to other cities, as neither do the Cretans, lest they should unlearn what they have taught them. 81. And in these cities there are not only men that pride themselves on their learning, but women also. And you may know that in this I speak truly, and that the Laeedamionians are admirably instructed in phi¬ losophy and the art of speaking, from the following cir¬ cumstance ; for if any one wishes to converse with the meanest of the Lacedaemonians, he will find him, for the most part, apparently an ordinary person in conversation ; but afterward, when a proper opportunity presents itself, he sends forth, like a skillful lancer, a notable saying, brief and pointed, so that he who converses with him will ap¬ pear to be nothing better than a boy. _ Accordingly, some persons, both of the present day and of former times, have observed this very thing: that to imitate Spartan man¬ ners consists much more in studying philosophy than de¬ voting one’s self to gymnastic exercises ; since they know that to be able to utter such sayings is a proof of a highly 300 PROTAGORAS. educated man. 82. Among these were Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mitylene, Bias of Priene, our own Solon, Cle- obulus of Lindus, Myson of Chene, and the seventh among them was reckoned the Lacedaemonian Chilo. These all were emulators, lovers, and disciples of the Lacedaemonian education ; and any one may discover that their wisdom was of this kind, brief and memorable sayings uttered by each of them. These men, also, having met together, con¬ secrated the first-fruits of their wisdom to Apollo in the temple at Delphi, inscribing those sentences which all men have in their mouths: ‘Know thyself,’ and ‘Nothing in extremes.’ “But why do I mention these things? To show that this was the mode of philosophy among the ancients, a certain laconic brevity of diction. Among the rest, this particular saying of Pittacus was noised abroad, being ex¬ tolled by the wise men: ‘ It is difficult to be good.’ Si¬ monides, therefore, as being ambitious of a reputation for wisdom, knew that if he could overthrow this saying, as if it were a famous wrestler, and could master it, he him¬ self would become famous among the men of his own time. In opposition to this sentence, therefore, and with this object, designing to put it down, he composed the whole of this ode, as it appears to me. 83. “Let all of us, however, examine it together, to see whether what I say is true. For the very commencement of the ode would appear to be insane, if, wishing to say that it is difficult to become a good man, he had afterward inserted the particle ‘indeed.’ For this appears to have been inserted for no purpose whatever, unless we suppose that Simonides is speaking as if he were quarreling with the saying of Pittacus ; and that when Pittacus says that ‘it is difficult to be good,’ he, disputing this, says, ‘Not so,’ but it is indeed difficult, Pittacus, to become good in very truth; not ‘truly good.’ For he does not use the word ‘ truly ’ in this way, as if some men were truly good, and others good indeed, but not truly so, for this would have been silly, and not worthy of Simonides; but it is necessary to transpose the word ‘truly’ in the ode, under¬ standing the saying of Pittacus somewhat as follows, as if we were to make Pittacus himself speak, and Simonides PROTAGORAS. 301 answer, saying,‘0 men ! it is difficult to be good ;’ but the latter answers, ‘ Pittacus, your assertion is not true; for not to be, but to become indeed, a good man, square as to one’s hands and feet, and mind fashioned without blame, is truly difficult.’ Thus it appears that the particle ‘in¬ deed’ is inserted with good reason, and that the word ‘truly’ is rightly placed at the end. And all that follows bears witness to this, that such is the meaning. 84. Many things might be said to prove, with respect to each several passage in this ode, that it is well composed, for it is very elegant and elaborate; but it would be too long to go through the whole of it in this way. Let us, then, con¬ sider its whole outline and design, which is nothing else than a refutation of the saying of Pittacus throughout the ode. For he says shortly after this, proceeding as if he would say, to become a good man is truly difficult; it is possible, however,for a certain time: but having become, to continue in this condition, and to be a good man, as you say, Pittacus, is impossible, and more than human; but God alone possesses this privilege; ‘but it can not be that a man should be otherwise than evil, whomsoever irresistible calamity prostrates.’ 85. Whom, then, does irresistible calamity prostrate, in the command of a ship? Clearly not a private person, for the private person is al¬ ways prostrate; as, therefore, no one can throw down a man who is lying on the ground, but sometimes one may throw down one who is standing upright, so as to make him lie on the ground, but not one already lying there, so an irresistible calamity may sometimes prostrate a skillful man, but never one who is always unskillful; and a violent storm bursting on a pilot may make his skill of no avail, and a bad season befalling a farmer may make his skill of no avail, and the same with a physician; for it befalls a good man to become evil, as is also testified by another poet, who says, ‘A good man is sometimes evil, and some¬ times good;’ but it does not befall the evil to become so, but lie must needs always bo so. So that when an irre¬ sistible calamity prostrates a skillful, wise, and good man, it is not .possible for him not to be evil; but you say, Pit¬ tacus, that it is difficult to be good; but the difficulty is to become good, though it is possible, but impossible to be 302 PROTAGORAS. so. 8.6. ‘For every man who fares well is good; but evil, if he fares ill.’ What, then, is faring well with respect to literature, and what makes a man good in literature? Clearly the being instructed in it. What faring well makes a good physician ? Clearly the being instructed in the art of curing the sick. ‘And evil, if he fares ill.’ Who, then, would become an evil physician ? Clearly he to whom it happens first to be a physician, and then a good physician; for he may become an evil physician. But we who are ig¬ norant of the medical art can never, by faring ill, become either physicians, or builders, or any thing else of the kind; but whoever can not become a physician by faring ill, clearly can not become an evil physician. Thus, also, a good man may some time or other become evil, either from length of time, or labor, or disease, or some other accident; for this alone is a faring ill, to be deprived of knowledge; but the evil man can never become evil,for he is always so; but if he is to become evil, it is necessary for him first to become good. So that this part of the ode tends to this: that it is not possible to be a good man, so as to continue good, but that it is possible to become good, and for the same person to become evil; ‘ and they are for the longest time best whom the gods love.’ 8^. “All these things, therefore, are said against Pitta- cus, and the following parts of the ode show this still more clearly. For he says, ‘ Wherefore I shall never, searching for that which can not be, throw away a portion of my life on an empty, impracticable hope, searching for an all¬ blameless man among us who feed on the fruits of the wide earth. When I have found one, I will inform you;’ he adds. So vehemently, and through the whole of the ode,does he attack the saying of Pittacus. ‘But I praise and willingly love all who do nothing base; but with ne¬ cessity not even gods contend.’ And this is spoken against that same saying; for Simonides was not so ill-informed as to say that he praised those who did no evil willinglv, as if there were some who did evil willingly. For I am pretty much of this opinion, that no wise man thinks that any man errs willingly, nor willingly commits base and evil actions, but he well knows that all those who do base and evil things do them unwillingly. 88. Moreover, Si- PROTAGORAS. 803 monides docs not say that he praises those who do not willingly do evil, but he uses this word ‘ willingly’ of him¬ self. For he thought that a good and upright man is fre¬ quently compelled to love and praise a certain person ; for instance, it often happens to a man to have a perverse mother, or father, or country, or something else of the kind. Now, depraved men, when any such thing happens to them,are, as it were, glad to see it; and,blaming, make known and divulge the depravity of their parents or coun¬ try, that, when they neglect them, men may not accuse or reproach them for their neglect, so that they blame them still more than they deserve , and add voluntary to neces¬ sary enmity. But the good conceal the faults, and compel themselves to praise; and if they are angry with their par¬ ents or country from having been injured by them, they pacify themselves,and become reconciled, compelling them¬ selves to love and praise their own connections. And I think Simonides also himself frequently considered it right to praise and extol a tyrant, or some one else of the kind ; not willingly, but by compulsion. 89. This, too, he says to Pittacus : ‘ I, Pittacus, do not blame you on this account, because I am fond of blaming;’ for ‘ it is enough for me if a man is not evil or too helpless, a sane man, acquainted with justice that benefits.the state; I will not censure him, for I am not a lover of censure; for the race of fools is infinite;’ so that lie who delights in blaming may satiate himself in censuring them. ‘All things are beautiful with which base things are not mingled.’ Ilis meaning in this is not as if he had said, all things are white with which black is not mingled, for this would be in many ways ri¬ diculous ; but that he himself admits of a mean, so as not to blame it. 4 And I do not seek,’ he adds,‘an all-blame¬ less man, among us who feed on the fruits of the wide earth; when I have found him, I will inform you.’ hor this reason, therefore, I shall praise no one; but it is enough for me if a man be moderate, and does no evil, for I ‘love and praise all.’ Here, too,he uses the language of the Mitylenseans, as speaking to Pittacus, ‘ I praise and love all willingly ’ [here it is necessary after ‘ willingly ’ to distinguish in the pronunciation] ‘ who do nothing base,’ but there are some whom I praise and love unwillingly. 304 PROTAGORAS. Thee, therefore, Pittacus, if thou hadst spoken with mod¬ erate reason and truth, I should never have blamed; but now, since you lie excessively, and in matters of the great¬ est moment, while you think you are speaking the truth, for this reason I blame you. 90. Such appears to me, Prodicus and Protagoras,” said I, “ to have been the de¬ sign of Simonides in the composition of this ode.” Upon this Hippias said, “You seem to me, Socrates, to have given a good explanation of this ode; and I, too,” he added, “ have some pretty good remarks to make on it, which I will communicate to you, if you please.” “ Do so, Hippias,” said Alcibiades, “ but at another time; but now it is right to cany out the agreement which Pro¬ tagoras and Socrates made with each other, and, if Pro¬ tagoras wishes to ask any more questions, for Socrates to answer; but if he wishes to answer Socrates, then for the latter to ask questions.” 91. Then I said, “I leave it to Protagoras to choose whichever is more agreeable to him; but if he is willing, let us have done with odes and poems; but I would glad¬ ly, Protagoras, examine with you and come to a conclusion on the subject about which I first questioned you. For a discussion about poetry appears to me very like the festiv¬ ities of mean and uneducated men; for they, through not being able to converse with one another over their cups, with their own voices and their own words, in consequence of deficiency of education, enhance the pay of female flute- players, and, hiring at a great price the foreign voices of flutes, converse with each other through their voices. But when worthy, good, and well-educated men meet together at a banquet, you will see neither flute-playing women, nor dancing-girls, nor harpists ; but you will find that they are able to converse with themselves, without these trifles and pastimes, by means of their own voices, both speaking and listening to each other in turn, in good order, even though they have drunk a great deal of wine. 92. In like man¬ ner, such meetings as the present, when they are composed of such men as most of us profess ourselves to be, have no need of foreign voices, or of poets, of whom it is not pos¬ sible to ask the meaning of what they say; and most of those who introduce them in their arguments say that the PROTAGORAS. 305 poet means some one thing and some another, disputing about a matter which they can never determine. But they dismiss such topics of conversation as these, and converse with each other through their own resources, and in their discussions receive and give proof of each other’s capaci¬ ty. It appears to me that you and I ought rather to imi¬ tate such persons as these, and, setting aside the poets, should discourse with each other from our own resources, and receive proof of the truth and of ourselves. And if you still wish to question me, I am ready to offer myself to answer you; but if you do not wish it, do you offer yourself to me, so that we may bring to a conclusion the subject that we broke off in the middle.” 93. On my saying these and other things of the same kind, Protagoras did not distinctly declare which of the two he would do. Alcibiades, therefore, looking to Cal- lias, said, “ Callias, does Protagoras appear to you to apt * rightly now, in not being willing to declare whether he will answer or not? For to me he does not. But let him either continue the conversation, or say that he is not will¬ ing to continue it, that w r e may know this from him, and that Socrates may converse with some one else, or who¬ ever else wishes to do so with some other.” And Protagoras, being ashamed, as it seemed to me, when Alcibiades spoke thus, and Callias and nearly all who were present entreated him, was with great difficulty pre¬ vailed on to renew the conversation, and bade me question him, for that he would answer. 94. I then said to him, “ Protagoras, think not that I converse with you with any other design than to examine thoroughly into things about which I am continually in doubt. For I think that Homer 1 speaks very much to the purpose, when he says, ‘ When two come together, one ap¬ prehends before the other.’ For all of us men are thus more prompt in every deed, and word, and thought; but when any one apprehends alone," he immediately goes about and searches for some one to whom he may communicate it, and with whom he may establish it, until he finds him. So I, too, for this reason, am better pleased to converse with you than with any one else, thinking that you are best 1 “ Iliad,” x., 224. 2 Ibid., x., 225. 306 PROTAGORAS. able to investigate both other subjects which a good man is likely to examine into, and especially virtue. For who else can do it but you? Since you not only think your¬ self to be a good and worthy man, as some others also are virtuous, but are not able to make others so; you, how¬ ever, are both good yourself, and are able to make others good; and you have such confidence in yourself, that, while others conceal this art, you openly proclaim yourself to all the Greeks, designating yourself a sophist, publish¬ ing yourself as a professor of erudition and virtue; and you are the first that has thought fit to receive pay for this. 95.. IIow, then ? Is it not right to call upon you to the examination of these matters, and to question and communicate with you respecting them? It can not be otherwise. Now, therefore, I am desirous that the ques¬ tions which I first asked you on these subjects should, from the commencement, be partly called to mind by you, and partly to consider them with you. The question, I think, was this: whether these, wisdom, temperance, cour- age, justice, and holiness, which are five names, belong to one thing, or whether a certain peculiar essence is at¬ tached to each of these names, and each thing has its own function, and no one of them is the same as any other? You said, then, that these were not names belonging to one thing, but that each of these names was applied to a distinct thing, and that all these are parts of virtue; not in the same manner as the parts of gold are similar to each other, and to the whole of which they are parts, but just as the parts of the face are dissimilar to the whole of which they are parts, and to each other, each possessing its peculiar function. If these things still appear to you as they did then, say so; if otherwise, explain the differ¬ ence, since I shall not think you in any way accountable, if you happen to speak differently; for I should not won¬ der if you said these things before for the purpose of try¬ ing me.” 96. “But I,” he said, “tell you, Socrates, that all these are parts of virtue, and four of them are very like each other; but courage is very different from all these. And thus you will know that I speak the truth; for you will find many men who are most unjust, most unholy, PROTAGORAS. 307 most intemperate, and most ignorant, yet eminently cou¬ rageous.” “ Hold !” said I; “ for what you say is worth examining. Ho you mean that courageous men are daring, or some¬ thing else?” “ I do,” he replied, “ and bold to rush headlong on dan¬ gers which most men are afraid to encounter.” “Come, then; do you say that virtue is something beautiful? and, as being a beautiful thing, do you offer to teach it?” “ Most beautiful,” he replied, “ unless I am out of my senses.” 97. “ Whether, then,” said I, “ is one part of it base, and another beautiful, or is it all beautiful ?” “All beautiful, surely, in the highest degree.” “ Do you know, then, who boldly dive into wells ?” “ I do—divers.” “Whether because they know how to do it, or for some other reason?” “Because they know how to do it.” “But who are they that fight boldly on horseback— whether good riders or bad?” “ Good riders.” “And who with targets*— those that are targeteers, or those that are not ?” “ Those that are targeteers. And in every thing else,” said he, “if this is what you are inquiring about, you will find that those who are skilled are bolder than the un¬ skilled, and the same men after they have learned are bolder than they were before they learned.” 98. “But did you ever see any,” said I, “who, though unskilled in all these things, were yet bold with respect to each of them ?” “ I have,” he replied, “ and very bold.” “Are those bold persons, then, courageous also ?” “If they were,” he replied, “courage would be a base thing; for these men are mad.” “ How, then,” I asked, “ do you describe the courageous ? Did you not say that they are the bold ?” “And I say so now,” he replied. “ Do not those, then,” I said, “ who are thus bold appear 308 PROTAGORAS. to be not courageous, but mad ? And, again, in the former instances, the wise are the boldest, and, being the boldest, are most courageous; and, according to tins reasoning, will not wisdom be courage ?” 99. “You do not rightly remember, Socrates,” said he, “ what I said, and what answer I gave you ? For, when asked by you if the courageous were bold, I admitted that they were; but I was not asked whether the bold also were courageous; for if you had asked me this, I should have said, ‘Not all.’ But that the courageous are bold, which was my admission, you have nowhere shown that I made that admission improperly. In the next place, you show that men who have skill surpass themselves in bold¬ ness, and others who are unskilled; and from this you conclude that courage and wisdom are the same. By pro¬ ceeding in this way, you might also come to the conclusion that strength is wisdom. For, first of all, if, proceeding thus, you should ask me whether the strong are power¬ ful, I should say they are; and, in the next place, whether those who are skilled in wrestling are more powerful than those who are unskilled, and they than themselves, after they have learned, than before they learned, I should say they are; 100. and on my admitting this, by using the same argument, you might allege that, according to my own admission, wisdom is strength; I, however, do not here or anywhere admit that the powerful are strong, but I do that the strong are powerful, for power and strength are not the same; but the one arises from skill, and from madness too, and passion; but strength from nature, and good nurture of the body. In like manner, boldness and courage are not the same; so that it happens that the courageous are bold, but the bold are not all courageous. For boldness, like power, arises in men from skill, and from passion too, and madness; but courage arises from nature, and the good culture of the soul.” 101. “Do you allow, Protagoras,” said I, “that some men live well, and others ill?” " Pie said he did. “Does a man, then, appear to you to live well if he lives in grief and pain ?” He said not. \ PROTAGORAS. 309 “But what if he should die after having passed his life pleasantly? Would he not in that case appear to you to have lived well ?” “ To me he would,” said he. “ To live pleasantly, then, is a good, but unpleasantly, an evil thing.” “Yes,” he said, “if he has lived taking pleasure in hon¬ est things.” “ What then, Protagoras ? Do you, like the multitude, call some pleasant things evil, and some painful things good ? I mean, so far as they are pleasant, are they not so far good, unless something else results from them ? And, again, in the same way with regard to things painful, are they not evil so far as they are painful?” “ I know not, Socrates,” he replied, “ whether I should answer you as absolutely as you ask me, that pleasant things are all good, and painful things all evil; but it ap¬ pears to me, not only with reference to the present an¬ swer, but also with reference to all the rest of my life, to be more safe to answer, that there are some pleasant things which are not good; and, again, that there are some pain¬ ful things which are not evil; and there are some which are a third sort, and which are neither the one nor the other—neither good nor evil.” 102. “But do you not call those things pleasant,” I said, “ which partake of pleasure, or occasion pleasure ?” “ Certainly,” said he. “I ask this, then, whether they are not good, so far as they are pleasant—meaning to ask whether pleasure itself is not a good thing ?” “As you frequently say, Socrates,” he replied, “we must examine this; and if the examination shall appear to be connected with our subject, and the same thing shall ap¬ pear to be both pleasant and good, we must grant it; but if not, we must controvert it.” “Whether, then,” said I, “do you wish to take the lead in the examination, or shall I ?” “ You ought to take the lead,” he replied, “for you be¬ gan the discussion.” 103. “Do you think, then,” said I, “that it will •become clear to us in the following manner?—just as if any one, 310 PROTAGORAS. examining a man from his form either with reference to his health, or any other operations of his body, on behold¬ ing his face and hands, should say , 1 Come, strip, and show me your breast and back, that I may examine you more closelyso I require something of the kind in reference to the present inquiry. Perceiving that you are so affected as you say you are, with reference to the good and the pleasant, I have need to say some such thing as this: Come, Protagoras, lay your mind open to me on this point: how are you affected with respect to knowledge ? * Does it appear to you as it does to most men, or other¬ wise? Most men think of knowledge in some such way as this: that it is not a strong, nor a guiding, nor a gov¬ erning thing; nor do they conceive of it as being any thing of the kind; but, though knowledge is often found in a man, they do not think that knowledge governs him, but something else; at one time passion, at another pleasure, at another pain ; sometimes love, and frequently fear; ab¬ solutely forming their conceptions of knowledge as of a slave dragged about by all the rest. Is such your opinion of it? Or do you think that knowledge is a noble thing, and able to govern man; and that, if a man knows good and evil, he can never be overcome by any thing, so as to do any thing else than what knowledge bids him, and that wisdom is sufficient to protect mankind ?” 104. “ It appears to me,” he replied, “ as you say, Socra¬ tes ; and, moreover, if for any man, it would be disgraceful for me not to assert that wisdom and knowledge are the most powerful of all human things.” “You say well, and with truth,” I replied. “You are aware, however, that most men do not believe you and me, but say that many who know what is best are unwill¬ ing to do it, when it is in their power, but do other things. And all of whom I have asked what is the cause of this have replied, that, being overcome by pleasure, or mastered by pain, or some one of the things which I have just now mentioned, those who do these things are led to do them.” “I think, Socrates,” he remarked, “that men say many other things incorrectly.” “Come, then, join me in endeavoring to persuade men, and to teach them what that affection of theirs is which PROTAGORAS. 311 they call being overcome by pleasures, and on that ac¬ count not doing what is best, though they know it. For, perhaps, on our saying,‘You do not speak correctly, my friends, but are deceived,’ they would ask us, ‘ Protagoras and Socrates, if this affection is not the being overcome by pleasure, what is it, then, and what do you say it is ? Tell us;’ ” “ But why, Socrates, need we consider the opinion of the generality of men, who say any thing that occurs to them ?” 105. “I think,” said I, “that this will be of some serv¬ ice to us toward discovering with respect to courage how it is related to the other parts of virtue. If, therefore, you are willing to abide by what we just now agreed on, that I should take the lead, follow me where I think the matter will become exceedingly clear; but if you had rather not, I will dismiss it, if you please.” “You say rightly,” he replied; “finish, then, as you have begun.” “Again, then,” said I, “if they were to ask us, ‘What do you say this is which we call being overcome by pleas¬ ures ?’ I, for my part, should answer them as follows : ‘Hear, then, for Protagoras and I will endeavor to tell you. Do you not say, friends, that this happens to you under the following circumstances: for instance, being oft¬ en mastered by meats and drinks, and the delights of love, which are pleasant things, though you know that they are baneful, yet do you not indulge in them ?’ They would say that such is the case. 106. You and I should then ask them again, ‘In what respect do you say that they are baneful? Is it because they afford pleasure, and each‘of them is pleasant for the moment, or because they occasion diseases for the future, and make way for poverty, and many other things of the kind? Or,'if they make way for none of these things for the future, but only occasion a man to rejoice, are they nevertheless evil, because thev make a man rejoice in any way whatever?’ Can we sup¬ pose, Protagoras, that they will give any other answer than that they are not evil from the momentary pleasure which they produce, but on account of the after-results, diseases and other tinners ?” 312 PROTAGORAS. “I think,” said Protagoras, “that the many would an¬ swer thus.” “ ‘ Do they not, then, by occasioning diseases, occasion pain ; and by occasioning poverty, occasion pain ?’ They would admit this, I think.” Protagoras assented. 107. “ ‘Does it not appear to you, then, my friends, as Protagoras and I say, that these things are evil, for no other reason than because they end in pain, and deprive you of other pleasures?’ Would they admit this ?” We both assented. “If, again, we should reverse the question, ‘In saying, friends, that good things are painful, do you not mean such things as gymnastic exercises, military service, and treatment of diseases by physicians—by cautery, the knife, physic, and starving—that these things are good, but pain¬ ful?’ They would say they did.” He assented. “ ‘Whether, then, do you call them good because, at the moment, they give extreme pain and torture, or because, afterward, health results from them, and a good habit of body, and the safety of cities, and dominion over others, and wealth ?’ They would say, I think, because of the latter.” He assented. 108. “‘But are these things good for any other reason than because they end in pleasures, and deliverance from and prevention of pains? or can you mention any other end to which you look when you call them good, except pleasures and pains?’ They would say not, I think.” “I think so too,” said Protagoras. “ ‘ Do you not, then, pursue pleasure as being good, and avoid pain as evil ?’ ” He assented. “ ‘ This, then, you esteem to be evil, pain; and pleasure, good; since you say that enjoyment itself is then evil when it deprives of greater pleasures than those it brings with it, or when it makes way for pains greater than the pleasures contained in it: for if you call enjoyment itself evil on any other account, and looking to any other end, you would be able to tell us; but you can not.’ ” PROTAGORAS. 313 “ Nor do I think they can,” said Protagoras. 109. “Again, is not the case precisely the same with respect to pain itself? Do you not then call pain itself a good when it delivers from greater pains than those con¬ tained in it, or makes way for pleasures greater than the pains? for if you look to any other end than to that which I mention, when you call pain itself a good, you can tell us; but you can not.” “You speak truly,” said Protagoras. “Again, therefore,” said I, “ if you should ask me, my friends, ‘ Why in the, world do you speak so much and so frequently about this?’ ‘Pardon me,’I should say. For, in the first place, it is not easy to prove what this is which you call being overcome by pleasures; and, in the next place, the whole proof depends on this. But even now you are at liberty to retract, if you are able to say that good is any thing else than pleasure, or evil any thing else than pain; or is it enough for you to pass your life pleas¬ antly without pain? If it is enough, and you can not mention any thing else that is good or evil, which does not end in these,hear what follows: 110. for I say to you that, if this be the case, the assertion is ridiculous when you say that frequently a man who knows that evil things are evil, nevertheless does them, when it is in his power not to do them, in consequence of being led away and overpowered by pleasures; and, again, when you say that a man who knows what is good is not willing to do it in consequence of immediate pleasures, by which he is over¬ come. For it will be manifest that these things are ridic¬ ulous, if we do not make use of many names, such as pleasant and painful, good and evil, but, since these things appear to be two, call them also by two names, first, good and evil, next, pleasant and painful. Having settled this, let us say that a man knowing evil to be evil, nevertheless does it. If, then, any one should ask us, ‘ Why?’ we shall answer, ‘Because he is overcome.’ ‘By what?’ he will ask us. But we are no longer at liberty to say, ‘ By pleas¬ ure;’ for it has assumed another name instead of pleasure, namely, good. We must, however, answer him, and say, ‘ Because he is overcome.’ ‘ By what ?’ he will ask. ‘ By good,’ we shall answer, by Jupiter ! 111. Now, if he who 14 314 PROTAGORAS. questions should happen to be somewhat insolent, he will laugh at us, and say, ‘A ridiculous thing is this you men¬ tion, if a man does evil, knowing that it is evil, when he ought not to do it, because he is overcome by good.’ ‘Is it,’ he will ask, ‘ because the good is not worthy to over¬ come the evil in you, or because it is worthy?’ We shall clearly say, in answer, that it is because it is not worthy; for otherwise he would not err whom we say is overcome by pleasures. But perhaps he will ask, ‘In what respect are good things unworthy to overcome the evil, or evil to overcome the good ? Is it in any other respect than that the one is greater and the other less, or that the one is more and the other fewer in number?’ Wo shall not be able to say any thing else than this. ‘It is clear, then,’ he will say, ‘ that by being overcome you mean to receive greater evil, instead of less good.’ And thus much for this part of the question. “Let us, now, change the names, and again apply the words ‘ pleasant ’ and ‘ painful ’ to these same things, and let us say that a man does things—we before called them evil, but let us now call them painful—knowing that they are painful, being overcome by pleasant things, clearly such as are unworthy to prevail. And what other value is there of pleasure in comparison with pain, except that of excess or defect in one or the other—that is, of their being greater or less, more or fewer in number, stronger or weaker than one another? 112. For if any one should say, ‘But, Socrates, immediate pleasure is very, different from future pleasure or pain ;’ ‘ Is it,’ I should ask, ‘ in any thing else than in pleasure and pain?’ for it can not differ in any thing else. But, like a man expert at weighing, having put together the pleasant things, and having put together the painful, and having placed those which are near, and those which are remote, in the scales, say which are the more numerous. For, if you weigh pleasures with pleasures, the greater and more numerous are always to be chosen; and if pains with pains, the less and the fewer in number. But if you weigh pleasures with pains, if the pains are exceeded by the pleasures, whether those that are near by those that are remote, or those that are re¬ mote by those that are near, the same course must be PROTAGORAS. 315 pursued, in whichever the excess is; but if the pleasures are exceeded by the pains, it must not be pursued. ‘ Can these things be settled in any other way, my friends?’ I should ask. 113. I know that they could not mention any other.” It seemed so to him likewise. “ Since, then, this is the case, I shall say, ‘Answer me this: Do the same magnitudes appear to your sight greater when near, and less when at a distance, or not?’ They will say they do. ‘And things bulky, and things numerous, in like manner? And are not equal sounds greater when near, but less when at a distance ?’ They would say they are. If, then, our well-being consisted in this, in making and choosing great masses, but in avoid¬ ing and not making little ones, what means of safety should we seem to have in life? Would it be the art of mensuration, or the faculty of judging by appearances? Or would the latter lead us into error, and often cause us to vary in our choice of the same thing; now choosing one and now another, and to repent both in our actions and our selections of things great and little: but would the art of mensuration do away with this outward show, and, making manifest the truth, cause the soul to be at ease, abiding in the truth, and preserve our life?’ Would the men, upon this, admit that the art of mensuration pre¬ serves us, or some other art ?” 114. “The art of mensuration,” he admitted. “‘But what, if'the safety of our life consisted in the choice of even and odd, when more ought properly to be chosen, and when less, each with reference to itself, or one with reference to the other, whether they might be near or distant, what, in this case, would preserve our life? Would it not be a science? and would it not be one of mensuration, since it is an art of excess and defect? But since it has relation to even and odd, can it be any other than arithmetic?’ Would the men grant us this, or not?” It appeared also to Protagoras that they would. ‘“Be it so, my friends; but since the safety of our life has appeared to consist in the right choice of pleasure and pain, and of more and fewer, greater and smaller, more distant and nearer, does it not first of all appear to be an 316 PROTAGORAS. art of mensuration, since it is a consideration of excess, and defect, and equality of these with respect to each oth¬ er?’ 6 Necessarily so.’ ‘But since it has to do with men¬ suration, it must of necessity be an art and a science.’ 115. They will assent to this. What, then, this art and science may be, we will consider hereafter; but that it is a science is sufficient for the proof of that which Protag¬ oras and I had to make good in answer to the question you asked us. You asked, if you remember, when we agreed with each other that nothing is more powerful than knowledge, but that it always gets the mastery, wherever it may be, both of pleasure and every thing else; but you said that pleasure often gets the mastery, even of a man possessed of knowledge; and when we did not agree with you, you thereupon asked us, c Protagoras and Socrates, if this affection is not the being overcome by pleasure, what is it, then, and what do you say it is? tell us.’ 116. If, then, we had immediately said to you that it is ignorance, you would have laughed at us. But now if you laugh at us, you will also laugh at yourselves. For you have ad¬ mitted that they err through want of knowledge who err in the choice of pleasures and pains; but these are things good and evil; and not only through want of knowledge, but, as you afterward further admitted, a knowledge of mensuration. Now, an erroneous action done without knowledge, as you must yourselves know, is done through ignorance: so that to be overcome by pleasure is the greatest ignorance; of which Protagonfcs here says he is a physician, and so do Prodicus and Hippias. But you, because you think it is something else than ignorance, nei¬ ther go yourselves, nor send your children to the teachers of these things, the sophists, as if this knowledge could not be taught; but by saving your money, and not giving it to these men, you fare badly, both in private and pub¬ lic. 117. Such is the answer we should give to the many. But I ask you, Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protag¬ oras—for let the conversation be common to you all—' whether I appear to you to speak the truth, or to speak falsely ?” What had been said appeared to all to be eminently true. PROTAGORAS. 31Y “You admit, then,” said I, “that the pleasant is good, but the painful evil. But I deprecate Prodicus’s verbal distinctions; for whether you call it pleasant, or delight¬ ful, or enjoyable, or from whatever derivation or in what¬ ever way you please to denominate such things, most ex¬ cellent Prodicus, use your own word, and answer what I wish.” 118 . Prodicus, therefore, laughing, agreed with me, as did the others. “ But what, my friends,” I continued, “ do you say to this ? All actions that tend to this, that we may live with¬ out pain and pleasantly, are they not beautiful ? and is not a beautiful action good and profitable ?” They agreed. “ If, then,” I said, “ the pleasant is good, no one who ei¬ ther knows or thinks that other things are better than what he is doing, and that they are possible, still continues to do the same,when it is in his power to do the better; nor is to be overcome by one’s self any thing else than ig¬ norance, nor to be master of one’s self any thing else than wisdom.” All agreed to this. “ What, then ? Do you say that ignorance is a thing of this kind: to have a false opinion, and to be deceived about matters of great importance?” To this, likewise, all agreed. “Is it not'the case, then,”I said,“that no one willingly sets about things evil, or things which he thinks are evil; nor is this, as it seems, in the nature of man willingly to engage in things which he thinks are evil, instead of such as are good? and when of two evils he is compelled to choose one, no one will choose the greater when it is in liis power to choose the less.” 119 . All these things were assented to by us all. “ What, then ?” said I. “ Do you call dread and fear something? And the same that I do (I address myself to you, Prodicus), I mean by it a certain expectation of evil, whether you call it fear or dread.” It appeared to Protagoras and Ilippias that dread and fear were of this nature, but to Prodicus that dread was, but fear not. 318 PROTAGORAS. “But,”said I, “it is of no consequence, Prodicus; but this is: If what we before said is true, will any man de¬ liberately engage in things which he dreads, when it is in his power to engage in things which he does not dread? Or is not this impossible from our former admissions ? For it has been admitted that what he dreads he considers to be evil, and what he considers to be evil, no one either en¬ gages in or willingly receives.” These things, likewise, were agreed to by all. 120. “These points, then, being established,” I said, “Prodicus and Hippias, let Protagoras here defend him¬ self, and show us how his first answer is correct—no, not quite the first—for he then said that there being five parts of virtue, lm one of them was like any other, but that each had a peculiar function of its own. I do not, however, mean this, but what he said afterward. For afterward he said that four of them very much resembled each other, but that one was altogether different from the rest—name¬ ly? courage. And he said I should know it by the follow¬ ing proof: 4 You will find men, Socrates, who are most un¬ holy, most unjust, most intemperate, and most ignorant, who are yet most courageous; by which you will know that courage differs much from the other parts of virtue.’ And I, indeed, at the moment, was very much astonished at the answer, and I have been still more so since I have discussed these things with you. I, therefore, asked him if he meant that courageous men* are bold ? He said he did, and ready to rush headlong. 121. Do you remember, Protagoras,” said I, “that you gave this answer?” He admitted it. “ Come, then,” said I, “ tell us on what you say the cou¬ rageous are ready to rush headlong? Is it on the same things as cowards ?” He said not. “ On different things, therefore.” “ Yes,” he replied. “ But whether do cowards attempt things which they can venture on with confidence, but the courageous on such as are dreadful ?” “ It is said so, Socrates, by the generality of men.” “ You say truly,” I replied. “I do not, however, ask PROTAGORAS. 319 this: but on what do you say courageous men are ready to rush headlong: on dreadful things, thinking that they are dreadful, or on such as are not dreadful?” “But this,” he said, “in the arguments which you just now used, was shown to be impossible.” “And in this,” I replied, “ you say truly. So that if this point was proved correctly, no one attempts things which he considers to be dreadful, since to be overcome by one’s self was found to be ignorance.” He admitted it. “All men, however, attempt things in which they have confidence, both the cowardly and the courageous; and thus both the cowardly and the courageous attempt the same things.” 122. “ But, indeed, Socrates,” said he, “ the things which the cowardly and the courageous attempt are quite con¬ trary to each other; for instance, the latter are willing to engao-e in war, but the former are unwilling.” “ Whether,” said I, “ is it honorable to engage in it, or base?” “ Honorable,” he replied. “ If, therefore, it is honorable, have we not already ad¬ mitted that it is good, for we have admitted that all hon¬ orable actions are good.” “You say truly, and I am always of this opinion.” “Right,” said I. “But which of the two do you say are unwilling to engage in war, though it is honorable and good ?” “ Cowards,” he replied. “ If, therefore,” said I, “ it is honorable and good, is it not also pleasant ?” “ That has been granted,” he said. “Are the cowardly, then, unwilling to attempt what they know to be more honorable and better, and more pleasant ?” “ But,” said he, “ if we admitted this, we should destroy our former admissions.” 123. “But what with respect to the brave man? Does he not engage in what is more honorable, better, and more pleasant?” “ It is necessary,” said he, “ to admit that he does.” 320 PROTAGORAS. “ On the whole, then, is it not the case that the coura¬ geous, when they are afraid, have no base fear, nor are they inspired with base confidence?” “ True,” said he. “But if not base, are they not honorable?” He assented. “And if honorable, also good ?” “Yes.” “And are not the cowardly, and the bold, and the mad, on the contrary, influenced by base fears, and inspired with base confidence ?” He admitted that they are. “And are they bold in what is base and evil, through any thing else than ignorance and want of knowledge?” “ So it is,” he replied. “What, then, do you call this through which cowards are cowardly, cowardice or courage ?” “ Cowardice,” said he. “But have not cowards appeared to be what they are, through not knowing what is dreadful?” “ Certainly,” said he. “They are cowardly, then, through this want of knowl¬ edge ?” He admitted it. “But that through which they are cowardly, you have admitted, is cowardice ?” He assented. “Must not, then, the not knowing what is dreadful, and not dreadful, be cowardice?” He nodded assent. “ However,” said I, “ courage is contrary to cowardice.” He said it was. “ Is not, then, the knowledge of what is dreadful, and not dreadful, contrary to a want of knowledge of these things ?” And here he still nodded assent. “ But is not the want of knowing these things cow¬ ardice ?” He here, with great difficulty, nodded assent. “ Is not the knowledge, therefore, of what is dreadful, and not dreadful, courage, being contrary to a want of knowledge of these things ?” PROTAGORAS. 321 124. Hero lie would no longer nod assent* but was silent. So I said, “Why, Protagoras, do you neither admit nor deny what I ask ?” “Do you conclude the subject?” he said. “ I have only one more question to ask you,” said I, “ whether some men still appear to you, as at first, to be most ignorant, and yet most courageous ?” “You seem to be very anxious, Socrates, that I should be the person to answer. I will, therefore, indulge you, and I say that, from what has been granted, it appears to me to be impossible.” “ I ask all these questions,” said I, “ on no other account than because I wish to examine how the case stands with respect to things pertaining to virtue, and what virtue it¬ self is. For I know that, when this is discovered, that other will be clearly ascertained about which you and I have both of us held so long a discussion: I maintain¬ ing that virtue can not be taught, but you that it can. 125. And the present issue of our discussion appears to me, as if it were a man, to accuse and laugh at us ; and if it had a voice, it would say, ‘Absurd men ye are, Socrates and Protagoras; you, who at the outset maintained that virtue can not be taught, are now contending in opposi¬ tion to yourself, and endeavoring to show that all things are knowledge, as justice, temperance, and courage; ac¬ cording to which method of proceeding it will certainly appear that virtue may be taught. For if virtue were any thing else than knowledge, as Protagoras endeavors to maintain, it clearly could not be taught; but now, if it shall appear to be altogether knowledge, as you contend, Socrates, it will be wonderful if it can not be taught. Protagoras, on the other hand, who at first insisted that it could be taught, now seems to contend for the contrary, that it may appear to be almost any thing else rather than knowledge; and so can on no account be taught.’ 120. I therefore, Protagoras, seeing all these things terribly con¬ fused, this way and that, am exceedingly anxious that they should be made clear, and should wish, now we.have discussed these things, to proceed to inquire what vir¬ tue is, and to examine again respecting it, whether it can 14* 322 PROTAGORAS. be taught, or not, lest by chance that Epimetheus of yours should treacherously deceive us in our inquiry, just as he neglected us in the distribution which he made, as you say. Now, in the fable Prometheus pleased me more than Epi¬ metheus ; and, making use of him, and looking forward with forethought to my whole life, I diligently attend to all these matters; and if you are willing, as I said at the beginning, I would most gladly join with you in examin¬ ing them thoroughly.” To this Protagoras said, “ I, Socrates, praise your zeal, and your method of unfolding arguments. For I am not in other respects, I think, a bad man, and least of all men envious: indeed, I have often said of you to many that I admire you more than all whom I am in the habit of meet¬ ing, and far above those of your own age ; and I add that I should not wonder if you were to rank among men re¬ nowned for wisdom. And these matters we will further discuss hereafter, when you please ; but it is now time for me to attend to other business.” “ It is right so to do,” I replied, “ if you think fit. For I, too, ought long since to have gone where I had to go, but I staid to oblige the beautiful Callias.” Having said and heard these things, we departed. INTRODUCTION TO THE PH^EDRUS. Peledeus, whom we have already 1 met with among the followers of the sophist Hippias, happening to meet with Socrates, tells him that he has just left the orator Lysias, who had written and recited a speech on the subject of love, in which he argued that a youth ought rather to show favor to one who is not in love than to one who is. Socrates, who pretends to be very anxious to hear the speech, begs Phtedrus to repeat it from memory as well as he is able; for he can not doubt but that he has learned it by heart, so great is his admiration for its author. Phaidrus affects shyness, though in reality desirous of practicing himself on Socrates. At length, however, Soc¬ rates discovers that he has a copy of it under his cloak; so they proceed on their walk, talking by the way, till they reach a plane-tree on the banks of the Ilissus, out- * side the walls of Athens, under whose ample shade they lie down. 2 Pha3drus reads the speech, which, in addition to the faults of obscurity, inconclusiveness, and tautology, takes a very low and sensual view of the passion of love. 3 When it is ended, Phtedrus asks Socrates what he thinks of it, and whether it is not a wonderful composition, es¬ pecially as to the language. Socrates at first praises it ironically, but, on being pressed by Phsedrus, points out some of its faults, and says that even Lysias himself could : See the “Protagoras,” sec. 17. * Sec. 1-10, 3 Sec. 11-21. 324 INTRODUCTION. not bo satisfied with it, and that many others have both spoken and written finer things on the same subject, with which at that very instant his breast is full. Pha3drus catches at this, and insists on Socrates repeating these fine things, promising that if he says any thing that excels the speech of Lysias he will erect his statue in gold in Olympia. 1 As it is the present design of Socrates to take the same low view of love that Lysias had done, he determines to speak with his face covered, that he may not falter through shame. He begins by a definition of love, which lie represents to be desire hurried on to the pleasure de¬ rived from personal beauty; and then he goes on to show, with great perspicuity, how a person under the influence of such a passion must needs be anxious that the beloved object should not excel himself or be admired by others. Then, with regard to the body, he will wish to make it effeminate, and be anxious that his beloved should be as much as possible dependent on him; and. at length he will become unfaithful, forget all his former vows and prom¬ ises, and leave his favorite despised and destitute, who will suffer most of all in this, that he has been debarred from cultivating his soul, than which, he adds, there nei¬ ther is, nor ever will be, any thing more precious in the sight of gods and men. 2 Phaedrus expects that Socrates will not only show the disadvantages of granting favors to a lover, but also go on to point out the advantages of granting them to one who is not in love. This, however, he refuses to do; and then, conscience-stricken for that he has been guilty of an offense against the deity of Love in speaking of him in so impious a manner, he determines on making his rceanta- 1 Sec. 22-27. 2 Sec. 28-40. INTRODUCTION. 325 tion by uttering a speech which shall describe that deity in his true character. lie begins by condemning his former assertion that favor ought rather to be shown to one who is not in love than to a lover, because the latter is mad, and the former in his sober senses. For, he argues, it is not universally true that madness is an evil; so far from it, that the greatest blessings spring from mad¬ ness; for even prophetic inspiration is a species of mad¬ ness, and derives its very name from it. And love is one of many kinds of madness, and, as such, the source of the greatest happiness to man. To prove this, he says, it is necessary to examine into the nature of the soul, both hu¬ man and divine. The soul, then, is immortal, because it contains the principle of motion within itself (a subtle argument which, it may be observed, was not adduced in the Phasdo, where the soul’s immortality was the imme¬ diate point under discussion). Still, to explain what the soul is would require a divine and lengthened exposition; he must, therefore, content himself with saying what it is like. He, therefore, compares the soul to a pair of winged steeds and a charioteer. The horses and charioteers of the gods are all good, but all others are mixed. While the soul is perfect and winged, it soars aloft; but when it loses its wings, it is borne downward, and becomes united with a body, in which it takes up its abode, and the tw T o, united, are called mortal. He then describes how Jupiter goes first, driving a winged chariot, and is followed by a host of "ods and demons distributed into eleven divisions: O in their flight they reach the external regions of heaven, and behold truth, justice, temperance, science, in their es¬ sences. Other inferior souls endeavor to follow and imi¬ tate them; few, however, can do so. Those that get a gUmpse of any of the true essences are free from harm till 32 G INTRODUCTION. the next revolution; but those that arc unable to do so are weighed down and lose their wings, and become im¬ planted in earthly natures of various orders, and then, ac¬ cording to their conduct in this condition, are either re¬ stored to their former state, or still further degraded. The mind of the philosopher, however, is alone furnished with wings, because his memory dwells on that which is divine. 1 This, then, is the madness above spoken of, when one, beholding beauty in this lower world, is reminded of the true, and, looking upward to it, despises things below, and is deemed to be affected with madness. But he who has become corrupted is not easily carried hence to beauty it¬ self, nor does he reverence it when he beholds it, but looks upon it with carnal sensuality; whereas he who has not been so far corrupted, when he beholds the imitation of beauty here, reverences it as a god, and, but for the impu¬ tation of madness, would sacrifice to it. Then his wings begin to swell again, and endeavor to burst forth anew; but when separated from the beautiful object the soul be¬ comes parched, and the passages through which the wings shoot forth become closed. Thus, alternately tormented with agony and joy, it becomes frantic, and runs about trying to see the possessor of the beauty. This affec¬ tion men call love. Now, when a follower of Jupiter is thus seized, he is better able to bear the burden of the winged god: for such a one seeks one who resem¬ bles Jupiter to be the object of his love; and, when he has found him, he endeavors to make him like his own god. 2 As each soul was before divided into three parts, two having the form of horses, and the third that of a chariot- 1 Sec. 40-G2. 2 Sec. G3-73. . INTRODUCTION. 327 eer, so that division must still be maintained. When, therefore, the charioteer beholds the love-inspiring sight, the obedient horse is easily restrained; but the other com¬ pels them to hurry to the favorite, and longs to indulge in the delights of love. But the charioteer, on approaching him, is carried back to absolute beauty, and, being awe¬ struck, falls backward and throws the horses on their haunches. When, by being repeatedly checked in this way, the vicious horse has laid aside his insolence, he be¬ comes humbled, and the soul of the lover follows his fa¬ vorite with reverence and awe. And the beloved being worshiped by one who does not feign the passion, but who really feels it, requites the affection of his worshiper, and, in turn, longs for the lover in the same manner that he is longed for, possessing love’s image, love returned.’ If, then, the better parts of their mind prevail so as to lead to a well-regulated life and philosophy, they pass their life in bliss and concord; and when they depart this life, they become winged, and win one of the three truly Olympic contests—a greater good than which neither human pru¬ dence nor divine madness can bestow on man. If, how¬ ever, they have adopted a coarser and less philosophic mode of life, but still honorable, in the end they find the body without wings indeed, yet, making an effort to be¬ come winged, and so carry off no trifling prize of impas¬ sioned madness. 1 When Socrates had ended his recantation to Love, Phaedrus expresses great admiration of his speech, and adds that he doubts whether Lysias will ever venture to write speeches again. But Socrates shows him that such an expectation is altogether groundless; and, after a charming little episode on the origin of grasshoppers, 3 Sec. 73-84. 328 INTRODUCTION. proposes to consider in what a correct mode of speaking and writing consists. 1 The first essential is that the speaker should know the truth of the subject on which he is about to speak. And though it is commonly said that an orator need not know what is really just, but only what will appear so to the multitude, yet Socrates with great force destroys this fal¬ lacy, and shows that such rhetoric is not an art, but an in¬ artistic trick; for a genuine art of speaking neither does nor can exist without laying hold of truth. Rhetoric must be an art that leads the soul by means of argument. Now, in courts of justice and popular assemblies, men suc¬ ceed by making things appear similar to each other so far as they are capable of being made appear so, and decep¬ tion will more frequently occur in things that nearly re¬ semble each other; so that a person who means to per¬ suade or deceive another must be able to distinguish ac¬ curately the similarity and dissimilarity of things, and so lead his hearer by means of resemblances. Taking this as his principle, Socrates proceeds to show that the speech of Lysias is altogether inartistic, for that he ought first of all to have defined Love, and divided it into its different species, and shown of which class he was going to speak; whereas he begins where he should have ended, and throughout speaks at random, without any definite de¬ sign. He then proceeds to comment on his own two speeches. In one he argued that favor ought to be shown to one that is in love; in the other, to a person that is not in love. In one he said that love was a kind of divine madness; and then, dividing this madness into four parts, he showed that the madness of Love is the best. In these speeches, then, are seen the two methods of arguing cor¬ rectly, definition and division ; the former of which con- 1 Sec. 85-91. INTRODUCTION. 329 templates many things under one aspect, and brings them together- under one general idea; the latter separates that general idea into species. 1 Socrates then ridicules the rules of rhetoric laid down by many of the sophists, and, having passed a high eulo- gium on Pericles, shows that a perfect orator must know the real nature of the things to which he will have to ap¬ ply his speeches, and that is the soul; for, as the power of speech consists in leading the soul, he must know how many kinds of souls there are, and by what arguments each kind is most easily persuad'ed. 2 From speaking, he proceeds to writing, and tells a pleas¬ ant story of the invention of letters, and remarks that the evil of writing is, that, like painting, if you ask it a question, it can not answer; and, when once written, it is tossed from hand to hand, as well among those who under¬ stand it as those who do not. But there is another kind of discourse far more excellent, which is written in the learner’s mind, and knows when to speak and when to be silent. The conclusion of the whole is, that a speaker should be acquainted with the true nature of each subject on which he speaks or writes, be able to define, and divide things into their species until he reaches the indivisible, and to investigate the nature of the soul, and apply his discourses to each soul according to its capacity. Then, with a message, in accordance with these prin¬ ciples, to Lysias, and a high encomium on Isocrates, who promised to be led by a diviner impulse to holier and higher things, he concludes by praying that Pan would grant him to be beautiful in the inner man, and that all outward things might be at peace with those within; that he may deem the wise man rich, and may have such a por¬ tion of gold as none but a prudent man can bear or employ. 2 Sec. 112-132. 1 Sec. 92-111. Socrates, Phasdrus. Boer. My dear Phaedrus, whither are you going, and from whence come you? P/m. From Lysias, son of Cephalus, Socrates. But I am going for a walk outside the walls; for I have spent a long time there, sitting from very early in the morning; but, in obedience to your and my friend Acumenus, I take my walks in the open roads; for he says that they are more refreshing than those in the course. Boer. He says rightly, my friend. Lysias, then, as it seems, was in the city? P/m. Yes, with Epicrates, in the Morychian house here, near the Olympium. Boer. What was your employment there? Without doubt,Lysias feasted you with speeches? P/m. You shall hear, if you have leisure to go on with me and listen. Boer. What, then? Do you not think that, according to Pindar, 1 I should consider it a matter above all want and leisure to listen to the conversation between you and Lysias ? Phoe. Proceed, then. Boer. Do you begin your story. 2. P/m. And, indeed, Socrates, the subject is suited to you. For the question, in which we spent our time, I know not how, was amatory. For Lysias had written a speech in which lie described a beautiful youth as being courted, but not by a lover; and on this very point he argued with great subtlety; for he maintains that favor ought to be shown to one who is not in love, rather than to one who is in love. 1 “ Istlim.,” i., 2. PHJEDRUS. 331 Socr. Generous man ! I wish he had written that favor should be shown to a poor man rather than a rich one, and to an old than a young, and so on with respect to such things as happen to me and the most of us; for then his discourses would be charming, and of general usefulness. I, for my part, am so very desirous to hear his speech, that even if you prolong your walk to Megara, and, after Ile- rodicus, when you have reached the wall, turn back again, I shall on no account lag behind you. 3. JPhce. How say you, most excellent Socrates ? Do you think that what Lysias, the most able writer of the day, composed at his leisure in a long space of time, I, who am but a novice, could repeat from memory in a manner worthy of him? Far from it: though I would rather be able to do so than be the possessor of a large sum of gold. Socr. Phaedrus, if I know not Phaedrus, I have also for¬ gotten myself; but neither of these is the case. Fori know well that, on hearing Lysias’s speech, he not only heard it once, but urged him to read it repeatedly, and he readily complied. Neither was this sufficient for Phae- drus; but at length having got hold of the book, he ex¬ amined the parts he liked best, and, having done this, sit¬ ting from very early in the morning, he was fatigued and went out for a walk, as I believe, by the dog! having learned the whole speech by heart, if it is not a very long one. And he was going outside the walls that he might con it over, 4. and, meeting with one who has a desire for hearing speeches, was delighted at seeing him approach, because he would have one to share his enthusiasm, and bade him accompany him in his walk. But when that lover of speeches begged him to recite it, he affected shy¬ ness, as if he did not w T ish to repeat it, though at length he would have compelled one to listen to it, even though one was not willing to do so. Do you, then, Phaedrus, en¬ treat him to do now what he will soon do, at all events. Phcjc. It is, in truth, far best for me to repeat it as well as I can; for I see you are determined not to let me go until I have delivered it somehow or another. Socr. You think perfectly right. l J hce. I will do it, then; but in truth, Socrates, I have 332 PIIiEDRUS. by no means learned the words of this oration by heart, though the general outline of all the several parts, in which he said the claims of one who is in love and one who is not differ from each other, I can go through summarily and in order, beginning from the first. 5. Socr. But show me first, my dear friend, what you have got there in your left hand under your cloak, for I suspect that you have got the speech itself. And if this is the case, think thus of me, that I love you very much ; but that, when Lysias is present, I have by no means made up* my mind to lend myself to you to practice upon. Come, then, show it me. jP hce. Stop; you have dashed down the hope I had, Socrates, of practicing upon you. But where do you wish we should sit down and read ? Socr. Let us turn down here, and go near the Ilissus; then we will sit down quietly wherever you please. Phce. Very seasonably, as it appears, I happen to be without shoes, for you are always so. It will be easiest for us, then, to walk by the shallow stream, wetting our feet; and it will not be unpleasant, especially at this sea¬ son of the year, and this time of the day. Socr. Lead on, then, and at the same time look out for a place where we may sit down. 6. Phce. Do you see that lofty plane-tree ? Socr. How should I not? Phce. There, there are both shade and a gentle breeze, and grass to sit down upon, or, if we prefer it, to lie down on. Socr. Lead on, then. Phce. But tell me, Socrates, is not Boreas reported to have carried off Orithya from somewhere about this part of the Ilissus ? Socr. So it is said. Phce. Must it not have been from this spot; for the water hereabouts appears beautiful, clear and transparent, and well suited for damsels to sport about. Socr. No, but lower down—as much as two or three stadia—where we cross over to the temple of the Hunt¬ ress, and where there is, on the very spot, a kind of altar sacred to Boreas. PILEDKUS. 333 Plica. I never noticed it. But tell me, by Jupiter! Socrates, do you believe that this fabulous account is true ? V. Socr. If I disbelieved it, as the wise do, I should not be guilty of any absurdity; then, having recourse to sub¬ tleties, I should say that a blast of Boreas threw her down from the neighboring cliffs, as she was sporting with. Pharmaeea, and that, having thus met her death, she was said to have been carried off by Boreas, or from Mars’s Hill; for there is also another report that she was carried off from thence, and not from this spot. But I, for my part, Phtedrus, consider such things as pretty enough, but as the province of a very curious, painstaking, and not very happy man, and for no other reason than this, that after this he must set us right as to the form of the Hip- pocentaurs, and then as to that of the Chimaera; besides, there pours in upon him a crowd of similar monsters, Gor- gous and Pegasuses, and other monstrous creatures, in¬ credible in number and absurdity, which if any one were to disbelieve, and endeavor to reconcile each with proba¬ bility, employing for this purpose a kind of vulgar clever¬ ness, he will stand in need of abundant leisure. 8. But I have not leisure at all for such matters; and the cause of it, my friend, is this: I am not yet able, according to the Delphic precept, to know myself. But it appears to me to be ridiculous, while I am still ignorant of this, to busy myself about matters that do not concern me. Where¬ fore, dismissing these matters, and receiving the popular opinion respecting them, as I just now said, I do not in¬ quire about them, but about myself: whether I happen to be a beast, with more folds and more furious than Typhon, or whether I am a more mild and simple animal, naturally partaking of a certain divine and modest condition. But, my friend, to interrupt our conversation, is not this the tree to which you were leading me? Plica. This is the very one. 9. Socr. By Juno ! a beautiful retreat. For this plane- tree is very wide-spreading and lofty, and the height and shadiness of this agnus castus are very beautiful; and as it is now at the perfection of its flowering, it makes the spot as fragrant as possible. Moreover, a most agreeable 334 rHiEDRUS. fountain flows under the plane-tree, of very cold water, to judge from its effect on the foot. It appears, from these images and statues, to be sacred to certain nymphs, and to Achelous. Observe, again, the freshness of the spot: how charming and very delightful it is, and how summer-like and shrill it sounds from the choir of grasshoppers. But the most delightful of all is the grass, which, with its gen¬ tle slope, is naturally adapted to give an easy support to the head, as one reclines. So that, my dear Phasdrus, you make an admirable stranger’s guide. 10. Phce. And you, my wonderful friend, appear to be a most surprising being; for, as you say, you are just like a stranger who is being shown the sights, and not a native of the place. This comes from your never quitting the city, or going beyond the boundaries, nor do you seem to me ever to go outside the walls. iSocr. Pardon me, my excellent friend, for I am a lover of learning; now the fields and trees will not teach me any thing, but men in the city do. You, however, appear to me to have discovered a charm to entice me out. For as those who, by shaking leaves or some fruit before them, lead their hungry flocks, so do you, by holding out written speeches before me, seem as if you could lead me about all Attica, and wherever else you please. But now, for the present, since I am come here, I am resolved to lay me down; and do you, in whatever posture you think you can read most conveniently, take this, and read. Phce. Listen, then. 11. “You are well acquainted with the state of my affairs, and I think you have heard that it would be for our advantage if this took place. And I claim, not for this reason to fail in my request, because I do not happen to be one of your lovers; for they repent of the benefits they have conferred as soon as their desires cease; but the others have no time at which it is conven¬ ient for them to repent; since, not from necessity, but vol¬ untarily, they confer benefits according to their ability, so as but to consult their own interests. Besides, lovers con¬ sider what of their affairs they have managed badly by reason of their love, and what benefits they have conferred ; and, adding thereto what labor they have undergone, they think that they have long since conferred sufficient favors PII^EDRUS. 335 on tlie objects of their love. But those who do not love have no pretense to make of the neglect of their own affairs on this score, nor can they take into account the labors they have undergone, nor make differences with their friends a pretext; so that, all such evils being re¬ moved, nothing remains for them but to do cheerfully whatever they think they will gratify them by doing. 12. Besides, if for this reason it is right to make much of those who love, because they say they are most devotedly attached to those whom they love, and are always ready, both in words and deeds, to incur the enmity of others, so that they can but gratify the objects of their love, it is easy to discover whether they speak the truth, because those whom they afterward fall in love with they will prize more highly than the former; and it is evident that if the latter require it, they will behave ill to the former. And how is it reasonable to lavish such a treasure 1 on one afflicted with such a calamity as no experienced person would ever attempt to avert; for they themselves confess that they are rather diseased than in their right minds, and that they know that they are out of their senses, but are unable to control themselves ? IIow, therefore, when they recover their senses, can they think that those things were right about which they were so anxious when in that state of mind? 13. Moreover, if you should choose the best from among your lovers, your choice must be made from a few; but if from among all others the one most suited to you, from many; so that there is much more hope that among the many there is one worthy of your affection. If, therefore, you respect the established usages of man¬ kind, and are afraid lest, when men discover it, it should be a disgrace to you, it is probable that lovers, thinking that they are envied by others in the same way that they envy each other, should be so elated as to talk, and, out of ambition, publish to the world that they have not be¬ stowed their labor in vain ; but that such as are not in love, having a control over themselves, should prefer what is best to celebrity among men. 14. Besides, it must needs happen that many should hear of and see lovers following the objects of their affection, and doing this sedulously ; 1 Youth. 336 PELEDRUS. so that when they are seen conversing with one another, men think that they are together on account of desire al¬ ready indulged, or about to be so; but they do not at¬ tempt to blame those who do not love, on account of their familiarity, being aware that it is necessary to converse with some one, either on account of friendship or some other pleasure. 15. Moreover, if you have experienced uneasiness from the consideration that it is difficult for friendship to last, but that, when a difference takes place under other circumstances, a common calamity happens to both; but that, when you have lavished what you prize most highly, great injury would befall you, you would with good reason be more afraid of those who love, hor there are many things that grieve them, and they think that ev¬ ery thing is done to their detriment. Wherefore, they prohibit the objects of their love from associating with oth¬ ers, fearing those who possess wealth, lest they should get the better of them by means of their riches, and the well- educated, lest they should surpass them in intelligence; and they are apprehensive of the influence of every one who possesses any other advantage. By persuading you, then, to-keep aloof from such as these, they cause you to be destitute of friends. If, therefore, regarding your own interest, you pursue a wiser course than they recommend, you are sure to quarrel with them. 16. But such as are not in love, but have obtained the accomplishment of their wishes through merit, will not envy your associating with others, but will rather hate those who will not associate with you, thinking that you are despised by them, and are benefited by those who associate with you; so that there is much more reason tq hope that friendship will be produced between these, by this means, than enmity. Moreover, most persons conceive a desire for the per¬ son before they know their habits or are acquainted with their own qualities, so that it is uncertain whether they will still wish to be their friends when their desire has ceased; but with those who are not in love, and who have done this, having been friends with each other before, it is not probable that acts of kindness will make their friend¬ ship less, but that they will be left as monuments of future services. 17. Besides, it will tend to your improvement PHiEDRUS. 337 if you are persuaded by me rather than by a lover. For they, contrary to your best interests, praise all that you say and do, partly fearing lest they should offend you, part¬ ly "being themselves depraved in their judgment through desire, for love shows itself in such things. It makes the unsuccessful consider as distressing things which occasion no pain to others, and compels the successful to praise things which are not worthy the name of pleasures; so that°it is much more proper to pity than envy those that are loved. 18. But if you will be persuaded by me, first of all I will associate with you ; not attending to pres¬ ent pleasure, but future advantage ; not overcome by love, but controlling myself; not conceiving violent enmities for trifling offenses, but slowly indulging slight anger for great offenses; pardoning involuntary faults, and endeav¬ oring to divert you from such as are voluntary; for these are the marks of a friendship that will endure for a long time. If, however, it has occurred to you that it is not possible for affection to be strong unless one is in love, you should consider that in that case we should not be very fond of our children, or our fathers and mothers, nor acquire faithful friends, who have become such not from desire of this kind, but from other useful qualities. 19. Moreover, if it is right to gratify those most who most need it, it is right also, with respect to others, to benefit, not the best men, but the most needy; for, being delivered from the greatest evils, they will feel the deepest gratitude toward us. And, besides this, in private entertainments it will not be proper to invite our friends, but mendicants and those who are in need of a hearty meal; for these will greet and follow us, and will come to our doors, and be highly delighted, and feel the utmost gratitude, and pray for many blessings upon us. 20. But surely it is right to gratify those not. who are exceedingly needy, but who are best able to repay a kindness, nor those who love only, but those who deserve this favor; nor such as will enjoy the bloom of your youth, but who, when you are old, will share their own fortune with you; nor those who, when they have effected their object, will boast of it to others, but who, out of modesty, will be silent toward all men; nor those who are devoted to you for a short time, 15 338 PHiEDRUS. but wlio will be greatly attached to you throughout life; nor who, when their desire has ceased, will seek a pretext for quarreling, but who, when your bloom is gone, will then exhibit their own excellence. 21. Do you, then, re¬ member what I have said, and consider this: that friends admonish lovers that their course of life is a bad one; but no one ever yet found fault with those who are not in love, as if, on that account, they consulted ill for their own interests. Perhaps, however, you may ask me whether I advise you to gratify all who are not in love. But I think that not even a lover would exhort you to be thus affected toward ail your lovers: for neither, if one con¬ siders the matter reasonably, is such a course deserving of equal gratitude, nor, if you wished it, is it equally possible to keep it secret from others; but it is requisite that no harm should result from the business; on the contrary, advantage to both. I, for my part, think that enough has . been said; but if you require any thing more, under the impression that it has been omitted, question me.” 22. What do you think of the speech, Socrates ? Does it not appear to you to be wonderfully composed in other respects, and especially as to the language? Socr. Divinely, indeed, my friend, so much so that I am amazed. And I had this feeling through you, Plnedrus, by looking at you, for you appeared to me to be enrapt¬ ured with the speech while you were reading it. For, supposing you to understand such matters better than I do, I followed you, and, in following you, I felt the same enthusiasm with you, my inspired friend. Phtv. Well, do you think proper to jest in this manner ? Socr. Do I appear to you to jest, and not to be in earnest? Ph(£. Don’t, Socrates! But tell me truly, by Jupiter, the god of friendship! do you think that any other^ man in Greece could speak more ably and fully than this on the same subject? 23. jSocr. But what? Ought the speech to be praised by you and me for this reason, that its composer has said what, he ought, and noPonly because every word is clear, and rounded, and accurately polished off ? For, if it ought, it may be granted for your sake, since it escaped me by reason of my nothingness, for I attended only to its rhet- PIIiEDEUS. 339 one; but this I did not think that even Lysias himself would think sufficient. And to me, indeed, it seemed, Pliaedrus, unless you say otherwise, that he has repeated the same things twice and thrice, as if he had not the fac¬ ulty of saying much on the same subject, or, perhaps, he did not care about this. Moreover, he appeared to me to make a wanton display of his ability to express these things in different ways, and both ways most elegantly. 24 . Phce. You say nothing to the purpose, Socrates; for the speech has this very merit in the highest degree. For he has omitted nothing belonging to Ins subject, which was worthy to be mentioned: so that, beyond what has been said by him, no one could ever say more things, or of greater weight. O O 0 Socr. On this point I am no longer able to agree with you ; for the ancient and wise, both men and women, who have spoken and written on this subject, would confute me, if I were to admit this out of compliment to you. Phce. Who are they? and where have you heard better things than these ? Socr. I am unable to say on the moment; but I am sure that I have heard them from some one or other, either from the beautiful Sappho, or the wise Anacreon, or some other writer. Whence do I form this conjecture ? Some¬ how or other, my divine friend, my breast is full, and I feel that I could say other things in addition to those, and not inferior to them. ’ That I understand none of them myself, I am well aware, being conscious of my ignorance. It remains, then, I think, that I must have filled myself, like a vessel, by means of hearing, from some foreign source.; but, owing to my stupidity, I have forgotten even this, both how and from whom I heard it. 25 . Phce. You have told me excellent news, my noble friend. For though you can not tell me from whom and how you heard it, even if I bid you, yet do the very thing that you say; promise that you will say other things better and not less in quality than those contained in the book, without making use of any thing in it. And I promise you, after the manner of the nine archons, that I will dedi¬ cate at Delphi a golden statue as large as life, not only of myself, but also of you. 340 PHJEDRUS. 8ocr. You are very kind, Phsedrus, and really worth your weight in gold, if you suppose I mean that Lysias was entirely wrong, and that it is possible to say some¬ thing altogether different from what he has said; for I do not think that this could happen even to the poorest writ¬ er. 26. For instance, with respect to the subject in hand : do you think that any one who was maintaining that fa¬ vors ought to be shown to one who is not in love rather than to one who is, if he neglected to extol the prudence of the former and to blame .the folly of the latter, these be¬ ing obvious points, could have any thing else to say ? But I think that such points are to be allowed and granted to a speaker; and tha’t of such things, not the invention, but the method of handling, is to be praised; but of things which are obvious, and which are not difficult to discover, the invention, as well as the method of handling. Phuz. I grant what you say; for you appear to me to have spoken fairly. I will, therefore, do thus: I will allow you to suppose that one who is in love is more diseased than one who is not; but, for the rest, if you say other things more fully and of greater weight than Lysias, you shall stand in Olympia, of solid gold, near the offering of the Cypselidre. 27. Socr. You are quite serious, Phaedrus, because, in teasing you, I have attacked your favorite, and you think that I shall really attempt to'say something more skillfully wrought than his wisdom has produced. Phce. For that matter, my friend, you have given me as good a hold on you; for you must speak,at all events, as well as you are able. And take care that we are not com¬ pelled to have recourse to that troublesome method of co¬ medians, of retorting upon one another; and do not com¬ pel me to say, 1 “ If I, Socrates ! know not Socrates, I have also forgotten myself,” and, “ he longed to speak, but af¬ fected shyness.” But make up your mind that we shall not leave this spot before you have given utterance to what you said you have in your breast. For we two are by our¬ selves, in a lonely place, and I am both stronger and young¬ er. From all this, understand what I mean, and on no ac¬ count prefer speaking by compulsion rather than willingly. 1 See before, secs. 3 and 4. v PIIiEDRUS. 341 28. Socr. But, my excellent Phaedrus, it would be ridic¬ ulous in me, who am but a novice in comparison with an experienced author, to attempt to speak extempore on the same subject. Phce. Do you know how the case stands? Let me have no more of your airs; for I have that to say which will force you to speak. Socr. On no account say it, then. Phce. Nay, but I will say it. And what I have to say is an oath. For I swear to you,by whom, by what god? —shall it be by this plane-tree?—that unless you make a speech to me before this very tree, I will never again ei¬ ther show or repeat to you another speech by any one whomsoever. Socr. Ah, wicked one! how well have you found out how to compel a lover of speeches to do whatever you bid him. Phce. Why, then, do you hesitate ? Socr. I shall not any longer, since you have sworn this oath. For how should I ever be able to debar myself of such a feast? Phce. Begin, then. Socr. Do you know,then,what I mean to do? Phce. About what? Socr. I shall speak with my face covered, that I may run through my speech as quickly as possible, and that I may not, by looking at you, be put out through shame. Phce. Do but speak; and as to the rest, do as you please. 29. Socr. Come, then, ye muses, whether from the char¬ acter of your song, ye are called tuneful, 1 or whether ye de¬ rive this appellation from the musical race of the Ligyans, assist me in the tale which this best of men compels me to relate, that so his friend, who heretofore appeared to him to be wise, may now appear still more so! There was once a boy, or rather a youth, of exceeding beauty, and he had very many lovers. One of them was a cunning fellow; who, though he was no less in love than the rest, persuaded the boy that he was not in love. And once, as he was courting him, he endeavored to persuade 1 There is here a play on the words \iysiai, “ tuneful,” and Aiyvwv, “ Ligyans,” which can not be retained 4n an English version. 342 PHiEDRUS. him that favor ought to be shown to one who was not in love, in preference to one who was. And he spoke as fol¬ lows : On every subject, ray boy, there is one method of be¬ ginning, for those who mean to deliberate well. They must know what the thing is about which the deliberation is to be, or else of necessity go altogether astray. But it lias escaped the notice of most men that they do not know the essence of each several thing. As if they did know, therr, they do not agree with each other at the outset of the inquiry, and, as they proceed, they pay the probable penalty, for they agree neither with themselves nor with each other. Let not you and I, then, fall into the error which we condemn in others; but since the question pro¬ posed to us is, whether we ought rather to enter into a friendship with one who is in love or not, having, by mut¬ ual agreement, settled on a definition of love, what it is, and what power it has, and looking back and referring to this, let us prosecute our inquiry whether it occasions ad¬ vantage or detriment. 30. That love, then, is a kind of desire, is clear to every one; and we know that they Avho are not in love desire beautiful things. How, then, shall we distinguish a lover from one who is not in love? Here it is necessary to observe that in each of us there are two ruling and leading principles, which we follow wherever they lead — one being an innate desire of pleasures, the other an acquired opinion, which aims at what is most excellent. These sometimes agree in us, and sometimes are at variance; and sometimes one gets the upper hand, at other times the other. When opinion, therefore, with the aid of reason, leads to that which is best, and gets the upper hand, we give the name of temperance to this pow¬ er ; but when desire drags us irrationally to pleasures, and rules within us, this ruling power takes the name of ex¬ cess. But excess has many names; for it has many limbs and many forms. 31. And of these principles, whichever happens to get the predominance gives its own designa¬ tion to the person who possesses it, and that neither hon¬ orable nor worth acquiring. For instance, with respect to food, desire that gets the better of the highest reason, and of the other desires, will be called gluttony, and will PII2EDRUS. 343 cause the person who possesses it to be called by the same name. Again, with respect to drinking, when it has usurped dominion, by leading its possessor in this di¬ rection, it is clear what designation it will acquire. And with respect to other things akin to these, and the names of kindred desires, it is manifest how they ought to be called, according as each for the time being happens to be dominant. "Why all this has been said is already pretty evident; but every thing becomes in a manner more clear by being mentioned than if not mentioned. 32. I or de¬ sire without reason, having got the upper hand of opinion that tends to what is right, and being driven toward the pleasure derived from beauty, and being strongly impelled by its kindred desires to corporeal beauty, receives its name from this very strength, and is called love. But, my dear Phsedrus, do I appear to you, as I do to myself, to be moved by some divine influence? Pkm. Assuredly, Socrates, an unusual fluency has got possession of you. Socr. Listen to me, then, in silence; for in truth the place appears to be divine. If, therefore, in the progress of my speech, I should be frequently entranced by the ge¬ nius of the spot, you must not be surprised; for what I utter now is not very far removed from dithyrambics. Phce. You say most truly. 33. Socr. Of this, however, you are the cause. But hear the rest; for perhaps the attack of the trance may be averted, though this will be the care of the deity; but let us again direct our discourse to the boy. Well, then, my excellent boy, what that is about which we are to deliberate has been declared and defined. Keep¬ ing this in view, then, let us proceed to consider what ad¬ vantage or detriment will probably accrue fiom oije who is in love and one who is not, to him that shows favor to them. He that is ruled by desire, and is a slave to pleasure, must necessarily, I think, endeavor to make the object of his love as agreeable to himself as possible. But to one 1 I have followed Stallbaum in omitting the words sppw/isvwe and vucli- (Tnaa, but still fear that I have foiled to convey the full meaning of this difficult and corrupt passage. 344 PIIiEDRUS. diseased, every thing is pleasant that does not oppose his wishes; but that which is superior and equal is hateful to him. A lover, therefore, will never willingly allow his fa¬ vorite to be either superior to or on an equality with him¬ self, but is always endeavoring to make him inferior and more deficient. An ignorant person is inferior to a wise one, a coward to a brave one, one who is unable to speak to a rhetorician, a dull to a clever one. 34. Since so many evils, and even more than these, are engendered, or natu¬ rally exist, in the mind of the beloved object, the lover must of necessity rejoice at the existence of the one sort and endeavor to introduce the others, or be deprived of immediate pleasure. He must, therefore, needs be envious, and, by debarring his favorite from much other and that profitable society, whence he might become most manly, lie is the occasion of great harm, and of the greatest, by debarring him of that by means of which he would be¬ come most wise; and this is divine philosophy, front which a lover must needs keep his favorite at a distance, through the fear of being despised; and must so manage every thing else that he may be ignorant of every thing, and look to the lover for every thing, thus being most agreeable to him, but most detrimental to himself. As concerns the mind, then, a man that is in love is in no respect a profita¬ ble guardian and companion. But as to the habit and care of the body, what it will be and how he will attend to it, of which a man has become the lord, who is compelled to pursue the pleasant in pref¬ erence to the good, is next to be considered. 35. He will be seen pursuing some delicate and not hardy youth, not reared in the open air, but under the shade of mingled trees, a stranger to manly toil and dry sweats, but no stranger to a delicate and effeminate mode of life, adorn¬ ed with foreign colors and ornaments through want of such as are natural, and studious of all such other things as accompany these; what they are is clear, and it is not worth while to enter into further detail; but, having -sum¬ med them up under one head, we will proceed to another part of our subject. Such a body, both in battle and oth¬ er great emergencies, enemies will look upon with confi¬ dence, but friends and lovers themselves will fear for. PILZEDRUS. 345 This, however, as sufficiently evident, may be dismissed. 36. In the next place, we must declare what advantage or what detriment, with respect to our possessions, the soci¬ ety and guardianship of one in love will occasion. But this, indeed, is manifest to every one, and especially to a lover, that he would desire above all tilings that the object of his love should be bereft of his dearest, fondest, and holiest treasures; for he would have him gladly deprived of father and mother, kindred and friends, thinking that they are a hinderance to, and blamers of, the sweetest in¬ tercourse with him. Moreover, if he has abundance of gold or any other property, he will think that he can not be so easily caught, nor, when caught, easily managed. Wherefore it must of necessity happen that a lover should grudge his favorite possession of abundance, and should rejoice at its loss. Further still, a lover will wish his fa¬ vorite to continue as long as possible without a wife, with¬ out child, and without home, from a desire to enjoy his own delights for as long a time as possible. 37. There are, indeed, other evils besides these, but some deity has mingled present pleasure with most of them ; with a flat¬ terer, for instance, a dreadful beast and great bane, nature has nevertheless mingled a kind of pleasure that is by no means inelegant. And some one, perhaps, piay blame a mistress as detrimental, and many other similar creatures and pursuits, which for the day, however, afford the great¬ est enjoyment; but to a favorite, a lover, besides being detrimental, is the most disagreeable of all for daily in¬ tercourse. For the ancient proverb says that equal de¬ lights in equal; I suppose, because an equality of age leading to equal pleasures produces friendship by simi¬ larity of tastes. But, still, the intercourse even of these brings satiety; and, moreover, necessity is said to be irk¬ some to every one in every thing; and this, in addition to their dissimilarity, is especially the case with a lover to¬ ward his favorite. 38. For an old man who associates with a young one does not willingly leave him either by day or night, but is driven on by necessity and frenzy, which lead him on by constantly giving him pleasure, through seeing, hearing, touching, and by every sense feel¬ ing the presence of the beloved object, so that he would 15 * 346 PHiEDRUS. with pleasure cling constantly to him; but, by giving what solace or what pleasures to the object of his love can he prevent him, during an intercourse of equal dura¬ tion, from feeling the utmost disgust, while he sees a face old, and no longer in its bloom, with the other things that accompany it, which are unpleasant even to hear spoken of, much more so to have actually to do with from an ever-pressing necessity; when he has, too, to keep a sus¬ picious watch over himself at all times and in all company, and has to listen to unreasonable and extravagant praises, and reproaches as well, which, when the lover is sober, are intolerable, and, when he is drunk, are not only intolera¬ ble, but disgraceful, from the loathsome and undisguised freedom of his language? 39. Thus he that is in love is detrimental and disgusting; but when he ceases to love, lie is thenceforth unfaithful toward him who by many promises, and with many oaths and entreaties, he could hardly prevail on at that time to endure his troublesome familiarity in the hope of advantage. But now, when pay¬ ment ought to be made, having received within himself another ruler and master, reason and prudence, instead of love and madness, he has become another man unknown to his favorite. He then demands a return for former fa¬ vors, reminding him of what was done and said, as if he were talking to the same person; but the other, through shame, dares neither say that he has become another man, nor is he able to adhere to the oaths and promises of the former insensate reign, now that he has got possession of his senses, and has become prudent, fearing lest, by doing the same things as before, he should become like what he was, and the same thing again. 40. Hence, he becomes a runaway, and, of necessity, a defrauder, who was before a lover, and, the shell being turned, 1 he changes from pur¬ suit to flight; but the other is forced to pursue him with indignation and curses, having been ignorant from the very beginning .that he ought never to have granted fa¬ vors to one that is in love, and of necessity out of his 1 In allusion to a game among children, in which a shell, white on one side and black on the other, was thrown up into the air; and according as either side fell uppermost, one set of playmates ran off and the other pursued, or vice versa . PHiEDRUS. 347 senses, but much rather to one who is not in love, and in bis right mind; otherwise he must necessarily give him¬ self up to one that is unfaithful, morose, envious, disgust¬ ing, detrimental to his property, detrimental to bis bodily habit, but far more detrimental t6 the cultivation of bis soul, than which in truth there neither is, nor ever will be, any thing more precious in the sight of gods and men. It "is right, therefore, my boy, to reflect on these things, and to know that the attachment of a lover is not united with good-will; but, like food for the sake of repletion, “ as wolves love a lamb, so lovers love a boy.” This is it, Phaedrus; you must not expect to hear me say another word, but must let my speech end here. 41. Phce. But I thought it was only in the middle, and that it would say as much about one who is not in love, that he ought rather to be favored, mentioning, in turn, what advantages he has. Why, then, Socrates, do you stop short now ? Socr. Did you not .observe, my excellent friend, that I was now uttering epics, and no longer dithyrambics, and this while giving expression to blame? If, then, I should begin to praise the other, what do you think would be¬ come of me ? Do you not know that I shall be thrown into an ecstasy by the Nymphs, to whom you have pur¬ posely exposed me ? I say, then, in one word, that what¬ ever vices I have attributed to the one, to the other the contrary advantages belong. What need, then, is there for a long speech, for enough has been said about both? Thus the story will be treated as it ought to be treated; I will, therefore, cross over the river and go home, before I am compelled by you to do something more difficult. 42. Phm. Not yet, Socrates, before the heat has passed away. Do you not see that it is now nearly high-noon, as it is called ? Let us, then, remain here, and converse together about what has been said, and, as soon as it grows cool we will go home. Socr. You are a strange man for speeches, Phaedrus, and really wonderful. For I think that, of all the speeches made during your lifetime, no one has been the occasion of more being made than yourself, whether by speaking them yourself, or, in some way or other, compelling others. 348 PHiEDRUS. I except Simmias of Thebes; but you far surpass all the rest. And now, again, you appear to me to be the occa¬ sion of another speech being made. Phce. You do not announce war, indeed; but how and what speech is this? 43. Socr. When I was about to cross the river, my good friend, the divine and wonted signal was given me (it always deters me from what I am about to do}, and I seemed to hear a voice from this very spot, which would not suffer me to depart before I had purified myself, as if I had committed some offense against the deity. Now, I am a prophet, though not a very good one, but, like bad writers, am good enough for my own purposes. Accord- ingly, I clearly perceive my offense, for, my friend, the soul is in some measure prophetic; and mine troubled me some time since as I was delivering the speech; and, some¬ how, I was cast down, as Ibycus says, for fear I should offend the gods, and gain honor from men in exchange. But now I perceive my offense. Phce. What do you say it is? Socr . A dreadful, dreadful speech, Phsedrus, you both brought here yourself, and compelled me to utter. Phce. How so? Socr. Foolish, and in some sort impious; and can any thing be more dreadful than this? 44. Phce. Nothing, if you say truly. Socr. What, then ? Do you not think that Love is son of Venus, and a god? Phce. So it is said. Socr. Yet not by Lysias, nor by that speech of yours which was uttered through my mouth when bewitched by you. But if Love be, as indeed he is, a god, or something divine, he can not be, in any respect, evil; yet both ovu¬ late speeches spoke of him as such. In this, therefore, they committed an offense against Love; besides, their silliness was very amusing, in that they said nothing sound or true; yet they prided themselves as if they were some¬ thing, because they might perhaps impose on some sim¬ pletons, and gain their approbation. It is necessary, there¬ fore, my friend, that I should purify myself. But there is an ancient purification for those who offend in matters PHiEDRUS. 349 relating to mythology, which Homer was not acquainted with, but Stesichorus was. For, being deprived of sight for defaming Helen, he was not ignorant like Homer, but, as a friend of the Muses, knew the cause, and immediately composed the following lines: “ This tale is not true; thou didst not go on board the well-benched ships, nor reach the towers of Troy.” Thus, having composed this en¬ tire recantation, as it is called, he immediately recovered his sight. I, however, will be wiser than they in this re¬ spect ; for, before I suffer any harm for defaming Love, I will endeavor to present him my recantation with my head bare, and not, as before, covered through shame. 45. Phce. There is nothing, Socrates, that you could say to me more agreeable than this. Socr. For, my good Phsedrus, you must be sensible how shamelessly both our speeches were composed, as well mine as that which was read from the book. For, if any generous man, and of mild disposition, who is either now in love with, or has formerly been enamored of, another like himself, had happened to hear us say that lovers con¬ tract violent enmities for trifling causes, and are envious of, and detrimental to, their favorites, can you'suppose that he would do otherwise than think he was listening to men brought up among sailors, and who had never wit¬ nessed an ingenuous love, and would be far from assenting to the censures we cast upon Love. Phce. Probably he would, by Jupiter ! Socrates. Socr. Out of respect to him, then, and fear of Love him¬ self, I am anxious to wash out, as it were, the brackish taste by a sweet speech. And I advise Lysias, too, to write as soon as possible, that it is proper, under similar circumstances, to favor a lover rather than one who is not in love. 46. Phce. You may be well assured that this will be done; for, when you have spoken in praise of the lover, Lysias must needs be compelled by me to write another speech on the same subject. Socr. This I believe, while you continue the man you are. Phce. Speak, then, with confidence. /Socr. But where is my boy, to whom I spoke, that he 350 PILEDRUS. may hear this too, and may not, from not hearing it, has¬ tily grant favors to one who is not in love? Plica. Here. He is always very near to yon, whenever you want him. Socr. Understand, then, my beautiful boy, that the for¬ mer speech was that of Phaedrus, son of Fythocles, a man of Myrrhinus; but that which I am now about to deliver is the speech of Stesichorus, son of Euphemus, of Himera. It must begin thus: “The assertion is not true which declares that, when a lover-is present, favor ought rather be shown to one who is not in love, because the one is mad, and the other in his sober senses. 47. For, if it were universally true that madness is evil, the assertion would be correct. But now the greatest blessings we have spring from madness, when granted by divine bounty. For the prophetess at Delphi and the priestesses at Dodona have, when mad, done many and noble services for Greece, both privately and publicly, but in their sober senses little or nothing. And if we were to speak of the Sibyl and others, who, employing prophetic inspiration, have correctly predicted many things to many persons respecting the future, we should be too prolix in relating what is known to every one. 48. This, however, deserves to be adduced, by way of testimony, that such of the ancients as gave names to things did not consider madness as disgraceful, or a cause of reproach: for they would not have attached this very name to that most noble art by which the future is discerned, and have called it a mad art; but, considering it noble when it hap¬ pens by the divine decree,they gave it this name; but the men of the present day, by ignorantly inserting the letter r, have called it the prophetic art ;* since also with respect to the investigation of the future by people in their senses, which is made by means of birds and other signs, inas¬ much as men, by means of reflection, furnish themselves by human thought with intelligence and information, they 1 It is impossible, in an English version, to retain Plato’s explanation of the progressive application of kindred words. If the unlearned reader can decipher the following Greek letters, he may possibly understand’ our author’s meaning: pavia is madness; pavucrj, the mad art; /.lavriicr], the prophetic art. PHiEDRUS. 351 gave it the name of prognostication, 1 which the moderns, by using the emphatic long o, now call augury. But how much more perfect and valuable, then, prophecy is than augury, one name than the other, and one effect than the other, by so much did the ancients testify that madness is more noble than sound sense — that which comes from God than that which proceeds from men. 49. Moreover, for those dire diseases and afflictions, which continued in some families in consequence of ancient crimes commit¬ ted by some or other of them, madness springing up and prophesying to those to whom it. was proper, discovered a remedy—fleeing for refuge to prayers and services of the gods—whence, obtaining purifications and atoning rites, it made him who possessed it sound, both for the present and the future, by discovering to him, who was rightly mad and possessed, a release from present evils. There is a third possession and madness proceeding from the Muses, which, seizing upon a tender and chaste soul, and rousing and inspiring it to the composition of odes and other species of poetry, by adorning the countless deeds of antiquity, instructs posterity. But he who, without the madness of the Muses, approaches the gates of poesy un¬ der the persuasion that by means of art he can become an efficient poet, both himself fails in his purpose, and his poetry, being that of a sane man, is thrown into the shade by the poetry of such as are mad. 50. So great, and even more noble, effects of madness proceeding from the gods I am able to mention to you. Let us not, therefore, be afraid of this, nor let any argu¬ ment disturb and frighten us so as to persuade us that we ought to prefer a sane man as our friend, in preference to one who is under the influence of a divine impulsebut let him carry all the victory when he was shown this in addition—that love is sent "by the gods for no benefit to the lover and the beloved. But we, on the other hand, must prove that such madness is given by the gods for the purpose of producing the highest happiness. Now, the proof will be incredible to the subtle, but credible to the wise. It is necessary, therefore, first of all, to under¬ stand the truth with respect to the nature of the soul, 1 oloviGTiKr], prognostication ; otuvurrucr], augury. 352 PHiEDRUS. both divine and human, by observing its affections and operations. 51. This, then, is the beginning of the dem¬ onstration. Every soul is immortal; for, whatever is continually moved is immortal; but that which moves another, and is moved by another, when it ceases to move ceases to live. Therefore, that only which moves itself, since it does not quit itself, never ceases to be moved, but is also the source and beginning of motion to all other things that are moved. But a beginning is uncreate; for every thing that is created must necessarily be created from a beginning; but a beginning itself, from nothing whatever; for if a beginning were created from any thing, it would not be a beginning. 52. Since, then, it is uncreate, it must also, of necessity, be indestructible; for, should a begin¬ ning perish, it could neither itself be ever created from any thing, nor any thing else from it, since all things must be created from a beginning. Thus, then, the beginning of motion is that which moves itself; and this can neither perish nor be created, or all heaven and all creation must collapse and come to a stand-still, and never again have any means whereby it may be moved and created. 53. Since, then, it appears that that which is moved by itself is im¬ mortal, no one will be ashamed to say that this is the very essence and true notion of soul. For every body which is moved from without is soulless; but that which is moved from within of itself possesses a soul, since this is the very nature of soul. But if this be the case, that there is noth¬ ing else which moves itself except soul, soul must necessa¬ rily be both uncreate and immortal. This, then, may suf¬ fice for its immortalitv. But respecting its idea we must speak as follows: what it is, would in every way require a divine and lengthened exposition to tell; but what it is like, a human and a short¬ er one. In this way, then, we will describe it. 54. Let it, then, be likened to the combined power of a pair of winged steeds and a charioteer. Now, the horses and charioteers of the gods are all both good themselves, and of good ex¬ traction, but all others are mixed. In the first place, then, our ruling power drives a pair of steeds; in the next place, of these horses it has one that is beautiful and no- PHJEDRUS. 353 / *v ble, and of similar extraction, but the other is of opposite extraction and opposite character; our driving, therefore, is necessarily difficult and troublesome. But we must en¬ deavor to explain in what respect an animal is called mor¬ tal or immortal. All soul takes care of all that is without soul, and goes about all heaven, appearing at different times in different forms. 55. While it is perfect, then, and winged, it soars aloft and governs the universe; but when it has lost its wings it is borne downward, until it meets with something solid, in which, having taken up its abode by assuming an earthly body, which appears to move itself by means of its own power, the whole together is called an animal, soul and body compounded, and takes the appellation of mortal. But the immortal derives its name from no deduction of reasoning; but, as we neither see nor sufficiently understand God, we represent him as an immortal animal possessed of soul, and possessed of body, and these united together throughout all time. Let these things, however, so be, and be described as God pleases. But let us now discover the cause of the loss of the wings, why they fall, off from the soul. It is some¬ thing of the following kind : 56. The natural power of a wing is to carry up heavy substances by raising them aloft to the regions where the race of the gods dwells; and of the parts connected with the body, it probably partakes most .largely of that which is divine. But that which is divine is beautiful, wise, good, and every thing of that kind. By these, then, the wings of the soul are chiefly nourished and increased; but by what is base and vile,, and other similar contraries, it falls to decay and perishes. Now, the mighty chief in heaven, Jupiter, goes first, driving a winged chariot, order¬ ing and taking care of all things; and there follows him a host of gods and demons, distributed into eleven divisions, for Vesta remains alone in the dwelling of the gods; but of the others, all that have been assigned a station as chief gods in the number of the twelve lead in the order to which they have been severally appointed. 57. But there are many delightful sights and paths within heaven among which the race of the blessed gods move, each performing his own proper work ; and whoso has both will and power 354 PHiEDRUS. accompanies them; for envy stands aloof from the heav¬ enly choir. But when they proceed to a banquet and feast, they now ascend by an uphill path to the highest arch of heaven; and the chariots of the gods, which, from being equally poised, are obedient to the rein, move easily, but all others with difficulty; for the horse that partakes of vice weighs them down, leaning and pressing heavily toward the earth, if he happens not to have been well trained by his charioteer. Here, then, the severest toil and trial are laid upon the soul. For those that are called immortal, when they reach the sumffiit, proceeding out¬ side, stand on the back of heaven, and, while they are stationed here, its revolution carries them round, and they behold the external regions of heaven. 58. But the region above heaven no poet here has ever yet sung of, nor ever will sing of, as it deserves. It is, however, as follows (for surely I may venture to speak the truth, especially as my subject is truth): For essence, that really exists color¬ less, formless, and intangible, is visible only to intelligence that guides the soul, and around it the family of true science have this for their abode. As, then, the mind of deity is nourished by intelligence and pure science, so the mind of every soul that is about to receive what properly belongs to it, when it sees, after a long time, that which is, is delighted, and, by contemplating the truth, is nour¬ ished and thrives, until the revolution of heaven brings it round again to the same point. And during this circuit it beholds justice herself, it beholds temperance, it beholds science; not that to which creation is annexed, nor that which is different in different things of those which we call real, but that which is science in what really is. And, in like manner, having beheld all other things that really are, and, having feasted on them, it again enters into the interior of heaven, and returns home. 59. And on its re¬ turn, the charioteer, having taken his horses to the manger, sets ambrosia before them, and afterward gives them nec¬ tar to drink. And this is the life of the gods. But, with respect to other souls, that which best follows and imitates a god, raises the head of its charioteer to the outer region, and is carried round with the rest in the revolution, yet is confused bv its horses, and scarcely able PHJEDRUS. 355 to beTiold real existences; but another at one time rises, at another sinks, and, owing to the violence of the horses, partly sees, and partly not. The rest follow, all eager for- the upper region, but, being unable to reach it, they are carried round sunk beneath the surface, trampling on and striking against each other, in endeavoring to get one before another. Hence, the tumult, and struggling, and sweating are extreme; and here, through the fault of the charioteers, many are maimed, and many break many of their feathers; and all o'f them, having undergone much toil, depart without having succeeded in getting a view of that which is, and after their departure they make use of the food of mere opinion. 60. And this is the reason for the great anxiety to behold the field of truth, where it is. The proper pasture for the best part of the soul happens to be in the meadow there, and it is the nature of the wing, by which the soul is borne aloft, to be nourished by it; and this is a law of Adrastia, 1 that whatever soul, in accompanying a deity, has beheld any of the true es¬ sences, it shall be free from harm until the next revolu¬ tion ; and if it can always accomplish this, it shall be al¬ ways free from harm. Hut whenever, from inability to keep up, it has not seen any of them, and, from meeting with some misfortune, has been filled with oblivion and vice, and so weighed down, and, from being weighed down, has lost its wings and fallen to the earth, then there is a law that this soul should not be implanted in any brutal nature in its first generation, but that the soul which has seen most should enter into the germ of a man who will become a philosopher or a lover of the beautiful, or a votary of the Muses and Love; but that the second should enter into the form of a constitutional king, or a warrior and commander; the third, into that of a states¬ man, or economist, or merchant; the fourth, into one who loves the toil of gymnastic exercises, or who will be em¬ ployed in healing the body; the fifth will have a pro¬ phetic life, or one connected with the mysteries; to the sixth, the poetic life, or some other of those employed in imitation, will be best adapted; to the seventh, a mechan¬ ical or agricultural life; to the eighth, the life of a sophist 1 That is, “an inevitable law.” 356 PHiEDRUS. or mob courtier; to the ninth, that of a tyrant. 61. But among all these, whosoever passes his life justly afterward obtains a better lot; but who unjustly, a worse one. For to the same place, whence each soul comes, it does not re¬ turn till the expiration of ten thousand years; for it does not recover its wings for so long a period, except it is the soul of a sincere lover of wisdom, or of one who has made philosophy his favorite. 1 But these, in the third period of a thousand years, if they have chosen this life thrice in succession, thereupon depart, with their wings restored in the three thousandth year. But the others, when they * have ended their first life, are brought to trial, and being sentenced, some go to places of punishment beneath the earth, and there suffer for their sins; but others, being borne upward by their sentence to some region in heaven, pass their time in a manner worthy of the life they have lived in human form. But in the thousandth year, both kinds coming back again for the allotment and choice of their second life, choose that which they severally please. And here a human soul passes into the life of a beast, and from a beast he who was once a man passes again into a man. 62. For the soul which has never seen the truth can not come into this form ; for it is necessary that a man should understand according to a generic form, as it is called, which, proceeding from many perceptions, is, by reasoning, combined into one. And this is a recollection of those things which our soul formerly saw when jour¬ neying with deity, despising the things which we now say are, and looking up to that which really is. Wherefore, with justice, the mind of the philosopher is alone furnish¬ ed with wings; for, to the best of his power, his memory dwells on those things by the contemplation of which even deity is divine. But a man who makes a right use of such memorials as these, by constantly perfecting him¬ self in perfect mysteries, alone becomes truly perfect. And by keeping aloof from human pursuits, and dwelling on that which is divine, he is found fault with by the mul¬ titude as out of his senses, but it escapes the notice of the multitude that he is inspired. 1 7 TcudepafTTtjcTctvTog fitra (piXoaocpiaQ. So, in the Gorgias (sec. 82), Socrates calls philosophy his favorite, rr)v (bi\oao, rd l[.ui ircndiKa. PIIiEDRUS. 357 G3. To this, then, comes our whole argument respecting the fourth kind of madness, on account of which, any one who, on seeing beauty in this lower world, being reminded of the true, begins to recover his wings, and, having recov¬ ered them, longs to soar aloft; but being unable to do it, looks upward like a bird, and, despising things below, is deemed to be affected with madness. Our argument comes to this, then, that this is the best of all enthusiasms, and of the best origin, both for him who possesses and for him who partakes of it; and that he who loves beau¬ tiful objects, by having a share of this madness, is called a lover. For, as we have mentioned, every soul of man has, from its very nature, beheld real existences, or it would not have entered into this human form; for it is not easy for every one to call to mind former things from the pres¬ ent, neither for those who then had but a brief view of the things there, nor for those who, after their fall hither, were so unfortunate as to be turned aside -by evil associa¬ tions to injustice, and so to have forgotten the sacred things they formerly beheld. Few, therefore, are left who have sufficient memory. But these, when they see any resemblance of the things there, are amazed, and no longer masters of themselves; and they know not what this af¬ fection is, because they do not thoroughly perceive it. 64. Now, of justice and temperance, and whatever else souls deem precious, there is no brightness in the resemblances here; but by means of dull instruments, with difficulty a few only, on approaching the images, are able to discern the character of that which is represented. But beauty was then splendid to look on, when with that happy choir we, in company with Jupiter, and others with some other of the gods, beheld that blissful sight and spectacle, and were initiated into that which may be rightly called the most blessed of all mysteries, which we celebrated when we were whole, and unaffected by the.evils that awaited us in time to come, and, moreover, when we were ini¬ tiated in, and beheld in the pure light, perfect, simple, calm, and blessed visions, being ourselves pure, and as yet unmasked with this which we now carry about with us, and call the body, fettered to it like an oyster to its shell. 058 PILEDRUS. 65. Lot this much be said out of regard to memory, on account of which, from a longing for former things,I have now spoken at greater ^length than I ought. But with respect to beauty, as we observed, she both shone among things there, and on our coming hither we found her, through the clearest of our senses, shining most clearly. For sight is the keenest of our bodily senses, though wis¬ dom is not seen by it. For vehement would be the love she would inspire,if she came before our sight and showed us any such clear image of herself, and so would all other lovable things; but now beauty only has this privilege of being most manifest and most lovely. 66. He, then, who has not been recently initiated, or who has become corrupted, is not speedily carried hence thither to beauty itself, by beholding here that which takes its name from it. So that he does not reverence it when he beholds it, but, giving himself up to pleasure, like a beast he attempts to mount it and to have intercourse with it, and, in his wanton advances, he is neither afraid nor ashamed of this unnatural pursuit of pleasure. But he who has been re¬ cently initiated, and who formerly beheld many things, when he sees a godlike countenance, or some bodily form that presents a good imitation of beauty, at first shudders, and some of the former terrors come over him; then, as lie looks steadfastly at it, he reverences it as a god; and if he did not dread the imputation of excessive madness, he would sacrifice to his favorite as to a statue or a god. 67. But after he has beheld it, as commonly happens, after shuddering, a change (a sweating and unusual heat) comes over him. For, having received the emanation of beauty through his eyes, he has become heated, so that the wings that are natural to him are refreshed; and by his being heated, the parts where they grow are softened, which, having been long closed up through hardness, prevented them from shooting out. But when this nutriment flows in, the quill of the wing begins to swell, and makes an ef- .fort to burst from the root, beneath the whole form of the soul; for of old it was all winged. In this state, then, the whole boils and throbs violently; and as is the case with infants cutting their teeth, when they are just growing out there are a pricking and soreness of the gums, in the PIIvEDRUS. 359 same way the soul is affected of one who is beginning to put forth his wings—it boils and is sore, and itches as it puts them forth. 68. When, therefore, by beholding the beauty of a boy, and receiving particles that proceed and flow from thence, which are for that reason called desire, it becomes refreshed and heated; it is relieved from pain, and filled with joy ; but when it is separated and becomes parched, the orifices of the passages through which the wing shoots forth become closed through drought, and shut up the germ of the wing. But it being shut in to¬ gether with desire, leaping like throbbing veins, strikes against each passage that is shut against it, so that the whole soul, being pricked all round, is frantic, and in ago¬ ny ; but again retaining the memory of the beautiful one, it is filled with joy. 69. And from both these mingled to¬ gether, it is tormented by the strangeness of the affection, and, not knowing what to do, becomes frenzied, and, being in this frantic state, it can neither sleep at night nor re¬ main quiet by day, but runs about with longing wherever it may hope to see the possessor of the beauty. And on beholding him, and drawing in fresh supplies of desire, it loosens the' parts that were closed up, and, recovering breath, has a respite from stings and throes, and again for the present enjoys this most exquisite pleasure. Where¬ fore, it never willingly leaves him, nor values any one more than the beautiful one, but forgets mothers and brothers and friends all alike; and if its substance is wasting through neglect, it reckons that as of no conse¬ quence, and, despising all customs and decorums in which it formerly prided itself, it is ready to be a slave, and to lie down wherever any one will allow it, as near as possi¬ ble to the object of its longing. For, in addition to its reverence for the possessor of beauty, it has found that he is the only physician for its severest troubles. 70. Now, tljis affection, my beautiful boy—you, I mean, to whom I am speaking—men call love; but when you hear what the gods designate it, you will probably laugh, on account of your youth. Some Homerics, L think, ad¬ duce out of their secret poems two verses on love, of which the second is very insolent, and not altogether deli¬ cate. They sing as follows: “Him mortals, indeed, call 360 PH2EDRUS. winged Eros, but immortals Fteros (Flyer) for his flighty nature.” 1 These verses, then, you are at liberty to believe, or not; however, this assuredly is the cause and the condition of lovers. 71. Now, when one of the attendants upon Jupi¬ ter is seized, he is able to bear with greater firmness the burden of the wing-named god; but such as are in the service of Mars, and went round heaven with him, when they are caught by Love, and think that they are at all in¬ jured by the object of their love, are blood-thirsty, and ready to immolate both themselves and their favorite. And so with respect to each several god, whose choir each followed : he spends his life in honoring and imitating him to the best of his power, so long as he remains free from corruption, and is living here his first generation; and in this way he associates with and behaves to his beloved and all others. 72. Every one, therefore, chooses his love out of the objects of beauty according to his own taste; and, as if he were a god to him, lie fashions and adorns him like a statue, as if for the purpose of reverencing him and celebrating orgies in his honor. They, then, that are followers of Jupiter seek for some one who resembles Ju¬ piter in his soul, to be the object of his love. They there¬ fore consider whether he is by nature a lover of wisdom, and fitted to command ; and when, on finding one, they have become enamored of him, they do every thing in their power to make him such. If, then, they have not al¬ ready entered upon this study, they now set about it, and learn it from whatever source they can, and themselves pursue it; and by endeavoring to discover of themselves the nature of their own deity, they succeed by being com¬ pelled to look steadfastly on their god ; and when they grasp him with their memory, being inspired by him, they receive from him their manners and pursuits, so far as it is possible for man to participate of deity. 73. And, consid¬ ering the object of their love as the cause of all this, they love°him still more; and if they have drawn their inspi¬ ration' fron} Jupiter, like the Bacchanals, they pour it into the soul of their beloved, and make him as much as possi- 1 I must own myself indebted to Mr. Wright’s version of this dialogue for this happy translation of these two lines. PHiEDRUS. 361 ble resemble their own god. But such ns attended Juno seek after a royal favorite, and, when they have found one, they act toward him in precisely the same manner. And such as attended Apollo, ayd each of the other gods, fol¬ lowing the example of their several deities, desire that their favorite may have a corresponding character; and when they have gained such a one, both by imitation on their own part, and by persuading and alluring their favor¬ ite, they lead him to the peculiar pursuit and character of that god; not, indeed, by employing envy or illiberal se¬ verity toward their favorite, but endeavoring by every means in their power to lead him to a perfect resemblance of themselves and their god, they act accordingly. 74. A zeal, then, on the part of those who truly love, and an initi¬ ation, as I call it, if they succeed in what they desire, s6 beautiful and blessed, falls to the lot of the beloved one at the hands of him that is maddened by love, if only he be won. But he that is won, is won in the following manner: As, in the beginning of this account, I divided each soul into three parts, two of them having the form of horses, and the third that of a charioteer, so let us still maintain that division. But of the horses, one, we said, was good, and the other not. What, however, is the virtue of the good one, or the vice of the bad one, we have not yet ex¬ plained, but must now declare. That one of them, then, which is in the nobler condition, is in form erect, finely moulded, high-necked, hook-nosed, white-colored, black- eyed, a lover of honor, with temperance and modesty, and a companion of true glory, without the whip is driven by word of command and voice only ; the other, on the other hand, is crooked, thick-set, clumsily put together, strong¬ necked, short-throated, flat-faced, black-colored, gray-eyed, hot-blooded, a companion of insolence and swaggering, shaggy about the ears, deaf, scarcely obedient to whip and spur together. 15. When, therefore, the charioteer beholds the love-inspiring sight, his whole soul becoming heated by sensation, he is filled with irritation and the stings of desire; the horse that is obedient to the charioteer, then as ever, overpowered by shame, restrains himself from leaping on the beloved object; but the other no longer heeds either the whip or the spurs of the charioteer, but 16 362 PHJEDRUS. s bounding forward, is carried violently along, and, giving every kind of trouble to his yoke-fellow and the chariot¬ eer, compels them to hurry to the favorite, and to indulge in the delights of love. They at first resist, from indig¬ nation, at being compelled to such a dreadful and lawless course; but at length, when there is no end to the evil, they go on as they are led, having submitted and consent¬ ed to do what they are ordered; and now they come up to him, and behold the gleaming countenance of the fa¬ vorite. 76. But the memory of the charioteer, when he beholds him, is carried back to the nature of absolute beauty, and again sees her, together with temperance, standing on a chaste pedestal. And-, on beholding, it 1 shudders, and, awe-struck, falls down backward, and at the same time is compelled to draw back the reins so violent¬ ly as to throw both the horses on their haunches; the one, indeed, willingly, from his not resisting, but the insolent one very much against his will. When they have with¬ drawn to some distance, the former, through shame and amazement, drenches the whole soul with sweat; but the other, having got rid of the pain which he suffered from the bit and the fall, when he has scarcely recovered his breath, bursts out into passionate revilings, vehemently reproaches the charioteer and his yoke-fellow for having abandoned their station and compact from cowardice and effeminacy; and again compelling them, against their wills, to approach, he with difficulty yields to their entreaties to defer it to a future time. 77. But when the time agreed on comes, reminding them who pretended to forget it, plunging, neighing, and dragging forward, he compels them again, to approach the favorite for the same purpose. And when they are near, bending down his head and extending his spear, he champs the bit, and drags them on with wanton¬ ness. But the charioteer, being affected as before, though more strongly, as if he were falling back from the starting- rope, pulls back the bit with still greater violence from the teeth of the insolent horse, and covers his railing tongue and jaws with blood, and, forcing his legs and haunches to the ground, tortures him with pain. 78. But when, by being often treated in the same way, the vicious 1 “ It,” memory. PIIiEDRUS. 363 horse 1ms laid aside his insolence, being humbled, he hence¬ forth follows the directions of the charioteerand when he beholds the beautiful object, he swoons through fear. So that it comes to pass that thenceforth the soul of the lover follows its favorite with reverence and awe. Since, then, he is worshiped with all observance as if he were a god, not by a lover who feigns the passion, but who really feels it, and since lie is by nature inclined to friendship, lie directs his affection to accord Avith that of his worshiper; even though in past times he may have been misled by his associates or some others Avho told him that it Avas dis¬ graceful to alloAV a lover to approach him—and he may for this reason have rejected his lover—yet, in process of time, his age and destiny induce him to admit his loA T er to familiarity. *79. For surely it Avas never decreed by fate that the evil should be a friend to the evil, or the good not a friend to the good. When, therefore, he has ad¬ mitted him, and accepted his conversation and society, the benevolence of the lover, being brought into close contact, astonishes the beloved Avlien he perceives that all his other friends and relatives together exhibited no friendship at all tOAvard him in comparison Avith his inspired friend. But Avhen he has spent some time in doing this, and has approached so near as to come in contact in the gymnastic schools and other places of social intercourse, then the fountain of that stream to Avhich Jupiter, Avhen in love Avith Ganymede, gave the name of desire, streaming in great abundance upon the lover, partly sinks into him, and partly flows out of him Avhen he is full. And as a wind, or any sound, rebounding from smooth and hard sub¬ stances, is borne back again to the place from Avhence it proceeded, so this stream of beauty, flowing back again to the beautiful one through the eyes, by Avhich Avay it nat¬ urally enters the soul, and having returned thither and fledged itself anew, refreshes the outlets of the feathers, and moves him to put forth Avings, and, in turn, fills the soul of the beloved one Avith love. 80. Accordingly, he is in love, but with whom he knows not; neither is he atvare, nor is lie able to tell what has happened to him; but, like a person who has caught a disease in the eyes from an¬ other, he is unable to assign the cause, and is not aware 3G4 PILZEDRUS. that ho beholds himself in his lover, as in a mirror. And when the lover is present, he is freed from-pain in the same way as the lover is; blit when he is absent, he, in turn, longs for him in the same manner that he is longed for, possessing love’s image, love returned; but he calls it, and considers it to be, not love, but friendship. And ho de¬ sires, in the same way as the lover, though more feebly, to see, to touch, to kiss, to lie down with him; and, as is probable, he soon afterward does all this. 81. In this ly¬ ing down together, then, the unbridled horse of the lover has something to say to its charioteer, and begs to be al¬ lowed some small enjoyment in recompense for his many toils; but the same horse of the favorite has nothing to say, but, swelling with love, and in doubt, embraces the lover, and kisses him as he would kiss a very dear friend; and when they are laid down together, he is unable to re¬ fuse, as far as in his power, to gratify his lover in what¬ ever he requires. But his yoke-fellow, together with the charioteer, resists this familiarity with shame and reason. If, then, the better parts of their mind have prevailed so as to lead them to a well-regulated mode of living and phi¬ losophy, they pass their life here in bliss and concord, hav¬ ing obtained the mastery over themselves, and being or¬ derly, through having brought into subjection that part of the soul in which vice was engendered, and having set free that in which was virtue; and when they depart this life, becoming winged and light, they have been victorious in one of the three truly Olympic contests—a greater good than .which neither human prudence nor divine madness can pos¬ sibly bestow on man. 82. If, however, they have adopted a coarser and less philosophic mode of living, yet still hon¬ orable, but perhaps in a fit of drunkenness or some other thoughtless moment, their two unbridled beasts finding their souls unguarded, and bringing them together to one place, have made and consummated that choice which most men deem blissful; and, having once consummated it, they continue to practice it for the future, though rare¬ ly, in that they are doing what is not approved by their whole mind. These, too, then, pass their life dear to each other, but less so than the others, both during the period of love and after it., thinking that they have both given PIIiEDIvUS. 3G5 to find received from each other the strongest pledges, which it were impious to violate, and so at any time be¬ come alienated. 83. But in the end, without wings in¬ deed, yet making an effort to become winged, they quit the body, so as to carry off no trifling prize of impassioned madness; for there is a law that those who have already set out in the heavenward path should never again enter on darkness and the paths beneath the earth, but that, passing a splendid life, they should be happy walking with each other, and that, for their love’s sake, whenever they become winged, they should be winged together. These so great and divine things, my boy, will the af¬ fection of a lover confer on you. But the familiarity of one who is not in love, being mingled with mortal pru¬ dence, and dispensing mortal and niggardly gifts, gener¬ ating in the beloved soul an illiberality which is praised by the multitude as virtue, will cause it to be tossed about the earth and beneath the earth for nine thousand years, devoid of intelligence. 84. To thee, beloved Love, this re¬ cantation, the most beautiful and the best, according to my ability, is presented and duly paid, both in other respects and by certain poetical phrases, of necessity adorned for the sake of Phtedrus. But do thou, pardoning my former speech, and graciously accepting this, propitiously and be¬ nignly, neither take from me the art of love wdiich thou hast given me, nor maim it in thy wrath, but grant that even more than now I may be honored by the beautiful. And if, in our former speech, Phaedrus and I have said any thing offensive to thee, blaming Lysias as the author of the speech, make him desist from such speeches in future, and convert him to philosophy, as his brother Polemar- chus has been converted; so that this lover of his may no longer remain neutral as now, but may wholly devote his life to love, in conjunction with philosophic discourses. Phce . I join with you in praying, Socrates, that if this is better for us, so it may be. 85. But I have been long wondering at your speech, how much more beautiful you have made it than the former one; so that I am afraid that Lysias will appear to me but poor, even if he should be willing to produce another in opposition to it. For only the other day, my admirable friend, one of our pub- 366 PHiEDRUS. lie men, as lie was attacking him, upbraided him with this very thing, and throughout the whole of his attack called him a writer of speeches. Perhaps, therefore, for ambi¬ tion’s sake, he will refrain from writing any more. Soar. The opinion you express, my youth, is ridiculous; and you very much mistake your friend if you imagine him to be so easily frightened. Perhaps, too, you think that his assailant really meant what he said. 86. Phcs. He seemed to do so, Socrates; and you are doubtless yourself aware that the most powerful and con¬ siderable men in a city are ashamed to write speeches, and to leave their own compositions behind them, through fear of the opinion of posterity, lest they should be called sophists. Socr. It has escaped your notice, Phaedrus, that the prov¬ erb, “ a sweet bend,” is derived from that long bend in the Nile; and, as well as the bend, it escapes your notice that these public men who think most highly of themselves are most fond of writing speeches, and of leaving their com¬ positions behind them ; and, moreover, whenever they write a speech, they so love its supporters that they prefix their names who on each occasion commend them. 87. Phce. How do you mean, for I don’t understand you ? Socr. Don’t you understand, that, at the beginning of a statesman’s writing, the name of its supporter is written first. Phce. How? Socr. “Approved,” I think the writing itself says, “ by the council, or the people, or bothand he who proposed it, speaking very pompously of and extolling himself— namely, the. composer—after this makes a speech so as to display his own wisdom to his supporters, sometimes mak¬ ing a very long composition. Does this appear to you to be any thing else than a written speech ? PZice. It does not to me. 88. Socr. If, then, it happens to be approved, the com¬ poser goes home from the theatre delighted. But if it should be rubbed out, and he debarred from writing speeches, and from the dignity of an author, both he and his friends take it greatly to heart. PHiEDRUS. 307 Phce. Just so. f Socr. It is clear, then, that they do not despise this prac¬ tice, but admire it exceedingly. jP iece. Certainly. Socr. What then? When an orator or a king lias proved himself competent to assume the power of a Ly- curgus, or a Solon, or a Darius, and to become- immortal as a speech - writer in a state, does he not deem himself godlike while he is yet alive, and does not posterity think the very same of his writings ? Phoe. Just so. 89. Socr. Do you think, then, that any person of this sort, however ill-disposed he may be toward Lysias, would upbraid him merely because he is a writer ? Phce. It does not seem probable, from what you say; for in that case, as it appears, he wohld upbraid his own passion. So:)-. This, then, must be clear to every one, that the mere writing of speeches is not disgraceful. Phoe. Why should it be ? Socr. But this, I think, now, is disgraceful, not to ex¬ press and write them well, but shamefully and ill. Phoe. Clearly so. Socr. What, then, is the method of writing well.or ill? Have we not occasion, Phsedrus, to inquire about this from Lysias or some one else, who has at some time or other written, or means to write, either a political or private composition—in metre, as a poet, or without metre, as a prose-writer ? Phce. Do you ask, if we have occasion? For what pur¬ pose in the world should any one live, but for the sake of pleasures of this kind? Not, surely, for those which can not even be enjoyed unless they are preceded by pain, which is the case with nearly all the pleasures connected with the body; on which account they are justly called servile. 90. Socr. We have leisure, however, as it seems; and, moreover, the grasshoppers, while, as is their wont in the heat of the day, they are singing over our heads and talk¬ ing with one another, appear to me to be looking down upon us. If, then, they should see us too, like most men, 4 3G8 PIIvEDRUS. not conversing nt midday, but-falling asleep and lulled by them, through indolence of mind, they would justly laugh us to scorn, thinking that some slaves or other had come to them in this retreat, in order, like sheep, to take a mid¬ day sleep by the side of the fountain. But if they see us conversing, and sailing by them, as if they were sirens unenchanted, the boon which they have from the-gods to confer upon men they will perhaps, out of admiration, be¬ stow upon us. Phce. But what is this that they have; for I happen not to have heard of it, as it seems ? jSocr. Yet it is not proper that a lover of the .Muses should not have heard of things of this kind. It is said, then, that these grasshoppers were men before the Muses Avere born; but that,when the Muses Avere born, and song appeared, some of the men of that time Avere so overcome by pleasure, that, through singing, they neglected to eat and drink, until they died unawares. 91. From these, the race of grasshoppers afterward sprung, h a\ 1 n —^ 1 ece d this boon from the Muses, that they should need no nour¬ ishment from the time of their birth, but should continue singing, Avithout food and Avithout drink, till they died, and that after that they should go to the Muses, an<^ in¬ form them Avho of those here honored each of them. Therefore, by informing Terpsichore of those Avho honor her in the dance, they make them dearer to her; and Erato they inform of her votaries in love; and so all the rest in a similar manner, according to the kind of honor belonging to each. But the eldest, Calliope, and next to her TTrania, they tell of those Avho pass their lives in phi¬ losophy, and honor their music; and these most of all, the Muses, being conversant Avith. heaven, and discourse both divine and human, pour forth the most beautiful strains. For many reasons, therefore, Ave should converse, and not sleep, at midday. Phce. We should converse, indeed. . j Socr. Therefore, as Ave lately proposed to consider, Ave should inquire in Avhat consists a correct method of speak¬ ing and Avriting, and in Avhat not. Phce. Evidently. 92. Socr. Is it not, then, essential, in order to a good % PHiEDRUS. 369 and beautiful speech being made, that the mind of the speaker should know the truth of the subject on which he is about to speak ? Phce. I have heard say on this subject, my dear Soc¬ rates, that it is not necessary for one who purposes to be an orator to learn what is really just, but what would ap¬ pear so to the multitude, who will have to judge; nor what is really good or beautiful, but what will appear so; for* that persuasion proceeds from these, and not from truth. Socr. We ought not to reject a saying 1 which wise men utter, but should consider whether they say any thing worth attending to. Wherefore, we must not pass by what you have now said. * 93. Phce. You are right. Socr. Let us, then, consider it as follows. Phce. How ? Socr. Suppose I should persuade you to purchase a horse for the purpose of repelling enemies, but both of us should be ignorant what a horse is; suppose, however, I did happen to know this much, that Phaedrus believes a horse to be that tame animal which has the longest ears. Phce. That would be ridiculous, indeed, Socrates. Socr. Wait a moment; if I should earnestly persuade you, by composing a speech in praise of the ass, calling him a horse, and asserting that it is well worth while to purchase this beast, both for domestic purposes and for military service; that he is useful to fight from,and able to carry baggage, and serviceable in many other respects. Phce. This, now, would be perfectly ridiculous. Socr. But is it not better that a friend should be ridic¬ ulous, than dangerous and mischievous ? Phce. Clearly so. 94. Socr. When an orator, therefore, who is ignorant of good and evil, having found a city that is likewise so, endeavors to persuade it, not by celebrating the praises of an ass’s shadow, 2 as if it were a horse, but of evil, as if it were good, and, having studied the opinions of the multi¬ tude, should persuade them to do evil instead of good, 1 An expression taken from Homer, “Iliad,” iii., 65. 2 A proverb, meaning “ a thing of no value.” See Suidas, ovov criad. 16 * ) l 370 PHiEDllUS. „ what kind of fruit do you suppose rhetoric will afterward reap from such a sowing? Phce. By no means a good one. Socr. But have we not, my good friend, reviled the art of speaking more roughly than is proper? for she may, perhaps, say, “ Why, sirs, do you talk 'so foolishly ? For I compel no one who is ignorant of the truth to learn how to speak; but if my advice is worth any thing, when he has acquired that, he then has recourse to me. This, tlfen, I insist on, that without me one who knows the truth will not, for all that, be able to persuade by art.” l J hce. Will she not speak justly, in asserting this? 95. Socr. I admit it, at least if the arguments that as¬ sail her testify that she is an art. For I think I have heard some arguments coming up and insisting that she lies, and is not an art, but an inartistic trick. But a genu¬ ine art of speaking, says the Spartan, without laying hold of truth, neither exists, nor ever can exist hereafter. JPhoe. We must have these* arguments, Socrates; so bring them forward, and examine what they say, and in what manner. Socr. Come hither, then, ye noble creatures, and persuade Phaedrus with the beautiful children, that, unless he has suf¬ ficiently studied philosophy, he will never be competent to speak on any subject whatever. Let Pluedrus answer, then. PIigc. Put your questions. Socr. Must not, then, rhetoric in general be an art that leads the soul by means of argument, not only in courts of justice and other public assemblies, but also in private, equally with respect to trivial and important matters ? and is its right use at all more valued when employed about grave than about trifling things ? ' What have you heard said about this? 96. JPhoe. By Jupiter! nothing at all of this kind; but it is for the most part spoken and written according to art in judicial trials, and it is spoken also in popular as¬ semblies ; but I have never heard any thing further. Socr. What! have you heard only of the rhetorical arts of Nestor and Ulysses, which they composed during their leisure in Ilium, and have you never heard of those by Palamedes? ■■■■■■■■■■■I PILEDItUS. 371 Phoe. And, by Jupiter ! I have not even heard of those by Nestor, unless you make Gorgias a Nestor, or Thra- symachus and Theodoras a Ulysses. floor. Perhaps I do. But let us pass over these; do you say, however. In courts of justice what do adversa¬ ries do? Do they not contradict each other? or what shall we say? Phoe. That very thing. 8ocr. And respecting the just and unjust? Phoe. Yes. floor. Will not he, then, who accomplishes this by art make the same thing appear to the same persons—at one time just, and, when he pleases, unjust? jP hoe. How not? floor. And in a popular assembly the same things seem to the state at one time good, and at another the contrary ? Plioe. Just so. 97. floor. And do we not know that the Eleatic Pala- medes 1 spoke by art in such a manner that the same things appeared to his hearers similar and dissimilar—one and many, at rest and in motion ? Phoe. Assuredly. floor. The art, then, of arguing on both sides has not only to do with courts of justice and popular assemblies, but, as it seems, it must be one and the same art, if it is an art, with respect to all subjects of discourse, by which a man is able to make all things appear similar to each other so far as they are capable of being made appear so, and to drag them to light when another attempts to make them appear similar and conceals his attempt. Phoe. What mean you by this? floor. I think it will be evident if we inquire as follows: Does deception more frequently occur in things that differ much or little? Phoe. In thincfs that differ little. o floor. But, by changing your position gradually, you will more easily escape detection in going to the opposite side, than by doing so rapidly. 98. Phoe. How not? 1 By Palamedes, as the scholiast observes, he means Zeno of Elea, the friend of Parmenides. PHJEDRUS. . 372 Socr. It is necessary, then, that he who means to deceive another, but not be deceived himself, should be able .to distinguish with accuracy the similarity and dissimilarity of things. Phce. It is, indeed, necessary. Socr. Will he be able, then, if ignorant of the truth of each particular thing, to discern the smaller or greater similarity of the thing of which he is ignorant, in other things? . Phce. Impossible. Socr . It is clear, therefore, that, in the case of those who have formed opinions contrary to the truth and are de¬ ceived, this error has found its way in by means of certain resemblances. 99. Phce. It doubtlessly does happen so. . Socr. Is it possible, then, that one who is ignorant of what is the nature of each particular thing should have sufficient art to bring over any one by degrees, by leading him, through means of resemblances, from each several truth to its opposite, or himself to escape from being so led? Phce. Never. Socr. He, therefore, my friend, who does not know the truth, but hunts after opinions, will, as it appears, produce but a ridiculous and inartistic art of speaking. Phce. It seems so. Socr. Are you willing, then, in the speech of Lysias, which you have with you, and in those which I delivered, to look for instances of what I assert is inartistic and ar¬ tistic? Phce. I should like it, of all things; for now we are speaking in a bald sort of way, for want of sufficient ex¬ amples. 100. Socr. And, indeed, by some lucky chance, as it seems, two speeches have been made, which furnish exam¬ ples of how one who is acquainted with the truth, while he is jesting in his arguments, can lead his hearers astray. And, for my part, Phsedrus, I attribute that to the deities of the spot. Perhaps, also, the intei^reters of the Muses, the songsters overhead, have inspired us with this gift; for I, at least, have no part in any art of speaking. PHiEDRUS. 373 Phce. Be it as you say, only make your meaning clear. Socr. Come, then, read out to me the beginning of Lys¬ ias’s speech. 101. Phce. “You are well acquainted with the state of my affairs, and I think you have heard that it would be for our advantage if this took place. And I claim, not for this reason to fail in my request, because I do not hap¬ pen to be one of your lovers; for they repent—” Socr. Stop. We are to say, then, in what he errs, and acts inartistically,are we not? Phce. Yes. Socr. Now, is it not plain to every one that in some things of this kind we are agreed, on others at variance ? Phce. I think I understand what you mean; but explain yourself still more clearly. Socr. When any one pronounces the word “ iron ” or “silver,” do we not all understand the same thing? Phce. Assuredly. Socr. But what when any one pronounces the word “just” or “good,” are we not carried different ways, and do we not differ both with one another and with ourselves? Phce. Certainly. Socr. In some things, therefore, we agree; in others, not. Phce. Just so. Socr. In which class of things, then, are we more easily deceived; and in which of the two lias rhetoric greater power ? Phce. Clearly in that in which we are easily led astray. 102. Socr. He, therefore, who means to pursue the art of rhetoric ought, first of all, to have distinguished these methodically, and to have discovered a certain character of each species, both of that in which the generality of men must necessarily be led astray, and of that in which that is not the case. Phce. He who has attained to this, Socrates, will have devised a noble classification of species. Socr. Then, I think, when he comes to each particular case, he ought not to be at a loss, but should perceive quickly to which of the two classes the subject on which he is going to speak belongs. 374 PILEDRUS. Phoe. How not ? Socr. What, then, with respect to Love? Shall we say that he belongs to things doubtful, or to such as are not so ? Phoe. To things doubtful, surely; otherwise do you think he would have allowed you to say what you just now said about him, that he is both a mischief to the be¬ loved and the lover ; and, again, that he is the greatest of blessings ? Socr. You speak admirably. But tell me this too; for, from being carried away by enthusiasm, I do not quite remember whether I defined love at the beginning of my speech. • Phoe. By Jupiter ! you did, and with wonderful accu¬ racy. 103 . Socr. Alas ! how much more artistic in speech¬ making do you say the nymphs of Acheloiis, and Pan, son of Mercury, are, than Lysias, son of Cephalus! Or am I wrong, and did Lysias, too, in the beginning of his love- speech, compel us to conceive of love as some one partic¬ ular thing, which he wished it to be, and then complete all the rest of his speech in accordance with this ? Are you willing that we should read over again the beginning of his speech ? Plioe. If you wish it; though what you seek is not there. Socr. Read, however, that I may hear him in person. 104 . Plioe. “ You are well acquainted with the state of my affairs, and I think you have heard that it would be for our advantage if this took place. And I claim not for this reason to fail in my request, because I do not happen to be one of your-lovers; for they repent of the benefits they have conferred as soon as their desires cease.” Socr. He seems to be far, indeed, from doing what we are seeking for, since, in making his speech, he attempts to swim backward, with his face uppermost, not setting out from the beginning, but from the end, and he begins with what the lover would say to his favorite at the close of his speech. Have I said nothing to the purpose, Phsedrus, my dear friend ? Phoe. It is, indeed, Socrates, the end of the subject about which he is speaking. PILEDRUS. 375 105. Socr. But what as to the rest? Do not the other parts of the speech appear to have been put together at random ? Or does it appear that what is said in the sec¬ ond place ought from any necessity to have been placed second, or any thing else that he said ? For it seems to me, who, however, know nothing about the matter, that the writer has, without any scruple, said whatever came uppermost. But do you know of any rule in speech-writ¬ ing in conformity to which he disposed his sentences in the order he has done one after another ? Phce. You are pleasant in supposing that I am able to see thrqugh his compositions so accurately. Socr. But this, at least, I think you will allow, that ev¬ ery speech ought to be put together like a living creature, with a body of its own, so as to be neither without head nor without feet, but to have both a middle and extremi¬ ties described proportionately to each other and to the whole. 106. jPhce. How not? Socr. Consider, then, your friend’s speech, whether it is so,or otherwise; and you will find that it is in no respect different from the epigram which some say is inscribed on the tomb of Midas the Phrygian. PlicE. What is it, and what is there remarkable in it? Socr. It is as follows : “I am a maiden of brass, and I lie on Midas’s sepulchre; So long as water flows and tall trees flourish, Remaining here on the tomb of Midas, I will tell all passers-by that Midas is buried here.” That it makes no difference which line is put first or last you must perceive, I think. Phce. You are jesting at our speech, Socrates. 107. Socr. That you may not be angry, then, we will have done with this (though it appears to me to contain very many examples, which any one might examine with advantage, so long as he does not at all attempt to imitate them); and let us proceed to the two other speeches; for there was something in them, I think, fit to be looked into by those who wish to examine into the subject of speeches. Phce. What do you mean ? Socr. They were in a manner opposed to each other. PHJEDRUS. 376 For one said that favor ought to be shown to a person that is in love, the other to a person that is not in love. Phce. And this, most strenuously. Socr. I thought you were going to say, with truth, . madly. However, this is the very thing I was seeking for. For we said that love was a kind of madness, did we not? Phce. Yes. Socr. But there are two kinds of madness ; one arising from human diseases, the other from an inspired deviation from established customs. Phce. Certainly. 108. Socr. But dividing the divine mania of the four deities into four parts, and assigning prophetic inspiration to Apollo, mystic to Bacchus, poetic to the Muses, and the fourth to Venus and Love, we said that the madness of Love is the best; and I know not how representing the passion of love—probably lighting on some truth, and per¬ haps carried off elsewhere—we compounded a speech not altogether improbable, and sung a kind of mythical hymn, in a seemly and devotional manner, in honor of my lord and thine, Phsedrus, Love, the guardian of beautiful boys. Phce. And one by no means unpleasant to me to hear. Socr. Let us endeavor to find out, then, from the speech itself, how it was able to pass from censure to praise. Phce. What mean you by this ? 109. Socr. To me it appears that in all other respects we have really been jesting; but as regards the two methods 1 that are seen in these casually uttered speeches, if any one could apprehend their power by art, it would be by no means an unwelcome circumstance. Phce. What methods are these? Socr. The one is to see under one aspect, and to bring together under one general idea, many things scattered in various places, that, by defining each, a person may make it clear what the subject is that he wishes to discuss, as just now with respect to love, its nature being defined, whether it was well or ill described; at all events, for that reason my speech was able to attain perspicuity and consistency. Phce. And what is the other method you speak of, Soc¬ rates ? 1 The two methods are “definition” and “division, afterward explained. PIIiEDRUS. 377 110. Socr. The being able, on the other hand, to sepa¬ rate that general idea into species, by joints, as nature points out, and not to attempt to break any part, after the manner of an unskillful cook; but as, just now, my two speeches comprehended mental derangement under one common class. But as from one body there spring two sets of members bearing the same name—one called the left, the other the right—so my speeches having considered mental derangement as naturally one class in us, then the speech that had to divide the left part did not leave off dividing this again until, having found in its members a kind of left-handed love, it reviled it deservedly; but the other, taking us to the right-hand side of madness, and having found a kind of love bearing the same name as the former, but divine, brought it to light, and commended it as the cause of the greatest blessings to us. 111. Phce. You speak most truly. Socr. For my part, Phaedrus, I am not only myself a lover of these divisions and generalizations, in order that I may be able both to speak and think; but if I perceive any one else able to comprehend the one and the many, as they are in nature, him “ I follow behind as in the foot¬ steps of a god.” 1 But whether I designate those who are able to do this, rightly or not, God knows; however, I have hitherto called them dialecticians. But, now, tell me by what name ought we to call those who take lessons from you and Lysias. Is this that art of speaking by the use of which Thrasymachus and others have become able speakers themselves, and make others so who are willing to bring presents to them, as to kings ? Phot. They are, indeed, royal men, yet not skilled in the particulars about which you inquire. However, you ap¬ pear to me to call this method rightly, in calling it dialec¬ tical; but the rhetorical appears to me still to escape us. 112. Socr. How say you? A line thing, indeed, that must be which is destitute of this, and yet can be appre¬ hended by art! It must on no account be neglected by you and me; but we must consider what is the remaining part of rhetoric! Phce. There are, indeed, very many things, Socrates, 1 See Homer’s ‘ f Odvssev,” v., 193. 378 PHiEDRUS. which you will find in the books written on the art of speaking. Socr. You have reminded me very opportunely. The exordium, I think, must first be spoken at the beginning of the speech. You mean these, do you not—the refine¬ ments of the art? Phce. Y es. Socr. And, secondly, a kind of narration, and evidence to support it; thirdly, proofs ; fourthly, probabilities; and I think that a famous Byzantian tricker-out of speeches mentions confirmation and after-confirmation. j Phce. Do you mean the excellent Theodorus ? Socr. I do. He says, too, that refutation and after-ref¬ utation must be employed both in accusation and defense. And must we not adduce the most illustrious Parian, Eve- uus, who first discovered subordinate intimations and by¬ praises (and some say that he put into metre by-censures, to assist the memory), for he is a wise man? 113. But shall we suffer Tisias and Gorgias to sleep, who found out that probabilities were more to be valued -than truths, and who, by force of words, make small things appear great, and great things small, and new things old, and the con¬ trary" new ; and who discovered a concise method of speak¬ ing, and an infinite prolixity on all subjects ? When Prod- icus once heard me tell this, he laughed, and said that he alone had discovered what speeches are required by art; that we require them neither long nor short, but of a mod¬ erate length. Phce. Most wisely, Prodicus. Socr. But do we not mention Hippias? for I think our Elean friend was of the same opinion with him. Phce. Why not? 114. Socr. But how shall we describe Polus’s new¬ fangled method of speaking, as his reduplication of words, his sentences, his similitudes, and the words which Licym- nius made him a present of, in order to produce a grace¬ ful diction ? Phce. But was not the system of Protagoras, Socrates, something of this kind ? Socr. His was a correctness of diction, my boy, and many other fine things besides; but in the art of dragging PHiEDRUS. 379 in speeches to excite commiseration for old age and pover¬ ty, the Chalcedonian hero appears to me to have carried oft’ the palm. He was, moreover, a powerful man to rouse the anger of the multitude; and, again, when enraged, to soothe them by enchantment: as he used to say, he was most skillful in raising and removing calumnies on any ground whatever. But all seem to agree in the same opinion with respect to the conclusion of speeches, to which some have given the name of recapitulation, others a different name. Phce. You mean the summarily reminding the hearers, at the conclusion, of the several things that have been said. 115. aS her. I mean that; and now, consider if you have any thing else to say about the art of speaking. Phce. Only some trifling things, and not worth mention¬ ing. Socr. Let us pass over trifles, and rather examine these tilings in the clear light, and see what influence they have in art, and on what occasion. Phce. A very powerful influence, Socrates, at least in assemblies of the people. Socr. They have, indeed. But, my admirable friend, do you also observe whether their web does not appear to you to be very wide, as it does to me. Phce. Explain what you mean. Socr. Tell me, then : If any one should go to your friend Eryximachus, or his father, Acumenus, and should say, “ I know how to apply such things to the body as will make it warm or cold, as I please ; and, if I think proper, I can produce vomitings, and again purgings, and many other things of the kind, and, as I know these things, I consider myself a physician; and that I can make any one else so, to whom I impart the knowledge of these particulars;” what do you think they would say on hearing this? Phce. What else but ask him if he knew, besides, to what persons, and when, and how far, he ought to do each of these things ? 116. jSocr. If, then, he should say, “Not in the least; but I expect that he who should learn these things from me*would be able to do what you ask?” Phce. lie would say, I think, that the man is mad; and 380 PHiEDRUS. that, having heard from some book or other, or having met with certain drugs, he fancies that he has become a physi¬ cian, though he knows nothing at all about the art. jSocr. But what if any one were to go to Sophocles and Euripides, and tell them that he knew how-to make very long speeches on a trifling subject, and very short ones on a great subject, and, whenever he pleased, piteous and contrariwise, terrible and threatening speeches, and other things of the kind ; and that, by teaching these, lie- thought he could impart the power of writing tragedy ? 117. Phoe. They, too, I think, Socrates, would laugh, if any one should suppose that tragedy was any thing else than the composition of all these, so disposed as to be con¬ sistent with each other and the whole. Socr. But, I think, they would not upbraid him rudely, but as a musician who happened to meet with a man who believes himself to be skilled in harmony,because he knows how to make the highest and lowest note, would not harshly say to him,“ Miserable fellow, you are stark mad !” but, being a musician, he would speak more mildly: “ My excellent man, it is indeed necessary for one who means to be skilled in harmony to know these things, but, at the same time, there is nothing to hinder a person from pos¬ sessing the knowledge you have without his understand¬ ing harmony in the least; for you know what is necessary toTbe learned before harmony, but not harmony itself.” Phoe. Most correctly. 118. JSocr. In like manner, Sophocles might reply to the person who displayed his learning to them, that he knew the things before' tragedy, but not tragedy itself; and Acumenus, that the medical pretender knew things before medicine, but not medicine itself. Phoe. Most assuredly. JSocr. But what must we think the sweet-voiced Adras- tus, or even Pericles, would do, if he were to hear of the beautiful contrivances which we have just now enumerated —the short sentences and similitudes, and all the rest— which, when we went through them, we said must be ex¬ amined by the clear light; whether he, as you and I did, would rudely make some ill-mannered remark against those who had written, and who teach such things as if PHiEDIiUS. 381 V tliey constituted the art of rhetoric, or, as being wiser than we are, would he not reprove us, saying, 119? “Phsedrus and Socrates, you ought not to be angry with, but rather to excuse, those who, through being ignorant of dialectics, are unable to define what rhetoric is, and who, in conse¬ quence of this ignorance,- possessing the things necessary to be learned preparatory to the art, think that they have discovered rhetoric itself, and suppose that, by teaching these things to others, they can teach them rhetoric in per¬ fection ; but how each of them is to be used persuasively, and the whole combined together, this, as being of no con¬ sequence in the world, they think their pupils ought to ac¬ quire for themselves in composing their speeches ?” JPhce. Such, indeed, Socrates, appears to be the case with the art which these men teach and write about as rhetoric; and you seem to me to have spoken the truth; but how and from whence can one acquire the art of true rhetoric and persuasion? 120. Socr. The ability, Phaedrus, to become a perfect proficient, probably, or rather necessarily, depends on the same things as in other cases ; for if you naturally possess rhetorical abilities, you will be a distinguished orator by adding science and practice; but in whichever of these you are deficient, in that respect you will be imperfect. But so far as it is an art, its method, I think, will not be found in the way that Lysias and Thrasymachus are pro¬ ceeding. PIub. In what way, then ? Socr. Pericles, my excellent friend, appears, with good reason, to, have been the most perfect of all men in rhet¬ oric. Phce. How so?. Socr. All the great arts require a subtle and specula¬ tive research into the law of nature; for that loftiness of thought and perfect mastery over every subject seem to be derived from some such source as this, which Pericles possessed, in addition to a great natural genius. For meeting, I think, with Anaxagoras, who was a person of this kind, and being filled with a speculative research, and having arrived at the nature of intelligence and want of intelligence about which Anaxagoras made that loin* dis- K-J • O 382 PHiEDRUS. course, lie drew from thence to the art of speaking what¬ ever could contribute to its advantage. 121. Phce. What mean you by this? Socr. The method of the art of rhetoric is, in a manner, the same as that of medicine. Phce. How so ? Socr. In both it is requisite that nature should be thor¬ oughly investigated—the nature of the body in the one, . and the soul in the other—if you mean not only by prac¬ tice and experience, but by art, to give health and strength to the former by applying medicine and diet, and to im¬ part such persuasion as you please and virtue to the latter by means of speeches and legitimate employments. Phce. This, indeed, seems probable, Socrates. Socr. But do you think it possible rightly to understand the nature of the soul without understanding the nature of the universe? Phce. If we are to believe Hippocrates, ot the family of JEsculapius, we can not understand even the nature of body without this method. Socr. For he says well, my friend. But it is necessary, in addition to the authority of Hippocrates, to examine our argument, and consider wdiether it is consistent. Phce. I agree. 122. Socr. Consider, then, with respect to nature, wdiat Hippocrates and true reason say. Is it not thus necessary to examine into the nature of anything: in the fiist place, whether that is simple or manifold about which we are desirous, both ourselves to be skilled, and to be. able to make others so; and, in the next place, if it be simple, to examine the pow r er it naturally possesses of acting on each particular thing, or of being acted upon by each particular thing? And if it possesses several species, having enu¬ merated these, as in the case of the one, ought w r e not.to consider this in each of them, wdiat active and passive power they naturally have ? Phce. It seems so, Socrates. Socr. 123. The method, then, that neglected these would resemble the w r alk of a blind man. He, howevei, who.pio- ceeds by art ought on no account to be compared either to a blind or a deaf man; but it is clear that whosoever PIBEDRUS. 383 teaches another speaking by art should accurately show the real nature of the things to which he will have to ap¬ ply 1 }1S speeches; and this, surely, is the soul. JPhce. How not? Socr. His whole endeavor, therefore, must be directed to this; for in this he attempts to produce persuasion Is it not so ? j Phce. Yes. tSoer. It is clear, therefore, that Thrasymachus, and any one else who seriously endeavors to teach the art of rheto¬ ric, will, in the first place, describe with all possible accu¬ racy, and make it be seen whether the soul is, naturally one and similar, or, like the form of the body, composed ot different elements; for this, we say, is to make known nature. JPhce. Most assuredly. AW. And, in the second place, in what respect it natu- rally acts, or is acted upon, by any thin** 124. Phm. How not ? Socr. In the third place, having set in order the differ¬ ent kinds of speech and of soul, and the different man¬ ners in which these are affected, he will go through the several causes, adapting each to each, and teaching what kind of soul is. necessarily persuaded, and what not per¬ suaded, by particular kinds of speech, and for what reason. JPhce. It will assuredly be best done in this way, as it seems. . ' -^ ever > then, my dear friend, will any thing that is othei wise explained or spoken, be spoken or written by art, either in any other case or in this. But the modern writers on the art of speech-making, whom you yourself have heard, are dissemblers, and conceal the very admira¬ ble knowledge they have of the soul. Until, then, they both speak and write according to this method, let us never be persuaded that they yvrite artistically. JPhce. What method.is this ? Socr. It is not easy to mention the very words them¬ selves; but how it is proper to write, if a man means to be as artistic as he possibly can, I am willing to tell you. JPhce. Tell me, then. 125. a Soar. Since the power of speech is that of leading - 384 P4LED11US. the soul, it is necessary that he who means to be an orator should know how many kinds of soul there are; but they are so many, and of such and such kinds; whence some men are of this character, and some of that character. These, then, being thus divided, there are, again, so many kinds of speech, each of a certain charactei. Now, men of such a character are, for this particular reason, easily persuaded by certain speeches, and persons of a different character are, for these reasons, with difficulty persuaded. It is necessary, therefore, that he, after having sufficiently understood all this, when he afterward perceives these very things taking place in actions, and, being done, should be able to follow them rapidly by perception, otherwise he will know nothing more than the very things which he formerly heard from his preceptor. 126. But when he is sufficiently competent to say what kind of person is per¬ suaded by what kind of speeches, and is able, when he sees him before him, to point out to himself that this is the person, and this the nature, for which those speeches were formerly made, now actually present before me, and to which these particular speeches are to be addressed, in or¬ der to persuade him to these particular things ; when he has acquired all this, and has learned, moreover, the proper seasons for speaking and being silent, and, again,has made himself master of the seasonable and unseasonable occa¬ sions for brevity, plaintiveness, and vehemence, and all the other several kinds of speech which he has learned then his art will be beautifully and perfectly accomplished, but not before. But whoever is deficient in any of these par¬ ticulars, either in speaking, or teaching, or writing, and yet asserts that he speaks by art, is overcome by the person who will not be persuaded. 127. u What then . peihaps the writer on rhetoric will say; “ does it appear to you, Phaidrus and Socrates, that the art of speaking, as it is called, must be obtained iii this or some othei way . JPhce. It is impossible, Socrates, that it should be ob¬ tained in any other w T ay; though it seems to be a work of no small labor. . goer. You say truly. And on this account we ought to turn over all speeches again and again, and consider whether any easier and shorter way to it can be found, in ■BH P1LEDRUS. 3g5 01 dor tliat we may not in vain go by a Ions; and rough one, when we might have taken a short and smooth one. If’ therefore, you have heard of any thing that will assist us, fiom Lysias or any one else, endeavor to call it to mind, and tell it me. Plica. If the endeavor were enough, I should be able to do so ; but just at present I can not. 128. Socr. Are you willing, then, that I should repeat to you a statement which I heard from persons who take an interest in such matters. Phce. How not? Socr. It is said, however, Phajdrus, to be right to state even the wolf’s case. -Phce. And do you do so. Socr. They say, then, that there is no occasion to treat these matters so solemnly, nor to carry them back so far, by such long windings. . For, as we said in the beginning of our discussion, there is no need at all for one who wishes to. become a competent orator to have any thing to do with the truth respecting actions just or good, or men who are such, either by nature or education ; for that in courts of justice no attention whatever is paid to the truth of these things, but. only to what, is plausible, and that it is probability to which one who wishes to speak by art ought to apply himself; and that sometimes even facts that have actually happened must not be stated, unless they are probable, but probabilities both in accusation and defense; and, in short, that a speaker should pursue the probable, and pay no regard at all to truth; for that, when this method is observed throughout the whole speech, it con¬ stitutes the perfection of the'art. 129. Phce. You have described the very things, Soc¬ rates, which they say who profess to be skilled in speech- making ; and I remember that we touched briefly upon this in a former part of our discussion; but this appears to be matter of the utmost consequence to those who study these things. _ Socr. However, you have thoroughly fumbled Tisias himself. Let Tisias, then, tell us this, whether he means any thing else by the probable than that which accords with the opinion of the multitude. 17 386 PHiEDRUS. Phae. What else can it be? jSocr. Having made, then, as it seems, this wise and ar¬ tistic discovery, he has written that if a weak but brave man should be brought to trial for having knocked down a strong and cowardly one, and for having robbed him of his clothes or any thing else, then that neither of them ought to speak the truth; but the coward should say that he was not knocked down by the brave man alone, and the latter should prove this, that they were alone, and then urge this i u IIow could a man like me ever attack a man like him ?” But the other will not admit his own cow¬ ardice, but, in attempting to tell some other falsehood, will perhaps supply his adversary with the means of refuting him. And, in other cases, such things as these are said according to art. Is it not so, Phaedrus? 130. Phce. How not? Socr. Wonderfully clever seems to have been the in¬ ventor of this abstruse art, whether Tisias or whoever else he was, and by whatever name he delights to be called. But, my friend, shall we say to him or not ? Phce. What ? aS her. Tisias, long since before your arrival, we happened to say that this probability of yours derives its influence ■with the multitude from its resemblance to truth; and we just now concluded that, in all cases, he knows best how to discover resemblances who is best acquainted with the truth. So that, if you have any thing else to say about the art of speaking, we will listen to you; but if not, we shall hold to the conclusions we have lately come to, that unless a man has reckoned up the different natures of those who will have to hear Kim, and is able to divide things themselves into species, and to comprehend the several particulars under one general idea, he will never be skilled in the art of speaking, so far as it is possible for a man to be so. 131. But this’he can never acquire with¬ out great labor, which a wise man ought not to bestow for the purpose of speaking and acting among men, but that he may be able to speak such things as are accepta¬ ble to the gods, and act acceptably to them, to the utmost of his power. For, as wiser men than we say, lisias, a man of understanding ought not to make it his principal PiliEDRUS. 387 ' study to gratify his fellow-servants, except by the way, but good masters, and of good extraction. If, therefore, the circuit be long, wonder not; 132. for it is to be un¬ dertaken for the sake of great ends, not such as you think. And even these, as our argument proves, if any one is will¬ ing, will be best attained by those means. Phce. This appears to me, Socrates, to be very finely said, if only a man could attain to it. Socr. But when one is attempting noble things, it is surely noble also to suffer whatever it may befall us to suffer. ‘ Phce. Assuredly. Socr. As regards, then, the art and want of art in speak¬ ing, let this suffice. 133. Phce. How should it not? Socr. But as regards elegance and inelegance in writ¬ ing, in what way it may be done well, and in what way inelegantly, remains to be considered. Docs it not? Phce. Yes. Socr. Do you know, then, how you may best please God with regard to speeches, both acting and speaking? Phce. Not at all. Do you? Socr. I can tell a story I have heard of the ancients.. Its truth they know. But if we ourselves could discover this, do you think we should any longer pay any regard to the opinions of men ? Phce. Your question is ridiculous; but relate what you say you have heard. 134. Socr. I have heard, then, that at Naucratis, in Egypt, there was one of the ancient gods of that country, to whom was consecrated the bird which they call Ibis; but the name of the deity himself was Theuth. That he was the first to invent numbers and arithmetic, and geom¬ etry and astronomy, and, moreover, draughts and dice, and especially letters, at the time when Thamus was king of all Egypt, and dwelt in the great city of the upper region, which the Greeks call Egyptian Thebes, but the god they call Ammon ; to him Theuth went and showed him his arts, and told him that they ought to be distributed among the rest of the Egyptians. Thamus asked him what was the use of each, and as he explained it, according as he ap- 388 PHiEDRUS. peared to say well or ill, he either blamed or praised them. 135. Now, Thamus is reported to have said many things to Theuth respecting each art, both for and against it, which it would be tedious to relate. But when they came to the letters,/ 4 This knowledge, O king!” said Theuth, “ will make the Egyptians wiser, and better able to remem¬ ber ; for it has been invented as a medicine for memory and wisdom.” But he replied, “ Most ingenious Theuth, one person is able to give birth to art, another to judge of what amount of detriment or advantage it will be to those who are to use it; and now, you, as being the father of letters, out of fondness have attributed to them just the contrary effect to that which they will have. For this invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn it through the neglect of memory; for that, through trusting to writing, they will remember outward¬ ly by means of foreign marks, and not inwardly by means of their own faculties. So that you have not discovered a medicine for memory, but for recollection. And you are providing for your disciples the appearance, and not the reality,.of wisdom. For, hearing many things through your means without instruction, they will appear to know . a great deal, although they are, for the most part, ignorant, and will become troublesome associates, .through thinking themselves wise, instead of being so.” 136. JPhce. Socrates, you easily make Egyptian, and any other country’s tales you please. Socr. But, my friend, those who dwell in the temple of Dodonsean Jupiter said that the first prophetic words is¬ sued from an oak. It was sufficient for the men of those days, seeing they were not wise like you moderns, in their simplicity, to listen to an oak and a stone, if only they spoke the truth; and does it make any difference to you, forsooth, who the speaker is, and to what country he be¬ longs ? For you do not consider that only, whether the case is so or otherwise. JPhce . You have very properly reproved me; and the case with regard to letters appears to me just as the The- .ban says. 13V. Socr. He, therefore, who thinks to leave an art in writing, and, again, he who receives it, as if something PHiEDRUS. 389 clear and solid would result from the writing, must be full of simplicity, and in reality ignorant of the prophecy of Ammon ; since he thinks that written words are of fur¬ ther value than to remind one who already knows the sub¬ ject of which the writings treat. Phce. Most correct. Socr. For writing, indeed, Phaedrus, has this inconven¬ ience, and truly resembles painting, for its productions stand out as if they were alive; but, if you ask them any question, they observe a solemn silence. And so it is with written discourses; you would think that they spoke as though they possessed some wisdom; but if you ask them about any thing they say, from a desire to understand it, they give only one and the self-same answer. And when it is once written, every discourse is tossed about every¬ where, equally among those who understand it, and among those whom it in nowise concerns; and it knows not to whom it ought to speak, and to whom not. And when it is ill-treated and unjustly reviled, it always needs its fa¬ ther to help it; for, of itself,it can neither defend nor help itself. 138. Phce. This, too, you have said most correctly. Socr. But what? Shall we consider another discourse, this one’s legitimate brother, in what manner it is pro¬ duced, and how far better and more powerful it naturally is than this? Phce. What is that? and how do you say it is pro¬ duced ? Socr. That which, is written with science in the learn¬ er’s soul, which is able to defend itself, and knows before whom it ought to speak and be silent. Phce. You mean the discourse of a man endued with knowledge that has life and soul, of which the written may be justly called an image. Socr. Assuredly. But tell me this: Would an intelli¬ gent husbandman, who has seeds that he cares for, and which he wishes to be fruitful, seriously sow them in sum¬ mer-time in the gardens of Adonis, and rejoice at seeing them growing up beautifully within eight days, or would he do this, if lie did it at all, for the sake of sport or pas¬ time; but the seed which he treats seriously, availing him- 390 PHiEDRUS. self of the husbandman’s skill, and sowing it in its proper soil, would he be content that what he has sown shall come to maturity in the eighth month ? 139. P/tce. Just so, Socrates; he would do the one se¬ riously, and the other, as you say, for amusement. Socr. But shall we say that he who possesses a knowl¬ edge of what is just, beautiful, and good, shows less intel¬ ligence than a husbandman in the management of his own seeds ? JPhoe. By no means. Socr. He will not, then, seriously write them in water, sowing them with ink, by means of a pen, Avitli words that are unable to defend themselves by speech, and unable ade¬ quately to teach the truth. Phce. In all probability, he will not. Socr. Surely not. But, as it seems, he will sow and write, when he does write, in the gardens of letters, for the sake of diversion, treasuring up memoranda for himself when he comes to the forgetfulness of old age, and for all who are going on the same track, and he will be delighted at seeing them in their tender growth; and while other men pursue other diversions, refreshing themselves with banquets, and other pleasures akin to these, he, as it ap¬ pears, instead of these, will pass his time in the diversions I have mentioned. 140. JPhoe. You speak of a very noble, in comparison of a mean diversion, Socrates, when a man is able to divert himself with discourses, telling stories about justice and the other things you mention. Socr. It is so, indeed, my dear Phsedrus. But, in my opinion, a far more noble employment results from this when a man, availing himself of dialectic art, or meeting with a congenial soul,plants and sows scientific discourses which are able to aid both themselves and him that planted them, and are not unfruitful, but contain seed within them¬ selves, from whence others springing up in other minds are able to make this seed immortal, and make their pos¬ sessor happy so far as it is possible for man to be so. Phce. This that you mention is far more noble. Socr. Now, then, Phsedrus, since this is agreed on, we are able to determine our former questions. P1LEDRUS. 391 Phce. What are they ? iSocr. Those which; in our desire to consider them, led us to the present point: namely, that we might examine into the reproach cast on Lysias for writing speeches, and then speeches themselves, which are written by art or with¬ out art. Now, that which is artistic, and that which is not, appears to me to have been tolerably well explained. 141. Phce. It appears so. But remind me of it again, in what way. Socr. Before a man knows the truth of each subject on which he speaks or writes, and is able to define the whole of a thing, and, when he has defined it, again knows, how to divide it into species until he comes to the indivisible; and, in like manner, having distinguished the nature of the soul, and having found out what kind of speech is adapted to the nature of each, he so disposes and adorns his speech, applying to a soul of varied powers speeches that are va¬ rious and all-harmonious, and simple ones to a simple soul; before this is done, he will not be able to manage speech with art, so far as it might be done, either for the purpose of teaching or persuading, as the whole of our former ar¬ gument has proved. PJioe. This is exactly how it appeared. 142. jSocr . But what as to its being honorable or dis¬ graceful to speak and write speeches, and under what cir¬ cumstances it may be called a reproach or not, has not what we have said a little before sufficed to prove? Phce. What was that? Socr. That if either Lysias or any one else has ever written, or shall hereafter write, privately or publicly, writ¬ ing a state document in proposing a law, and thinks that there is in it great stability and clearness, this is a re¬ proach to the writer, whether any one says so or not. For, to be utterly ignorant of what is just and unjust, evil and good, can not be otherwise than truly disgraceful, though the whole mass of mankind should unite in its praise. 143. Phce. Certainly not. /Socr. But he who thinks that in a written discourse, on whatever subject, there must necessarily be much that is sportive; and that no discourse,in prose or verse, deserv¬ ing of much study, has ever been written or spoken, as \ \ 392 PIIiEDRUS. those declamations used to be spoken, without discrimina¬ tion and instructive method, for the sake of persuasion, but that, in truth, the best of them were for the purpose of re¬ minding those who already know, but that only in dis¬ courses taught and spoken for the sake of instruction, and really written in the soul about things just and beautiful and good, there is found what is clear and perfect and worthy of study; and that such discourses ought to be called,as it were, their author’s legitimate offspring; first of all, that which is in himself, if it is there by his own in¬ vention, then any children or brothers of the former that have at the same time worthily sprung up in the souls of others: whoever thinks thus, and dismisses all others, that man, Phtedrus, appears to be such a one as you and I should pray that we might become. ♦ - 144. Phce. I, for my" part, entirely wish and pray for what you mention. Boer. Be we, then, content with having thus far amused ourselves with the subject of speeches; and do you go and tell Lysias that we, having descended to the fountain of the nymphs, have heard words which charged us to tell Lysias, and any one else who composes speeches, and Ho¬ mer, and any one else who is in the habit of composing poetry, epic* or lyricand, thirdly, Solon, and whosoever commits political discourses to writing under the name of laws, if they composed their works knowing how the truth stands, and able to defend them when brought to account for what they have written, and being themselves capable by speaking to show that their writings are poor, then they ought not to be named from these works, but from those to which they have seriously applied themselves. 145. Phce. What name, then, do you assign them? Boer. To call them wise, Phsedrus, appears to me to be a great matter, and proper for God alone; but lovers of wisdom, or some such name, would suit them better, and be in better taste. Phce. And it would be nothing out of the way. Boer. Him, therefore, w T ho has nothing more valuable than what he has written, by turning it upward and down¬ ward for a long time, patching and clipping it bit by bit, 1 yi\r)v r] tv ydy, without music or with. PIIiEDRUS. 393 may you not justly designate a poet, or a compiler of speeches, or a writer of laws ? Phoe. How not? Socr. Tell this, then, to your friend. Phoe. But you—what will you do? For we must not pass over your friend. Socr. Whom do you mean ? 146. Phoe. The beautiful Isocrates. What news will you take him, Socrates? What shall we say he is? Socr. Isocrates is still young, Phsedrus; but what I prophesy of him I am willing to say. Phoe. What ? Socr. He appears to me to have better natural endow¬ ments than to be compared with the speeches of Lysias, and, moreover, to be endued with a nobler disposition, so that it would not be at all wonderful if, as he advances in age, he should in this very pursuit of speech-making, to which he is now applying himself, surpass all who have ever attempted speeches, as if they were boys; and, be¬ sides, if he should not*be content with this, that a more divine impulse may lead him to greater things; for, my* friend, there is a natural love of wisdom in the mind of the man. This message, then, I will take from the gods of this spot to Isocrates, my favorite, and do you take the other to Lysias, as yours. 147. Phoe. This shall be done. But let us depart, since the heat has become less oppressive. Socr. Ought we not to go after we have prayed to these gods ? Phoe. How not? Socr. O beloved Pan! and all ye other gods of this place! grant me to become beautiful in the inner man, and that whatever outward things I have may be at peace with those within. May I deem the wise man rich, and may I have such a portion of gold as none but a prudent man can either bear or employ. Do we need any thing else, Phsedrus ? For myself I have prayed enough. Phoe. Make the same prayer for me, too; for the pos¬ sessions of friends are common. Socr. Let us depart. \ v 17* INTRODUCTION TO THE THEJETETUS. Tiieodoeus, a famous geometrician of Cyrene, and a fol¬ lower of Protagoras, is represented to have met Socrates at Athens, and to have been asked by him whether among his pupils there were any who promised to become emi¬ nent. Theodoras particularizes one above all the rest, who, while he is speaking, is seen approaching. His name is Thesetetus. Socrates, having heard him so highly spoken of by Theodoras, at once opens upon the subject which he wishes to discuss, and asks what “science is. Theaetetus, in answer, enumerates several particular sciences, but is soon led to understand that the question is not, how many sciences there are, but what science itself is; and by an instance in point shows that he does so. Still, he doubts Ids own ability to a T 'pyer the question proposed, but is at length induced to ma^.j the attempt by Socrates pleasantly describing himself as inheriting his own mother’s skill in midwifery, by which he is able to bring to the birth and deliver the mental conceptions of those whose souls are pregnant with ideas . 1 Theastetus, then, first of all says that science is nothing else than perception. This, Socrates observes, is the opin¬ ion of Protagoras, differently expressed; for he said that man is the measure of all things; in other words,that all things are such as they appear to each person. In order to examine the truth of this doctrine, Socrates begins by 1 Sec. 1-22. INTRODUCTION. 395 stating it more fully. Protagoras asserts that nothing ex¬ ists of itself, nor can any thing be designated by any qual¬ ity ; for what we call great will, in reference to something else, be also small, and what we call heavy, light, and so on ; so that nothing ever exists but is always becoming. Con¬ sequently, all things spring from motion, and the relation that they bear to each other. Thus, with respect to color, it dbes not actually exist. It is neither in the object seen, nor in the eye itself, but results from the application of the eye to the object, and so is the intermediate production of both. Again, if you compare six with four, they appear to be half as many again; but if with twelve, only the half; whence it appears that the same number is at one time great, at another small, which would not be the case if numbers had a fixed and determined magnitude. The principle, then, on which all things depend is this: That the universe is nothing but motion, of which there are two species, the one active, the other passive, by the union of which, that which is perceivable and perception itself consist. Thus, when the eye and a corresponding object, meeting together, produce whitene' 3'Wl its connate per¬ ception, the eye sees, and becomes not vision, but a seeing eye, and the object itself becomes not whiteness, but white; so that nothing is essentially one, but is always being pro¬ duced by something else, and, therefore, the word u being” must be entirely done away with. But here it may be objected that the perceptions produced in persons who dream, or are diseased, or mad, are utterly false; and so far are the things that appear to them from existing, that none of them have any real existence at all :* how, then, can it be said that perception is science, and that things which appear to every one are to that person what they appear to be? The answer is, that the things which appear are 396 INTRODUCTION. most certainly true to the percipient: just as if wine ap¬ pears bitter to a sick person, to him it is certainly bitter; and, again, with regard to dreams, there is no certain way of distinguishing a state of being awake from dreaming. And as the object perceived and the percipient exist, or are produced by relation to each other, neither exists nor is produced of itself; but the object perceived does exist in relation to the percipient, and to him is true, so that he has a scientific knowledge of what he perceives. 1 Socrates then proposes to examine the correctness of Protagoras’s theory. If what he says is true, a pig or any other creature that possesses perception will be the meas¬ ure of all things, as well as a man, and man himself will be-equal in wisdom to the gods. To which Protagoras is supposed to answer, that the gods are not to be brought into the question at all, for that it does not appear wheth¬ er they exist or not; and as to brute creatures, it would be strange if every man did not excel them in wisdom; and besides, no argument deduced from them can be con¬ clusive, but rests only on probability, which can not be allowed in a discussion respecting science. "Well, then, when we hear barbarians speak, whose language we have not learned, are we to say that we both hear and know what they say? to which the answer is,that we both hear and know the sounds, but not the meaning of the words. Again, it is objected, if perception is science, a person may remember a thing, and not know it_j for instance, he may obtain a knowledge of a thing by seeing it, and then shut his eyes. In that case, he remembers it, but does not see it; but, inasmuch as sight is perception, and perception knowledge, he can not know it, because he does not see it, and yet he remembers it; which is absurd. ButProtago- 1 Sec. 23-46. INTRODUCTION. 397 ras will not admit this conclusion, but will say that mem¬ ory is very different from perception, and that the things which we appear to remember are not the same as those that we formerly perceived. Still, though all things are as they appear to each person, it must be admitted that there is such a thing as wisdom and a wise man; and he is wise who changes the aspect of objects to another, and causes things that appear, and are, evil to any one, to ap¬ pear, and be, good—just as a physician, by means of medi¬ cine, changes the habit of the body from bad to good. 1 Thus far Socrates had carried on the discussion with Theaetetus, adducing the answers which Protagoras him¬ self would have given to the- objections brought against his theory, but expressing no opinion of his own. He now persuades Theodorus to advocate the cause T>f Protagoras, and himself undertakes to refute it. Protagoras then maintains that what appears to each person exists to him to whom it appears. Now, all men think themselves, in some respects, wiser than others, and others wiser than themselves; so that all admit that there are wisdom and ignoran ce a mong themselves. Now, is not wisdom true opinion, and ignorance false opinion ? If so, some men form false opinions; and yet that could not be if man is the measure of all things. Again, according to his doc¬ trine, the same thing will be both true and false; for in¬ stance, Protagoras’s own theory will be true to himself, but false to all who do not agree with him; and by how many more they are to whom it does not appear to be true than those to whom it does so appear, by so much the more it is not than it is; and so, in admitting that the opinion of those who differ from him is true, he admits that his own opinion is false. Moreover, in political mat- 1 Sec. 47-65. 393 INTRODUCTION. ters Protagoras will admit that things honorable and base, just and unjust, are such to each city as each city consid¬ ers them; but he will allow that one counselor excels an¬ other, and that all laws are not equally expedient, though the city that enacts them thinks them so. 1 The mention of political matters leads Socrates to inter¬ rupt the course of the argument, and to contrast the life of a politician with that of a philosopher, in which he shows how far more exalted are the views of the latter than of the former. The digression, however, has this connection with the subject in hand, that it exposes the utter worth¬ lessness of political expediency, which depends on appear¬ ances only, and vindicates the aspirations of philosophers, who devote themselves to the contemplation of wisdom and true virtut. 2 To return, then, to the original subject. Those who maintain that whatever appears to each person exists to him to whom it appears, persist that what a city enacts as appearing just to itself is just to that city as long as it continues in force; but, in enacting laws, the real object is to make them as advantageous to itself as possible; but what is advantageous regards also the future, for laws are enacted that they may be advantageous for the future. But if man is the measure of all things, he must also con¬ tain within himself the criterion of things about to hap¬ pen ; yet it will be admitted, in a variety of instances that are adduced, that a person who is skilled is better able to judge of the future than one who is unskilled : and Pro¬ tagoras himself can judge beforehand better than any pri- ■ vate person what arguments are likely to be available in a court of justice; so that not every matj,but the wise man only, is the true measure of things. 3 Sec. GG-75. 2 Sec. 7G-87. 3 Sec. 87-91. INTRODUCTION. 399 This part of the argument being brought to a close, Socrates next proposes to consider the essence that is said to consist in motion, a doctrine which the followers of Heraclitus were then advocating very strenuously. Now, there are two species of motion, removal and change; the former is when a thing passes from one place to another, the latter a change of quality, as when a thing becomes black from white, or hard from soft; and all things must undergo both kinds of motion, otherwise the same thing would be both in motion and at rest at the same time, and in that case it would not be more correct to say that - all things are in m otiory than that they are at rest. Since, then, every thing must be continually undergoing a proc¬ ess of change at the same time that it is in motion,There can be nothing fixed and certain, so that perception can not be science, for as all things are in motion, perception itself, jwhich results from the relation between the object and the percipient, must be in a constant state of motion and chaime.^ _ __ - Thesetetus now resumes the argument, and though it would seem that Protagoras’s doctrine had been already sufficiently refuted, yet Socrates resolves to try it-by one more test. Each sense has its peculiar perception, and such things as are perceived by one faculty can not be per¬ ceived by another; for instance, what is perceived by hear¬ ing -can not be perceived by sight, and what is perceived by sight can not be perceived by hearing; yet we can form a notion of them both together, and observe what properties they have in common, and how they differ: this, however, is not done by the senses, but by the soul itself; for children, as soon as they are born, are able to perceive by the bodily organs, but only arrive, with much labor and 1 Sec. 91-100. 400 INTRODUCTION. difficulty, at the power of comparing things with each oth¬ er, and so obtain a knowledge of them, whence, again, it follows that perception and science are not the same. 1 The first definition of science attempted by Thesetetus being thus overthrown, Socrates again asks him what sci¬ ence is. To which he answers that it appears to be true judgment. Socrates, however, thinks proper first to in¬ quire whether there is such a thing as false judgment. People, he says, must either know or not know things about which they form judgments. Now, false judgments are formed when a person thinks that things which he does not know are certain other things that he does not know; or when he thinks that things which he does know are other things that he does know; or that things which he does not know are things that he does know. But none of these things can happen; therefore it is not possi¬ ble to form false judgments. Again, if existence is put for knowledge, a similar train of reasoning leads to the same conclusion. A third method of forming false judg¬ ments may be when any one says that any real object is another real object, changing one for the other in his thoughts. But, in that case, he must think of both of them, or one only. If the former, he would contradict himself; if the latter, he can not judge that the one is the other, for he thinks of one only; so that neither in this way can false judgment be formed. There still remains another mode in which false judgments may be formed. Suppose that we have in our souls a waxen tablet, of va¬ rious qualities in different persons; on this tablet are im¬ pressed the images of our perceptions and thoughts, and whatever is so impressed we remember and know so long as the image remains. But, by examining every possible 3 Sec. 101-107. y# INTRODUCTION. 401 mode by which perception in the senses and impressions in the mind can be varied and interchanged, it will be found that false judgment takes place where either the perception or the impression is imperfect and indistinct. 1 Socrates, however, is not satisfied with this conclusion, that false judgment proceeds from the conjunction of per¬ ception with thought, and shows that the mind alone by itself may err; for instance, a man may think that seven and five make eleven, though he knows they make twelve; so that there must be either no false judgment at all, or it is possible for a person not to know what he knows. Theaetetus is unable to choose between these alternatives. Socrates, therefore, proposes to abandon their present course of argument, and at once to inquire what it is to know. Some people say it is to have science; Socrates prefers saying it is to possess science; for having differs from possessing, in that what we have we use, but what we possess we use, or not, as we please. Suppose the soul, then, to be a kind of aviary, containing all sorts of birds, and let the birds -stand for sciences. Now, all the sciences that are shut up in this aviary a man may be said to pos¬ sess ; but when he has occasion to use any particular sci¬ ence, he may by mistake take one instead of another. Thus, when he thinks that eleven is twelve, he takes the science of eleven instead of that of twelve, and so judges falsely; but when he takes that which he endeavors to take, he judges truly. Still, another even worse inconven¬ ience appears to Socrates to follow from this; for it is ab¬ surd. to suppose that a person who has the science of any thing should, at the same time, be ignorant of that thing; and if that can be, nothing hinders but that ignorance when present should .make us know something. So that, 1 See. 108-125. 402 INTRODUCTION. after all, they have only come round again to the point from whence they started, and have still to inquire what science is. Thesetetus persists in answering that it is true judgment. But Socrates shows that this can not be the case; for that judges, who listen to the arguments of law¬ yers, form true judgments without science, whence it fol¬ lows that true judgment and science are not the same. 1 Thesetetus, pressed by this objection, attempts a third definition of science, and says it is true judgment in con¬ junction with reason. But, then, observes Socrates, how are we to distinguish the things that can be known from those that can not ? for instance, elements can not be de¬ fined, but things composed of them can be defined; again, elements can be perceived but not known; for he who can not give an explanation of a thing can not know it; but things compounded of them, because they can be de¬ fined, can also be known. Theaetetus agrees to this; but Socrates is not satisfied with the statement that the ele¬ ments are unknown, but the nature of things, compounded of them, known. He illustrates his objection by an ex¬ amination of the component parts of a syllable, and shows that, if a whole is known, its parts must also be known. If, then, letters are the elements of a syllable, being also the parts of it, they must also be known as well as the syllable. 2 But, in order to ascertain the accuracy of Thea3tetus’s last definition of science, it is necessarv to determine the meaning of the word logos. First of all, then, it may mean the expressing one’s thoughts by means of words; but in that case there will be no difference between true judgment and science. Secondly, it may mean the being able to describe a thing bv its elements; but this has O 4/ S 1 Sec. 126-138. 8 Sec. 139-149. INTRODUCTION. 403 been already answered in considering the elements of syl¬ lables. Lastly, it may mean definition; but it is absurd to say that science is true judgment joined to definition, for definition can only be of that which a person already knows; so that this would be to say that science is true judgment joined to science. 1 At this point the argument is broken off, without hav¬ ing been brought to any satisfactory conclusion. But Socrates requests that they may meet again the following day and continue the discussion. * 1 Sec. 149-157. THEiETETU S; OR, ON SCIENCE. First Euclides, and Terpsion. Then Socrates, Theodorus, AND ThEJETETUS. Euc. Are you just now, Terpsion, or long since come from the country ? Ter. A considerable time since, and I have been seek¬ ing for you in the forum, and wondered that I could not find you. Euc. I was not in the city. Ter. Where then ? Euc. As I was going down to the port, I met with Theaetetus, who was being carried from the camp at Corinth to Athens. Ter. Alive or dead ? Euc. Alive, though scarcely so; for he is in a bad state from several wounds, though he suffers more from the disease that is prevalent in the army. Ter. Is it dysentery ? Euc. Yes. Ter. What a man you speak of as being in danger! Euc. An honorable and good man, Terpsion; and I just now heard some persons highly extolling his conduct in the battle. Ter. Nor is that surprising; but it would be much more wonderful if he had not behaved so. But why did he not stop here at Megara ? Euc. He was hastening home; although I begged and advised him, yet he would not. And after I had attended him on his journey, on my return hither I recollected, and THE^ETETUS. 405 was filled with admiration of Socrates, who often spoke prophetically about other things, and especially about him. 2. For, if I remember rightly, a little before his death he met with Theaetetus, who was then a youth, and being in company and discoursing with him, he very much admired his natural disposition. And when I went to Athens he related to me the conversation he had had with him, which was very well worth hearing; and he said that he must necessarily distinguish himself, if he lived to a ma¬ ture age. Ter. And he spoke truly, as it seems. But what was the conversation? Are you able to relate it? Euc. No, by Jupiter! not by heart; but as soon as I returned home I made notes of it, and afterward, at my leisure, calling it to mind, I wrote it down, and as often as I came to Athens, I asked Socrates to repeat what I did not remember, and on my return hither, corrected it; so that I have nearly the whole conversation written out. 3. Ter. True: I have heard you say so before; and though I always meant to beg you to show it me, I have hitherto delayed doing so. But what should hinder us from now going through it? For I am in great need of rest, having just come from thb country. Euc. I, too, accompanied Theaetetus as far as Erinion, so that I should not be at all sorry to rest myself. Let us go, then, and, while we rest, the boy shall read to us. Ter. You say well. Euc. This, then, is the book, Tcrpsion. But I wrote the conversation thus; not as if Socrates related it to me, as he did, but as if he were conversing with the persons with whom he said he did converse. But these, he said, were Theodorus the geometrician, and Theaetetus. 4. In order, then, that phrases interposed in the discourse might not give us trouble in the writing, when Socrates spoke of himself,as “I said,” or “Thereupon I replied,” and again, when he spoke of the person who gave the answer, “He assented,” or “ He denied,” for this reason I have intro¬ duced Socrates himself as conversing with them, and have done away with all such expressions. Ter. And that is not at all improper, Euclides. Euc. Here, then, boy, take the book and read. 40G THEiETETUS. JSher. If I took more interest in the people at Cyrene, Theodoras, I should inquire of you what is going on there, and of the people—whether there are a\iy young men there who devote their attention to geometry, or any other liberal study. But now—for I love them less than these —I am more anxious to know who of our young men promise to become eminent. For I myself examine into this so far as I am able, and inquire of others with whom I see the young men willingly associating. But no small number attach themselves to you, and justly; for you de¬ serve it, both in other respects and on account of your geometry. If, therefore, you haye met with any one worth mentioning, I should be glad to be informed of it. 5. Theo. And, indeed, Socrates, it is very well worth while both for me to tell and you to hear what a youth I have met with among your fellow-citizens. And if he were beautiful, I should be very much afraid to mention him, lest I should appear to any one to be enamored with him; but now—and don’t be angry with me—he is not handsome, for he resembles you in the flatness of his nose and the prominence of his eyes; but he has these in a less degree than you. You see, I speak without reserve. Be assured, then, that of all I ever met with—and I have been in company with very many—I never yet knew one of such an admirable disposition. For a man to be apt to learn, as it is at all times diflicult, and at the same time re¬ markably mild, and, added to this, brave beyond compare, I, for my part, thought could never happen, nor do I see any who are so. But those who are acute, as this one, sagacious, and of a good memory, are, for the most part, easily roused to anger, and are hurried violently along like ships without ballast, and are naturally rather furious than brave; on the other hand, those who are more sedate com¬ monly set about their studies more sluggishly, and are forgetful. 6. But he so calmly, steadily, and effectually applies himself to his studies and investigations, with so much gentleness, like oil flowing noiselessly, that one won¬ ders how one at his age can manage to do this. Socr. You bring good news. But whose son is he of our citizens ? Theo. I have heard the name, but do not remember it. thetetetus. 407 ou ever, he is the middle one of those who are now ap¬ proaching. For both he and these, who are some of his companions, were just now anointing themselves in the outer course; and now they appear to me to be comin«- iieie, after having anointed themselves. Observe how! ever, if you know him. ’ Socr. I do know him. He is the son of Euphonius of oumiim, who, my friend, was just such a man as you de- scnbe the son to be, and who was otherwise a person of consideration, and, besides, left behind him a very laro-e fortune. J . 7. Theo. Theaetetus is his name, Socrates. But I think his guardians have squandered his fortune. However notwithstanding this, he is wonderfully liberal with his money, Socrates. aSoc?. Fou describe a noble man. Bid him come here and sit down by us. 5 T/ie°. I will. Theaetetus, come hither to Socrates. B y a11 means come > Theaetetus, that I may look at myself, and see what sort of a face I have. For Theo dorus says I am like you. But if we had each of us a yie, and he should say that they were modulated alike, should we believe him at once, or consider first whether ne speaks as a musician ? Them. We should consider that first. bocr. Should we not, then, on finding that he was so, himT 6 11111 ’ bUt ’ lf 10 Were 1 o n0rant of music, disbelieve Them. True. 8ocr. Now,-then, I think, if we care at all about the re¬ semblance of our faces, we should consider whether he speaks as a painter, or not. Them. It appears so to me. Socr. Is Theodoras a painter, then ? ?hem. Not that I know of. >6ocr. And is he not a geometrician either? J-hem. Most assuredly he is, Socrates. 8. Socr. Is he also an astronomer, a reasoner, and a musician, and acquainted with all suqh things as are req- msite for a good education ? * Them. lie appears so to me. 408 THEtETETUS. Soar. If, then, he says that we resemble each other in some part of our body, praising or blaming it, it is not very well worth while to pay any attention to him. Them. Perhaps not. Socr. But what if he should praise the soul of either of us for virtue or wisdom? would it not be worth while foi the one who heard him to take pains to examine him that was praised, and for the latter to discover himself will¬ ingly ? Them. Certainly, Socrates. Soar. It is time, then, my dear Thesetetus, for you to dis¬ cover yourself, and for me to examine you; for be assured that Theodorus, though he has ere now praised many, both strangers and citizens, to me, has never praised any one so much as he praised you just now. Them. May it be well, Socrates; but beware that he did not speak in jest. Socr. That is not Theodorus’s habit. But do*not re¬ tract what you have granted, under the pretense that he spoke in jest, lest he should be compelled to bear witness. For no one, assuredly, will accuse him of giving false evi¬ dence. Therefore, adhere firmly to your agreement. Them. It is proper to do so, if you think fit. 9. Socr. Tell me, then: Do you learn geometry from Theodorus ? Them. I do. Socr. And likewise astronomy, and harmony, and rea¬ soning. Them. I endeavor to do so. Socr. I, too, my boy, endeavor to learn both from him and from others who, I think, understand any thing of these matters. However, though I am tolerably well in¬ formed in other subjects, yet I am in doubt about a trifle which I wish to consider with you, and these here present. Tell me, then, is not to learn to become wiser in that which one learns ? Them. How otherwise ? Socr. And by wisdom, I think, the wise are wise. Them. Yes. Socr. But does this differ at all from science? Them. What? THEiETETUS. 409 aS ocr. W isdom. Are not men wise in tilings of which they have a scientific knowledge ? Them. How not ? Socr. Then are wisdom and science the same ? Theoe. Yes. 10. Socr. This, then, is the thing that I doubt about, and I am not able to determine satisfactorily by myself what science is. Can we, then, explain it? AYhat do you say? Which of us shall speak first? But he that mis¬ takes, and as often as any one mistakes, shall sit as an ass, as the boys say when they play at ball; but whoever shall get the better without making a mistake shall be oin¬ king, and shall order any question he pleases to be an¬ swered. Why are you silent ? Am I rude at all, Theo- dorus, from my love of talking, and in my anxiety to bring about a conversation among us, and of making us all friends, and sociable with one another ? Theo. Such a thing, Socrates, can not by any means be rude; but bid one of these young men answer you. For I am unaccustomed to this kind of conversation, and I am not of an age to accustom myself to it; whereas, it is suit¬ able to them, and they will benefit by it much more; for, in truth, youth can derive benefit from every thing. As you began, therefore, do not let Thea3tetus off, but question him. 11. jSocr.' \ ou hear, Theaetetus, what Theodorus says, whom, I think, you will neither be willing to disobey, nor is it right for a young man not to submit to a wise man when he commands him in matters of this kind. Tell me, therefore, frankly and ingenuously, what does science ap¬ pear to you to be ? Them. I must, then, Socrates, since you bid me. And if I make any mistake, you will assuredly correct me. * Socr. Certainly, if we are able. lhem. It appears to me, then, that sciences are such things as one may learn from Theodorus—geometry, and the others which you just now enumerated; and, again, the shoe-maker’s art, and those of other artisans, all and each of these are nothing else than science. Socr. Nobly and munificently, my friend; when asked for one. thing, you give many and various things, instead of the single one. 18 410 THEiETETUS. Theca. What mean you by this, Socrates ? W Perhaps nothing: but I will tell you what I think. When you speak of the shoe-maker’s art, do you mean any thing else than the science of making shoes ? Them. Nothing. B • 12. Socr. But what of the carpenter’s art? Do vou mean any thing else than the science of making imnle- ments in woo,cl ? ° 1 Them. Still, nothing else. Socr. In both, then, do you not define that of which each is the science ? Them. Yes. hou . But the question asked, Theaetetus, was not this— of what things there is science, nor how many sciences there are; for we did not inquire with a view to enumer¬ ate them, but to know what science- itself is. Do I sav nothing to the purpose ? J Them. You speak very correctly. Soor - Cons * de , r &'*> too : If any one should ask us about any mean and obvious thing, as, for instance, clay, what it is, if we were to answer him, there is the potters’ clay, the oven-builders clay, and the brick-makers’ clay, should we not be ridiculous ? * Them. Probably. Socr. In the first place, we should be ridiculous for thinking that he who asks the question can understand from our answer, when we say “ clay,” adding “ image-mak- 01 s , 01 ' any other artisans whatever. Do you think that any one can understand the name of a thing when he does not know what that thing is? Them. By no means. 13. Socr Neither does he understand the science of shoes \Vho does not know what science is? Them. He does not. tSocr. He, then, does not understand what is the art of shoe-making, or any other art, who is ignorant of what science is ? Them , It is so. Socr. It is, therefore, a ridiculous answer for one to dneed, can I fail to have a scientific knowledge of things which I perceive? ° Them. It can not fail to be so. bocr. It was, therefore, very finely said by you that sci¬ ence is nothing else than perception; and aircome to the same result the doctrine of Ilomer and Heraclitus, and all that tribe, that all things are in motion like streams; and that of the very wise Protagoras, that man is the measure of all things; and that of Theaetetus, that, if this is the case perception must be science. Is it not so, Thetetetus ? fehall we say that this is your new-born infant, as it were, delivered by my midwifery? How say you? Ihem. It is necessary to say so, Socrates. 47. Socr. This, then, as it appears, we have with much difficulty produced, whatever it may turn out to be. But after the birth, we must, in truth, perform the ceremony of running 1 round in argument, and consider whether without our perceiving it, that which is produced is not unworthy of being reared, but empty and false. Do you think that we ought by all means to rear your offspring and not expose it ? and will you endure to see it refuted and not be very much offended if any one should take it away from you, as having been delivered for the first time ? Iheo. rheaBtetus will endure this, Socrates, for he is not at all morose. But, by the gods ! say whether it is not so. ASocr. \ ou are really very fond of discussion, Theodoras and pleasant, in thinking that I am a sack full of ar to ^ the ™e Thfmtetus. led me, then Thesetetus, first of all as to what we iust now discussed, do you not wonder with me that you have so suddenly discovered yourself to be not inferior in wis- . re“of Prof T S °, d ? 0P d ° >'° U thillk ** the meas- T/ll vlfr™? f “ S d0 with Sods than men ? 'f' f 0,1 J > -T Jupiter! and I very much wonder at J, 11 C)l . I< : stlon ' For when we discussed in what manner they said that what appears to each person is true to him , 1 " - on ' 11 appears, it seemed to me to be well said • but U now the very contrary has speedily occurred to me bocr. For you are young, my dear boy, and quickly give the “p pel ' SUaded b y. Plausible speeches. For to sav “Nobff f‘' ota S° ras > or some one on his behalf, would to 3 ’ t , . j bo ^ s and old mcn ! you here sit and converse getliei, dragging gods into the question, of whom -wheth¬ er they exist or not, I do not think proper either to speak oi write ; and what the multitude hear and admit, this^ou assei t, as if it were strange if every man did not excel fny nmff r hate 'T wlsdom » but you do not adduce any Pyf 0l ;. c ? n . c ' as ! ve ai-gi"ue.it, but have recourse to likeli- - ood, which if 1 heodorus, or any other geometrician were iiotice 1 ” ?f 0metry :, he "’ 0Uld be deemed unworthy of . notice. 52. Do you, therefore, and Theodoras consider whether, on such matters, you will admit of arguments de¬ duced from probability and likelihood 432 THEiETETUS. Them. But, Socrates, neither would you nor we say that this is right. o Soar. We must, therefore, consider it in another way, as it appears, according to what you and Theodoras say. Them. In another way, certainly. Socr.' Let us, then, consider it thus, whether science and perception are the same, or different; for to this, surely, our whole discourse tends, and for the sake of this we have mooted these many absurd points, have we not? Them. Assuredly. 1 Socr. Shall we allow, then, that whatever we perceive by sight or hearing, this we at the same time know ? For instance, before we have learned the language of barbari¬ ans, whether shall we deny that we hear them when they speak, or that we both hear and know what they say ? And, again, when unacquainted with letters, on looking at them, whether shall we insist that we do not see or know them,though we do see them? 53. Them. Whichever of them, Socrates, we see and hear, we shall say that we know; for that of the latter we see and know the form and color, and of the former, that we both hear and know the sharpness and flatness of the sounds; but that what grammarians and interpreters teach about them, we neither perceive by sight or hearing, nor know. Boer. Admirable, Thcsetetus ; and it is not worth while to dispute with you about these things, in order that you may make a greater proficiency. But observe, also, this other difficulty that stands in our way, and consider how we can repel it. Them. What is that? Socr. This: If any one should ask, whether it is possi¬ ble for a person who still possesses and retains the mem¬ ory of a thing which he once knew, at the very time when he remembers it, not to know the very thing that he re¬ members. But I am becoming prolix, as it seems, through a wish to ask whether a person who has learned any thing and remembers it, does not know it. Them. How should he not, Socrates? for, otherwise, what you say would be a prodigy. Socr. Am I, then, trifling ? Consider. 54. Do you not, THEiETETUS. 433 then, say that to see is to perceive, and that siirht is per¬ ception ? » i Them. I do. S°cr. Has not he, then, who sees any thing, obtained a scientific knowledge of that which he sees, according to our late argument ? ° Them. Yes. fSocr. What, then ? Ho you not say that memory is something? J Them. Yes. Socr. Whether of nothing or something? Them. Of something, surely. Socr. Is it not, then, of the things which he learns and perceives, of some such things as these ? Them. What else ? Socv. And what a person sees, does he not sometimes remember?. Them. He does remember. Soer. When he shuts his eyes, too? or when he does this, does he forget ? Them. It would be strange to say that, Socrates. boor. We must say it, though, if we would keep to our former argument; otherwise it is gone. Them. And I suspect so, by Jupiter! though I do not dearly understand it; but tell me how. 55 Soar. Thus : We say that a person who sees has ob¬ tained a scientific knowledge of that which he sees; for sight and perception and science are allowed to be the same. Them. Certainly. Socr. Lut he who sees, and has obtained a scientific knowledge of that which he sees, if he shuts his eyes re¬ members it, indeed, biit does not see it. Is it not so? * Them. Yes. Socr. Hut to say that he does not see is as much as to say he does not know; since to see is the same thin if you can, and show that we have not perceptions peculiar to each of us, or that, if they arc peculiar, it does not follow that what appears to any one becomes, or, if we must use the word £ existence,’ exists to him alone to whom THEiETETUS. 437 it appears. But when you speak of pigs and cynocephali, you not only act like a pig yourself, but you persuade those that hear you to treat my writings in the same way, herein not doing well. For I affirm that the truth is as I have written; for that each of us is the measure both of things that do and do not exist, though there is an in¬ finite difference between one man and another, in this very circumstance, that they are, and appear, different to one person from what they are, and do, to another. And I am far from denying that there is such a thing as wis¬ dom, and a wise man; but I call that man wise who, chang¬ ing the aspect of objects to any of us, to whom they ap¬ pear, and are, evil, causes them to appear, and to be, good. 62. But do not, again, follow out my arguments, attend¬ ing to the words only, but thus, in a still clearer manner, understand what I mean. For call to mind what was said in a former part of the discussion, that to a sick man what he eats appears, and is, bitter; but to a man in health it is, and appears, the contrary. But there is no need to make either of them wiser than the other, for that is not possi¬ ble ; nor must we allege that the sick man is ignorant, be¬ cause he is of a different opinion, and that he who is in health is wise, because he thinks differently; but we must endeavor to make him change over to the other side, for the other habit is better. In like manner, in education, we should endeavor to make a man change from one habits to a better. But the physician effects a change by medi¬ cines, and the sophist by arguments. 63. For no one ever makes one who entertains false opinions afterward enter¬ tain true ones; for it is not possible for a man to have an opinion on things that do not exist, or on any others than those by which he is affected, and these are always true. And I think that a man who, from a depraved habit of soul, forms opinions corresponding to it, a good habit causes to form different opinions of the same character; but these appearances some people, through ignorance, call true ; but I say that some things are better than others, but not at all more true. Moreover, my dear Socrates, I am far from call¬ ing the wise,frogs; but as regards bodies, I call them physi¬ cians; and as regards plants, husbandmen. For I say that these last produce in plants, when they are at all diseased, 438 THEiETETUS. instead of depraved perceptions, good and wholesome per¬ cept,ons and truths, and that wise and good orators cause good, instead of depraved, things to appear to be just to ^states. For, whatever things appear just and honorable to so“ h bnt y a h ° Se m ' e S? t0 th f ° ity ’ 80 l0 "S as H thinks them so but a wise man instead of the several depraved things that they have, makes good things to be and to appeal- I 'JX- 10 sa !! ,e . rca ? 0,1 » a sophist who is thus able to in- stiua his pupils is wise, and deserves large pay from those w om lie instructs. And thus some are wiser than others and yet no one entertains false opinions; and you must of ThinJ, forTh^ 011 Wil ' ? n0t ’ * at »«> th/measure Unngs, foi this principle is maintained throughout: if then, you are able to controvert this from the beo-innino-’ do so, by answering it in a consecutive speech; or if yon had rather by questioning, do it by questioning; for nei¬ ther is this to be avoided, but, most of all, pursued bv a man of sense. However, do it thus: don’t act unfai’rl/in } in questions. For it is a great inconsistency for one V !?. pret( : llds t0 be a lovei ’ of virtue to persevere in doino- nothing else than act unfairly in argument. But it is to mnVonTff 111 a T ttCl ’ ° f tbis kind > when a man does not make a difference between disputation and discussion, and n the former jests and leads into error so far as he can but in the latter speaks seriously, and sets the person with whom he is conversing right, pointing out to him those euois only into which he has been led by himself and his former conversations. 05. If, then, you act thus, those Mdio converse with you will have to blame themselves for wihVii Vn Con ^ lI 1 sl0n and P er P lex ity, but not you; and they will follow and love you, but hate themselves, and fly from themselves to philosophy, that, becoming different, they may be changed from what they formerly were; but if you act the contrary to this, as most men do, the very con- * ai y .Y. 1 beb ! b y° u > and you will make those who associ¬ ate with you, instead of being philosophers, hate this pur¬ suit when they are more advanced in life. If, then, you will be persuaded by me, as I said before, applying your- U ’ not hostilely or pugnaciously, but in a favorable spn it, you will truly consider what I have said in main¬ taining that all things are moved, and that whatever ap- TIIEiETETUS. 439 pears to every one, also exists, both to an individual and a city; and from hence you will further consider, whether science and perception are the same or different; and you will not, as just now, depart from the usual meaning of words and names, which most men, forcing wherever it suits them, occasion one another all kinds of perplexity.” G6. These things, Theodoras, I have advanced, by way of assistance to your friend, according to my ability, trifling from trifling means; but if he Avere alive, he would defend his own opinions in a more noble manner. Theo. You are joking, Socrates; for you have defended the man very vigorously. Socr. You say well, my friend. But tell me: did you observe that Protagoras said just now, and reproached us, that, in arguing with a boy, Ave took advantage of the boy’s fear to oppose his principles; and, giving it the contempt¬ uous name of caviling, and vaunting his measure of all things, he exhorted us to be serious in examining his doc¬ trine ? Theo. IIoav should I not have observed it, Socrates ? Socr. What, then ? Do you require us to obey him ? Theo. By all means. Socr. Do you see, then, that all these, except you, are boys ? If, then, Ave are to obey him, it is requisite that you and I, questioning and answering each other, should be serious in examining his doctrine, that he may not have this to object to us, that Ave have discussed this question again jesting Avith youths. 67. Theo. .But Avhat? Would not Theadetus follow this investigation much better than many who have long beards? Socr. But not better than you, Theodorus. Do not, therefore, think that I ought in every Avay to defend your deceased friend, but you not at all. But come, my good sir, follow me a little—just so far as to enable us to see Avhether it is right that you should be the measure of dia¬ grams, or Avhether all men, equally Avith you, are sufficient for themselves in astronomy, and the other things in Avhich you have the reputation of excelling. Theo. It is not easy, Socrates, for one Avho is sitting by you, to refuse to answer you. But I Avas just noAV trifling 440 TIIEJSTETUS. when I said that you would permit me not to strip myself, and that you would not compel me like the Lacedemo¬ nians. But you appear to me to resemble Sciron 1 rather. For the Lacedemonians bid us either depart or strip; but you seem to me to act rather like Anteus, 2 for you do not let any one go who approaches you, until you have com¬ pelled him to strip and wrestle with you in argument. 68. a$ oct. \ ou have found out an admirable compari¬ son for my disease, Theodorus, though I am stronger than they wci e , for an innumerable multitude of Herculeses and Theseuses, who were powerful in argument, have met with mo and beaten me heartily \ but I do not desist any the moie, such a strange passion for this kind of exercise has got possession of me. Do not you, therefore, refuse to have a fall with me, and to benefit yourself and me at the same time. Theo. I hold out no longer, but lead me wherever you please. I must needs submit to the destiny that you weave for me, and be confuted. However, I shall not be able to give myself up to you further than you proposed. fS oct. So far will be sufficient. And, I beg of you, ob¬ serve this very closely, that we do not, unawares, get’into a pueiile mode of talking, and so let any one reproach us again for that. Theo. I will endeavor, so far as I can. 69 sSocr. First of all, then, let us impugn the argument which we did before, and see whether we correctly or in- conectly find fault with and reprobate the assertion, that eveiy one is sufficient to himself with respect to wisdom. Now, Protagoras has conceded to us that some men excel others with respect to better or worse, and those, too, who are wise; has he not ? Theo. Yes. Socr. If he, then, being present in person, had agreed to this, and we, in assisting him, had not made this conces¬ sion in his behalf, there would be no need to recur to it in * 1 A noted robber between Megara and Corinth, who used to throw all travelers whom be fell in with into the sea. lie was slain by Theseus. Antaeus dwelt in a cave in Libya, and.compelled all strangers who came by to wrestle with him. He met with his match in Hercules, and was slain. 5 TIIEvETETUS. 441 order to confirm it; but now, perhaps, some one may con¬ sider us incompetent to assent on his behalf, wherefore it will be better to come to a more clear understanding: on this point, for it makes no small difference whether it is so or otherwise. Theo. You say truly. Socr. Not from others, then,but from his own statements we may, in very few words, get his assent. '70. “Theo. How so? Socr. Thus: Does he not say that what appears to each • person exists to him to whom it appears? Theo. lie does say so. Socr. Now, Protagoras, we speak of the opinions of a man, or, rather, of all men, and say that there is no one who does not think himself in some respects wiser than others, and, in other respects, others wiser than himself; and in the greatest dangers, when men are in peril, in wars, or diseases, or storms at sea, they behave toward those who have power in each several case as toward gods, looking up to them as their saviors, though they excel them in nothing else than in knowledge; and the whole world is almost full of men seeking for masters and governors of themselves and other animals and works, and, again, of men who think themselves competent to teach and compe¬ tent to rule. And, in all these cases, what else shall we say than that men themselves think that there are wisdom and ignorance among: themselves ? Theo. Nothing else. Socr. Do they not, then, think that wisdom is true opin- K ion, and ignorance false opinion ? Theo. How should they not? 'Tl. Socr. How, then, Protagoras, shall we deal with the assertion? Whether shall we say that men always form true opinions, or sometimes true and sometimes false? For in either way the result is that they do not-always form true opinions, but both true and false. For consider, Theodoras, whether any one of the followers of Protago¬ ras, or you yourself, would contend that no one thinks that there is another who is ignorant, and forms false opin¬ ions. Theo. That is incredible, Socrates. ] 9* * 442 THEJSTETUS. Socr . "let the assertion, that man is the measure of all tilings, of necessity comes to this ? Theo. How so ? Socr. When you have determined any thing within your- sell, and make known your opinion to me on any point then, according to his statement, your opinion must be true to you; but may not the rest become judges of your judo-, ment, or must we determine that you always form tri7e opinions? Will not myriads, who form contrary opinions to yours, continually oppose you, deeming that you jud^e and think falsely ? J J & Theo. By Jupiter ! Socrates, there are myriads, as Ho¬ mer says, who give me a vast deal of trouble. 72. Socr. What, then? Will you allow us to say that you, then, form opinions that are true to yourself, but false to innumerable others ? Theo. This seems to me necessary, from the assertion. Socr. But what with respect to Protagoras himself ? If neither he thought that man is the measure of all thino-s nor the multitude, as indeed they do not, does it not nec- essaiily follow that this truth which he has described ex- * L ? ts *° 110 one ? if he himself thought so, but the muk titude do not agree with him, you must be aware that, in the first place, by how many more they are to whom it does not appear so than those to whom it does so appear by so much the more it is not than it is ? TJieo. Necessarily so, since, according to each several opinion, it will be or will not be. Socr. In the next place, this is very pleasant; for he with respect to his own opinion, admits that the opinion ot those who differ from him, in that they think he is in enoi, is true, since he allows that all men form opinions of things that exist. Theo. Certainly. . Socr. Must he not, therefore, admit that his own opin- -i 1S i . se .’ ^ ^e allows ^ ia l / ll ie opinion of those who think he is in error is true ? Theo. Necessarily so. . Socr. Ihe others, however, do not admit that they are in error? J Theo. Surely not. THEJETETUS. 443 73. Socr. He, however, from what he has written, al¬ lows that this opinion also is true. Theo. It appears so. Socr. It will therefore he controverted by all men, Pro¬ tagoras not excepted, or, rather, will be allowed by him, that when he admits to one who differs from him that he forms a true opinion, then even Protagoras himself will admit that neither a dog, nor any man whatever, is the measure of a thing that he has not learned. Is it not so ? Theo. It is. Socr. Therefore, since this is controverted by all men, Protagoras’s truth will not be true to any one, neither to any one else nor to himself. Theo. We run down my friend too severely, Socrates. Socr. But, moreover, my friend, it is uncertain whether we have not also exceeded the bounds of propriety. For it is probable that he, being older, is wiser than we are; and if he should suddenly rise up as far as his neck, hav¬ ing reproved me much for trifling, as is probable, and you for assenting, he would sink down again and hurry away. 74.' But it is necessary for us, I think, to make use of our own abilities, such as they are, and to say whatever ap¬ pears to us to be true. Well, then, shall we now say that anv one will grant this, that one man is wiser than anoth- er, and another also more ignorant ? Theo. It appears so to me. Socr. Shall we say, too, that our argument holds good as we have laid it down in our endeavors to assist Protag¬ oras, that most things are as they appear to every one— warm, dry, sweet, and all other things of this kind ; but that if in some things he shall admit that one man excels another, he would say, with regard to things wholesome and unwholesome, that not every silly woman, boy, and brute is competent to cure itself, by knowing what is wholesome for itself, but that here, if anywhere, one ex¬ cels another? Theo. So it appears to me. 75. Socr. And with respect to political matters, he will admit that things honorable and base, just and unjust, holy and unholy, as each city think's right to enact laws 444 THEiETETUS. for itself, are in truth such to each city, and yet that in these things one individual is not at all wiser than anoth¬ er, nor one city than another; but in enacting what is ex¬ pedient for itself or not expedient, here again, if anywhere, lie will allow that one counselor excels another, and the opinion of one city that of another with regard to truth; nor will he by any means venture to affirm that the laws which a city enacts, thinking them to be expedient for it¬ self, must certainly be so. But here in the matter I am speaking about, with respect to what is just and unjust, holy and unholy, men will persist that none of these have by nature an essence of their own, but that what appears to the community to be true, that becomes true at the time when it so appears, and so long as it appears. And those who do not altogether hold the doctrine of Protag- oras deal with philosophy in some such manner as this. But one topic of conversation, Theodoras, springs from one another, a greater from a less. *76. Theo. Have we no leisure, Socrates? Socr. We appear to have. And I have often at other times observed, my excellent friend, and especially now, with what good reason those who have spent much time in philosophical studies are found to be ridiculous orators when they enter courts of justice. Theo. What mean you by this? Socr. They that have been from their youth in courts of justice, and places of that kind, when compared with those who have been nurtured in philosophy and such-like studies, appear to have been educated like slaves compared with freemen. Theo. In what respect? Socr. In this, that these, as you said, have always lei¬ sure, and converse in peace at their leisure; just as we now are taking up our third topic in succession, so they, too, if any question occurs to them that pleases them bet¬ ter than the one in hand, as is the case with us, are not at all concerned whether they speak at length or briefly, if they can but arrive at the truth. But the others always * speak in a hurry, for the running water presses them on, nor are they allowed to speak on whatever subject they wish, but their opponent stands by them with this instru- THE JETET US. 445 ment of compulsion, 1 and the record (which they call the pleadings) read aloud, out of which they must not travel; and their speeches are always about a fellow-slave before the master, who is seated holding the scales of justice in his hand; their contests, too, are never unrestrained, but are always to the point before them, and oftentimes it is a race for life. 11. So that, from all these causes, they become vehement and keen, knowing how to flatter the master by words, and to conciliate him by actions, being mean, and not upright, in soul. For slavery from child¬ hood has taken away their growth and rectitude and free¬ dom, compelling them to do crooked actions, by exposing their yet tender souls to great dangers and fears, which not being able to bear up against with justice and truth, they immediately have recourse to lying and injuring one another, and become so bent and distorted that they pass from youth to manhood without having any solidity in their minds, but have become clever and wise, as they think. Such, then, are these, Theodoras. But are you willing that I should describe the men of our band, or that, passing them by, we should return again to our sub¬ ject, lest we abuse too much our liberty and powers of di¬ gression, which we just now spoke of? >78. Theo. By no means, Socrates, but describe them. For you observed very well that we, who are members of this band, are not the servants of topics of discussion; but they are our servants, as it were, and each of them must wait for its completion until we think proper. For nei¬ ther does a judge nor a spectator preside over us to re¬ buke and keep us in order, as is the case with the poets. Socr. Let us speak, then, as we ought, since it is agree¬ able to you, about the chiefs; for why should any one speak of those who spend their time in philosophy to but little purpose ? These, then, from early youth do not know the way to the forum, nor where the law-court, or senate-house, or any other public place of assemblage in 1 I have followed Stallbaum in giving this meaning to dvcr/n]. See his note on this passage. I have, perhaps, taken a liberty in translating dvTWfioffictv in the next line “pleadings;” but I know of no other word that will convey our author’s meaning to an English reader, and in the passage before us technicality 4s unnecessary. 440 TIIEvETETUS. the city, is situated; and they neither see nor hear laws or decrees, proclaimed or written. And canvassing of parti¬ sans for magistracies, and meetings, and banquets, and rev- elry with flute-players, they never think of, even in a dream. V lethei any one in a city is well or ill born, or what evil has befallen any one from his ancestors, whether men or women, is as little, known to him as how many measures of water there are in the sea, as the saying is. 79. And he does not know that he is ignorant of all this; -for he does not keep aloof from them for vanity’s sake, but in reality hi? bod y only is situated and dwells in the city; but his mind, considering all these things as trifling and of no consequence, holds them in contempt, and is borne every¬ where, according to the expression of Pindar, measuring things beneath .the earth and upon its surface, contempla^ ting the stars in heaven above, and searching thoroughly into the entire nature of every thing in the universe, and not stooping to any thing that is near. Theo. What mean you by this, Socrates? Socr. Just, Theodorus, as a smart and witty Thracian servant-girl is related to have joked Thales, when, contem¬ plating the stars and looking upward, he fell into a well that he was anxious to know what was goino- on in heaven, but forgot to notice what was before him, and at his feet. 80. The same joke is applicable to all who de¬ vote themselves to philosophy; for, in reality, such a one is ignorant about his near neighbor, not only what he is doing, but almost whether he is a man or some other ani¬ mal. But what man is, and what such a nature ought to do or suffer beyond others, he inquires and takes pains to investigate. You understand me surely, Theodorus • do you not ? J ’ Theo. I do; and you say truly. Socr Therefore, my friend, a man of this kind dealing privately with each person, or publicly, as I said at the outset, when he is compelled, in a court of justice or any¬ where else, to speak about things at his feet and before his view affords laughter not only to Thiqtcian damsels, but to the rest of the crowd, by falling into wells and all unds of perplexities, through inexperience; and his strange awkwardness gives him the character of stupidity. 81. THEiETETUS. 447 l^or, when he is reviled, he has nothing personal to retort against any one, as he does not know any evil of any one from not having troubled himself about such matters; therefore, not having any thing to say, he appears to be ridiculous. And when he hears others praise and boast of themselves, being seen to laugh, not feignedly, but really, lie is considered to be a simpleton. For, when encomiums are passed on a tyrant or king, he thinks that he hears a herdsman—a swineherd, for instance, or a shepherd, or a cowkeeper—pronounced happy for milking abundant¬ ly; but he thinks that they feed and milk an animal that is more hard to manage, and more cunning, than the others do; and that such a one must necessarily, from their oc¬ cupations, be not at all less rustic and uneducated than herdsmen, being shut up within walls as in a mountain pen. But when he hears that any one who possesses ten thousand acres of land, or even more, is possessed of vast property, it appears to him very trifling, as he has been accustomed to survey the whole earth. 82 . And when they extol nobility of birth, accounting any one noble from being able to show seven rich ancestors, he thinks that • this praise proceeds from men of dull minds, and w T ho look at trifles, being unable, through want of education, to look at the succession of ages, and compute that every man has had innumerable myriads of grandsires and ancestors, among whom there must have been an innumerable multi¬ tude of rich and poor, kings and slaves, barbarians and Greeks; but when they pride themselves in a catalogue of five-and-twenty ancestors, and refer their origin to Hercules, son of Amphitryon, it appears to him absurd, from its littleness; and he laughs at their being unable to compute, and so rid themselves of the vaunting of a silly mind, that the five-and-twentieth ancestor from Amphit¬ ryon, and the fiftieth from him, was such as fortune hap¬ pened to make him. In all these things, therefore, such a man is ridiculed by the multitude, partly from bearing himself haughtily, as it seems, and partly from not know¬ ing what is at his feet, and being on all occasions embar¬ rassed. Theo. You say exactly what takes place, Socrates. 83 . Socr. But when lie is able, my friend, to draw any 448 THEiETETUS. one upward and any one is willing to leave those ques¬ tions, of What injury do I do you?” or “What injury do you do me?” for the consideration of justice and in¬ justice themselves, what each of them is, and in what re¬ spect they differ from all other things, or from each other or the inquiry whether a king is happy; and, again, he who possesses abundance of gold, for the consideration or loyalty and human happiness and misery in general* what they both are, and in what way it is proper for the nature of man to seek the one and shun the other; when therefore, it is requisite for that little-minded, sharp, and pettifogging fellow to give an account of all these things he then shows the opposite side of the picture; becoming dizzy through being suspended aloft and looking so hioffi UP, lrora want of use, and becoming stupefied and perplex¬ ed and stammering, he does not, indeed, afford laughter to the .Thracian damsels or any other uneducated persons (for they do not perceive any thing), but to all who have been brought up otherwise than as slaves. 84 . This then . the character of each of them, Theodoras: the one’ that of him who is truly brought up in liberty and leisure! whom you call a philosopher, to whom it is no disgrace to be thought simple, and to be good for nothing, when he has to attend to servile offices (for instance, that he does not know how to pack and tie up luggage, or season \lands or make flattering speeches); the other, that of him who is able to perform all such offices dexterously and quickly but knows not how to gather up his cloak with Ins right hand like a well-bred person, nor perceiv¬ ing harmony of language to celebrate the life of gods and happy men such as it really is. Iheo. If, Socrates, you could persuade all men of what you say, as you have me, there would be more peace and less evil among men. aS her But it is not possible, Theodoras, that evil should be destroyed; for it is necessary that there should be al- wa ? s something contrary to good; nor can it be seated among the gods, but of necessity moves round this mortal nature and this region. Wherefore we ought to endeavor to fly hence thither as quickly as possible. But this flight consists in resembling God as much as possible, and this TIIEJETETUS. 449 resemblance is the becoming just and holy with wisdom; 85. But, my excellent friend, it is not very easy to per¬ suade men that not for thp reasons for which most men say we ought to flee from vice and pursue virtue, ought we to study the one and not the other—namely, that a man may not seem to be vicious,but may seem to be good; for these are, as the saying is, the drivelings of old women, as it appears to me. But let us describe the truth as fol¬ lows: God is never in any respect unjust, but as just as possible; and there is not any thing that resembles him more than the man among us who has likewise become as just as possible. And on this depends the true excellence of a man, and his nothingness and worthlessness. For the knowledge of this is wisdom and true virtue, but the not knowing it is manifest ignorance and vice; but all other seeming excellences and wisdoms, when they are found in political government, are abject, but in arts sordid. It is, therefore, by far the best not to allow those who act un¬ justly, and who speak or act impiously, to excel by rea¬ son of their wickedness; for they delight in this reproach, and think they hear that they are not valueless, mere bur¬ dens on the earth, but men such as they ought to be, who will be safe in a city. The truth, therefore, must be spok¬ en, that they are so much the more what they think they are not, from not thinking that they, are such. For they are ignorant of the punishment of injustice, of which they ought to be, least of all, ignorant; for it does not con¬ sist in what they imagine, stripes and death, which they sometimes suffer who do not commit injustice, but in that which it is impossible to avoid. 86. Theo. What do you mean ? /Socr. Since, my friend, there are two models in the nat¬ ure of things, one divine and most happy, the other ungod¬ ly and most miserable, they, not perceiving that this is the case, through stupidity and extreme folly,.unknown to themselves become similar to the one by unjust actions, and dissimilar to the other. Wherefore, they are punished, by leading a life suited to that to which they are assimi¬ lated. But if we should tell them that, unless they aban¬ don this excellence, that place which is free from all evil will not receive them when dead, but here they will always 450 THEJETETUS. lead a life resembling themselves, and there will associate with evil, these things, as being altogether shrewd and crafty, they will listen to as the extravagances of foolish men. 87. Theo. Assuredly, Socrates. bocr. I know it, my friend. One thing, however, hap¬ pens to them ; it is, that if they have to give and listen to reasons privately respecting the things that they blame and if thev are willing to persevere manfully for a length of time, and not fly like cowards, then at length, my excel¬ lent friend, they are very absurdly displeased with them¬ selves for what they have said, and that rhetoric of theirs becomes somehow so weak that they appear to be no bet¬ ter than boys. However, let us quit this subject, since what we have been saying was only a digression ; if we do not, more topics constantly flowing in will shut out the subject with which wo began. Let us, then, return to our former subject, if it is agreeable to you. Theo. Such things, Socrates, are not at all unpleasing to me to hear, for it is easier for one of my age to follow them; if you please, however, let us return to our subject. A$bc?\ If I mistake not, then, we were at that part of our discussion in which we said that those who maintain mo- a tion to be essence, and that whatever appears to each per¬ son exists also to him to whom it appears, would in other things persist, and especially with regard to justice, that on every account what a city enacts as appearing just to itself, this, also, is just to the city that enacts it so long as it continues in force; but that with respect to what is good, no one is so hardy as to venture to contend that w hatever things a city has enacted, thinking that they are advantageous to itself, are also advantageous so long as they continue in force, except one should speak only of the name; but this w r ould be a mere mockery on such a sub¬ ject as we are speaking on; would it not? Theo. Certainly. 88. Soar. Let him not, then, speak of the name, but of the thing designated by it. Theo. Just so. hoer. But the thing that the name designates is doubt¬ less that which the.city aims at in enacting law r s, and en- THEiETETUS. 451 acts all laws, so far as it thinks and is able, to be as advan¬ tageous to itself as possible. Does it look to any thing else in enacting laws? Theo. By no means. Socr. Does it, then, always accomplish its purpose, or is every city often mistaken ? Theo. I think it is often mistaken. Socr. Still more, then, would every one allow this very thing, if the question should be asked with reference to the whole genus, to which the advantageous belongs; but, surely, it regards also the future; for, when we enact laws, we enact them that they may be advantageous for the time to come; and this we should correctly call the future. Theo. Certainly. 89 . Socr. Come, then, let us thus question Protagoras, or some one else who holds the same opinions with him: Man, as you say, Protagoras, is the measure of all things, white, heavy, light, and every thing of that kind; for, as he contains the criterion of them within himself, in think¬ ing they are such as he feels them to be, he thinks what is true to himself, and really is. Is it not so ? Theo. It is. Socr. Shall we also say, Protagoras, that he contains within himself the criterion of things about to happen, and that such things as he thinks will happen do become such to him who thinks so? For instance, with regard to heat, when any particular person thinks that he shall catch a fever, and that this kind of heat will happen to him, and another, a physician, thinks differently, accord¬ ing to the opinion of which of the two shall we say will the result prove? Or will it be according to the opinion of both of them, and to the physician will he be neither hot nor feverish, but to himself both ? Theo. That, indeed, would be ridiculous. Socr. And I think the opinion of the husbandman, and not that of the harper, respecting the future sweetness or roughness of wine, would prevail. Theo. How not ? Socr. Nor, again, would a teacher of gymnastics form a better opinion than a musician respecting what will be in- 452 THEiETETUS. harmonious and harmonious, and what will afterward ap- pear to the teacher of gymnastics himself to be harmo¬ nious. Theo. By no means. 90. Socr. Iherefore, also, when a banquet is prepared tlie judgment of one who, not being skilled in cookery, is about to feast on it is less sound than that of the cook, respecting the pleasure that will ensue. For we are not arguing at all about that which now is or has been pleas¬ ant to each person, but about that which will hereafter both appear and be so, whether every one is the best / judge for himself. Could not you, Protagoras, judge be¬ forehand better than any private person what arguments are likely to be available for us in a court of justice? Iheo. Indeed, Socrates, in this he himself professes to excel all men by far. Socr. By Jupiter! he does, my friend; otherwise no one would pay him large sums for his instructions, if he had not persuaded his pupils that no prophet or other per¬ son would be able to judge better than he could for him¬ self as to what in future would both be and appear to be. Theo. Most true. Socr. But do not legislation and the useful regard the futuie ? and would not every one acknowledge that a city, in enacting laws, of necessity often misses that which is most useful ? Theo. Assuredly. 91. Socr. TY T e have, therefore, rightly urged against ^ oui mastei, that he must needs confess that one man is wiser than another, and that such a one is the true meas- uie; but that there is no necessity at all for me, who am ignorant, to become a measure, as the argument advanced on his behalf just now compelled me to be, whether I would or not. Jheo. In that way, Socrates, his argument appears to s/ ^e effectually refuted; and it was also refuted by this, that he makes the opinions of others sound; and these were found to consider his arguments as by no means to be true. Socr. In many other ways, too, Theodorus, this may be demonsti ated, that not every opinion of every man is true. THEiETETUS. 453 But, with respect to the manner in which eacli person is affected, whence perceptions and corresponding opinions are produced, it is more difficult to demonstrate that they are not true. But perhaps I should say it is quite impos¬ sible, for probably they can not be refuted; and those who say that they are certain, and sciences, may possibly say the truth; and in that case Thea3tetus here did not spe°k amiss in asserting that perception and science are the same. 92. Let us, then, approach nearer to it, as the ar¬ gument advanced in behalf of Protagoras enjoined us, and examine this essence, that is said to consist in motion, 1 by knocking it, and see whether it sounds whole or cracked; for the contest about it is neither mean nor among a few. Theo. It is very far from being mean, but is spreading very much throughout Ionia; for the partisans of Hera¬ clitus advocate this doctrine very strenuously. /Socr. Therefore, my dear Theodoras, we should the rath¬ er examine it from the beginning, as they propound it. Theo. Assuredly. For, Socrates, with respect to these Heraclitian, or, as you say, Homeric, and even older, doc¬ trines, it is no more possible to converse about them with the people of Ephesus, who pretend to be acquainted with them, than with persons who are raving mad. For, just as their written doctrines, they are, truly, in constant mo¬ tion ; but to keep to an argument and a question, and quietly to answer and ask in turn, is less in their power than any thing; or, rather, the power of rest in these men is infinitely less than nothing. But if you ask any one of them a question, he draws out, as from a quiver, certain dark, enigmatical words, and shoots them off; and if you wish to get from him a reason for what he has said, you will be forthwith stricken with another newly coined word, but will never come to any conclusion with any one of them, nor do they with one another; but they take very good care not to allow any thing to be fixed, either in their discourse, or in their souls, thinking, as it appears to me, that this very thing is stationary; 2 and they make constant war upon it, and, so far as they are able, expel it from ev¬ erywhere. 1 See sec. 87! 2 And so opposed to their doctrine of constant motion. 454 TIIEiETETUS. 93. Socr. Perhaps, Theodorus, you have seen these men contending, but have never been in their company when peaceable, for they are no friends of yours. But I think they say such things, when at leisure, to their disciples, whom they wish to render like themselves. Theo. What disciples, my good friend ? Among such men, one is not the disciple of another, but they spring up spontaneously, from whatever place each of them happens to be seized with a frenzy, and each thinks that the other knows nothing. From these, therefore, as I was just now saying, you will never get a reason, either willingly or un¬ willingly; but we must take tire matter up as if it were a problem, and examine it ourselves. Socr. You say right. But have we not received this problem from the ancients, who by the aid of poetry con¬ cealed it from the multitude, that Ocean and Tetliys, the origin of all things,.are streams, and that nothing is at rest; and from the moderns, as being wise, who have de¬ clared openly, so that even cobblers, on hearing them, learn wisdom, and give up their foolish opinion that some things are at rest and others in motion; and, learning that all things are in motion, they pay great respect to their teach¬ ers? 94. But I had almost forgotten, Theodorus, that others have declared the very contrary to this, that “ that which is called the universe is immovable;” and every thing else that the followers of Melissus and Parmenides maintain in opposition to all this; as, that all things are one, and that this is at rest in itself, and has no place in which it can be moved. What, then, shall we do with all these people, my friend ? For, advancing by little and lit¬ tle, we have unawares fallen between both of them; and if we do not defend ourselves and escape, we shall be pun¬ ished like those who in the wrestling-grounds play on the line, who, when they are caught by both parties, are dragged in contrary directions. It appears, therefore, to me that we should, first of all, consider those with whom we set out, the advocates of perpetual motion, and, if they shall prove to speak to the purpose, we will join with them, and endeavor to escape from the others ; but if those who say that the universe is at rest appear to speak more truly, w r e will, on the other hand,fiy to them from those who move THEiETETUS. 455 even things immovable. 95. And if both shall be found to speak nothing right, we shall be ridiculous for thinking that we, mean as we are, can say any thing to the purpose, after we have condemned men of great antiquity and wis¬ dom. Consider, therefore, Theodorus, whether it is for our interest to venture on so great a danger. Theo. It would be unpardonable, Socrates, not thorough¬ ly to examine what each of these men says. Socr. We must examine it, since you are so anxious to do so. It appears to me, then, that the first thing to be done in an inquiry about motion is to find out what they mean by.saying that all things are in motion. I mean this: whether they say that there is one species of mo¬ tion, or, as it appears to me, two. Nor should it appear to me only, but do you also join with me, that we may both fall into the same error, if we must err. Tell me, there¬ fore, do you call it being in motion when a thing passes from one place to another, or is turned round in the same place ? Theo . I do. 96. Socr. Let this, therefore, be one species. But when it remains in the same place, and growf old, and either be¬ comes black from white, or hard from soft, or undergoes any other change, is it not right to say that this is another species of motion ? Theo. It appears so to me. v Socr. It must be so. I say, then, that there are these two species of motion, change and removal. Theo. You say right. Socr. Having, therefore, made this distinction, let us now address ourselves to those who say that all things are in motion, and ask them, Whether do you say that every thing undergoes both kinds of motion, and is both removed and changed, or that one thing is moved both ways, and another only in one way? Theo. By Jupiter! I know not what to answer; but I think they would say, “ Both ways.” Socr. Otherwise, my friend, the same things would ap¬ pear to them to be both in motion and at rest; and it would not be at all more correct to £ay that all things are in motion than that they are at rest. THEJETETUS. 45i> Theo. You speak most truly. Socr. Since, therefore, it is necessary that every thing should be in motion, and that the absence of motion should be in ^nothing, all things must always be moved with ev¬ ery kind of motion. 97. Theo. Necessarily so. Socr. Consider this, then, I beg: Did we not say that they explain the generation of heat, or whiteness, or any thing else pretty much in this manner, that each of them is impelled, together with perception, between the agent and the patient, and that the patient becomes affected by • perception, but is not yet perception itself, and that the - agent becomes affected by a certain quality, but is not quality itself? Perhaps, however, quality may appear to you to be a strange word, and you may not understand it when. used in this collective sense. Hear me, then, ex- ^ plain it in detail. For the agent becomes neither heat nor whiteness, but hot and white, and so with respect to oth¬ er things. For you surely remember that we said before 1 that no one thing exists of itself, neither that which is an agent nor that which is a patient; but that, from the meet¬ ing together of ejfbh with the other, perceptions and ob¬ jects of perception, being produced, cause the one to be of a certain quality, and the other percipient. 98. Theo. I recollect. IIow should I not ? Socr. Let us, then, dismiss the rest of their system, whether they speak this way or that way; and let u*s keep to that point alone which concerns our discussion, and ask, Are all things in motion and in a state of flux, as you say ? Is it not so ? Theo. Yes. Socr. And by both those kinds of motion which we have distinguished, removal and change ? Theo. Undoubtedly, if they are to.be perfectly moved. Socr. If, therefore, they were only removed, but not changed, we should surely be able to say what kind of. things are removed. Must we not say so ? Theo. Just so. Socr. But since not even this continues in the same state—namely, that ijiat which flows continues to flow 1 8ec. 28. THEJETETUS. 457 white—but it changes so that there is also a flux of this very thing, whiteness, and a transition into another color, in order that it may not be found continuing in the same state, will it ever be possible to call any thing a color, so as to designate it correctly ? Theo. How is it possible, Socrates, or any thing else of the kind, since, while we are speaking about it, it is con¬ stantly escaping, as being in a state of flux? Socr. But what shall we say of any kind of perception; for instance, of seeing or hearing? Does it ever continue in the state of seeing or hearing ? ^ Theo. It ought not, since all things are in motion. 99. Socr. We must not affirm, then, that any one sees rather than not sees, or has any other perception rather than not, since all things are in constant motion. Theo. Surely not. Socr. Yet perception is science, as Theaetetus and I said. Theo. That is the case. Socr. On being asked, therefore, what science is, we an¬ swered that it is not at all science, rather than not science. Theo. You appear to have done so. /Socr. A fine correction of our answer it would be, if we endeavor to prove that all things are in motion, in order that our former answer may appear correct. But this, as it seems, is the result, if all things are in motion, every an¬ swer, on whatever subject it may be given, will be equally correct, whether we say that a thing is so or is not so, or, if you will, becomes so, that we may not fix it by a definite expression. Theo. You say rightly. Socr. Except, Theodoras, that I said f names and words, and without excessive precision, is for the most part not unbecoming a person of education, but rather the contrary to this is illiberal, though sometimes it is necessary; as in the pres¬ ent case it is necessary to find fault with your answer, so far as it is not correct. For consider which answer is more correct, that it is the eyes with which we see, or by which we see; and the ears with which we hear, or by which we hear? Them. By which we receive each perception, it seems to me, Socrates, rather than with which. Socr. For surely it would be strange, my boy, if many senses were seated in us, as in wooden horses, and they did not all tend to one certain form, whether it is soul, or whatever it is proper to call it, with which, by means of these as instruments, we perceive all objects of percep¬ tion. Them. The case appears to me to be rather in this way than in that. 103. Socr. But why do I require so much accuracy from you on this point? For this reason, that we may discover whether by some one and the same part in us we, by means of the eyes, attain to things white and black, 4G0 THEiETETUS. and again other things by means of the other senses, and whether, when questioned, you will be able to refer all such things to the bodily organs. But perhaps it will be better that you should say this by answering my ques¬ tions than that I should take all this trouble for you. Tell me, then: the things by which you perceive things hot and dry, and light and sweet, do you refer each of them to the body,or to any thing else? Thece. To nothing else. /Socr. Are you also willing to allow that such things as you perceive by means of one faculty it is impossible for you to perceive by means of another; for instance, that what you perceive by means of hearing you can not per¬ ceive by means of sight, and what you perceive by means of sight you can not perceive by means of hearing? Th 478 THE JETETUS. Socr. To possess, therefore, does not appear to me to be the same as to have: for instance, if any one having bought a garment, and, having it in his power, should not wear it, we should not say that he has it, but that he possesses it. Thece. And very properly. Socr. See, then, whether it is possible thus to possess science without having it: just as if any one having caught some wild birds, as doves or any others, and, hav¬ ing constructed a dove-cote at home, should feed them, we should probably say that in some respects he always has them,because he possesses them,should we not? Theoz. Yes. Socr. But in another respect we should say that he has none of them, but that he has acquired a power over them, since lie has brought them under his control, in an in¬ closure of his own, so as to take and have them when he pleases, by catching whichever he wishes, and again of let¬ ting them go; and this he is at liberty to do as often as he thinks fit. Thece. Such is the case. 131. Socr. Again, therefore, as, in a former part of our discussion, we constructed I know not what kind of waxen figment in the soul/so now let us make in each soul a kind of aviary of all sorts of birds, some being in flocks, apart from others, and others few together, and others alone, fly¬ ing among all the rest wherever it may chance. Thece. Suppose it to be made; but what next? Socr. While we are children, we must say that this re¬ ceptacle is empty, and, instead of birds, we must under¬ stand sciences; whatever science, then, one has become possessed of and shut up in this inclosure, one must say that he has learned or discovered the thing of which this is the science, and that this is to know. Thece. Be it so. Socr. Again, therefore, when any one.wishes to catch any one of these sciences, and, when he has taken it, to have it, and again to let it go, consider what words he re¬ quires, whether the same as before, when he possessed them, or different ones. But from w T hat follows you will more clearly understand what I mean. Do you call arith¬ metic an art? TIIEJETETUS. 479 Them. Yes. 132. Boer. Suppose this to be a catching of the sciences of every even and odd number. Them. I do suppose it. Boer. By this art, then, I think, he has the sciences of numbers under his control, and, if he pleases, transfers them to others. Thece. Yes. Boer. And we say that he who transfers them teaches, and that he who receives them learns; but that, having them, by possessing them in that aviary, he knows them. Thece. Certainly. Boer. Attend now to what follows. Does not he who is a perfect arithmetician know all numbers ? for the sci¬ ences of all numbers are in his soul. Thece. How not ? Boer. Does not, then, such a person sometimes calculate either something within himself, or something else that is external, that is capable of being calculated. Them. Undoubtedly. JSocr. But to calculate we shall say is nothing else than to examine what is the quantity of any number. Them. Just so. Boer. What, therefore, he knows, he appears to examine, ns if he did not know, though we admitted that he knows all number. You surely hear such questions as these. Them. I do. 133. Boer. We, therefore, carrying on our comparison with the possession and catching of doves, will say that this catching is of two kinds—one before possessing, for the sake of possessing; the other when one has already obtained possession, for the purpose of taking and having in the hands what was already possessed. So with respect to the things of which a person has already acquired the science by learning, and which he knew, he may learn these same things again, and recover and retain the science of each, which he formerly possessed, but had not ready in his mind. Them. True. Boer. On this account, I just now asked, what words it is proper to use in speaking of these tilings, when an arith- 480 TIIEiETETUS. raetician sets about calculating, or a grammarian reading any thing. Shall we say, that, knowing such a subject, he again applies himself to learn from himself what he knows ? Thece. This would be absurd, Socrates. Socr. Shall we say, then, that he is going to read or cal¬ culate what he does not know, though we have granted him that he knows all letters and all numbers? Thece. This, too, would be unreasonable. 134. /Socr. Will you, then, that we say that we care noth¬ ing at all about words, in what way any one chooses to employ the words “knowing” and “learning;” but,since we have settled that it is one thing to possess a science, and another to have it, we maintain that it is impossible for a person not to possess what he does possess; so that it never happens that any one does not know what he knows, though it is possible for him to form a false judg¬ ment respecting it? For it is possible for him not to have the science of this particular thing, but another in¬ stead of it. When hunting after some one of the sciences that he possesses, as they are flying about, he may by mis¬ take take one instead of another. Accordingly, when he thinks that eleven is twelve, he takes the science of eleven instead of that of twelve; as it were, taking a pigeon that he possessed, instead of a dove. Thece. It is reasonable to suppose so. Socr. But when he takes that which he endeavors to take, then he is not deceived, and judges truly; and thus we will say that false and true judgment subsist, and none of the things which occasioned difficulty before will any longer stand in our way. Perhaps you agree with me, or what will you do ? Thece. Agree with you. 135. Socr. We are freed, then, from, the dilemma of a man’s not knowing what he knows; for it never happens that we do not possess what Ave do possess, Avhether Ave are deceived respecting any thing or not. HoAvever, another much Avorse inconvenience appears to me to present itself. Thece. What is that? Socr. If the interchange of sciences can ever become false judgment. THEJETETUS. 481 Theoe. But how ? Socr. In the first place, that, having the science of any tiling, one should be ignorant of that thing, not through ignorance, but through the science of the thing itself; and, in the next place, that one should judge this thing to be another thing and another thing this; how is it not a great piece of absurdity, that, when science is present, the soul should know nothing, but be ignorant of all things ? For, from this mode of reasoning, nothing hinders but that ig¬ norance, when present, should make us know something, and blindness should make us see, if science will ever make a man ignorant. Theo. Perhaps, Socrates, we have done wrong in mak¬ ing sciences only take the place of the birds; and we ought to have supposed that various kinds of ignorance were flying about in the soul with them; and that the sports¬ man, at one time taking science, and at another time ig¬ norance, with respect to the same thing, judges falsely through ignorance, but truly through science. 136. Socr. It is not by any means easy, Thesetetus, to forbear praising you ; however, examine again what you have just said. For suppose it to be as you say. He who takes ignorance will judge falsely, you say; is it not so ? Theoe. Yes. < Socr. Yet surely he will not think that he judges falsely. Theoe. How should he ? Socr. But truly, and he will fancy that he knows the things about which he is deceived. Theoe. Assuredly. Socr. He will therefore judge that by sporting lie has taken science, and not ignorance. Theoe. Clearly. Socr. Having, therefore, made a long circuit, we have come back again to our first doubt. For that critic will laugh at us, and say, “ Can any one, my excellent friends, who knows both, science as well as ignorance, think that what he knows is some other thing that he knows ? or, knowing neither of them, can judge that what he does not know, is some other thing that he does not know ? or, knowing one, and not the other, can he suppose that what lie knows is what he does not know, or what he does not 21 482 THEiETETUS. know is what ho does know ? Will you tell me, again, that there are sciences of sciences and ignorances, which then- possessor having inclosed in some other ridiculous aviaries, or waxen figments, knows as long as he possesses them, though he has them not ready in his soul? And will you be thus compelled to revolve perpetually round the same circle, without making any progress ?” What answer shall we give to this, Theaetetus ? 137. Them. By Jupiter ! Socrates, I have no notion what ought to be said. Socr. Does not the argument, then, my boy, reprove us very properly, and show that we did wrong in searching for false judgment before science, and neglecting that? But it is impossible to know this until we have sufficiently discovered what science is. Them. It is necessary, Socrates, at present to think as you say. /Socr. Again, therefore, what shall one say from the be¬ ginning about science ? For we surely must not give it up yet. Them. By no means, unless you refuse to persevere. Socr. Tell me, then, how can we best speak concerning science so as not to contradict ourselves. Them. As we attempted to do before, Socrates, for I know of.no other plan. Socr. What is that? Them. That true judgment is science. For to judge truly is surely free from error, and whatever results from it is beautiful and good. Socr. He who acted as guide in fording a river, Thea?- tetus, said that it would show its own depth; so if we go on in our inquiries, perhaps the impediment that we meet with will show us what we are in search of; but if we stop, nothing will be clear. Them. You say well; let us go on, then, and examine it. 138. Socr. This, then, requires but a brief examination, for one whole art shows that it is not science. Them. How so ? and what art is it ? Socr. That which belongs to those who are most re¬ nowned for wisdom, whom they call orators and lawyers. For they, in fact, persuade, not by teaching, but by mak- TIIEiETETUS. 483 ing men form such judgments as they please. Do you think that there are any teachers so clever as, when per¬ sons have not been present while others were robbed of their money, or treated with some other violence, to be able, while a little water is running, to teach those persons sufficiently of the truth of what took place ? Them. I by no means think so, but that they can persuade. Socr. But do you not say that to persuade is to make a person form a judgment? Them. How otherwise ? tSoar. When, therefore, judges are justly persuaded about things which can only be known by seeing, and in no other way; then, judging these things from hearsay, do they not, when they form a true opinion, judge with¬ out science, being persuaded properly, since they decide correctly ? Them. Assuredly. 139. Socr. But, my friend, if true judgment and science are the same, a perfect judge could never form a correct judgment without science; but now each appears to be different from the other. Them. I had forgotten, Socrates, what I heard some one say, but now I remember it; he said that true judgment in conjunction with reason is science, but that without reason it is out of the pale of science; and that things for which a reason can not be given can not be known (these were his very words), and that things for which a reason can be given are known. Socr. You speak admirably well. But how do you dis¬ tinguish the things that can be known from those that can not ? Tell me, for perhaps you and I have heard the same thing. Them. 1 know not whether I can explain it; but I could follow another person describing it, I think. Socr. Hear, then, a dream for a dream. For I, too, seem to myself to have heard some people say that the first elements, as it were, from which we and all other things are composed, can not be explained by reason; for that each several element by itself can only be named, but that nothing else can be predicated of it, neither that it exists nor does not exist; for that this would be to at- 484 TIIEiETETUS. tribute to it existence or non-existence, whereas nothing ought to be added to it, if one means to speak of the thing itself only; neither must we add to it the term “ the,” or “that,” or “each,” or “only,” or “this,” or many others of the same kind; for these are constantly varying, and are applied to all things, and are different from the things to which they are added. 140. But we ought, if it were possible, to speak of the thing itself, and, if it has a defini¬ tion peculiar to itself, to speak of it without the addition of any thing else. Now, however, it is impossible for any of the first elements to be explained by a definition, for it does not admit of any thing else than being named, for it has only a name; but the things that have been composed from these, as they are complex, so their names, when con¬ nected together, constitute a definition; for a connection of names is the essence of definition. Thus the elements themselves can not be defined or known, but only per¬ ceived ; but things compounded of them can be both known and defined, and apprehended by true judgment. When, therefore, any one forms a true judgment of any thing, without explanation, his soul, indeed, perceives the truth respecting it, but does not know it; for he who is not able to give and receive an explanation of a thing must be ignorant of that thing; but when he adds an ex¬ planation to it, then he is capable of knowing all these things, and may be perfect in science. Is it thus that you have heard the dream, or in some other way ? Thece. In this way precisely. 141. Socr. Are you willing, then, that we should settle it thus—that science is true judgment in conjunction with reason? Thece. Exactly so. Socr. Have we, then, Thecetetus, thus, on this very day, discovered what of old so many sages sought for, and grew old before they found it ? Theca. For my part, Socrates, it appears to me that what has been now stated is well said. Socr. And it is reasonable that this very thing should be the case; for what science could there be without reason and right judgment? However, one of the things that were stated displeases me. THEiETETUS. 485 Them. Which is that ? /Socr. That which seems to be very forcibly said, that the elements are unknown, but that the natures of tilings compounded of them are known. Them. Is not that right ? Soar. We must see. For we have as sureties for this doctrine the examples which he used who said all these things. Them. What are they? Socr. The elements of letters and syllables: do you think that he who said what we have mentioned had any thing else in view when he said it? Them. No, but these. 142. Soar. Let us, then, apply ourselves to these, and ex¬ amine them, or rather ourselves, whether we learned let¬ ters in this way, or not. First of all, then, do syllables ad¬ mit of a definition, but are the elements indefinable ? Them. Probably. Socr. It certainly appears so to me, too. If, then, any one should ask thus respecting the first syllable of the word Socrates, “Theaetetus, tell me, what is So?” what would you answer? Them. That it is S and o. a Soar. Have you not, then, this definition of the syllable ? Them. I have. Socr. Come, then, in the same way give me the defini¬ tion of the letter S. Them. But how can any one speak of the elements of an element ? For S, Socrates, is a consonant, only a sound, as of the tongue hissing; again, the letter B has neither voice nor sound, nor have most of the elements. So that it is very right to say that they are indefinable, since the most distinct among them, to the number of seven, have only a sound, but do not admit of any definition. /Socr. Thus far, then, my friend, we have determined rightly with respect to science. Them. We appear to have done so. 143. /Socr. What, then? Have we shown rightly that the element can not be known, but that the syllable can ? Them. It is probable. Socr. Come, then, do we say that a syllable is both the 486 THEJETETUS. elements, and, if there are more than two, all of them, or some one form resulting from their conjunction? Them. All, we appear to me to say. Socr. Observe, then, with respect to the two letters S and o; both of them together form the first syllable of my name. Does not, then, he who knows this syllable know both of them ? Them. How should he not? Socr. He knows, therefore, 8 and o. Them. Yes. Socr. But what ? is he ignorant of each of them, and knowing neither, does he know both ? Them. That would be strange and absurd, Socrates. Socr. However, if it is necessary to know each, in order that he may know both, it is quite necessary for a person who is ever to know a syllable to know the elements first, and thus our former statement will escape us and be off. Them. And very suddenly too. Socr. For we did not guard it well. For, perhaps, we ought to suppose that a syllable does not consist of the elements, but of some one species resulting from them, which has a form peculiar to itself, different from the ele¬ ments. Them. Certainly; and perhaps the case is rather in this way than in the other. 144. Socr. We must examine it, and not so unmanfully abandon a weighty and venerable statement. Them. We ought not, indeed. Socr. Let it be, then, as we just now said; let the sylla¬ ble be one form resulting from the several elements, con¬ nected together, as well in letters as in all other things. Them. Just so. Socr. It must, therefore, have no parts. Them. Why not ? Socr. Because where there are parts, the whole must necessarily be the same as all the parts; or do you say that a whole resulting from parts is one certain species different from all the parts ? Them. I do. Socr. Whether do you call all and the whole the same, or each different from the other? THEtETETUS. 487 Them. I can not say any thing for certain; but, since you bid me answer boldly, I venture to say that they are different. Socr. Your boldness, Thesetetus, is right; but whether r our answer is so, must be considered. Them. It must, indeed. Socr. Does not the whole, then, differ from all, accord¬ ing to your present statement ? Them. Yes. 145. Socr. But what, is there any difference between all the parts and the all ? For instance, when we say one, two, three, four, five, six, or twice three, or thrice two, or four and two, or three and two and one, or five and one, whether in all these cases do we say the same thing, or that which is different ? Them. The same thing. Socr. Do we say any thing else than six ? Them. Nothing. Socr. And in each mode of speaking did we not men¬ tion all the parts of six ? Them. Yes. Socr. Again, therefore, when we say all the parts, do we say nothing? Them. We necessarily do say something. Socr. Do we say any thing else than six? Them. Nothing. Soar. In all things, then, that consist of number, do we not call the all and all the parts the same thing ? Them. It appears so. Socr. Thus, then, let us speak of them. The number of an acre and an acre are the same, is it not so ? Them. Yes. Soar. And the number of a stadium in like manner? Them. Yes. Socr. And, moreover, the number of an army and an army, and in like manner with respect to all other things of the kind? For all number is all that which each of them is. Them. Yes. Socr. But is the number of each of them any thing else than its parts ? 488 TIIEiETETUS. Them. Nothing. Socr. Such things, then, as have parts must consist of parts ? Them. It appears so. . Socr. But it is admitted that all the parts are the all, since all number is the all. Them. Just so. Socr. The whole, therefore, does not consist of parts; for it would be all, if it were all the parts. Them. It seems not. Socr. But is a part a part of any thing else than a whole? Them. Yes, of the all. 146. Socr. You fight manfully, Theaetetus. But is not this very all, the all when nothing is wanting to it ? Them. Necessarily so. Socr. And will not the whole be this very same thing when nothing is wanting to it ? But when any thing is wanting, it is neither the whole, nor all, each becoming the same thing from the same cause ? Them. It appears to me now that the whole and the ail in no respect differ from each other. Socr. Did we not say, that, where there are parts, the whole and the all will be all the parts ? Them. Certainly. Socr. Again, therefore, to return to what I just now at¬ tempted to prove, if a syllable is not the elements, does it not necessarily follow that it has not elements as parts of itself; or that, if it is the same with them, it must be equally known with them ? Them. Just so. Socr. In order that this might not follow, did we not suppose it to be different from them ? Them. Yes. Socr. What, then ? If the elements are not parts of a syllable, can you mention any other things that are parts of a syllable, and yet not its elements ? 147. Them. By no means; for if, Socrates,I should ad¬ mit that it lias parts, it would surely be ridiculous to re¬ ject the elements, and search for other things. Socr. From what you now say, therefore, Theaetetus, a syllable must certainly be some one indivisible form. THEiETETUS. 489 Them. So it seems. Socr. Do you remember, then, my friend, that we admit¬ ted a little before, and thought it was well said, that there can not be a definition of first elements, of which other things are composed, because each considered by itself is uncompounded? And neither can the term “being” be correctly attributed to it, nor the term “ this,” because these things would be said as different and foreign to it; and, indeed, this very cause makes it indefinable and unknown. Them. I do remember. Socr. Is there any other cause, then, than this of its be¬ ing simple and indivisible ? I, for my part, see no other. Them. There does not appear to be any. Socr. Does not the syllable, then, fall under the same class as the elements, since it has not parts, and is one form ? Them. Assuredly. 148. Socr. If, therefore, a syllable is many elements, and a whole, and these are its parts, syllables and elements may be equally known and defined, since all the parts have been found to be the same as the whole. Them. By all means. Socr. But if it is one and indivisible, a syllable equally as an element must be indefinable and unknown; for the same cause will make them alike. Them. I can not say otherwise. Socr. We must not, therefore, allow this, if any one should say that a syllable is known and definable, but an element the contrary. Them. We must not, if w T e admit this reasoning. Socr. What, then ? Should you pay any more atten¬ tion to one who should assert the contrary of what you are conscious happened to yourself in learning your letters? Them. What is that ? Socr. That in learning you did nothing else than endeav¬ or to distinguish the elements both by sight and hearing, each separated by itself, in order that their position, when pronounced or written, might not confuse you. Them. You say most truly. Socr. And at your music-master’s was learning perfect¬ ly ayy thing else than the being able to follow each note, 21 * 490 THEiETETUS. and distinguish to what chord it belonged, which every one would allow is called the elements of music. Thece. Nothing else. 149. Socr. If, therefore, w T e may conjecture from the ele¬ ments and syllables in which we are skilled, to others, we shall say that the class of elements is capable of a much more clear and distinct knowledge than that of syllables, in order to our acquiring each study in perfection; and if any one should say that a syllable is known, but that an element is by nature unknown, we shall think that he is jest¬ ing either intentionally or unintentionally. Thece. Most assuredly. Socr. Moreover, other proofs of this might still be found, as it appears to me; but let us not lose sight of the ques¬ tion before us by considering them; that is to say, what is meant by the statement that reason united to true judg¬ ment is the most perfect science. Thece. This, then, we must consider. Socr. Come, then, what is the signification of the word logos , x for it appears to me to mean one of three things ? Thece. What are they? Socr. The first would be to make one’s thought clear by the voice, through the means of verbs and nouns, im¬ pressing one’s judgment on what flows from the mouth, as it were on a mirror, or water; does not logos appear to you to be something of this kind? Thece. It does: and we say that he who does this speaks. 150. Socr. Every one, therefore, is able to do this more quickly or slowly—that is, can show wjiat he thinks about every thing—unless he is altogether dumb or deaf; and thus all who form right judgments on any matter will be found to do so in conjunction with logos , and right judg¬ ment will never subsist without science. Thece. True. Socr. We must not, therefore, too readily condemn him as having spoken nothing to the purpose who asserted that science is that which we are now examining. For perhaps he who said it did not mean that, but that a person, when 1 As no English word will express the three different meanings con¬ tained in the word \6yog, I have thought it better to retain the original word throughout this part of the argument. » THEJETETUS. 491 asked wliat each thing is, should he able to give an answer to the questioner by means of each thing’s element. Thece. For instance, how do you mean, Socrates ? Socr. As Hesiod, for instance, says of a chariot, that it is made of a hundred pieces of wood, which I, for my part, could not enumerate, neither do I think could you; but we should be contented, if, when asked what a chariot is, we could say wheels, axle, frame, rails, and yoke. 151. Thece. Certainly. Socr. But he probably would think us ridiculous, just as if we, when asked concerning your name and having answered syllable by syllable, thereby judging and saying correctly what we do say, should think ours#lves gram¬ marians, and that we know and speak grammatically the definition of the name of Theaetetus; whereas it is not possible to say any thing scientifically before one has given a complete account of each thing by means of its elements, together with true judgment, as was observed before, if I mistake not. Thece. It was observed. Socr. So, too, we have a correct judgment respecting a chariot; but he who is able to describe its nature by means of those hundred pieces, by adding this, both adds logos to true judgment, and, instead of forming a mere judgment, becomes an artist, and knowing in the nature of a chariot, in that he gives a complete account of the whole by means of its elements. Thece. Does not this appear to you, Socrates, to be well said ? Socr. If it appears to you, my friend, and you allow that the description of each thing by its element is logos , and that that made by syllables, or even larger parts, is devoid of logos, tell me, that we may examine it. Thece. I certainly do allow it. Socr. Whether do you think that any one has a scien¬ tific knowledge of any thing, when the same thing appears to him at one time to belong to the same thing, and at an¬ other to a different thing; or when he forms at one time one judgment, and at another a different judgment, about the same thing? Thece. By Jupiter! not I. Them. Do you mean that we thought that at one time one letter, and at another time another, belonged to the same syllable; and that we placed the same letter at one time to its proper syllable, and at another time to another? Socr. I do mean that. Them. By Jupiter! I do not forget, nor do I think that they have knowledge who are in this condition. Socr. What, then ? When a person at that time of life, writing the name Theaetetus, thinks that he ought to write, and does write, Tli and e / and, again, attempting to write Theodor us, thinks that he ought to write, and does write, T and e , shall we say that he knows the first syllable of your names ? Them. We have just now admitted that a person in this condition does not yet know. Socr. Does any thing, then, hinder the same person from being in this condition with respect to the second, third, and fourth syllables ? Them. Nothing. 153. Socr. Will he not, then, have the description by means of the elements, and write Theaetetus with correct judgment when he writes it in its proper order? Them. Clearly. Socr. Will he not still be void of science, though he judges correctly, as we said? Them. Yes. Socr. And yet he has logos together with correct judg¬ ment; for he wrote it knowing the order of the elements, which we allowed to be logos. Them. True. ■ Socr. There is, therefore, my friend, correct judgment accompanied with logos , which must not yet be called science. Them. It seems so. Socr. We have been enriched, then, as it appears, in a dream, in thinking that we possess the truest definition of science; or shall we not condemn it yet? For perhaps some one may not define logos in this manner, but may consider it to be the remaining species of the three, one THEiETETUS. 493 of which we said would he adopted by him. who defined science to be correct judgment accompanied with logos. Thece. You have rightly reminded me; for there is still one left. For the first was an image of the thought, as it were, expressed by the voice; and that just now mention-* ed was a proceeding to the whole by means of the ele¬ ments : but what do you say the third is ? /Socr. That which most men would say it is, the being able to mention some mark by which the object of inquiry differs from all other things. Thece. Can you give me a logos of any thing by way of example ? 154. Socr. For instance, if you please, with respect to the sun, I think it would be sufficient for you to admit that it is the most luminous of the heavenly bodies that move round the earth. Thece. Certainly. Socr. Observe, then, why this was said. It is that which we just now mentioned, that when you find the difference of each thing, by which it differs from all others, you will find, as some say, the logos; but so long as you lay hold of some common quality, you will have the logos of those things to which this common quality belongs. Thece. I understand ; and it appears to me very proper to call such a thing logos. Socr. lie, therefore, who, together with correct judg¬ ment respecting any thing whatever, can find out its differ¬ ence from all other things, will have arrived at the knowl¬ edge of that of which he before only formed a judgment. Thece. We say it certainly is so. Socr. Now, however, Theoetetus, since I have come near what has been said, as if it were a picture in perspective, I find that I do not understand it in the least; but while I stood at a distance it appeared to me to have some meaning. 155. Thece. How is this? Socr. I will tell you, if I can. If, when I have a correct judgment respecting you, I likewise find your logos, then I know you; but if not, I only form a judgment. Thece. Yes. Socr. But logos was the explanation of your difference. 494 THEiETETUS. Them. It was. Boer. When, therefore, I formed a judgment only, is it not true that I reached by my thought none of those things by which you differ from others? Them. It seems that you did not. fiocr. I, therefore, thought of some common qualities, none of which belong to you more than to any one else. Them. Necessarily so. Boer. ^ Come, then, by Jupiter! how in such a case did I form a judgment of you rather than of any one else ? For suppose me to be thinking that this is Theaetetus, who is a man, and has nose, eyes, a mouth, and so on with each several member. Will this thought cause me to think of Theaetetus rather than of Theodorus, or, as the saying is, the last of the Mysians ? Them. How should it? 156. Boer. But if I not only think of one who has nose and eyes, but also of one who has a snub-nose and promi¬ nent eyes, shall I in that case think of you rather than of myself, or any other persons of that description ? Them. Not at all. Boer. But I think I shall not form the image of Thea 3 - tetus in my mind, until his snubbiness shall have impressed on me, and left with me, some mark different from all other instances of snubbiness that I have seen; and so with respect to the other parts of which you are made up, which, if I should meet you to-morrow, would recall you to my mind, and make me form a correct judgment re¬ specting you. Them. Most true. Boer. Right judgment, therefore, respecting each object has to do with difference. Them. It appears so. Boer. What, then, will become of adding logos to correct judgment? For if it means that we should, moreover, form a judgment of the manner in which any thing differs from others, the injunction will be very ridiculous. Them. IlOw so ? Boer. It bids us add a right judgment of the manner in which things differ from others, when we have a right judgment of the manner in which they differ from others. THEiETETUS. 495 And thus the turning round of a scytala, or a pestle, or any other proverb of the kir\d, would be nothing compared with this injunction, though it might more properly be called the advice of a blind man; for to bid us add those things that we already have, in order that we may learn what we already have formed judgments about, seems re¬ markably suited to one who is utterly blind. Them. Tell me, then, what did you mean by asking me just now? 15V. Soar. If, O boy ! in bidding us add logos it bids us know, but not form a judgment of the difference, this most beautiful of all the definitions of science would be a de¬ lightful thing; for to know, surely, is to acquire science.]/ Is is not? Them. Yes. Socr. When asked, therefore, as it appears, what science is, he will answer that it is correct judgment with the sci¬ ence of difference. For, according to him, this will be the addition of logos. Them. It seems so. Socr. But it is altogether foolish, when we are search¬ ing for science, to say that it is correct judgment with science, either of difference or any thing else. Neither perception, therefore, Thesetetus, nor true judgment, nor logos united with true judgment, can be science. Them. It seems not. Socr. Are we, then, still pregnant and in labor, my friend, with reference to science, or have we brought forth every thing? Them. And, by Jupiter! with your help, I have said more than I had in myself. Socr. Does not, then, our midwife’s art pronounce that all these things are empty, and not worth rearing? Them. Assuredly. 158. Socr. If, therefore, after this you should wish to become pregnant with other things, Thesetetus, and if you do become so, you will be full of better things by means of the present discussion; but if you should be empty, you will be less troublesome to your companions, and more meek through modesty, in not thinking that you know what you do not know. For thus much only, my art is 496 THEiETETUS. able to accomplish, but nothing more; nor do I know any of the things which others do who are and have been great and wonderful men. But this midwife’s art I and my mother received from the deity—she about women, and I for young and noble men, and such as are beautiful. Now, however, I must go to the king’s porch, to answer the indictment which Melitus has preferred against me. To-morrow, Theodorus, let us meet here again. INTRODUCTION TO THE EUTIIYPHRON. EuTiiYrimoN, a person who.professes to be thoroughly conversant in the knowledge of divine things, is repre¬ sented as meeting Socrates at the king’s porch; that is, the entrance of the court in which trials for murder and impiety were carried on. He is surprised at seeing Socra¬ tes at such a spot, for he can not believe that he has a cause pending there. Socrates tells him that he is indicted by one Melitus, a person- of no note at Athens, but one who knows how to govern the city rightly, for that he charges Socrates with impiety in introducing new gods and corrupting the youth. Socrates then asks Euthy- phron whether he, too, has a cause in the same court, and is informed that he has indicted his own father for mur¬ der, because he had occasioned the death of one of their hired servants, who had himself first slain a slave of Eu- thyphron’s father, and then been cast bound into a ditch, where he died from hunger and cold. On hearing this, Socrates asks whether he has such a perfect knowledge of holiness and impiety that he is sure he is right in bring¬ ing his father to trial; and on Euthyphron’s asserting that he has, Socrates begs that he will accept him for his dis¬ ciple, in order that he may learn how to clear himself in his own approaching trial, and, first of all, desires to know what holiness and impiety are. Euthyphron confidently answers that what he is now doing is holy—n amely, to pro secute any one who acts unjustly, whoever he mav b e. but that not to prosecute such a one is impious. Socra- 498 INTRODUCTION. tes, however, is not satisfied with this answer, for that he did not ask about particular actions, but about holiness in the abstract. “That, then, which is pleasing to the gods is holy,’ r says Euthyphr on. B ut So crates^ shows that dif¬ fer eh t'tlungs are pleasing to different gods7so that the same things are both loved and hated by divers of them, vTimrcoit follows that the same things are both holy and unholy. Euthyphron, feeling the force of this objection, next says that the holy is that which all the gods love, and the impious that which they all hate; but here again'Socrates shows that this can not be a correct definition.of holiness; for that it is not holy because they love it, but they love it because it is holy. To help him out of his difficulty, Soc¬ rates suggests that holiness is a part of justice; to which Euthyphron assents, and adds that it is that part of it which is concerned about our care for the gods. But, asks Socrates, what care for the gods will holiness be ? A kind of service paid to them, is the answer. But to what end do our services of the gods avail ? Euthyphron evades the question by saying they are many and beautiful; but, when further pressed, he says that holiness consists in sac¬ rificing and praying to the gods, wherein, he is led to ad¬ mit, men beg those things that they need, and sacrifice such things as the gods need; from whence Socrates con¬ cludes that holiness is a kind of traffic between gods and men. But it is clear that the gods can not be benefited by men; therefore, as Euthyphron says, it must be that which is most dear. But this definition of holiness had been already rejected. Socrates, therefore, proposes to re¬ new the inquiry; but Euthyphron, finding himself defeated at all points, suddenly breaks off the discussion, on pre¬ tense of business elsewhere. EUTIIYPHRON; OR, ON HOLINESS.- Eutiiyphron, Socrates. Uuth. What new thing has happened, Socrates, that you have left your haunts in the Lyceum, and are now waiting about the king’s porch ? You surely have not a trial be¬ fore the king, as I hate. Socr. The Athenians, Euthyphron, do not call it a trial, but an indictment. Uuth. What say you? Some one, it seems, has pre¬ ferred an indictment against you, for I can not believe that you have indicted any one else. Socr. Surely not. Uuth. Has some one else, then, indicted you ? Socr. Certainly. Uuth. Who is he ? Socr. I do not myself very well know the man, Euthy¬ phron ; for he appears to me to be young and unknown; however, they call him Melitus, I think; and he is of the borough of Pithos, if vou know anv Melitus of Pitlios, who has lank hair, a thin beard, and a hook nose. Uuth. I don’t know him, Socrates; but what indictment has he preferred against you ? Socr. What ? One not unworthy of a high-minded man, as it appears to me; for it is no contemptible matter, for one who is so young, to be versed in so weighty a busi¬ ness. For he knows, as he says, how the youth are cor¬ rupted, and who they are that corrupt them. And he ap¬ pears to be a shrewd man, and, observing my ignorance, 500 EUTHYPHRON. he comes before the city, as before a mother, to accuse me of corrupting those of the same age with himself. And he appears to me to be the only one of our statesmen who knows how to govern rightly; for it is right, first of all, to pay attention to the young, that they may become as virtuous as possible; just as it is proper for a good hus¬ bandman, first of all, to pay attention to the young plants, and afterward the others; so Melitus probably first purges us who corrupt the blossoms of youth, as lie says; then, after this, it is clear that by paying attention to the older men he will be the cause of very many and great blessings to the city, as may be expected to happen from one who makes such a beginning. 2. Euth. I wish it were so, Socrates; but I dread lest the contrary should happen. For, in reality, he appears to me, in attempting to injure you, to begin by assailing the city from the hearth. But tell me, by doing what does he say that you corrupt the youth ? Socr. Absurd even to hear mentioned, my admirable friend : for he says that I am a maker of gods; and, as if I made new gods and did not believe in the ancient ones, he has indicted me on their account, as he says. Euth. I understand, Socrates, it is because you say that a demon constantly attends you. As if, then, you intro¬ duced innovations in religion, he has preferred this indict¬ ment against you; and he comes to accuse you before the court, knowing that such charges are readily entertained by the multitude. And me, too, when I say any thing in the public assembly concerning divine things, and predict to them what is going to happen, they ridicule as mad; and although nothing that I have predicted has not turn¬ ed out to be true, yet they envy all such men as we are. However, we ought not to heed them, but pursue our own course. 3 . Socr. But, my dear Euthyphron, to be laughed at is perhaps of no consequence. For the Athenians, as it ap¬ pears to me, do not care very much whether they think a man is clever, so long as he does not communicate his wis¬ dom; but when they think a man makes others so, they are angry, either through envy, as you say, or from some other cause. EUTHYPHRON. 501 Euth. With respect to that matter, how they are affect¬ ed toward me, I am not very anxious to try. Socr. For, perhaps, you seem to show yourself but rare¬ ly, and to be unwilling to impart your wisdom ; but I am afraid, that, from my love of mankind, I appear to them to tell every man too freely whatever I know, not only with¬ out pay, but even-gladly offering myself, if any one is will¬ ing to listen to me. If, then, as I just now said, they were going to laugh at me, as you say they do at you, there would be nothing unpleasant in passing some time in a court of justice, jesting and laughing; but if they are in earnest, how this affair may terminate is unknown, except to you prophets. Euth. Perhaps, however, it will be of no consequence, Socrates; but you will conduct your cause to your mind, as I think I shall mine. 4. Socr. Have you, too, a cause, Euthyphron ? Do you defend it, or prosecute ? Euth. I prosecute. Socr. Whom? Euth. One, in prosecuting whom I seem to be mad. Socr. What, then ? Do you prosecute some one that can fly ? Euth. He is very far from being able to fly, for he hap¬ pens to be very old. Socr. Who is he ? Euth. My father. Socr. Your father,my excellent friend? Euth. Certainly. Socr. But what is the charge, and what is the trial about ? Euth. Murder, Socrates. Socr. By Hercules! surely, Euthyphron, the generality of men are ignorant how this can ever be right; for I do not think any common person could do this properly, but he must be very far advanced in wisdom. Euth. Far, indeed, by Jupiter ! Socrates. Socr. Is it any one of your relations who has been killed by your father ? It must be so; for surely you would not prosecute him for the murder of a stranger. Euth. Ridiculous, Socrates, to think that it makes any 502 EUTHYPHRON. difference whether the person killed is a stranger or a re¬ lation, and that we ought not to consider this only, whether he killed him justly or not, and, if justly, let him go; but if not, prosecute him, even though the murderer should live at the same hearth and the same table with you. For the pollution is equal, if you knowingly associate with such a one, and do not purify both yourself and him by bring¬ ing him to justice. However, the deceased was a depend¬ ent of ours; and when we were farming at Naxos, he worked there for us, for hire. This man, then, having drunk too much wine, and being in a passion with one of our slaves, slew him. My father, therefore, having bound his hands and feet, and thrown him into a pit, sends a man here to inquire of the interpreter of religious matters what he ought to do with him; and in the mean time he neglected the prisoner, and took no care of him, as being a murderer, and as if it were of no consequence if he died; which did happen. For he died from hunger, cold, and the chains, before the messenger returned from the interpreter. For this reason, my father and all my rela¬ tives are angry with me, because I, for the sake of a mur¬ derer, accuse my father of murder, who, as they say, did not kill him; and even if he had killed him, as the de¬ ceased was a murderer, they say that I ought not to con¬ cern myself about such a man, for that it is impious for a son to prosecute his father for murder; little knowing, Socrates, what the divine rule is with respect to holiness and impiety. Socr. But, by Jupiter! Euthyphron, do you think you have such an accurate knowledge of divine things, how they are circumstanced, with respect both to things holy and impious, that, those things having been done as you say, you are not afraid, in bringing your father to' trial, lest you should commit an impious action? Euth. I should be a sorry person, Socrates, nor would Euthyphron in any respect excel the generality of men, if I did not know all such things accurately. 5. Socr. Admirable Euthyphron, it will be a most ex¬ cellent thing for me to become your disciple, and, before Melitus’s indictment comes on for hearing, to object this very thing to him, saying that I hitherto deemed it of the EUTHYPHRON. 503 utmost consequence to be acquainted with divine things, and that now, since he says I am guilty of acting rashly, and introducing innovations with respect to divine things, I have become your disciple. If, then, I should say, Meli- tus, you admit that Euthvphron is wise in such matters and thinks rightly, suppose that I do so too, and do not bring me to trial; but if otherwise, call him, the teacher, to account before you do me, as one who corrupts the elders, both me and his father—me by teaching me, and him by admonishing and punishing him: and if he is not persuaded by me, and does not let me off the trial, or in¬ dict you instead of me, it will be necessary to say these very things in the court, which I have already objected to him. Eutli. By Jupiter ! Socrates, if he should attempt to in¬ dict me, I should find, I think, his weak side, and we should much sooner have a discussion in the court about him than about me. Socr. And I, my dear friend, knowing this, am anxious to become your disciple, being persuaded that some others and this Melitus do not appear even to see you, though he has so very keenly and easily seen through me, as to indict me for impiety. G. Now, therefore, by Jupiter l tell me what you just now asserted you know so well; what do you say is piety and impiety, both with respect to murder and other thing's? Is not holiness itself the same with itself in every action ? and, again, is not im¬ piety, which is contrary to all holiness, in every case simi¬ lar to itself ? and has not every thing that is impious some one character with respect to impiety ? Eutli . Most assuredly, Socrates. •/ * Socr. Tell me, then, what you say holiness is, and what impiety. Eutli. I say, then, that that is holy which I am now do¬ ing, to prosecute any one who acts unjustly either with respect to murder or sacrilege, or who commits any similar offense, whether he be one’s father or mother, or whoever else he may be, but not to prosecute him is impious. For observe, Socrates, what a great proof I will give you that the law is so, as I have also said to others, showing that it is rightly done, when one does not spare one who acts 504 EUTHYPHRON. impiously, whoever he may be. For all men believe that Jupiter is the best and most just of the gods; and yet they admit that he put his own father in chains because he unjustly swallowed his children, and, again, that he mutilated his father for other similar reasons; but they are indignant with me because I prosecute my father for having acted unjustly, and thus these men contradict themselves with respect to the gods and me. sSocr. Is this the reason, then, Euthyphron, for which I am defendant in this indictment, because when any one says things of this kind respecting the gods, I admit them with difficulty; on which account, as it seems, some one will say that I am guilty ? Now, therefore, if these things appear so to you likewise, who are well versed in such matters, we must, of necessity, as it seems, agree with you. For what else can we say, who acknowledge that we know nothing about these things ? But tell me, by Jupiter, who presides over friendship, do you think that these things did really happen so ? JEzith. And things still more wonderful than these, Soc¬ rates, which the multitude are unacquainted with. >3ocr. Do you, then, think that there is in reality war among the gods one with another, and fierce enmities and battles, and many other things of the kind such as are re¬ lated by the poets, and with representations of which by good painters both other sacred places have been deco¬ rated, and, moreover, in the great Panathenaic festival, a veil full of such representations is carried into the Acrop¬ olis ?• Must we say that these things are true, Euthy¬ phron ? JEuth. Not these only, Socrates; but, as I just now said, I can, if you please, relate to you many other things re¬ specting divine affairs, which I am sure you will be aston¬ ished to hear. 1. Socr. I should not wonder; but you shall relate these things to me hereafter, at our leisure. Now, however, endeavor to explain to me more clearly what I just now asked you. For you have not yet, my friend, sufficiently answered my question as to holiness, what it is; but you have told me that what you are now doing is holy, prose¬ cuting your father for murder. EUTHYPHRON. 505 Euth. And I said the truth, Socrates. Boer. Perhaps so. But, Euthyphron, you may also say that many other things are holy. Eutli. For such is the case. jSocr. Do you remember, then, that I did not beg this of you, to teach me some one or two from among many holy things, but the particular character itself by which all holy things are holy? For you surely said that un¬ holy things are unholy, and holy things holy, from one character: do you not remember ? Euth. I do. Boer. Teach me, then, this very character, what it is; in order that, looking to it, and using it as a model, I may say that such a thing of all that you or any one else does is holy, and that what is not such is not holy. Euth. But if you wish it, Socrates, I will also tell you this. Boer. I do, indeed, wish it. Euth. That, then, which is pleasing to the gods is holy, and that which is not pleasing to them is impious. Boer. Admirably, Euthyphron, you have answered just as I begged you to answer. Whether truly, however, I do not yet know ; but you will doubtless convince me that what you say is true. Euth. Certainly. 8. Boer. Come, then, let us consider what we say. A thing that is pleasing to the gods, and a man who is pleas¬ ing to the gods, are holy; but a thing that is hateful to the gods, and a man that is hateful to the gods, are impi¬ ous ; but the holy is not the same with the unholy, but most contrary to it: is it not so ? Euth. Assuredly. Boer. And this appears to have been well said ; Euth. Pthink so, Socrates; for it has been said. Boer. And that the gods quarrel, Euthyphron, and are Tit variance with each other, and that there are enmities among them one toward another: has not this, also, been said ? Euth. It has. Boer. But, my excellent friend, variance, about what occasions enmity and anger? Let us consicfer it thus. If 22 506 EUTHYPHRON. you and I differed about numbers, which of two was the greater, would a difference on this point make us enemies and angry with each other; or, having recourse to compu¬ tation, should we soon be freed from such dissension ? Euth. Certainly. Socr. And if we differed about the greater and the less, by having recourse to measuring should we not soon put an end to our difference ? Euth. Such is the case. Socr. And by having recourse to weighing, as I think, we should be able to decide respecting the heavier and the lighter ? Euth. How not ? Socr. About what, then, disagreeing, and in what being unable to come to a decision, do we become enemies to, and angry with, each other? Perhaps you can not read¬ ily answer; but consider when I say whether they are these, the just and the unjust, the beautiful and the base, the good and the evil. Are not these the things about which disagreeing, and not being able to arrive at a satis¬ factory decision respecting them, we become enemies to each other when we do become so, both you and I, and all other men ? Euth. This, indeed, is difference itself, Socrates, and it is about these things. Socr. But what? If the gods, Euthyphron,differ at all, •must they not differ about these very things ? Euth. Most necessarily. Socr. According to your account, then, noble Euthy¬ phron, different gods think different things just, and beau¬ tiful and base, and good and evil. For surely they could not quarrel with each other if they did not differ about these things; is it not so ? Euth. You say rightly. Socr. Do they not severally, then, love the things which they consider beautiful and good and just, and hate their contraries ? Euth. Certainly. Socr. And these same things, as you admit, some con¬ sider to be just,and others unjust; disputing about which they quarrel and make war on each other: is it not so ? EUTHYPHRON. 507 Euth . Just so. Socr. The same things, therefore, as it seems, are both hated and loved by the gods, and these are both hateful to the gods and pleasing to the gods. Euth. It seems so. Socr. From this reasoning, also, the same things must be holy and unholy, Euthyphron ? Euth. It appears so. 9. Socr. You have not, therefore, answered my question, my admirable friend; for I did not ask you this, what is at the same time both holy and impious; but what is pleas¬ ing to the gods is also hateful to the gods, as it seems. So that, Euthyphron, in punishing your father, as you are now doing, it is not at all wonderful if in doing this you do what is pleasing to Jupiter, but odious to Saturn and Heaven, and what is pleasing to Vulcan; but odious to Juno; and if any other of the gods differs from another on this point, to him, also, in like manner. Eutli. But I think, Socrates, that no one of the gods will differ from another about this, and say that he ought not to be punished who has slain any one unjustly. Socr. But what ? Have you ever heard any man doubt¬ ing, Euthyphron, whether he who has slain another unjust¬ ly, or has committed any other injustice, ought to be pun¬ ished ? Euth. They never cease doubting about these things, both elsewhere and in courts of justice. For they who commit very many acts of injustice say and do every thing in their power to escape punishment. Socr. Do they also confess, Euthyphron, that they have acted unjustly, and, confessing, do they nevertheless say that they ought not to be punished ? Euth. They by no means say this. Socr. They do not, therefore, do and say every thing in their power. For, I think, they dare not say nor doubt this, that if they act unjustly they ought to suffer punish¬ ment; but, I think, they deny that they have acted unjust¬ ly : is it not so ? Euth. You say truly. Socr. They do not, therefore, doubt this, whether he who acts unjustly ought to be punished; but this, per- 508 EUTHYPHRON. haps, they doubt, who has acted unjustly, and by doing what, and when. Euth. You say truly. Socr. Do not, then, the very same things happen to the gods if they quarrel about things just and unjust, accord¬ ing to your statement, and do not some say that they act unjustly toward each other, and others again deny it? For surely, my admirable friend, no one, either of gods or men, dares maintain this, that he who acts unjustly ought not to suffer punishment. Euth. Yes, and what you say is true, Socrates; at least, in general. Socr. But they who doubt, Euthyphron, doubt, I think, about each particular that has been done, both men and gods, if the gods do doubt; and when they differ about any action, some say that it has been done justly,gnd oth¬ ers unjustly: is it not so ? Euth. Certainly. 10. /Socr. Come, then, my dear Euthyphron, teach me too, that I may become wiser, what proof you have that all the gods think he died unjustly, who, serving for wages and having committed homicide, and being put in chains by the master of the deceased, died in his fetters before he that put him in chains received an answer respecting him from the interpreters as to what he ought to do; and that for such a cause it is right for a son to prosecute and demand judgment against his father. Come, endeavor to make it clear to me, with respect to this, that all the gods without exception consider this action to be right. And if you make this sufficiently clear, I will never cease ex¬ tolling you for your wisdom. Euth. But perhaps this is no trifling matter, Socrates; though I could prove it to you very plainly. Socr. I understand you; I appear to you to be more dull of apprehension than the judges; for it is evident that you will prove to them that it was unjust, and that all the gods hate such actions. Euth. Very plainly, Socrates, if only they will hear what I have to say. 11. Socr. But they will hear you, if only you shall ap¬ pear to speak well. However, while you were speaking, I EUTHYPHKON. 509 made this reflection, and considered within myself: If Eu¬ thyphron should certainly convince me that all the gods think such a death to be unjust, what more shall I have learned from Euthyphron as to what is holy and what im¬ pious ? For this action, as it seems, would be hateful to the gods. Yet what was lately defined has not appealed from this—namely, what is holy, and what not; for that which is hateful to some gods appeared also to be pleas¬ ing to others. So that I grant you this, Euthyphron, and if you please let all the gods think it unjust, and let them all hate it. Shall we, then, make this correction in the definition, and say that what all the gods hate is impious, and what they love is holy 5 but that what some love, and others hate, is neither, or both ? Are you willing that we should give this definition of the holy and the im¬ pious ? Euth. What hinders, Socrates? Socr. Nothing hinders me, Euthyphron; but do you, for your part, consider whether, assuming this, you can thus easily teach me what you promised ? Euth. But I should say that the holy is that which all the gods love; and the contrary, the impious, that which all the gods hate. jSocr. Shall we examine this, then, Euthyphron, whether it is well said ? or shall we let it pass, and thus concede, both to ourselves and others, that if any one only says that any thing is so, we shall allow that it is? or must we ex¬ amine what the speaker says ? AWi. We must examine it: for my part, however, I think that this is now well said. 12 . Socr. We shall soon, my good friend, know this more clearly. For consider it in this way: Is the holy loved by the gods because it is holy; or is it holy, because it is loved ? Euth. I don’t understand what you mean, Socrates. /Socr. I will endeavor, then, to express myself more clear¬ ly. We say that a thing is carried, and carries; that it is led, and leads; that it is seen, and sees: and you under¬ stand that all things of this kind are different from each other, and in what they differ? Euth. For my part, I seem to understand it. 510 EUTHYPHKON. Socr. Is not, then, that which is beloved one thing, and that which loves different from it? JEuth. How not ? Socr. Tell me, then, is that which is carried, carried be¬ cause one carries it,or for some other reason? JEuth. No, but for this. Socr.. And that which is led, because one leads it; and that which is seen, because one sees it ? JEuth. Certainly. Socr. One does not, therefore, see a thing because it is seen; but, on the contrary, it is seen because one sees it: nor does one lead a thing because it is led, but it is led because one leads it; nor does one carry a thing because it is carried, but it is carried because one carries it. Is my meaning clear, then, Euthyphron ? I mean this, that if one does any thing, or suffers any thing, one does it not because it is done, but it is done because one does it; nor does one suffer any thing because it is suffered, but it is suffered because one suffers: do you not admit this to be the case ? JEuth. I do. Socr. Is not, then, the being loved, something either done or suffered by some one ? JEuth. Certainly. Socr. And is not the case the same with this as with all the former instances; those who love it do not love it be¬ cause it is loved, but it is loved because they love it ? JEuth. Necessarily so. , Socr. What, then, do we say respecting holiness, Euthy¬ phron? Do not all the gods love it according to your statement ? JEuth. Yes. Socr. Is it for this reason, because it is holy, or for some other reason ? JEuth. No, but for this. Socr. They love it, then, because it is holy, but it is not Holy because they love it. JEuth. It seems so. Socr. Therefore, because the gods love it, it is beloved, and that which is pleasing to the gods is pleasing to them. JEuth. IIow not? EUTHYPHRON. 511 Socr. That which is pleasing to the gods, therefore, is not holy, Euthyphron; nor is that holy which is pleasing to the gods, as you say, but one is different from the other. j Euth. How so, Socrates? Socr. Because we agree that what is holy is therefore loved because it is holy, and that it is not holy because they love it; is it not so ? Euth. Yes. Socr. But that which is pleasing to the gods because the gods love it, is, from the very circumstance of their loving it, pleasing to them; but they do not love it because it is pleasing to them. Euth. You say truly. Socr. But, my dear Euthyphron, if the being pleasing to the gods and being holy were the same thing, since that which is holy is loved because it is holy, that which is pleasing to the gods would also be loved because it is pleasing to them ; and if that which is pleasing to the gods were pleasing to them because they love it, that which is holy would also be holy because they love it. Now, how¬ ever, you see that they are contrary, as being altogether different from each other. . For the one is such as is loved because they love it, but the other is loved because it is of such a character that it ought to be loved. . And you ap¬ pear, Euthyphron, when asked what holiness is, not to have been willing to make known to me its essence, but to have mentioned an affection to which this same holiness is sub- ject—namely, the being loved by all the gods; but what it is, you have not yet told me. If, therefore, it is agreea¬ ble to you, do not conceal it from me, but again say from the beginning what holiness is, whether it is loved by the gods, or is subject to any other affection: for we shall not differ about this. But tell me frankly what the holy is, and what the impious. Euth. But, Socrates, I know not how to tell you what I think. For whatever we put forward, somehow, constant¬ ly moves from its position, and will not remain where we have placed it. Socr. What you have advanced, Euthyphron, appears to resemble the statues of my ancestoi Daedalus. And if I had said and laid down these things, you would probably 512 EUTIIYPHRON. have joked me, for that, owing to my relationship to him, my works, by way of discussion, escape, and will not remain where one places them. But now—for the hypotheses are yours—there is need of some other raillery; for they will not remain with you, as you, too, perceive yourself. Euth. But it appears to me, Socrates, that what has been said needs pretty much the same raillery. For I am not the person who causes them to shift about in this way, and not remain in the same place; but you appear to me to be the Daedalus. For, so far as I am concerned, they would have remained as they were. /Socr. I appear, then, my friend, to have become much more skillful than he in my art, in that he only made his own works movable, but I, besides my own, as it seems, make those of others so. And this, moreover, is the most wonderful thing in my art, that I am skillful against any will. For I should wish that my reasonings should remain and be immovably fixed, rather than have the riches of Tantalus, in addition to the skill of Dasdalus. But enough of this. 13. Since, however, you appear to be too nice, I will assist you to show how you may teach me respecting holiness, and not be tired before you have done. For see whether it does not appear to you to be necessary that ev¬ ery thing that is holy should be just. Euth. To me it does. /Socr. Is, then, every thing that is just also holy, or is every thing that is holy just, but not every thing that is just holy, but partly holy and partly something else? Euth. I do not follow your questions, Socrates. /Socr. And yet you are younger no less than wiser than I am; but, as I said, you are too delicate through abun¬ dance of wisdom. However, my blessed friend, exert yourself ; for it is not difficult to understand what I mean. For I mean the contrary to what the poet said, who wrote, “You are unwilling to mention Jove, the creator who made this universe; for where fear is, there is also shame.” I, however, differ from this poet. Shall I tell you in what respect ? Euth. By all means. /Socr. It does not appear to me that where fear is, there is also shame. For there appear to me to be many who, EUTHYPHRON. 513 fearing diseases, poverty, and many other things of the kind, fear indeed, but are by no means ashamed of what they fear. Does it not appear so to you ? Euth . Certainly. Socr. But wherever shame is, there is also fear; for is there any one who is ashamed of and blushes at any thing, that is not afraid of and does not fear the reputation of baseness ? Euth. Assuredly he does fear it. Socr. It is not right, therefore, to say that where fear is, there also is shame; but where shame is, there also is fear; not, however, wherever there is fear, there is also shame. For I think that fear is more extensive than shame; for shame is a part of fear, as the odd is a part of number; so that it does not follow that wherever number is, there also is the odd; but wherever the odd is, there also is num¬ ber. Do you follow me now ? . Euth . Perfectly. Socr . I asked you, then, about a thing of this kind above, whether where the just is, there also is the holy; or where the holy is, there also is the just; but wherever the just is, there is not always the holy: for the holy is a part of the just. Shall we say thus, or does it seem to you oth¬ erwise ? Euth. No, but thus; for you appear to me to speak correctly. 14. Socr. Observe, then, what follows. If the holy is a part of the just, it is necessary, as it seems, that we should find out what part of the just the holy is. If, then, you were to ask me about some of the things before mentioned —for instance, what part of number the even is, and what number it is—I should say that it is not scalene, but isos¬ celes. 1 Does it not appear so to you ? Euth. It does. Socr. Do you, then, also endeavor in like manner to teach me what part of the just the holy is, that I may tell Melitus no longer to treat me unjustly nor indict me for impiety, since I have now sufficiently learned from you what things are pious and holy, and what not. Euth. That part of justice, then, Socrates, appears to me 1 That is, it can be divided into equal parts, which the odd can not. 22 * 514 EUTHYPHRON. to be pious and holy which is concerned about our care for the gods ; but that which is concerned about our care for mankind is the remaining part of justice. 15. Soer. You appear to me,Euthyphron,to speak well; but I still require a' trifle further. For I do not yet un¬ derstand what care you mean. For you surely do not mean such care is to be had for the gods as is employed about other things. For we say, for instance, not every one knows how to take care of horses, but a groom; do we not ? JEuth. Certainly. Soer. For surely the groom’s business is the taking-care of horses. JEuth. Yes. Soer. Nor does every one know how to take care of dogs, but a huntsman. JEuth. Just so. Soer. For the huntsman’s business is the taking-care of dogs.' JEuth. Yes. Soer. And the herdsman’s, of cattle. JEuth. Certainly, Soer. But holiness and piety, of the gods, Euthyphron; do you say so ? JEuth. I do. Soer. All care, therefore, aims at the same thing; that is to say, it is for some good and advantage of that which is taken care of, as you see that horses, taken care of by one skilled in the groom’s business, are benefited and be¬ come better: do they not seem so to you ? JEuth. They do. Soer. Dogs, also, are benefited by one skilled in the huntsman’s business, and oxen by that of the herdsman, and all other things in like manner: do you think that the care is employed for the injury of that which is taken care of? JEuth. Not I, by Jupiter ! Soer. But for its advantage ? JEuth. How should it not? Soer. Is holiness, therefore, since it is a care for the gods, an advantage to the gods, and does it make the gods EUTHYPHRON. 515 better? And would you admit this, that when you do any thing holy, you make some one of the gods better ? Euth. Not I, by Jupiter ! Socr. Nor do I think, Euthyphron, that you mean this; I am far from doing so; but for this reason I asked you what care for the gods you mean, not thinking that you mean such as this. Euth. And rightly, Socrates; for I do not mean such as this. Socr. Be it so; but what care for the gods will holiness be ? Euth. That, Socrates, which slaves take of their masters. Socr. I understand; it will be a kind of service, as it seems, paid to the gods. Euth. Certainly. 16 . Socr. Can you, then, tell me, to the performance of what the service of physicians is subservient? Do you not think it is to health? Euth. I do. Socr. But what? to the performance of what work is the service of shipwrights subservient? Euth. Clearly, Socrates, to that of a ship. Socr. And that of architects, to houses ? Euth. Yes. Socr. Tell me, then, my excellent friend; to the per¬ formance of what work will the service of the gods be subservient? For it is clear that you know, since you say that you have a knowledge of divine things beyond that of other men. Euth. And I say truly, Socrates. Socr. Tell me, then, by Jupiter! what is that very beautiful work which the gods effect by employing us as servants. Euth. They are many and beautiful, Socrates. Socr. So do generals, my friend ; though you could eas¬ ily tell the principal of them that they effect victory in war; is it not so ? Euth. How should I not ? Socr. Husbandmen, too, I think, effect many and beau¬ tiful things; but the principal thing they effect is the pro¬ duction of food from the earth. 516 EUTHYPHRON. Euth. Certainly. , Socr . What, then ? Of the many and beautiful things which the gods effect, what is the principal ? JEuth. I told you just now, Socrates, that it is a diffi¬ cult matter to learn all these things accurately; this, how¬ ever, I tell you simply, that if any one knows how to speak and do things grateful to the gods, by praying and sacri¬ ficing, these things are holy, and such things preserve both private houses and the general weal of cities; but the con¬ traries to things acceptable to them are impious, which also subvert and ruin all things. 17. Socr. You might, if you had pleased, Euthyphron, • have told me the principal of what I asked in fewer words. But it is clear that you are not willing to teach me. For now when you were just upon the point of do¬ ing so, you turned aside; whereas if you had answered, I should by this time have sufficiently learned from you what holiness is. Buf, now (for it is necessary that he who asks questions should follow the person questioned wherever he may lead), what again do you say is the holy, and holiness ? Do you not say it is a knowledge of sac¬ rificing and praying ? JEuth. I do. Socr. Is not to sacrifice to offer gifts to the gods, and to pray to beg something of the gods? JEuth. Assuredly, Socrates. Socr. From this statement it follows that holiness must be a knowledge of begging from and giving to the gods. JEuth. You quite understand what I mean, Socrates. Socr. For I am very anxious, my friend, to obtain your wisdom, and I apply my mind to it; so that what you say will not fall to the ground. But tell me what this service of the gods is ? Do you say it is to beg of them and to give to them ? . JEuth. I do. 18. Socr. Must we not, then, therefore, to beg rightly, beg those things of them which we need from them? Euth. What else ? Socr. And, again, to gave rightly, must we give them in return such things as they stand in need of from us ? For EUTHYPHRON 517 surely it would not be suitable to offer those gifts to any one which he does not need. Euth. You say truly, Socrates. Socr. Holiness, therefore, Euthyphron, will be a kind of traffic between gods and men. Euth. A kind of traffic, if it pleases you to call it so. Socr. But it is not at all pleasing to me, unless it hap¬ pens to be true. Tell me, therefore, what advantage the gods derive from the gifts which they receive from us. For the advantage arising from what they give is clear to every one; for we have no good at all which they do not impart. But how are they benefited by what they receive from us? Do we get so much the advantage over them in this traffic, that we receive all good things from them, but they nothing from us? Euth. But do you think, Socrates, that the gods are benefited by what they receive from us ? Socr. What is the use, then, Euthyphron, of all our gifts to the gods? Euth. What else do you think except honor and rever¬ ence, and, as I just now mentioned, gratitude? Socr. Holiness, then, Euthyphron, is that which is grate¬ ful, but not profitable or dear to the gods. Euth. I for my part think it is of all things most dear to them. Socr. This, then, again, is, as it seems, holiness, that which is dear to the gods. Euth. Most certainly. 19. Socr. Can you wonder, then, when you say this, that your statements do not remain fixed, but move about, and can you accuse me as being the Daedalus that makes them move about, when you yourself are far more skillful than Daedalus, and make them go round in a circle? Do you not perceive that our discussion, turning round, comes to the same point? For you surely remember that in a former part of our discussion that which is holy and that which is acceptable to the gods appeared to us not to be the same, but different from each other: do you not re¬ member ? Euth. I do. Socr. Now, then, do you not perceive that you say that 518 EUTHYPHRON. holiness is that which is dear to the gdds? But is this any thing else than that which is acceptable to the gods? Is it not so ? Euth. Certainlv. •/ Socr . Either, therefore, we did not then admit that properly, or, if we did, our present statement is not cor¬ rect ? JEuth. It seems so. Socr. .From the beginning, therefore, we must consider again what holiness is; for I shall not willingly run away like a coward, until.I have learned it. Do not, then, de¬ spise me, but by all means apply your mind earnestly to it, and tell me the truth. For you know it, if any man does; and I can not let you go like Proteus, until you have told me. For if you had not known clearly both what is holy and what is impious, it is not possible that you could ever have attempted, for the sake of a hireling, to prose¬ cute your aged father for murder; but you would have feared both to incur the anger of the gods, in case you should not act rightly in this matter, and would have been ashamed in the si. LYSIS. 549 “ It seems so,” said he. “ However,” I said, “ that which desires, desires that which it stands in need of; does it not?” “ Yes.” “And is that which stands in need friendly to that of which it stands in need ?” “ It seems so to me.” “And it stands in need of that which is taken from it?” 41. “ How should it not ?” “As it seems, then, love, friendship, and desire respect that which belongs to a man; so it appears, Menexenus and Lysis ?” They both assented. “ If, therefore, you two are friends to each other, you must,in a manner,by nature belong to each other?” “Assuredly,” they both replied. “ If, then,” said I, “ any one desires or is fond of another, my boys, he could never desire, or be fond of, or be a friend, unless he, in a manner, belonged to the object of his love, either as to his soul, or as to some habit of the soul, or disposition, or form ?” “ Certainly,” said Menexenus, but Lysis w T as silent. “ Well, then,” said I, “ it has proved necessary for us to love that which by nature belongs to us ?” “ It seems so,” said he. “ It is necessary, then, for a genuine, and not a pretend¬ ed, lover to be beloved by his favorite ?” To this Lysis and Menexenus scarcely nodded assent, but Hippothales, through delight, exhibited all sorts of colors. And I, being willing to examine the matter, said, “ If there is any difference between that which belongs to us and that which is like, we shall be able to say, as it seems to me, Lysis and Menexenus, respecting a friend, what he is ; but if the like and that which belongs are the same, it is not easy to get rid of our former conclusion, that the like is useless to the like, as regards similitude ; but to admit that what is useless can be friendly, is ab¬ surd. 42. Are you willing, then,” I added, “ since we are, as it were, intoxicated by the discussion, that we should grant and affirm that that which belongs is different from that which is like ?” 550 LYSIS. “ Certainly.” “ Whether, then, shall we admit that good belongs to every thing, but that evil is foreign ? or that evil belongs to evil, good to good, and that which is neither good nor evil to that which is neither good nor evil ?” They both said that so it appeared to them, that each belongs to each. “Again, therefore,” said I, “my boys, we have fallen upon those conclusions which we at first rejected respect¬ ing friendship. For the unjust will be no less a friend to the unjust, and. the evil to the evil, than the good to the good.” “ So it seems,” he said. “But what? if we should say that the good and that which belongs are the same, will not the good only be a friend to the good ?” “ Certainly.” “But in this, too, we thought we had confuted our¬ selves ; do you not remember ?” “We do remember.” “In what way, then, can we still deal with the subject— is it not clear, in no way at all ? I require, then, like skill¬ ful pleaders in the law courts, to sum up all that has been said; for if neither those that are loved, nor those that love, nor the like, nor the unlike, nor the good, nor those that belong to us, nor any others that w T e have described (for I do not remember them any further, on account of their number), but if no one of these is a friend, I have nothing more to say.” 43. When I had said this, I purposed to stir up some one of the older men; but just then, like evil spirits, the pedagogues of Lysis and Menexenus approaching us, hav¬ ing hold of their brothers by their hand, called to them, and bade them go home, for it was already late. At first, then, both we and the by-standers drove them away; but when they paid no attention to us, but murmured in their barbarous dialect, and desisted not from calling them, and seemed to us, from having drunk too much at the Iler- msean festival, to be difficult to manage, we yielded to them, and dissolved the conference. However, as they were just going away, I said, Lysis and Menexenus, we LYSIS. 551 have made ourselves ridiculous, both I, an old man, and you; for those who are now leaving us will say that we think ourselves to be each other’s friends (for I reckon myself among you), but that we have not yet been able to discover what a friend is. TIIE END.