Source: Project Gutenberg #1580, #1579, #1584
Source URL: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1580 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1579 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1584
Translator: Benjamin Jowett (1892)
Public domain basis: Benjamin Jowett, The Dialogues of Plato (3rd ed., 1892); public domain.

Produced by Sue Asscher





THE DIALOGUES OF PLATO

CHARMIDES

By Plato

Translated into English with Analyses and Introductions By B. Jowett,
M.A.

     Master of Balliol College
     Regius Professor of Greek in the University of Oxford
     Doctor in Theology of the University of Leyden


TO MY FORMER PUPILS

in Balliol College and in the University of Oxford who during fifty
years have been the best of friends to me these volumes are inscribed in
grateful recognition of their never failing attachment.


The additions and alterations which have been made, both in the
Introductions and in the Text of this Edition, affect at least a third
of the work.

Having regard to the extent of these alterations, and to the annoyance
which is naturally felt by the owner of a book at the possession of it
in an inferior form, and still more keenly by the writer himself, who
must always desire to be read as he is at his best, I have thought that
the possessor of either of the former Editions (1870 and 1876) might
wish to exchange it for the present one. I have therefore arranged that
those who would like to make this exchange, on depositing a perfect
and undamaged copy of the first or second Edition with any agent of the
Clarendon Press, shall be entitled to receive a copy of a new Edition at
half-price.




PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

The Text which has been mostly followed in this Translation of Plato is
the latest 8vo. edition of Stallbaum; the principal deviations are noted
at the bottom of the page.

I have to acknowledge many obligations to old friends and pupils. These
are:--Mr. John Purves, Fellow of Balliol College, with whom I have
revised about half of the entire Translation; the Rev. Professor
Campbell, of St. Andrews, who has helped me in the revision of several
parts of the work, especially of the Theaetetus, Sophist, and Politicus;
Mr. Robinson Ellis, Fellow of Trinity College, and Mr. Alfred Robinson,
Fellow of New College, who read with me the Cratylus and the Gorgias;
Mr. Paravicini, Student of Christ Church, who assisted me in the
Symposium; Mr. Raper, Fellow of Queen's College, Mr. Monro, Fellow of
Oriel College, and Mr. Shadwell, Student of Christ Church, who gave me
similar assistance in the Laws. Dr. Greenhill, of Hastings, has also
kindly sent me remarks on the physiological part of the Timaeus, which I
have inserted as corrections under the head of errata at the end of the
Introduction. The degree of accuracy which I have been enabled to attain
is in great measure due to these gentlemen, and I heartily thank them
for the pains and time which they have bestowed on my work.

I have further to explain how far I have received help from other
labourers in the same field. The books which I have found of most
use are Steinhart and Muller's German Translation of Plato with
Introductions; Zeller's 'Philosophie der Griechen,' and 'Platonische
Studien;' Susemihl's 'Genetische Entwickelung der Paltonischen
Philosophie;' Hermann's 'Geschichte der Platonischen Philosophie;'
Bonitz, 'Platonische Studien;' Stallbaum's Notes and Introductions;
Professor Campbell's editions of the 'Theaetetus,' the 'Sophist,' and
the 'Politicus;' Professor Thompson's 'Phaedrus;' Th. Martin's 'Etudes
sur le Timee;' Mr. Poste's edition and translation of the 'Philebus;'
the Translation of the 'Republic,' by Messrs. Davies and Vaughan, and
the Translation of the 'Gorgias,' by Mr. Cope.

I have also derived much assistance from the great work of Mr. Grote,
which contains excellent analyses of the Dialogues, and is rich in
original thoughts and observations. I agree with him in rejecting as
futile the attempt of Schleiermacher and others to arrange the Dialogues
of Plato into a harmonious whole. Any such arrangement appears to me not
only to be unsupported by evidence, but to involve an anachronism in
the history of philosophy. There is a common spirit in the writings of
Plato, but not a unity of design in the whole, nor perhaps a perfect
unity in any single Dialogue. The hypothesis of a general plan which
is worked out in the successive Dialogues is an after-thought of the
critics who have attributed a system to writings belonging to an age
when system had not as yet taken possession of philosophy.

If Mr. Grote should do me the honour to read any portion of this work
he will probably remark that I have endeavoured to approach Plato from a
point of view which is opposed to his own. The aim of the Introductions
in these volumes has been to represent Plato as the father of Idealism,
who is not to be measured by the standard of utilitarianism or any
other modern philosophical system. He is the poet or maker of ideas,
satisfying the wants of his own age, providing the instruments
of thought for future generations. He is no dreamer, but a great
philosophical genius struggling with the unequal conditions of light
and knowledge under which he is living. He may be illustrated by the
writings of moderns, but he must be interpreted by his own, and by his
place in the history of philosophy. We are not concerned to determine
what is the residuum of truth which remains for ourselves. His truth may
not be our truth, and nevertheless may have an extraordinary value and
interest for us.

I cannot agree with Mr. Grote in admitting as genuine all the
writings commonly attributed to Plato in antiquity, any more than with
Schaarschmidt and some other German critics who reject nearly half of
them. The German critics, to whom I refer, proceed chiefly on grounds
of internal evidence; they appear to me to lay too much stress on the
variety of doctrine and style, which must be equally acknowledged as a
fact, even in the Dialogues regarded by Schaarschmidt as genuine, e.g.
in the Phaedrus, or Symposium, when compared with the Laws. He
who admits works so different in style and matter to have been the
composition of the same author, need have no difficulty in admitting
the Sophist or the Politicus. (The negative argument adduced by the same
school of critics, which is based on the silence of Aristotle, is not
worthy of much consideration. For why should Aristotle, because he has
quoted several Dialogues of Plato, have quoted them all? Something must
be allowed to chance, and to the nature of the subjects treated of in
them.) On the other hand, Mr. Grote trusts mainly to the Alexandrian
Canon. But I hardly think that we are justified in attributing much
weight to the authority of the Alexandrian librarians in an age when
there was no regular publication of books, and every temptation to forge
them; and in which the writings of a school were naturally attributed to
the founder of the school. And even without intentional fraud, there was
an inclination to believe rather than to enquire. Would Mr. Grote accept
as genuine all the writings which he finds in the lists of learned
ancients attributed to Hippocrates, to Xenophon, to Aristotle? The
Alexandrian Canon of the Platonic writings is deprived of credit by the
admission of the Epistles, which are not only unworthy of Plato, and in
several passages plagiarized from him, but flagrantly at variance with
historical fact. It will be seen also that I do not agree with Mr.
Grote's views about the Sophists; nor with the low estimate which he has
formed of Plato's Laws; nor with his opinion respecting Plato's doctrine
of the rotation of the earth. But I 'am not going to lay hands on my
father Parmenides' (Soph.), who will, I hope, forgive me for differing
from him on these points. I cannot close this Preface without expressing
my deep respect for his noble and gentle character, and the great
services which he has rendered to Greek Literature.

Balliol College, January, 1871.




PREFACE TO THE SECOND AND THIRD EDITIONS.

In publishing a Second Edition (1875) of the Dialogues of Plato in
English, I had to acknowledge the assistance of several friends: of
the Rev. G.G. Bradley, Master of University College, now Dean of
Westminster, who sent me some valuable remarks on the Phaedo; of Dr.
Greenhill, who had again revised a portion of the Timaeus; of Mr. R.L.
Nettleship, Fellow and Tutor of Balliol College, to whom I was indebted
for an excellent criticism of the Parmenides; and, above all, of the
Rev. Professor Campbell of St. Andrews, and Mr. Paravicini, late Student
of Christ Church and Tutor of Balliol College, with whom I had read over
the greater part of the translation. I was also indebted to Mr. Evelyn
Abbott, Fellow and Tutor of Balliol College, for a complete and accurate
index.

In this, the Third Edition, I am under very great obligations to Mr.
Matthew Knight, who has not only favoured me with valuable suggestions
throughout the work, but has largely extended the Index (from 61 to 175
pages) and translated the Eryxias and Second Alcibiades; and to Mr
Frank Fletcher, of Balliol College, my Secretary. I am also considerably
indebted to Mr. J.W. Mackail, late Fellow of Balliol College, who read
over the Republic in the Second Edition and noted several inaccuracies.

In both editions the Introductions to the Dialogues have been enlarged,
and essays on subjects having an affinity to the Platonic Dialogues have
been introduced into several of them. The analyses have been corrected,
and innumerable alterations have been made in the Text. There have been
added also, in the Third Edition, headings to the pages and a marginal
analysis to the text of each dialogue.

At the end of a long task, the translator may without impropriety point
out the difficulties which he has had to encounter. These have been far
greater than he would have anticipated; nor is he at all sanguine that
he has succeeded in overcoming them. Experience has made him feel that a
translation, like a picture, is dependent for its effect on very minute
touches; and that it is a work of infinite pains, to be returned to in
many moods and viewed in different lights.

I. An English translation ought to be idiomatic and interesting, not
only to the scholar, but to the unlearned reader. Its object should not
simply be to render the words of one language into the words of another
or to preserve the construction and order of the original;--this is the
ambition of a schoolboy, who wishes to show that he has made a good use
of his Dictionary and Grammar; but is quite unworthy of the translator,
who seeks to produce on his reader an impression similar or nearly
similar to that produced by the original. To him the feeling should be
more important than the exact word. He should remember Dryden's quaint
admonition not to 'lacquey by the side of his author, but to mount up
behind him.' (Dedication to the Aeneis.) He must carry in his mind a
comprehensive view of the whole work, of what has preceded and of what
is to follow,--as well as of the meaning of particular passages. His
version should be based, in the first instance, on an intimate knowledge
of the text; but the precise order and arrangement of the words may be
left to fade out of sight, when the translation begins to take shape. He
must form a general idea of the two languages, and reduce the one to the
terms of the other. His work should be rhythmical and varied, the
right admixture of words and syllables, and even of letters, should be
carefully attended to; above all, it should be equable in style. There
must also be quantity, which is necessary in prose as well as in verse:
clauses, sentences, paragraphs, must be in due proportion. Metre and
even rhyme may be rarely admitted; though neither is a legitimate
element of prose writing, they may help to lighten a cumbrous
expression (Symp.). The translation should retain as far as possible
the characteristic qualities of the ancient writer--his freedom, grace,
simplicity, stateliness, weight, precision; or the best part of him will
be lost to the English reader. It should read as an original work, and
should also be the most faithful transcript which can be made of the
language from which the translation is taken, consistently with the
first requirement of all, that it be English. Further, the translation
being English, it should also be perfectly intelligible in itself
without reference to the Greek, the English being really the more lucid
and exact of the two languages. In some respects it may be maintained
that ordinary English writing, such as the newspaper article, is
superior to Plato: at any rate it is couched in language which is very
rarely obscure. On the other hand, the greatest writers of Greece,
Thucydides, Plato, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Pindar, Demosthenes, are
generally those which are found to be most difficult and to diverge most
widely from the English idiom. The translator will often have to convert
the more abstract Greek into the more concrete English, or vice versa,
and he ought not to force upon one language the character of another.
In some cases, where the order is confused, the expression feeble, the
emphasis misplaced, or the sense somewhat faulty, he will not strive in
his rendering to reproduce these characteristics, but will re-write the
passage as his author would have written it at first, had he not been
'nodding'; and he will not hesitate to supply anything which, owing to
the genius of the language or some accident of composition, is
omitted in the Greek, but is necessary to make the English clear and
consecutive.

It is difficult to harmonize all these conflicting elements. In a
translation of Plato what may be termed the interests of the Greek
and English are often at war with one another. In framing the English
sentence we are insensibly diverted from the exact meaning of the Greek;
when we return to the Greek we are apt to cramp and overlay the English.
We substitute, we compromise, we give and take, we add a little here
and leave out a little there. The translator may sometimes be allowed to
sacrifice minute accuracy for the sake of clearness and sense. But he is
not therefore at liberty to omit words and turns of expression which the
English language is quite capable of supplying. He must be patient and
self-controlled; he must not be easily run away with. Let him never
allow the attraction of a favourite expression, or a sonorous cadence,
to overpower his better judgment, or think much of an ornament which is
out of keeping with the general character of his work. He must ever be
casting his eyes upwards from the copy to the original, and down again
from the original to the copy (Rep.). His calling is not held in much
honour by the world of scholars; yet he himself may be excused
for thinking it a kind of glory to have lived so many years in the
companionship of one of the greatest of human intelligences, and in
some degree, more perhaps than others, to have had the privilege of
understanding him (Sir Joshua Reynolds' Lectures: Disc. xv.).

There are fundamental differences in Greek and English, of which some
may be managed while others remain intractable. (1). The structure of
the Greek language is partly adversative and alternative, and partly
inferential; that is to say, the members of a sentence are either
opposed to one another, or one of them expresses the cause or effect
or condition or reason of another. The two tendencies may be called the
horizontal and perpendicular lines of the language; and the opposition
or inference is often much more one of words than of ideas. But modern
languages have rubbed off this adversative and inferential form: they
have fewer links of connection, there is less mortar in the interstices,
and they are content to place sentences side by side, leaving their
relation to one another to be gathered from their position or from
the context. The difficulty of preserving the effect of the Greek
is increased by the want of adversative and inferential particles in
English, and by the nice sense of tautology which characterizes all
modern languages. We cannot have two 'buts' or two 'fors' in the same
sentence where the Greek repeats (Greek). There is a similar want of
particles expressing the various gradations of objective and subjective
thought--(Greek) and the like, which are so thickly scattered over the
Greek page. Further, we can only realize to a very imperfect degree
the common distinction between (Greek), and the combination of the
two suggests a subtle shade of negation which cannot be expressed
in English. And while English is more dependent than Greek upon the
apposition of clauses and sentences, yet there is a difficulty in using
this form of construction owing to the want of case endings. For the
same reason there cannot be an equal variety in the order of words or an
equal nicety of emphasis in English as in Greek.

(2) The formation of the sentence and of the paragraph greatly differs
in Greek and English. The lines by which they are divided are generally
much more marked in modern languages than in ancient. Both sentences
and paragraphs are more precise and definite--they do not run into
one another. They are also more regularly developed from within.
The sentence marks another step in an argument or a narrative or a
statement; in reading a paragraph we silently turn over the page and
arrive at some new view or aspect of the subject. Whereas in Plato we
are not always certain where a sentence begins and ends; and paragraphs
are few and far between. The language is distributed in a different way,
and less articulated than in English. For it was long before the true
use of the period was attained by the classical writers both in poetry
or prose; it was (Greek). The balance of sentences and the introduction
of paragraphs at suitable intervals must not be neglected if the harmony
of the English language is to be preserved. And still a caution has to
be added on the other side, that we must avoid giving it a numerical or
mechanical character.

(3) This, however, is not one of the greatest difficulties of the
translator; much greater is that which arises from the restriction
of the use of the genders. Men and women in English are masculine
and feminine, and there is a similar distinction of sex in the words
denoting animals; but all things else, whether outward objects or
abstract ideas, are relegated to the class of neuters. Hardly in some
flight of poetry do we ever endue any of them with the characteristics
of a sentient being, and then only by speaking of them in the feminine
gender. The virtues may be pictured in female forms, but they are not so
described in language; a ship is humorously supposed to be the sailor's
bride; more doubtful are the personifications of church and country as
females. Now the genius of the Greek language is the opposite of
this. The same tendency to personification which is seen in the Greek
mythology is common also in the language; and genders are attributed to
things as well as persons according to their various degrees of strength
and weakness; or from fanciful resemblances to the male or female form,
or some analogy too subtle to be discovered. When the gender of any
object was once fixed, a similar gender was naturally assigned to
similar objects, or to words of similar formation. This use of genders
in the denotation of objects or ideas not only affects the words
to which genders are attributed, but the words with which they are
construed or connected, and passes into the general character of the
style. Hence arises a difficulty in translating Greek into English
which cannot altogether be overcome. Shall we speak of the soul and
its qualities, of virtue, power, wisdom, and the like, as feminine or
neuter? The usage of the English language does not admit of the former,
and yet the life and beauty of the style are impaired by the latter.
Often the translator will have recourse to the repetition of the word,
or to the ambiguous 'they,' 'their,' etc.; for fear of spoiling the
effect of the sentence by introducing 'it.' Collective nouns in Greek
and English create a similar but lesser awkwardness.

(4) To use of relation is far more extended in Greek than in English.
Partly the greater variety of genders and cases makes the connexion of
relative and antecedent less ambiguous: partly also the greater number
of demonstrative and relative pronouns, and the use of the article, make
the correlation of ideas simpler and more natural. The Greek appears
to have had an ear or intelligence for a long and complicated sentence
which is rarely to be found in modern nations; and in order to bring
the Greek down to the level of the modern, we must break up the long
sentence into two or more short ones. Neither is the same precision
required in Greek as in Latin or English, nor in earlier Greek as in
later; there was nothing shocking to the contemporary of Thucydides and
Plato in anacolutha and repetitions. In such cases the genius of
the English language requires that the translation should be more
intelligible than the Greek. The want of more distinctions between the
demonstrative pronouns is also greatly felt. Two genitives dependent
on one another, unless familiarised by idiom, have an awkward effect
in English. Frequently the noun has to take the place of the pronoun.
'This' and 'that' are found repeating themselves to weariness in the
rough draft of a translation. As in the previous case, while the feeling
of the modern language is more opposed to tautology, there is also a
greater difficulty in avoiding it.

(5) Though no precise rule can be laid down about the repetition of
words, there seems to be a kind of impertinence in presenting to the
reader the same thought in the same words, repeated twice over in the
same passage without any new aspect or modification of it. And the
evasion of tautology--that is, the substitution of one word of precisely
the same meaning for another--is resented by us equally with the
repetition of words. Yet on the other hand the least difference of
meaning or the least change of form from a substantive to an adjective,
or from a participle to a verb, will often remedy the unpleasant effect.
Rarely and only for the sake of emphasis or clearness can we allow an
important word to be used twice over in two successive sentences or even
in the same paragraph. The particles and pronouns, as they are of most
frequent occurrence, are also the most troublesome. Strictly speaking,
except a few of the commonest of them, 'and,' 'the,' etc., they ought
not to occur twice in the same sentence. But the Greek has no such
precise rules; and hence any literal translation of a Greek author is
full of tautology. The tendency of modern languages is to become more
correct as well as more perspicuous than ancient. And, therefore, while
the English translator is limited in the power of expressing relation or
connexion, by the law of his own language increased precision and also
increased clearness are required of him. The familiar use of logic, and
the progress of science, have in these two respects raised the standard.
But modern languages, while they have become more exacting in their
demands, are in many ways not so well furnished with powers of
expression as the ancient classical ones.

Such are a few of the difficulties which have to be overcome in the work
of translation; and we are far from having exhausted the list. (6) The
excellence of a translation will consist, not merely in the faithful
rendering of words, or in the composition of a sentence only, or yet
of a single paragraph, but in the colour and style of the whole work.
Equability of tone is best attained by the exclusive use of familiar and
idiomatic words. But great care must be taken; for an idiomatic phrase,
if an exception to the general style, is of itself a disturbing element.
No word, however expressive and exact, should be employed, which makes
the reader stop to think, or unduly attracts attention by difficulty
and peculiarity, or disturbs the effect of the surrounding language.
In general the style of one author is not appropriate to another; as in
society, so in letters, we expect every man to have 'a good coat of his
own,' and not to dress himself out in the rags of another. (a) Archaic
expressions are therefore to be avoided. Equivalents may be occasionally
drawn from Shakspere, who is the common property of us all; but they
must be used sparingly. For, like some other men of genius of the
Elizabethan and Jacobean age, he outdid the capabilities of the
language, and many of the expressions which he introduced have been laid
aside and have dropped out of use. (b) A similar principle should be
observed in the employment of Scripture. Having a greater force and
beauty than other language, and a religious association, it disturbs the
even flow of the style. It may be used to reproduce in the translation
the quaint effect of some antique phrase in the original, but rarely;
and when adopted, it should have a certain freshness and a suitable
'entourage.' It is strange to observe that the most effective use of
Scripture phraseology arises out of the application of it in a sense
not intended by the author. (c) Another caution: metaphors differ in
different languages, and the translator will often be compelled to
substitute one for another, or to paraphrase them, not giving word for
word, but diffusing over several words the more concentrated thought of
the original. The Greek of Plato often goes beyond the English in its
imagery: compare Laws, (Greek); Rep.; etc. Or again the modern word,
which in substance is the nearest equivalent to the Greek, may be found
to include associations alien to Greek life: e.g. (Greek), 'jurymen,'
(Greek), 'the bourgeoisie.' (d) The translator has also to provide
expressions for philosophical terms of very indefinite meaning in the
more definite language of modern philosophy. And he must not allow
discordant elements to enter into the work. For example, in translating
Plato, it would equally be an anachronism to intrude on him the feeling
and spirit of the Jewish or Christian Scriptures or the technical terms
of the Hegelian or Darwinian philosophy.

(7) As no two words are precise equivalents (just as no two leaves of
the forest are exactly similar), it is a mistaken attempt at precision
always to translate the same Greek word by the same English word. There
is no reason why in the New Testament (Greek) should always be rendered
'righteousness,' or (Greek) 'covenant.' In such cases the translator may
be allowed to employ two words--sometimes when the two meanings occur
in the same passage, varying them by an 'or'--e.g. (Greek), 'science'
or 'knowledge,' (Greek), 'idea' or 'class,' (Greek), 'temperance'
or 'prudence,'--at the point where the change of meaning occurs. If
translations are intended not for the Greek scholar but for the general
reader, their worst fault will be that they sacrifice the general effect
and meaning to the over-precise rendering of words and forms of speech.

(8) There is no kind of literature in English which corresponds to the
Greek Dialogue; nor is the English language easily adapted to it. The
rapidity and abruptness of question and answer, the constant repetition
of (Greek), etc., which Cicero avoided in Latin (de Amicit),
the frequent occurrence of expletives, would, if reproduced in a
translation, give offence to the reader. Greek has a freer and more
frequent use of the Interrogative, and is of a more passionate and
emotional character, and therefore lends itself with greater readiness
to the dialogue form. Most of the so-called English Dialogues are but
poor imitations of Plato, which fall very far short of the original. The
breath of conversation, the subtle adjustment of question and answer,
the lively play of fancy, the power of drawing characters, are wanting
in them. But the Platonic dialogue is a drama as well as a dialogue, of
which Socrates is the central figure, and there are lesser performers as
well:--the insolence of Thrasymachus, the anger of Callicles and Anytus,
the patronizing style of Protagoras, the self-consciousness of Prodicus
and Hippias, are all part of the entertainment. To reproduce this living
image the same sort of effort is required as in translating poetry. The
language, too, is of a finer quality; the mere prose English is slow in
lending itself to the form of question and answer, and so the ease of
conversation is lost, and at the same time the dialectical precision
with which the steps of the argument are drawn out is apt to be
impaired.

II. In the Introductions to the Dialogues there have been added some
essays on modern philosophy, and on political and social life. The chief
subjects discussed in these are Utility, Communism, the Kantian and
Hegelian philosophies, Psychology, and the Origin of Language. (There
have been added also in the Third Edition remarks on other subjects.
A list of the most important of these additions is given at the end of
this Preface.)

Ancient and modern philosophy throw a light upon one another: but they
should be compared, not confounded. Although the connexion between
them is sometimes accidental, it is often real. The same questions
are discussed by them under different conditions of language and
civilization; but in some cases a mere word has survived, while nothing
or hardly anything of the pre-Socratic, Platonic, or Aristotelian
meaning is retained. There are other questions familiar to the moderns,
which have no place in ancient philosophy. The world has grown older in
two thousand years, and has enlarged its stock of ideas and methods of
reasoning. Yet the germ of modern thought is found in ancient, and we
may claim to have inherited, notwithstanding many accidents of time and
place, the spirit of Greek philosophy. There is, however, no continuous
growth of the one into the other, but a new beginning, partly
artificial, partly arising out of the questionings of the mind itself,
and also receiving a stimulus from the study of ancient writings.

Considering the great and fundamental differences which exist in ancient
and modern philosophy, it seems best that we should at first study them
separately, and seek for the interpretation of either, especially of the
ancient, from itself only, comparing the same author with himself and
with his contemporaries, and with the general state of thought and
feeling prevalent in his age. Afterwards comes the remoter light which
they cast on one another. We begin to feel that the ancients had the
same thoughts as ourselves, the same difficulties which characterize all
periods of transition, almost the same opposition between science and
religion. Although we cannot maintain that ancient and modern philosophy
are one and continuous (as has been affirmed with more truth respecting
ancient and modern history), for they are separated by an interval of
a thousand years, yet they seem to recur in a sort of cycle, and we are
surprised to find that the new is ever old, and that the teaching of the
past has still a meaning for us.

III. In the preface to the first edition I expressed a strong opinion
at variance with Mr. Grote's, that the so-called Epistles of Plato were
spurious. His friend and editor, Professor Bain, thinks that I ought to
give the reasons why I differ from so eminent an authority. Reserving
the fuller discussion of the question for another place, I will shortly
defend my opinion by the following arguments:--

(a) Because almost all epistles purporting to be of the classical age
of Greek literature are forgeries. (Compare Bentley's Works (Dyce's
Edition).) Of all documents this class are the least likely to be
preserved and the most likely to be invented. The ancient world swarmed
with them; the great libraries stimulated the demand for them; and at a
time when there was no regular publication of books, they easily crept
into the world.

(b) When one epistle out of a number is spurious, the remainder of
the series cannot be admitted to be genuine, unless there be some
independent ground for thinking them so: when all but one are spurious,
overwhelming evidence is required of the genuineness of the one: when
they are all similar in style or motive, like witnesses who agree in the
same tale, they stand or fall together. But no one, not even Mr. Grote,
would maintain that all the Epistles of Plato are genuine, and very few
critics think that more than one of them is so. And they are clearly all
written from the same motive, whether serious or only literary. Nor is
there an example in Greek antiquity of a series of Epistles, continuous
and yet coinciding with a succession of events extending over a great
number of years.

The external probability therefore against them is enormous, and the
internal probability is not less: for they are trivial and unmeaning,
devoid of delicacy and subtlety, wanting in a single fine expression.
And even if this be matter of dispute, there can be no dispute that
there are found in them many plagiarisms, inappropriately borrowed,
which is a common note of forgery. They imitate Plato, who never
imitates either himself or any one else; reminiscences of the Republic
and the Laws are continually recurring in them; they are too like
him and also too unlike him, to be genuine (see especially Karsten,
Commentio Critica de Platonis quae feruntur Epistolis). They are full of
egotism, self-assertion, affectation, faults which of all writers Plato
was most careful to avoid, and into which he was least likely to
fall. They abound in obscurities, irrelevancies, solecisms, pleonasms,
inconsistencies, awkwardnesses of construction, wrong uses of words.
They also contain historical blunders, such as the statement respecting
Hipparinus and Nysaeus, the nephews of Dion, who are said to 'have been
well inclined to philosophy, and well able to dispose the mind of their
brother Dionysius in the same course,' at a time when they could not
have been more than six or seven years of age--also foolish allusions,
such as the comparison of the Athenian empire to the empire of Darius,
which show a spirit very different from that of Plato; and mistakes of
fact, as e.g. about the Thirty Tyrants, whom the writer of the letters
seems to have confused with certain inferior magistrates, making them
in all fifty-one. These palpable errors and absurdities are absolutely
irreconcilable with their genuineness. And as they appear to have a
common parentage, the more they are studied, the more they will be found
to furnish evidence against themselves. The Seventh, which is thought to
be the most important of these Epistles, has affinities with the Third
and the Eighth, and is quite as impossible and inconsistent as the rest.
It is therefore involved in the same condemnation.--The final conclusion
is that neither the Seventh nor any other of them, when carefully
analyzed, can be imagined to have proceeded from the hand or mind of
Plato. The other testimonies to the voyages of Plato to Sicily and the
court of Dionysius are all of them later by several centuries than the
events to which they refer. No extant writer mentions them older
than Cicero and Cornelius Nepos. It does not seem impossible that so
attractive a theme as the meeting of a philosopher and a tyrant, once
imagined by the genius of a Sophist, may have passed into a romance
which became famous in Hellas and the world. It may have created one of
the mists of history, like the Trojan war or the legend of Arthur, which
we are unable to penetrate. In the age of Cicero, and still more in
that of Diogenes Laertius and Appuleius, many other legends had gathered
around the personality of Plato,--more voyages, more journeys to visit
tyrants and Pythagorean philosophers. But if, as we agree with Karsten
in supposing, they are the forgery of some rhetorician or sophist, we
cannot agree with him in also supposing that they are of any historical
value, the rather as there is no early independent testimony by which
they are supported or with which they can be compared.

IV. There is another subject to which I must briefly call attention,
lest I should seem to have overlooked it. Dr. Henry Jackson, of Trinity
College, Cambridge, in a series of articles which he has contributed to
the Journal of Philology, has put forward an entirely new explanation of
the Platonic 'Ideas.' He supposes that in the mind of Plato they took,
at different times in his life, two essentially different forms:--an
earlier one which is found chiefly in the Republic and the Phaedo, and
a later, which appears in the Theaetetus, Philebus, Sophist, Politicus,
Parmenides, Timaeus. In the first stage of his philosophy Plato
attributed Ideas to all things, at any rate to all things which
have classes or common notions: these he supposed to exist only by
participation in them. In the later Dialogues he no longer included in
them manufactured articles and ideas of relation, but restricted them to
'types of nature,' and having become convinced that the many cannot be
parts of the one, for the idea of participation in them he substituted
imitation of them. To quote Dr. Jackson's own expressions,--'whereas
in the period of the Republic and the Phaedo, it was proposed to pass
through ontology to the sciences, in the period of the Parmenides and
the Philebus, it is proposed to pass through the sciences to ontology':
or, as he repeats in nearly the same words,--'whereas in the Republic
and in the Phaedo he had dreamt of passing through ontology to the
sciences, he is now content to pass through the sciences to ontology.'

This theory is supposed to be based on Aristotle's Metaphysics, a
passage containing an account of the ideas, which hitherto scholars have
found impossible to reconcile with the statements of Plato himself. The
preparations for the new departure are discovered in the Parmenides and
in the Theaetetus; and it is said to be expressed under a different
form by the (Greek) and the (Greek) of the Philebus. The (Greek) of the
Philebus is the principle which gives form and measure to the (Greek);
and in the 'Later Theory' is held to be the (Greek) or (Greek) which
converts the Infinite or Indefinite into ideas. They are neither (Greek)
nor (Greek), but belong to the (Greek) which partakes of both.

With great respect for the learning and ability of Dr. Jackson, I find
myself unable to agree in this newly fashioned doctrine of the Ideas,
which he ascribes to Plato. I have not the space to go into the question
fully; but I will briefly state some objections which are, I think,
fatal to it.

(1) First, the foundation of his argument is laid in the Metaphysics of
Aristotle. But we cannot argue, either from the Metaphysics, or from any
other of the philosophical treatises of Aristotle, to the dialogues
of Plato until we have ascertained the relation in which his so-called
works stand to the philosopher himself. There is of course no doubt
of the great influence exercised upon Greece and upon the world by
Aristotle and his philosophy. But on the other hand almost every one who
is capable of understanding the subject acknowledges that his writings
have not come down to us in an authentic form like most of the dialogues
of Plato. How much of them is to be ascribed to Aristotle's own hand,
how much is due to his successors in the Peripatetic School, is a
question which has never been determined, and probably never can be,
because the solution of it depends upon internal evidence only. To
'the height of this great argument' I do not propose to ascend. But one
little fact, not irrelevant to the present discussion, will show
how hopeless is the attempt to explain Plato out of the writings of
Aristotle. In the chapter of the Metaphysics quoted by Dr. Jackson,
about two octavo pages in length, there occur no less than seven or
eight references to Plato, although nothing really corresponding to them
can be found in his extant writings:--a small matter truly; but what a
light does it throw on the character of the entire book in which they
occur! We can hardly escape from the conclusion that they are not
statements of Aristotle respecting Plato, but of a later generation of
Aristotelians respecting a later generation of Platonists. (Compare
the striking remark of the great Scaliger respecting the Magna
Moralia:--Haec non sunt Aristotelis, tamen utitur auctor Aristotelis
nomine tanquam suo.)

(2) There is no hint in Plato's own writings that he was conscious of
having made any change in the Doctrine of Ideas such as Dr. Jackson
attributes to him, although in the Republic the platonic Socrates speaks
of 'a longer and a shorter way', and of a way in which his disciple
Glaucon 'will be unable to follow him'; also of a way of Ideas, to
which he still holds fast, although it has often deserted him (Philebus,
Phaedo), and although in the later dialogues and in the Laws the
reference to Ideas disappears, and Mind claims her own (Phil.; Laws).
No hint is given of what Plato meant by the 'longer way' (Rep.), or 'the
way in which Glaucon was unable to follow'; or of the relation of Mind
to the Ideas. It might be said with truth that the conception of the
Idea predominates in the first half of the Dialogues, which, according
to the order adopted in this work, ends with the Republic, the
'conception of Mind' and a way of speaking more in agreement with modern
terminology, in the latter half. But there is no reason to suppose that
Plato's theory, or, rather, his various theories, of the Ideas
underwent any definite change during his period of authorship. They are
substantially the same in the twelfth Book of the Laws as in the Meno
and Phaedo; and since the Laws were written in the last decade of his
life, there is no time to which this change of opinions can be ascribed.
It is true that the theory of Ideas takes several different forms, not
merely an earlier and a later one, in the various Dialogues. They are
personal and impersonal, ideals and ideas, existing by participation or
by imitation, one and many, in different parts of his writings or even
in the same passage. They are the universal definitions of Socrates, and
at the same time 'of more than mortal knowledge' (Rep.). But they
are always the negations of sense, of matter, of generation, of the
particular: they are always the subjects of knowledge and not of
opinion; and they tend, not to diversity, but to unity. Other entities
or intelligences are akin to them, but not the same with them, such as
mind, measure, limit, eternity, essence (Philebus; Timaeus): these and
similar terms appear to express the same truths from a different point
of view, and to belong to the same sphere with them. But we are not
justified, therefore, in attempting to identify them, any more than
in wholly opposing them. The great oppositions of the sensible and
intellectual, the unchangeable and the transient, in whatever form of
words expressed, are always maintained in Plato. But the lesser
logical distinctions, as we should call them, whether of ontology or
predication, which troubled the pre-Socratic philosophy and came to the
front in Aristotle, are variously discussed and explained. Thus far we
admit inconsistency in Plato, but no further. He lived in an age before
logic and system had wholly permeated language, and therefore we must
not always expect to find in him systematic arrangement or logical
precision:--'poema magis putandum.' But he is always true to his own
context, the careful study of which is of more value to the interpreter
than all the commentators and scholiasts put together.

(3) The conclusions at which Dr. Jackson has arrived are such as might
be expected to follow from his method of procedure. For he takes words
without regard to their connection, and pieces together different
parts of dialogues in a purely arbitrary manner, although there is no
indication that the author intended the two passages to be so combined,
or that when he appears to be experimenting on the different points of
view from which a subject of philosophy may be regarded, he is secretly
elaborating a system. By such a use of language any premises may be made
to lead to any conclusion. I am not one of those who believe Plato to
have been a mystic or to have had hidden meanings; nor do I agree
with Dr. Jackson in thinking that 'when he is precise and dogmatic,
he generally contrives to introduce an element of obscurity into the
expostion' (J. of Philol.). The great master of language wrote as
clearly as he could in an age when the minds of men were clouded by
controversy, and philosophical terms had not yet acquired a fixed
meaning. I have just said that Plato is to be interpreted by his
context; and I do not deny that in some passages, especially in the
Republic and Laws, the context is at a greater distance than would be
allowable in a modern writer. But we are not therefore justified in
connecting passages from different parts of his writings, or even from
the same work, which he has not himself joined. We cannot argue from
the Parmenides to the Philebus, or from either to the Sophist, or
assume that the Parmenides, the Philebus, and the Timaeus were 'written
simultaneously,' or 'were intended to be studied in the order in
which they are here named (J. of Philol.) We have no right to connect
statements which are only accidentally similar. Nor is it safe for the
author of a theory about ancient philosophy to argue from what will
happen if his statements are rejected. For those consequences may never
have entered into the mind of the ancient writer himself; and they
are very likely to be modern consequences which would not have been
understood by him. 'I cannot think,' says Dr. Jackson, 'that Plato would
have changed his opinions, but have nowhere explained the nature of the
change.' But is it not much more improbable that he should have changed
his opinions, and not stated in an unmistakable manner that the most
essential principle of his philosophy had been reversed? It is true that
a few of the dialogues, such as the Republic and the Timaeus, or
the Theaetetus and the Sophist, or the Meno and the Apology, contain
allusions to one another. But these allusions are superficial and,
except in the case of the Republic and the Laws, have no philosophical
importance. They do not affect the substance of the work. It may be
remarked further that several of the dialogues, such as the Phaedrus,
the Sophist, and the Parmenides, have more than one subject. But it
does not therefore follow that Plato intended one dialogue to succeed
another, or that he begins anew in one dialogue a subject which he has
left unfinished in another, or that even in the same dialogue he always
intended the two parts to be connected with each other. We cannot argue
from a casual statement found in the Parmenides to other statements
which occur in the Philebus. Much more truly is his own manner described
by himself when he says that 'words are more plastic than wax' (Rep.),
and 'whither the wind blows, the argument follows'. The dialogues of
Plato are like poems, isolated and separate works, except where they are
indicated by the author himself to have an intentional sequence.

It is this method of taking passages out of their context and placing
them in a new connexion when they seem to confirm a preconceived theory,
which is the defect of Dr. Jackson's procedure. It may be compared,
though not wholly the same with it, to that method which the Fathers
practised, sometimes called 'the mystical interpretation of Scripture,'
in which isolated words are separated from their context, and receive
any sense which the fancy of the interpreter may suggest. It is akin
to the method employed by Schleiermacher of arranging the dialogues
of Plato in chronological order according to what he deems the true
arrangement of the ideas contained in them. (Dr. Jackson is also
inclined, having constructed a theory, to make the chronology of Plato's
writings dependent upon it (See J. of Philol. and elsewhere.) It may
likewise be illustrated by the ingenuity of those who employ symbols to
find in Shakespeare a hidden meaning. In the three cases the error is
nearly the same:--words are taken out of their natural context, and thus
become destitute of any real meaning.

(4) According to Dr. Jackson's 'Later Theory,' Plato's Ideas, which were
once regarded as the summa genera of all things, are now to be explained
as Forms or Types of some things only,--that is to say, of natural
objects: these we conceive imperfectly, but are always seeking in vain
to have a more perfect notion of them. He says (J. of Philol.) that
'Plato hoped by the study of a series of hypothetical or provisional
classifications to arrive at one in which nature's distribution of kinds
is approximately represented, and so to attain approximately to the
knowledge of the ideas. But whereas in the Republic, and even in the
Phaedo, though less hopefully, he had sought to convert his provisional
definitions into final ones by tracing their connexion with the
summum genus, the (Greek), in the Parmenides his aspirations are less
ambitious,' and so on. But where does Dr. Jackson find any such notion
as this in Plato or anywhere in ancient philosophy? Is it not an
anachronism, gracious to the modern physical philosopher, and the more
acceptable because it seems to form a link between ancient and modern
philosophy, and between physical and metaphysical science; but really
unmeaning?

(5) To this 'Later Theory' of Plato's Ideas I oppose the authority of
Professor Zeller, who affirms that none of the passages to which Dr.
Jackson appeals (Theaet.; Phil.; Tim.; Parm.) 'in the smallest degree
prove his point'; and that in the second class of dialogues, in which
the 'Later Theory of Ideas' is supposed to be found, quite as clearly
as in the first, are admitted Ideas, not only of natural objects, but of
properties, relations, works of art, negative notions (Theaet.; Parm.;
Soph.); and that what Dr. Jackson distinguishes as the first class of
dialogues from the second equally assert or imply that the relation
of things to the Ideas, is one of participation in them as well as
of imitation of them (Prof. Zeller's summary of his own review of Dr.
Jackson, Archiv fur Geschichte der Philosophie.)

In conclusion I may remark that in Plato's writings there is both unity,
and also growth and development; but that we must not intrude upon him
either a system or a technical language.

Balliol College, October, 1891.




NOTE

The chief additions to the Introductions in the Third Edition consist of
Essays on the following subjects:--

1. Language.

2. The decline of Greek Literature.

3. The 'Ideas' of Plato and Modern Philosophy.

4. The myths of Plato.

5. The relation of the Republic, Statesman and Laws.

6. The legend of Atlantis.

7. Psychology.

8. Comparison of the Laws of Plato with Spartan and Athenian Laws and
Institutions.


CHARMIDES.

INTRODUCTION.

The subject of the Charmides is Temperance or (Greek), a peculiarly
Greek notion, which may also be rendered Moderation (Compare Cic.
Tusc. '(Greek), quam soleo equidem tum temperantiam, tum moderationem
appellare, nonnunquam etiam modestiam.'), Modesty, Discretion,
Wisdom, without completely exhausting by all these terms the various
associations of the word. It may be described as 'mens sana in corpore
sano,' the harmony or due proportion of the higher and lower elements
of human nature which 'makes a man his own master,' according to the
definition of the Republic. In the accompanying translation the word has
been rendered in different places either Temperance or Wisdom, as the
connection seemed to require: for in the philosophy of Plato (Greek)
still retains an intellectual element (as Socrates is also said to have
identified (Greek) with (Greek): Xen. Mem.) and is not yet relegated to
the sphere of moral virtue, as in the Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle.

The beautiful youth, Charmides, who is also the most temperate of
human beings, is asked by Socrates, 'What is Temperance?' He answers
characteristically, (1) 'Quietness.' 'But Temperance is a fine and noble
thing; and quietness in many or most cases is not so fine a thing as
quickness.' He tries again and says (2) that temperance is modesty.
But this again is set aside by a sophistical application of Homer:
for temperance is good as well as noble, and Homer has declared that
'modesty is not good for a needy man.' (3) Once more Charmides makes
the attempt. This time he gives a definition which he has heard, and of
which Socrates conjectures that Critias must be the author: 'Temperance
is doing one's own business.' But the artisan who makes another man's
shoes may be temperate, and yet he is not doing his own business; and
temperance defined thus would be opposed to the division of labour which
exists in every temperate or well-ordered state. How is this riddle to
be explained?

Critias, who takes the place of Charmides, distinguishes in his
answer between 'making' and 'doing,' and with the help of a misapplied
quotation from Hesiod assigns to the words 'doing' and 'work' an
exclusively good sense: Temperance is doing one's own business;--(4) is
doing good.

Still an element of knowledge is wanting which Critias is readily
induced to admit at the suggestion of Socrates; and, in the spirit of
Socrates and of Greek life generally, proposes as a fifth definition,
(5) Temperance is self-knowledge. But all sciences have a subject:
number is the subject of arithmetic, health of medicine--what is the
subject of temperance or wisdom? The answer is that (6) Temperance is
the knowledge of what a man knows and of what he does not know. But
this is contrary to analogy; there is no vision of vision, but only of
visible things; no love of loves, but only of beautiful things; how then
can there be a knowledge of knowledge? That which is older, heavier,
lighter, is older, heavier, and lighter than something else, not than
itself, and this seems to be true of all relative notions--the object of
relation is outside of them; at any rate they can only have relation to
themselves in the form of that object. Whether there are any such cases
of reflex relation or not, and whether that sort of knowledge which we
term Temperance is of this reflex nature, has yet to be determined by
the great metaphysician. But even if knowledge can know itself, how
does the knowledge of what we know imply the knowledge of what we do not
know? Besides, knowledge is an abstraction only, and will not inform us
of any particular subject, such as medicine, building, and the like. It
may tell us that we or other men know something, but can never tell us
what we know.

Admitting that there is a knowledge of what we know and of what we do
not know, which would supply a rule and measure of all things, still
there would be no good in this; and the knowledge which temperance gives
must be of a kind which will do us good; for temperance is a good. But
this universal knowledge does not tend to our happiness and good: the
only kind of knowledge which brings happiness is the knowledge of good
and evil. To this Critias replies that the science or knowledge of
good and evil, and all the other sciences, are regulated by the higher
science or knowledge of knowledge. Socrates replies by again dividing
the abstract from the concrete, and asks how this knowledge conduces to
happiness in the same definite way in which medicine conduces to health.

And now, after making all these concessions, which are really
inadmissible, we are still as far as ever from ascertaining the nature
of temperance, which Charmides has already discovered, and had therefore
better rest in the knowledge that the more temperate he is the happier
he will be, and not trouble himself with the speculations of Socrates.

In this Dialogue may be noted (1) The Greek ideal of beauty and
goodness, the vision of the fair soul in the fair body, realised in the
beautiful Charmides; (2) The true conception of medicine as a science
of the whole as well as the parts, and of the mind as well as the body,
which is playfully intimated in the story of the Thracian; (3) The
tendency of the age to verbal distinctions, which here, as in the
Protagoras and Cratylus, are ascribed to the ingenuity of Prodicus;
and to interpretations or rather parodies of Homer or Hesiod, which are
eminently characteristic of Plato and his contemporaries; (4) The germ
of an ethical principle contained in the notion that temperance is
'doing one's own business,' which in the Republic (such is the shifting
character of the Platonic philosophy) is given as the definition, not
of temperance, but of justice; (5) The impatience which is exhibited by
Socrates of any definition of temperance in which an element of science
or knowledge is not included; (6) The beginning of metaphysics and logic
implied in the two questions: whether there can be a science of science,
and whether the knowledge of what you know is the same as the knowledge
of what you do not know; and also in the distinction between 'what you
know' and 'that you know,' (Greek;) here too is the first conception of
an absolute self-determined science (the claims of which, however,
are disputed by Socrates, who asks cui bono?) as well as the first
suggestion of the difficulty of the abstract and concrete, and one of
the earliest anticipations of the relation of subject and object, and
of the subjective element in knowledge--a 'rich banquet' of metaphysical
questions in which we 'taste of many things.' (7) And still the mind
of Plato, having snatched for a moment at these shadows of the future,
quickly rejects them: thus early has he reached the conclusion that
there can be no science which is a 'science of nothing' (Parmen.). (8)
The conception of a science of good and evil also first occurs here, an
anticipation of the Philebus and Republic as well as of moral philosophy
in later ages.

The dramatic interest of the Dialogue chiefly centres in the youth
Charmides, with whom Socrates talks in the kindly spirit of an elder.
His childlike simplicity and ingenuousness are contrasted with the
dialectical and rhetorical arts of Critias, who is the grown-up man of
the world, having a tincture of philosophy. No hint is given, either
here or in the Timaeus, of the infamy which attaches to the name of the
latter in Athenian history. He is simply a cultivated person who, like
his kinsman Plato, is ennobled by the connection of his family with
Solon (Tim.), and had been the follower, if not the disciple, both
of Socrates and of the Sophists. In the argument he is not unfair, if
allowance is made for a slight rhetorical tendency, and for a natural
desire to save his reputation with the company; he is sometimes nearer
the truth than Socrates. Nothing in his language or behaviour is
unbecoming the guardian of the beautiful Charmides. His love of
reputation is characteristically Greek, and contrasts with the humility
of Socrates. Nor in Charmides himself do we find any resemblance to the
Charmides of history, except, perhaps, the modest and retiring nature
which, according to Xenophon, at one time of his life prevented him from
speaking in the Assembly (Mem.); and we are surprised to hear that, like
Critias, he afterwards became one of the thirty tyrants. In the Dialogue
he is a pattern of virtue, and is therefore in no need of the charm
which Socrates is unable to apply. With youthful naivete, keeping his
secret and entering into the spirit of Socrates, he enjoys the detection
of his elder and guardian Critias, who is easily seen to be the author
of the definition which he has so great an interest in maintaining.
The preceding definition, 'Temperance is doing one's own business,' is
assumed to have been borrowed by Charmides from another; and when the
enquiry becomes more abstract he is superseded by Critias (Theaet.;
Euthyd.). Socrates preserves his accustomed irony to the end; he is in
the neighbourhood of several great truths, which he views in various
lights, but always either by bringing them to the test of common sense,
or by demanding too great exactness in the use of words, turns aside
from them and comes at last to no conclusion.

The definitions of temperance proceed in regular order from the popular
to the philosophical. The first two are simple enough and partially
true, like the first thoughts of an intelligent youth; the third,
which is a real contribution to ethical philosophy, is perverted by the
ingenuity of Socrates, and hardly rescued by an equal perversion on the
part of Critias. The remaining definitions have a higher aim, which is
to introduce the element of knowledge, and at last to unite good and
truth in a single science. But the time has not yet arrived for the
realization of this vision of metaphysical philosophy; and such a
science when brought nearer to us in the Philebus and the Republic will
not be called by the name of (Greek). Hence we see with surprise that
Plato, who in his other writings identifies good and knowledge, here
opposes them, and asks, almost in the spirit of Aristotle, how can there
be a knowledge of knowledge, and even if attainable, how can such a
knowledge be of any use?

The difficulty of the Charmides arises chiefly from the two senses of
the word (Greek), or temperance. From the ethical notion of temperance,
which is variously defined to be quietness, modesty, doing our own
business, the doing of good actions, the dialogue passes onto the
intellectual conception of (Greek), which is declared also to be the
science of self-knowledge, or of the knowledge of what we know and do
not know, or of the knowledge of good and evil. The dialogue represents
a stage in the history of philosophy in which knowledge and action were
not yet distinguished. Hence the confusion between them, and the easy
transition from one to the other. The definitions which are offered are
all rejected, but it is to be observed that they all tend to throw a
light on the nature of temperance, and that, unlike the distinction of
Critias between (Greek), none of them are merely verbal quibbles, it is
implied that this question, although it has not yet received a solution
in theory, has been already answered by Charmides himself, who has
learned to practise the virtue of self-knowledge which philosophers are
vainly trying to define in words. In a similar spirit we might say to a
young man who is disturbed by theological difficulties, 'Do not trouble
yourself about such matters, but only lead a good life;' and yet
in either case it is not to be denied that right ideas of truth may
contribute greatly to the improvement of character.

The reasons why the Charmides, Lysis, Laches have been placed together
and first in the series of Platonic dialogues, are: (i) Their shortness
and simplicity. The Charmides and the Lysis, if not the Laches, are of
the same 'quality' as the Phaedrus and Symposium: and it is probable,
though far from certain, that the slighter effort preceded the greater
one. (ii) Their eristic, or rather Socratic character; they belong to
the class called dialogues of search (Greek), which have no conclusion.
(iii) The absence in them of certain favourite notions of Plato, such as
the doctrine of recollection and of the Platonic ideas; the questions,
whether virtue can be taught; whether the virtues are one or many.
(iv) They have a want of depth, when compared with the dialogues of
the middle and later period; and a youthful beauty and grace which is
wanting in the later ones. (v) Their resemblance to one another; in all
the three boyhood has a great part. These reasons have various degrees
of weight in determining their place in the catalogue of the Platonic
writings, though they are not conclusive. No arrangement of the Platonic
dialogues can be strictly chronological. The order which has been
adopted is intended mainly for the convenience of the reader; at the
same time, indications of the date supplied either by Plato himself or
allusions found in the dialogues have not been lost sight of. Much may
be said about this subject, but the results can only be probable;
there are no materials which would enable us to attain to anything like
certainty.

The relations of knowledge and virtue are again brought forward in the
companion dialogues of the Lysis and Laches; and also in the Protagoras
and Euthydemus. The opposition of abstract and particular knowledge in
this dialogue may be compared with a similar opposition of ideas and
phenomena which occurs in the Prologues to the Parmenides, but seems
rather to belong to a later stage of the philosophy of Plato.




CHARMIDES, OR TEMPERANCE


PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator, Charmides,
Chaerephon, Critias.

SCENE: The Palaestra of Taureas, which is near the Porch of the King
Archon.


Yesterday evening I returned from the army at Potidaea, and having been
a good while away, I thought that I should like to go and look at my old
haunts. So I went into the palaestra of Taureas, which is over against
the temple adjoining the porch of the King Archon, and there I found
a number of persons, most of whom I knew, but not all. My visit was
unexpected, and no sooner did they see me entering than they saluted me
from afar on all sides; and Chaerephon, who is a kind of madman, started
up and ran to me, seizing my hand, and saying, How did you escape,
Socrates?--(I should explain that an engagement had taken place at
Potidaea not long before we came away, of which the news had only just
reached Athens.)

You see, I replied, that here I am.

There was a report, he said, that the engagement was very severe, and
that many of our acquaintance had fallen.

That, I replied, was not far from the truth.

I suppose, he said, that you were present.

I was.

Then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we have only
heard imperfectly.

I took the place which he assigned to me, by the side of Critias the son
of Callaeschrus, and when I had saluted him and the rest of the
company, I told them the news from the army, and answered their several
enquiries.

Then, when there had been enough of this, I, in my turn, began to make
enquiries about matters at home--about the present state of philosophy,
and about the youth. I asked whether any of them were remarkable for
wisdom or beauty, or both. Critias, glancing at the door, invited my
attention to some youths who were coming in, and talking noisily to
one another, followed by a crowd. Of the beauties, Socrates, he said, I
fancy that you will soon be able to form a judgment. For those who
are just entering are the advanced guard of the great beauty, as he is
thought to be, of the day, and he is likely to be not far off himself.

Who is he, I said; and who is his father?

Charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my cousin, and the son of my
uncle Glaucon: I rather think that you know him too, although he was not
grown up at the time of your departure.

Certainly, I know him, I said, for he was remarkable even then when he
was still a child, and I should imagine that by this time he must be
almost a young man.

You will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made and what he
is like. He had scarcely said the word, when Charmides entered.

Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything, and of the
beautiful, I am simply such a measure as a white line is of chalk; for
almost all young persons appear to be beautiful in my eyes. But at that
moment, when I saw him coming in, I confess that I was quite astonished
at his beauty and stature; all the world seemed to be enamoured of him;
amazement and confusion reigned when he entered; and a troop of lovers
followed him. That grown-up men like ourselves should have been affected
in this way was not surprising, but I observed that there was the same
feeling among the boys; all of them, down to the very least child,
turned and looked at him, as if he had been a statue.

Chaerephon called me and said: What do you think of him, Socrates? Has
he not a beautiful face?

Most beautiful, I said.

But you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you could see
his naked form: he is absolutely perfect.

And to this they all agreed.

By Heracles, I said, there never was such a paragon, if he has only one
other slight addition.

What is that? said Critias.

If he has a noble soul; and being of your house, Critias, he may be
expected to have this.

He is as fair and good within, as he is without, replied Critias.

Then, before we see his body, should we not ask him to show us his soul,
naked and undisguised? he is just of an age at which he will like to
talk.

That he will, said Critias, and I can tell you that he is a philosopher
already, and also a considerable poet, not in his own opinion only, but
in that of others.

That, my dear Critias, I replied, is a distinction which has long been
in your family, and is inherited by you from Solon. But why do you not
call him, and show him to us? for even if he were younger than he is,
there could be no impropriety in his talking to us in the presence of
you, who are his guardian and cousin.

Very well, he said; then I will call him; and turning to the attendant,
he said, Call Charmides, and tell him that I want him to come and see
a physician about the illness of which he spoke to me the day before
yesterday. Then again addressing me, he added: He has been complaining
lately of having a headache when he rises in the morning: now why should
you not make him believe that you know a cure for the headache?

Why not, I said; but will he come?

He will be sure to come, he replied.

He came as he was bidden, and sat down between Critias and me. Great
amusement was occasioned by every one pushing with might and main at his
neighbour in order to make a place for him next to themselves, until at
the two ends of the row one had to get up and the other was rolled over
sideways. Now I, my friend, was beginning to feel awkward; my former
bold belief in my powers of conversing with him had vanished. And when
Critias told him that I was the person who had the cure, he looked at me
in such an indescribable manner, and was just going to ask a question.
And at that moment all the people in the palaestra crowded about us,
and, O rare! I caught a sight of the inwards of his garment, and took
the flame. Then I could no longer contain myself. I thought how well
Cydias understood the nature of love, when, in speaking of a fair youth,
he warns some one 'not to bring the fawn in the sight of the lion to
be devoured by him,' for I felt that I had been overcome by a sort of
wild-beast appetite. But I controlled myself, and when he asked me if
I knew the cure of the headache, I answered, but with an effort, that I
did know.

And what is it? he said.

I replied that it was a kind of leaf, which required to be accompanied
by a charm, and if a person would repeat the charm at the same time that
he used the cure, he would be made whole; but that without the charm the
leaf would be of no avail.

Then I will write out the charm from your dictation, he said.

With my consent? I said, or without my consent?

With your consent, Socrates, he said, laughing.

Very good, I said; and are you quite sure that you know my name?

I ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal said about
you among my companions; and I remember when I was a child seeing you in
company with my cousin Critias.

I am glad to find that you remember me, I said; for I shall now be more
at home with you and shall be better able to explain the nature of the
charm, about which I felt a difficulty before. For the charm will do
more, Charmides, than only cure the headache. I dare say that you have
heard eminent physicians say to a patient who comes to them with bad
eyes, that they cannot cure his eyes by themselves, but that if his eyes
are to be cured, his head must be treated; and then again they say that
to think of curing the head alone, and not the rest of the body also, is
the height of folly. And arguing in this way they apply their methods
to the whole body, and try to treat and heal the whole and the part
together. Did you ever observe that this is what they say?

Yes, he said.

And they are right, and you would agree with them?

Yes, he said, certainly I should.

His approving answers reassured me, and I began by degrees to regain
confidence, and the vital heat returned. Such, Charmides, I said, is the
nature of the charm, which I learned when serving with the army from one
of the physicians of the Thracian king Zamolxis, who are said to be so
skilful that they can even give immortality. This Thracian told me that
in these notions of theirs, which I was just now mentioning, the Greek
physicians are quite right as far as they go; but Zamolxis, he added,
our king, who is also a god, says further, 'that as you ought not to
attempt to cure the eyes without the head, or the head without the body,
so neither ought you to attempt to cure the body without the soul; and
this,' he said, 'is the reason why the cure of many diseases is unknown
to the physicians of Hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole,
which ought to be studied also; for the part can never be well unless
the whole is well.' For all good and evil, whether in the body or in
human nature, originates, as he declared, in the soul, and overflows
from thence, as if from the head into the eyes. And therefore if the
head and body are to be well, you must begin by curing the soul; that is
the first thing. And the cure, my dear youth, has to be effected by
the use of certain charms, and these charms are fair words; and by them
temperance is implanted in the soul, and where temperance is, there
health is speedily imparted, not only to the head, but to the whole
body. And he who taught me the cure and the charm at the same time added
a special direction: 'Let no one,' he said, 'persuade you to cure the
head, until he has first given you his soul to be cured by the charm.
For this,' he said, 'is the great error of our day in the treatment of
the human body, that physicians separate the soul from the body.' And he
added with emphasis, at the same time making me swear to his words, 'Let
no one, however rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him the
cure, without the charm.' Now I have sworn, and I must keep my oath, and
therefore if you will allow me to apply the Thracian charm first to your
soul, as the stranger directed, I will afterwards proceed to apply the
cure to your head. But if not, I do not know what I am to do with you,
my dear Charmides.

Critias, when he heard this, said: The headache will be an unexpected
gain to my young relation, if the pain in his head compels him to
improve his mind: and I can tell you, Socrates, that Charmides is not
only pre-eminent in beauty among his equals, but also in that quality
which is given by the charm; and this, as you say, is temperance?

Yes, I said.

Then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human beings, and
for his age inferior to none in any quality.

Yes, I said, Charmides; and indeed I think that you ought to excel
others in all good qualities; for if I am not mistaken there is no one
present who could easily point out two Athenian houses, whose union
would be likely to produce a better or nobler scion than the two from
which you are sprung. There is your father's house, which is descended
from Critias the son of Dropidas, whose family has been commemorated
in the panegyrical verses of Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets,
as famous for beauty and virtue and all other high fortune: and your
mother's house is equally distinguished; for your maternal uncle,
Pyrilampes, is reputed never to have found his equal, in Persia at the
court of the great king, or on the continent of Asia, in all the places
to which he went as ambassador, for stature and beauty; that whole
family is not a whit inferior to the other. Having such ancestors you
ought to be first in all things, and, sweet son of Glaucon, your outward
form is no dishonour to any of them. If to beauty you add temperance,
and if in other respects you are what Critias declares you to be, then,
dear Charmides, blessed art thou, in being the son of thy mother. And
here lies the point; for if, as he declares, you have this gift of
temperance already, and are temperate enough, in that case you have no
need of any charms, whether of Zamolxis or of Abaris the Hyperborean,
and I may as well let you have the cure of the head at once; but if you
have not yet acquired this quality, I must use the charm before I give
you the medicine. Please, therefore, to inform me whether you admit the
truth of what Critias has been saying;--have you or have you not this
quality of temperance?

Charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for modesty is
becoming in youth; he then said very ingenuously, that he really could
not at once answer, either yes, or no, to the question which I had
asked: For, said he, if I affirm that I am not temperate, that would be
a strange thing for me to say of myself, and also I should give the
lie to Critias, and many others who think as he tells you, that I am
temperate: but, on the other hand, if I say that I am, I shall have to
praise myself, which would be ill manners; and therefore I do not know
how to answer you.

I said to him: That is a natural reply, Charmides, and I think that
you and I ought together to enquire whether you have this quality about
which I am asking or not; and then you will not be compelled to say what
you do not like; neither shall I be a rash practitioner of medicine:
therefore, if you please, I will share the enquiry with you, but I will
not press you if you would rather not.

There is nothing which I should like better, he said; and as far as I am
concerned you may proceed in the way which you think best.

I think, I said, that I had better begin by asking you a question; for
if temperance abides in you, you must have an opinion about her; she
must give some intimation of her nature and qualities, which may enable
you to form a notion of her. Is not that true?

Yes, he said, that I think is true.

You know your native language, I said, and therefore you must be able to
tell what you feel about this.

Certainly, he said.

In order, then, that I may form a conjecture whether you have temperance
abiding in you or not, tell me, I said, what, in your opinion, is
Temperance?

At first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer: then he said
that he thought temperance was doing things orderly and quietly, such
things for example as walking in the streets, and talking, or anything
else of that nature. In a word, he said, I should answer that, in my
opinion, temperance is quietness.

Are you right, Charmides? I said. No doubt some would affirm that the
quiet are the temperate; but let us see whether these words have any
meaning; and first tell me whether you would not acknowledge temperance
to be of the class of the noble and good?

Yes.

But which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to write the
same letters quickly or quietly?

Quickly.

And to read quickly or slowly?

Quickly again.

And in playing the lyre, or wrestling, quickness or sharpness are far
better than quietness and slowness?

Yes.

And the same holds in boxing and in the pancratium?

Certainly.

And in leaping and running and in bodily exercises generally, quickness
and agility are good; slowness, and inactivity, and quietness, are bad?

That is evident.

Then, I said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the greatest
agility and quickness, is noblest and best?

Yes, certainly.

And is temperance a good?

Yes.

Then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but quickness will be the
higher degree of temperance, if temperance is a good?

True, he said.

And which, I said, is better--facility in learning, or difficulty in
learning?

Facility.

Yes, I said; and facility in learning is learning quickly, and
difficulty in learning is learning quietly and slowly?

True.

And is it not better to teach another quickly and energetically, rather
than quietly and slowly?

Yes.

And which is better, to call to mind, and to remember, quickly and
readily, or quietly and slowly?

The former.

And is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul, and not a
quietness?

True.

And is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the
writing-master's or the music-master's, or anywhere else, not as quietly
as possible, but as quickly as possible?

Yes.

And in the searchings or deliberations of the soul, not the quietest,
as I imagine, and he who with difficulty deliberates and discovers, is
thought worthy of praise, but he who does so most easily and quickly?

Quite true, he said.

And in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and activity are
clearly better than slowness and quietness?

Clearly they are.

Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life
quiet,--certainly not upon this view; for the life which is temperate is
supposed to be the good. And of two things, one is true,--either never,
or very seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better than
the quick and energetic ones; or supposing that of the nobler actions,
there are as many quiet, as quick and vehement: still, even if we grant
this, temperance will not be acting quietly any more than acting quickly
and energetically, either in walking or talking or in anything else;
nor will the quiet life be more temperate than the unquiet, seeing that
temperance is admitted by us to be a good and noble thing, and the quick
have been shown to be as good as the quiet.

I think, he said, Socrates, that you are right.

Then once more, Charmides, I said, fix your attention, and look within;
consider the effect which temperance has upon yourself, and the nature
of that which has the effect. Think over all this, and, like a brave
youth, tell me--What is temperance?

After a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort to think,
he said: My opinion is, Socrates, that temperance makes a man ashamed or
modest, and that temperance is the same as modesty.

Very good, I said; and did you not admit, just now, that temperance is
noble?

Yes, certainly, he said.

And the temperate are also good?

Yes.

And can that be good which does not make men good?

Certainly not.

And you would infer that temperance is not only noble, but also good?

That is my opinion.

Well, I said; but surely you would agree with Homer when he says,

'Modesty is not good for a needy man'?

Yes, he said; I agree.

Then I suppose that modesty is and is not good?

Clearly.

But temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not bad, is
always good?

That appears to me to be as you say.

And the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty--if temperance is
a good, and if modesty is as much an evil as a good?

All that, Socrates, appears to me to be true; but I should like to know
what you think about another definition of temperance, which I just
now remember to have heard from some one, who said, 'That temperance is
doing our own business.' Was he right who affirmed that?

You monster! I said; this is what Critias, or some philosopher has told
you.

Some one else, then, said Critias; for certainly I have not.

But what matter, said Charmides, from whom I heard this?

No matter at all, I replied; for the point is not who said the words,
but whether they are true or not.

There you are in the right, Socrates, he replied.

To be sure, I said; yet I doubt whether we shall ever be able to
discover their truth or falsehood; for they are a kind of riddle.

What makes you think so? he said.

Because, I said, he who uttered them seems to me to have meant one
thing, and said another. Is the scribe, for example, to be regarded as
doing nothing when he reads or writes?

I should rather think that he was doing something.

And does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write or read,
your own names only, or did you write your enemies' names as well as
your own and your friends'?

As much one as the other.

And was there anything meddling or intemperate in this?

Certainly not.

And yet if reading and writing are the same as doing, you were doing
what was not your own business?

But they are the same as doing.

And the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving, and doing
anything whatever which is done by art,--these all clearly come under
the head of doing?

Certainly.

And do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law which
compelled every man to weave and wash his own coat, and make his own
shoes, and his own flask and strigil, and other implements, on this
principle of every one doing and performing his own, and abstaining from
what is not his own?

I think not, he said.

But, I said, a temperate state will be a well-ordered state.

Of course, he replied.

Then temperance, I said, will not be doing one's own business; not at
least in this way, or doing things of this sort?

Clearly not.

Then, as I was just now saying, he who declared that temperance is a man
doing his own business had another and a hidden meaning; for I do not
think that he could have been such a fool as to mean this. Was he a fool
who told you, Charmides?

Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a very wise man.

Then I am quite certain that he put forth his definition as a riddle,
thinking that no one would know the meaning of the words 'doing his own
business.'

I dare say, he replied.

And what is the meaning of a man doing his own business? Can you tell
me?

Indeed, I cannot; and I should not wonder if the man himself who used
this phrase did not understand what he was saying. Whereupon he laughed
slyly, and looked at Critias.

Critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he had a
reputation to maintain with Charmides and the rest of the company. He
had, however, hitherto managed to restrain himself; but now he could no
longer forbear, and I am convinced of the truth of the suspicion which
I entertained at the time, that Charmides had heard this answer about
temperance from Critias. And Charmides, who did not want to answer
himself, but to make Critias answer, tried to stir him up. He went on
pointing out that he had been refuted, at which Critias grew angry, and
appeared, as I thought, inclined to quarrel with him; just as a poet
might quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in repeating them; so
he looked hard at him and said--

Do you imagine, Charmides, that the author of this definition of
temperance did not understand the meaning of his own words, because you
do not understand them?

Why, at his age, I said, most excellent Critias, he can hardly be
expected to understand; but you, who are older, and have studied, may
well be assumed to know the meaning of them; and therefore, if you agree
with him, and accept his definition of temperance, I would much rather
argue with you than with him about the truth or falsehood of the
definition.

I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept the definition.

Very good, I said; and now let me repeat my question--Do you admit, as I
was just now saying, that all craftsmen make or do something?

I do.

And do they make or do their own business only, or that of others also?

They make or do that of others also.

And are they temperate, seeing that they make not for themselves or
their own business only?

Why not? he said.

No objection on my part, I said, but there may be a difficulty on his
who proposes as a definition of temperance, 'doing one's own business,'
and then says that there is no reason why those who do the business of
others should not be temperate.

Nay (The English reader has to observe that the word 'make' (Greek),
in Greek, has also the sense of 'do' (Greek).), said he; did I ever
acknowledge that those who do the business of others are temperate? I
said, those who make, not those who do.

What! I asked; do you mean to say that doing and making are not the
same?

No more, he replied, than making or working are the same; thus much I
have learned from Hesiod, who says that 'work is no disgrace.' Now do
you imagine that if he had meant by working and doing such things as
you were describing, he would have said that there was no disgrace in
them--for example, in the manufacture of shoes, or in selling pickles,
or sitting for hire in a house of ill-fame? That, Socrates, is not to be
supposed: but I conceive him to have distinguished making from doing
and work; and, while admitting that the making anything might sometimes
become a disgrace, when the employment was not honourable, to have
thought that work was never any disgrace at all. For things nobly and
usefully made he called works; and such makings he called workings, and
doings; and he must be supposed to have called such things only man's
proper business, and what is hurtful, not his business: and in that
sense Hesiod, and any other wise man, may be reasonably supposed to call
him wise who does his own work.

O Critias, I said, no sooner had you opened your mouth, than I pretty
well knew that you would call that which is proper to a man, and that
which is his own, good; and that the makings (Greek) of the good
you would call doings (Greek), for I am no stranger to the endless
distinctions which Prodicus draws about names. Now I have no objection
to your giving names any signification which you please, if you will
only tell me what you mean by them. Please then to begin again, and be
a little plainer. Do you mean that this doing or making, or whatever is
the word which you would use, of good actions, is temperance?

I do, he said.

Then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is temperate?

Yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree.

No matter whether I should or not; just now, not what I think, but what
you are saying, is the point at issue.

Well, he answered; I mean to say, that he who does evil, and not good,
is not temperate; and that he is temperate who does good, and not evil:
for temperance I define in plain words to be the doing of good actions.

And you may be very likely right in what you are saying; but I am
curious to know whether you imagine that temperate men are ignorant of
their own temperance?

I do not think so, he said.

And yet were you not saying, just now, that craftsmen might be temperate
in doing another's work, as well as in doing their own?

I was, he replied; but what is your drift?

I have no particular drift, but I wish that you would tell me whether a
physician who cures a patient may do good to himself and good to another
also?

I think that he may.

And he who does so does his duty?

Yes.

And does not he who does his duty act temperately or wisely?

Yes, he acts wisely.

But must the physician necessarily know when his treatment is likely to
prove beneficial, and when not? or must the craftsman necessarily know
when he is likely to be benefited, and when not to be benefited, by the
work which he is doing?

I suppose not.

Then, I said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not know what he
is himself doing, and yet, in doing good, as you say, he has done
temperately or wisely. Was not that your statement?

Yes.

Then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or temperately,
and be wise or temperate, but not know his own wisdom or temperance?

But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible; and therefore if this is, as
you imply, the necessary consequence of any of my previous admissions,
I will withdraw them, rather than admit that a man can be temperate or
wise who does not know himself; and I am not ashamed to confess that I
was in error. For self-knowledge would certainly be maintained by me
to be the very essence of knowledge, and in this I agree with him who
dedicated the inscription, 'Know thyself!' at Delphi. That word, if I
am not mistaken, is put there as a sort of salutation which the god
addresses to those who enter the temple; as much as to say that the
ordinary salutation of 'Hail!' is not right, and that the exhortation
'Be temperate!' would be a far better way of saluting one another. The
notion of him who dedicated the inscription was, as I believe, that the
god speaks to those who enter his temple, not as men speak; but, when
a worshipper enters, the first word which he hears is 'Be temperate!'
This, however, like a prophet he expresses in a sort of riddle, for
'Know thyself!' and 'Be temperate!' are the same, as I maintain, and as
the letters imply (Greek), and yet they may be easily misunderstood;
and succeeding sages who added 'Never too much,' or, 'Give a pledge, and
evil is nigh at hand,' would appear to have so misunderstood them; for
they imagined that 'Know thyself!' was a piece of advice which the god
gave, and not his salutation of the worshippers at their first coming
in; and they dedicated their own inscription under the idea that they
too would give equally useful pieces of advice. Shall I tell you,
Socrates, why I say all this? My object is to leave the previous
discussion (in which I know not whether you or I are more right, but, at
any rate, no clear result was attained), and to raise a new one in which
I will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge.

Yes, I said, Critias; but you come to me as though I professed to know
about the questions which I ask, and as though I could, if I only would,
agree with you. Whereas the fact is that I enquire with you into the
truth of that which is advanced from time to time, just because I do not
know; and when I have enquired, I will say whether I agree with you or
not. Please then to allow me time to reflect.

Reflect, he said.

I am reflecting, I replied, and discover that temperance, or wisdom, if
implying a knowledge of anything, must be a science, and a science of
something.

Yes, he said; the science of itself.

Is not medicine, I said, the science of health?

True.

And suppose, I said, that I were asked by you what is the use or effect
of medicine, which is this science of health, I should answer that
medicine is of very great use in producing health, which, as you will
admit, is an excellent effect.

Granted.

And if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of architecture,
which is the science of building, I should say houses, and so of other
arts, which all have their different results. Now I want you, Critias,
to answer a similar question about temperance, or wisdom, which,
according to you, is the science of itself. Admitting this view, I ask
of you, what good work, worthy of the name wise, does temperance or
wisdom, which is the science of itself, effect? Answer me.

That is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, Socrates, he said; for
wisdom is not like the other sciences, any more than they are like one
another: but you proceed as if they were alike. For tell me, he said,
what result is there of computation or geometry, in the same sense as a
house is the result of building, or a garment of weaving, or any other
work of any other art? Can you show me any such result of them? You
cannot.

That is true, I said; but still each of these sciences has a subject
which is different from the science. I can show you that the art of
computation has to do with odd and even numbers in their numerical
relations to themselves and to each other. Is not that true?

Yes, he said.

And the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art of
computation?

They are not.

The art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and heavier; but the
art of weighing is one thing, and the heavy and the light another. Do
you admit that?

Yes.

Now, I want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and of which
wisdom is the science?

You are just falling into the old error, Socrates, he said. You come
asking in what wisdom or temperance differs from the other sciences, and
then you try to discover some respect in which they are alike; but they
are not, for all the other sciences are of something else, and not of
themselves; wisdom alone is a science of other sciences, and of itself.
And of this, as I believe, you are very well aware: and that you are
only doing what you denied that you were doing just now, trying to
refute me, instead of pursuing the argument.

And what if I am? How can you think that I have any other motive in
refuting you but what I should have in examining into myself? which
motive would be just a fear of my unconsciously fancying that I knew
something of which I was ignorant. And at this moment I pursue the
argument chiefly for my own sake, and perhaps in some degree also for
the sake of my other friends. For is not the discovery of things as they
truly are, a good common to all mankind?

Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said.

Then, I said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and give your opinion in answer to
the question which I asked, never minding whether Critias or Socrates is
the person refuted; attend only to the argument, and see what will come
of the refutation.

I think that you are right, he replied; and I will do as you say.

Tell me, then, I said, what you mean to affirm about wisdom.

I mean to say that wisdom is the only science which is the science of
itself as well as of the other sciences.

But the science of science, I said, will also be the science of the
absence of science.

Very true, he said.

Then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know himself, and be
able to examine what he knows or does not know, and to see what others
know and think that they know and do really know; and what they do not
know, and fancy that they know, when they do not. No other person
will be able to do this. And this is wisdom and temperance and
self-knowledge--for a man to know what he knows, and what he does not
know. That is your meaning?

Yes, he said.

Now then, I said, making an offering of the third or last argument
to Zeus the Saviour, let us begin again, and ask, in the first place,
whether it is or is not possible for a person to know that he knows and
does not know what he knows and does not know; and in the second place,
whether, if perfectly possible, such knowledge is of any use.

That is what we have to consider, he said.

And here, Critias, I said, I hope that you will find a way out of a
difficulty into which I have got myself. Shall I tell you the nature of
the difficulty?

By all means, he replied.

Does not what you have been saying, if true, amount to this: that there
must be a single science which is wholly a science of itself and of
other sciences, and that the same is also the science of the absence of
science?

Yes.

But consider how monstrous this proposition is, my friend: in any
parallel case, the impossibility will be transparent to you.

How is that? and in what cases do you mean?

In such cases as this: Suppose that there is a kind of vision which is
not like ordinary vision, but a vision of itself and of other sorts of
vision, and of the defect of them, which in seeing sees no colour, but
only itself and other sorts of vision: Do you think that there is such a
kind of vision?

Certainly not.

Or is there a kind of hearing which hears no sound at all, but only
itself and other sorts of hearing, or the defects of them?

There is not.

Or take all the senses: can you imagine that there is any sense of
itself and of other senses, but which is incapable of perceiving the
objects of the senses?

I think not.

Could there be any desire which is not the desire of any pleasure, but
of itself, and of all other desires?

Certainly not.

Or can you imagine a wish which wishes for no good, but only for itself
and all other wishes?

I should answer, No.

Or would you say that there is a love which is not the love of beauty,
but of itself and of other loves?

I should not.

Or did you ever know of a fear which fears itself or other fears, but
has no object of fear?

I never did, he said.

Or of an opinion which is an opinion of itself and of other opinions,
and which has no opinion on the subjects of opinion in general?

Certainly not.

But surely we are assuming a science of this kind, which, having no
subject-matter, is a science of itself and of the other sciences?

Yes, that is what is affirmed.

But how strange is this, if it be indeed true: we must not however as
yet absolutely deny the possibility of such a science; let us rather
consider the matter.

You are quite right.

Well then, this science of which we are speaking is a science of
something, and is of a nature to be a science of something?

Yes.

Just as that which is greater is of a nature to be greater than
something else? (Socrates is intending to show that science differs from
the object of science, as any other relative differs from the object
of relation. But where there is comparison--greater, less, heavier,
lighter, and the like--a relation to self as well as to other things
involves an absolute contradiction; and in other cases, as in the case
of the senses, is hardly conceivable. The use of the genitive after the
comparative in Greek, (Greek), creates an unavoidable obscurity in the
translation.)

Yes.

Which is less, if the other is conceived to be greater?

To be sure.

And if we could find something which is at once greater than itself, and
greater than other great things, but not greater than those things in
comparison of which the others are greater, then that thing would have
the property of being greater and also less than itself?

That, Socrates, he said, is the inevitable inference.

Or if there be a double which is double of itself and of other doubles,
these will be halves; for the double is relative to the half?

That is true.

And that which is greater than itself will also be less, and that which
is heavier will also be lighter, and that which is older will also be
younger: and the same of other things; that which has a nature relative
to self will retain also the nature of its object: I mean to say, for
example, that hearing is, as we say, of sound or voice. Is that true?

Yes.

Then if hearing hears itself, it must hear a voice; for there is no
other way of hearing.

Certainly.

And sight also, my excellent friend, if it sees itself must see a
colour, for sight cannot see that which has no colour.

No.

Do you remark, Critias, that in several of the examples which have been
recited the notion of a relation to self is altogether inadmissible, and
in other cases hardly credible--inadmissible, for example, in the case
of magnitudes, numbers, and the like?

Very true.

But in the case of hearing and sight, or in the power of self-motion,
and the power of heat to burn, this relation to self will be regarded
as incredible by some, but perhaps not by others. And some great man,
my friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily determine for us, whether
there is nothing which has an inherent property of relation to self,
or some things only and not others; and whether in this class of
self-related things, if there be such a class, that science which is
called wisdom or temperance is included. I altogether distrust my own
power of determining these matters: I am not certain whether there is
such a science of science at all; and even if there be, I should not
acknowledge this to be wisdom or temperance, until I can also see
whether such a science would or would not do us any good; for I have an
impression that temperance is a benefit and a good. And therefore, O son
of Callaeschrus, as you maintain that temperance or wisdom is a science
of science, and also of the absence of science, I will request you to
show in the first place, as I was saying before, the possibility, and in
the second place, the advantage, of such a science; and then perhaps you
may satisfy me that you are right in your view of temperance.

Critias heard me say this, and saw that I was in a difficulty; and as
one person when another yawns in his presence catches the infection of
yawning from him, so did he seem to be driven into a difficulty by my
difficulty. But as he had a reputation to maintain, he was ashamed
to admit before the company that he could not answer my challenge or
determine the question at issue; and he made an unintelligible attempt
to hide his perplexity. In order that the argument might proceed, I said
to him, Well then Critias, if you like, let us assume that there is
this science of science; whether the assumption is right or wrong may
hereafter be investigated. Admitting the existence of it, will you tell
me how such a science enables us to distinguish what we know or do not
know, which, as we were saying, is self-knowledge or wisdom: so we were
saying?

Yes, Socrates, he said; and that I think is certainly true: for he who
has this science or knowledge which knows itself will become like the
knowledge which he has, in the same way that he who has swiftness
will be swift, and he who has beauty will be beautiful, and he who has
knowledge will know. In the same way he who has that knowledge which is
self-knowing, will know himself.

I do not doubt, I said, that a man will know himself, when he possesses
that which has self-knowledge: but what necessity is there that, having
this, he should know what he knows and what he does not know?

Because, Socrates, they are the same.

Very likely, I said; but I remain as stupid as ever; for still I fail to
comprehend how this knowing what you know and do not know is the same as
the knowledge of self.

What do you mean? he said.

This is what I mean, I replied: I will admit that there is a science of
science;--can this do more than determine that of two things one is and
the other is not science or knowledge?

No, just that.

But is knowledge or want of knowledge of health the same as knowledge or
want of knowledge of justice?

Certainly not.

The one is medicine, and the other is politics; whereas that of which we
are speaking is knowledge pure and simple.

Very true.

And if a man knows only, and has only knowledge of knowledge, and has no
further knowledge of health and justice, the probability is that he will
only know that he knows something, and has a certain knowledge, whether
concerning himself or other men.

True.

Then how will this knowledge or science teach him to know what he knows?
Say that he knows health;--not wisdom or temperance, but the art of
medicine has taught it to him;--and he has learned harmony from the art
of music, and building from the art of building,--neither, from wisdom
or temperance: and the same of other things.

That is evident.

How will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of knowledge or science of
science, ever teach him that he knows health, or that he knows building?

It is impossible.

Then he who is ignorant of these things will only know that he knows,
but not what he knows?

True.

Then wisdom or being wise appears to be not the knowledge of the things
which we do or do not know, but only the knowledge that we know or do
not know?

That is the inference.

Then he who has this knowledge will not be able to examine whether a
pretender knows or does not know that which he says that he knows: he
will only know that he has a knowledge of some kind; but wisdom will not
show him of what the knowledge is?

Plainly not.

Neither will he be able to distinguish the pretender in medicine from
the true physician, nor between any other true and false professor of
knowledge. Let us consider the matter in this way: If the wise man or
any other man wants to distinguish the true physician from the false,
how will he proceed? He will not talk to him about medicine; and that,
as we were saying, is the only thing which the physician understands.

True.

And, on the other hand, the physician knows nothing of science, for this
has been assumed to be the province of wisdom.

True.

And further, since medicine is science, we must infer that he does not
know anything of medicine.

Exactly.

Then the wise man may indeed know that the physician has some kind of
science or knowledge; but when he wants to discover the nature of this
he will ask, What is the subject-matter? For the several sciences are
distinguished not by the mere fact that they are sciences, but by the
nature of their subjects. Is not that true?

Quite true.

And medicine is distinguished from other sciences as having the
subject-matter of health and disease?

Yes.

And he who would enquire into the nature of medicine must pursue the
enquiry into health and disease, and not into what is extraneous?

True.

And he who judges rightly will judge of the physician as a physician in
what relates to these?

He will.

He will consider whether what he says is true, and whether what he does
is right, in relation to health and disease?

He will.

But can any one attain the knowledge of either unless he have a
knowledge of medicine?

He cannot.

No one at all, it would seem, except the physician can have this
knowledge; and therefore not the wise man; he would have to be a
physician as well as a wise man.

Very true.

Then, assuredly, wisdom or temperance, if only a science of science, and
of the absence of science or knowledge, will not be able to distinguish
the physician who knows from one who does not know but pretends or
thinks that he knows, or any other professor of anything at all; like
any other artist, he will only know his fellow in art or wisdom, and no
one else.

That is evident, he said.

But then what profit, Critias, I said, is there any longer in wisdom or
temperance which yet remains, if this is wisdom? If, indeed, as we were
supposing at first, the wise man had been able to distinguish what he
knew and did not know, and that he knew the one and did not know the
other, and to recognize a similar faculty of discernment in others,
there would certainly have been a great advantage in being wise; for
then we should never have made a mistake, but have passed through life
the unerring guides of ourselves and of those who are under us; and we
should not have attempted to do what we did not know, but we should have
found out those who knew, and have handed the business over to them and
trusted in them; nor should we have allowed those who were under us to
do anything which they were not likely to do well; and they would be
likely to do well just that of which they had knowledge; and the house
or state which was ordered or administered under the guidance of wisdom,
and everything else of which wisdom was the lord, would have been well
ordered; for truth guiding, and error having been eliminated, in all
their doings, men would have done well, and would have been happy. Was
not this, Critias, what we spoke of as the great advantage of wisdom--to
know what is known and what is unknown to us?

Very true, he said.

And now you perceive, I said, that no such science is to be found
anywhere.

I perceive, he said.

May we assume then, I said, that wisdom, viewed in this new light merely
as a knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has this advantage:--that he
who possesses such knowledge will more easily learn anything which he
learns; and that everything will be clearer to him, because, in addition
to the knowledge of individuals, he sees the science, and this also will
better enable him to test the knowledge which others have of what he
knows himself; whereas the enquirer who is without this knowledge may be
supposed to have a feebler and weaker insight? Are not these, my friend,
the real advantages which are to be gained from wisdom? And are not we
looking and seeking after something more than is to be found in her?

That is very likely, he said.

That is very likely, I said; and very likely, too, we have been
enquiring to no purpose; as I am led to infer, because I observe that if
this is wisdom, some strange consequences would follow. Let us, if you
please, assume the possibility of this science of sciences, and further
admit and allow, as was originally suggested, that wisdom is the
knowledge of what we know and do not know. Assuming all this, still,
upon further consideration, I am doubtful, Critias, whether wisdom,
such as this, would do us much good. For we were wrong, I think, in
supposing, as we were saying just now, that such wisdom ordering the
government of house or state would be a great benefit.

How so? he said.

Why, I said, we were far too ready to admit the great benefits which
mankind would obtain from their severally doing the things which they
knew, and committing the things of which they are ignorant to those who
were better acquainted with them.

Were we not right in making that admission?

I think not.

How very strange, Socrates!

By the dog of Egypt, I said, there I agree with you; and I was thinking
as much just now when I said that strange consequences would follow, and
that I was afraid we were on the wrong track; for however ready we may
be to admit that this is wisdom, I certainly cannot make out what good
this sort of thing does to us.

What do you mean? he said; I wish that you could make me understand what
you mean.

I dare say that what I am saying is nonsense, I replied; and yet if a
man has any feeling of what is due to himself, he cannot let the thought
which comes into his mind pass away unheeded and unexamined.

I like that, he said.

Hear, then, I said, my own dream; whether coming through the horn or the
ivory gate, I cannot tell. The dream is this: Let us suppose that wisdom
is such as we are now defining, and that she has absolute sway over us;
then each action will be done according to the arts or sciences, and
no one professing to be a pilot when he is not, or any physician or
general, or any one else pretending to know matters of which he is
ignorant, will deceive or elude us; our health will be improved; our
safety at sea, and also in battle, will be assured; our coats and shoes,
and all other instruments and implements will be skilfully made, because
the workmen will be good and true. Aye, and if you please, you may
suppose that prophecy, which is the knowledge of the future, will be
under the control of wisdom, and that she will deter deceivers and set
up the true prophets in their place as the revealers of the future. Now
I quite agree that mankind, thus provided, would live and act according
to knowledge, for wisdom would watch and prevent ignorance from
intruding on us. But whether by acting according to knowledge we shall
act well and be happy, my dear Critias,--this is a point which we have
not yet been able to determine.

Yet I think, he replied, that if you discard knowledge, you will hardly
find the crown of happiness in anything else.

But of what is this knowledge? I said. Just answer me that small
question. Do you mean a knowledge of shoemaking?

God forbid.

Or of working in brass?

Certainly not.

Or in wool, or wood, or anything of that sort?

No, I do not.

Then, I said, we are giving up the doctrine that he who lives according
to knowledge is happy, for these live according to knowledge, and yet
they are not allowed by you to be happy; but I think that you mean
to confine happiness to particular individuals who live according to
knowledge, such for example as the prophet, who, as I was saying, knows
the future. Is it of him you are speaking or of some one else?

Yes, I mean him, but there are others as well.

Yes, I said, some one who knows the past and present as well as the
future, and is ignorant of nothing. Let us suppose that there is such a
person, and if there is, you will allow that he is the most knowing of
all living men.

Certainly he is.

Yet I should like to know one thing more: which of the different kinds
of knowledge makes him happy? or do all equally make him happy?

Not all equally, he replied.

But which most tends to make him happy? the knowledge of what past,
present, or future thing? May I infer this to be the knowledge of the
game of draughts?

Nonsense about the game of draughts.

Or of computation?

No.

Or of health?

That is nearer the truth, he said.

And that knowledge which is nearest of all, I said, is the knowledge of
what?

The knowledge with which he discerns good and evil.

Monster! I said; you have been carrying me round in a circle, and all
this time hiding from me the fact that the life according to knowledge
is not that which makes men act rightly and be happy, not even if
knowledge include all the sciences, but one science only, that of good
and evil. For, let me ask you, Critias, whether, if you take away this,
medicine will not equally give health, and shoemaking equally produce
shoes, and the art of the weaver clothes?--whether the art of the pilot
will not equally save our lives at sea, and the art of the general in
war?

Quite so.

And yet, my dear Critias, none of these things will be well or
beneficially done, if the science of the good be wanting.

True.

But that science is not wisdom or temperance, but a science of human
advantage; not a science of other sciences, or of ignorance, but of good
and evil: and if this be of use, then wisdom or temperance will not be
of use.

And why, he replied, will not wisdom be of use? For, however much we
assume that wisdom is a science of sciences, and has a sway over other
sciences, surely she will have this particular science of the good under
her control, and in this way will benefit us.

And will wisdom give health? I said; is not this rather the effect of
medicine? Or does wisdom do the work of any of the other arts,--do they
not each of them do their own work? Have we not long ago asseverated
that wisdom is only the knowledge of knowledge and of ignorance, and of
nothing else?

That is obvious.

Then wisdom will not be the producer of health.

Certainly not.

The art of health is different.

Yes, different.

Nor does wisdom give advantage, my good friend; for that again we have
just now been attributing to another art.

Very true.

How then can wisdom be advantageous, when giving no advantage?

That, Socrates, is certainly inconceivable.

You see then, Critias, that I was not far wrong in fearing that I could
have no sound notion about wisdom; I was quite right in depreciating
myself; for that which is admitted to be the best of all things would
never have seemed to us useless, if I had been good for anything at
an enquiry. But now I have been utterly defeated, and have failed to
discover what that is to which the imposer of names gave this name of
temperance or wisdom. And yet many more admissions were made by us than
could be fairly granted; for we admitted that there was a science of
science, although the argument said No, and protested against us; and we
admitted further, that this science knew the works of the other sciences
(although this too was denied by the argument), because we wanted to
show that the wise man had knowledge of what he knew and did not know;
also we nobly disregarded, and never even considered, the impossibility
of a man knowing in a sort of way that which he does not know at all;
for our assumption was, that he knows that which he does not know;
than which nothing, as I think, can be more irrational. And yet, after
finding us so easy and good-natured, the enquiry is still unable to
discover the truth; but mocks us to a degree, and has gone out of its
way to prove the inutility of that which we admitted only by a sort
of supposition and fiction to be the true definition of temperance or
wisdom: which result, as far as I am concerned, is not so much to be
lamented, I said. But for your sake, Charmides, I am very sorry--that
you, having such beauty and such wisdom and temperance of soul, should
have no profit or good in life from your wisdom and temperance. And
still more am I grieved about the charm which I learned with so much
pain, and to so little profit, from the Thracian, for the sake of a
thing which is nothing worth. I think indeed that there is a mistake,
and that I must be a bad enquirer, for wisdom or temperance I believe to
be really a great good; and happy are you, Charmides, if you certainly
possess it. Wherefore examine yourself, and see whether you have this
gift and can do without the charm; for if you can, I would rather
advise you to regard me simply as a fool who is never able to reason out
anything; and to rest assured that the more wise and temperate you are,
the happier you will be.

Charmides said: I am sure that I do not know, Socrates, whether I have
or have not this gift of wisdom and temperance; for how can I know
whether I have a thing, of which even you and Critias are, as you say,
unable to discover the nature?--(not that I believe you.) And further,
I am sure, Socrates, that I do need the charm, and as far as I am
concerned, I shall be willing to be charmed by you daily, until you say
that I have had enough.

Very good, Charmides, said Critias; if you do this I shall have a proof
of your temperance, that is, if you allow yourself to be charmed by
Socrates, and never desert him at all.

You may depend on my following and not deserting him, said Charmides: if
you who are my guardian command me, I should be very wrong not to obey
you.

And I do command you, he said.

Then I will do as you say, and begin this very day.

You sirs, I said, what are you conspiring about?

We are not conspiring, said Charmides, we have conspired already.

And are you about to use violence, without even going through the forms
of justice?

Yes, I shall use violence, he replied, since he orders me; and therefore
you had better consider well.

But the time for consideration has passed, I said, when violence is
employed; and you, when you are determined on anything, and in the mood
of violence, are irresistible.

Do not you resist me then, he said.

I will not resist you, I replied.


Produced by Sue Asscher





LYSIS

By Plato


Translated by Benjamin Jowett




INTRODUCTION.

No answer is given in the Lysis to the question, 'What is Friendship?'
any more than in the Charmides to the question, 'What is Temperance?'
There are several resemblances in the two Dialogues: the same
youthfulness and sense of beauty pervades both of them; they are alike
rich in the description of Greek life. The question is again raised of
the relation of knowledge to virtue and good, which also recurs in the
Laches; and Socrates appears again as the elder friend of the two boys,
Lysis and Menexenus. In the Charmides, as also in the Laches, he is
described as middle-aged; in the Lysis he is advanced in years.

The Dialogue consists of two scenes or conversations which seem to have
no relation to each other. The first is a conversation between Socrates
and Lysis, who, like Charmides, is an Athenian youth of noble descent
and of great beauty, goodness, and intelligence: this is carried on
in the absence of Menexenus, who is called away to take part in a
sacrifice. Socrates asks Lysis whether his father and mother do not love
him very much? 'To be sure they do.' 'Then of course they allow him
to do exactly as he likes.' 'Of course not: the very slaves have more
liberty than he has.' 'But how is this?' 'The reason is that he is not
old enough.' 'No; the real reason is that he is not wise enough: for
are there not some things which he is allowed to do, although he is not
allowed to do others?' 'Yes, because he knows them, and does not know
the others.' This leads to the conclusion that all men everywhere will
trust him in what he knows, but not in what he does not know; for in
such matters he will be unprofitable to them, and do them no good. And
no one will love him, if he does them no good; and he can only do them
good by knowledge; and as he is still without knowledge, he can have as
yet no conceit of knowledge. In this manner Socrates reads a lesson
to Hippothales, the foolish lover of Lysis, respecting the style of
conversation which he should address to his beloved.

After the return of Menexenus, Socrates, at the request of Lysis, asks
him a new question: 'What is friendship? You, Menexenus, who have a
friend already, can tell me, who am always longing to find one, what is
the secret of this great blessing.'

When one man loves another, which is the friend--he who loves, or he who
is loved? Or are both friends? From the first of these suppositions they
are driven to the second; and from the second to the third; and neither
the two boys nor Socrates are satisfied with any of the three or with
all of them. Socrates turns to the poets, who affirm that God brings
like to like (Homer), and to philosophers (Empedocles), who also assert
that like is the friend of like. But the bad are not friends, for they
are not even like themselves, and still less are they like one another.
And the good have no need of one another, and therefore do not care
about one another. Moreover there are others who say that likeness is a
cause of aversion, and unlikeness of love and friendship; and they
too adduce the authority of poets and philosophers in support of their
doctrines; for Hesiod says that 'potter is jealous of potter, bard of
bard;' and subtle doctors tell us that 'moist is the friend of dry, hot
of cold,' and the like. But neither can their doctrine be maintained;
for then the just would be the friend of the unjust, good of evil.

Thus we arrive at the conclusion that like is not the friend of like,
nor unlike of unlike; and therefore good is not the friend of good, nor
evil of evil, nor good of evil, nor evil of good. What remains but that
the indifferent, which is neither good nor evil, should be the friend
(not of the indifferent, for that would be 'like the friend of like,'
but) of the good, or rather of the beautiful?

But why should the indifferent have this attachment to the beautiful or
good? There are circumstances under which such an attachment would be
natural. Suppose the indifferent, say the human body, to be desirous of
getting rid of some evil, such as disease, which is not essential but
only accidental to it (for if the evil were essential the body would
cease to be indifferent, and would become evil)--in such a case the
indifferent becomes a friend of the good for the sake of getting rid of
the evil. In this intermediate 'indifferent' position the philosopher or
lover of wisdom stands: he is not wise, and yet not unwise, but he has
ignorance accidentally clinging to him, and he yearns for wisdom as the
cure of the evil. (Symp.)

After this explanation has been received with triumphant accord, a fresh
dissatisfaction begins to steal over the mind of Socrates: Must not
friendship be for the sake of some ulterior end? and what can that final
cause or end of friendship be, other than the good? But the good is
desired by us only as the cure of evil; and therefore if there were no
evil there would be no friendship. Some other explanation then has to
be devised. May not desire be the source of friendship? And desire is of
what a man wants and of what is congenial to him. But then the congenial
cannot be the same as the like; for like, as has been already shown,
cannot be the friend of like. Nor can the congenial be the good; for
good is not the friend of good, as has been also shown. The problem is
unsolved, and the three friends, Socrates, Lysis, and Menexenus, are
still unable to find out what a friend is.

Thus, as in the Charmides and Laches, and several of the other Dialogues
of Plato (compare especially the Protagoras and Theaetetus), no
conclusion is arrived at. Socrates maintains his character of a 'know
nothing;' but the boys have already learned the lesson which he is
unable to teach them, and they are free from the conceit of knowledge.
(Compare Chrm.) The dialogue is what would be called in the language
of Thrasyllus tentative or inquisitive. The subject is continued in the
Phaedrus and Symposium, and treated, with a manifest reference to
the Lysis, in the eighth and ninth books of the Nicomachean Ethics of
Aristotle. As in other writings of Plato (for example, the Republic),
there is a progress from unconscious morality, illustrated by the
friendship of the two youths, and also by the sayings of the poets ('who
are our fathers in wisdom,' and yet only tell us half the truth, and
in this particular instance are not much improved upon by the
philosophers), to a more comprehensive notion of friendship. This,
however, is far from being cleared of its perplexity. Two notions appear
to be struggling or balancing in the mind of Socrates:--First, the sense
that friendship arises out of human needs and wants; Secondly, that the
higher form or ideal of friendship exists only for the sake of the good.
That friends are not necessarily either like or unlike, is also a truth
confirmed by experience. But the use of the terms 'like' or 'good' is
too strictly limited; Socrates has allowed himself to be carried away
by a sort of eristic or illogical logic against which no definition
of friendship would be able to stand. In the course of the argument
he makes a distinction between property and accident which is a real
contribution to the science of logic. Some higher truths appear through
the mist. The manner in which the field of argument is widened, as in
the Charmides and Laches by the introduction of the idea of knowledge,
so here by the introduction of the good, is deserving of attention. The
sense of the inter-dependence of good and evil, and the allusion to the
possibility of the non-existence of evil, are also very remarkable.

The dialectical interest is fully sustained by the dramatic
accompaniments. Observe, first, the scene, which is a Greek Palaestra,
at a time when a sacrifice is going on, and the Hermaea are in course of
celebration; secondly, the 'accustomed irony' of Socrates, who declares,
as in the Symposium, that he is ignorant of all other things, but claims
to have a knowledge of the mysteries of love. There are likewise several
contrasts of character; first of the dry, caustic Ctesippus, of whom
Socrates professes a humorous sort of fear, and Hippothales the flighty
lover, who murders sleep by bawling out the name of his beloved; there
is also a contrast between the false, exaggerated, sentimental love of
Hippothales towards Lysis, and the childlike and innocent friendship
of the boys with one another. Some difference appears to be intended
between the characters of the more talkative Menexenus and the reserved
and simple Lysis. Socrates draws out the latter by a new sort of irony,
which is sometimes adopted in talking to children, and consists in
asking a leading question which can only be answered in a sense contrary
to the intention of the question: 'Your father and mother of course
allow you to drive the chariot?' 'No they do not.' When Menexenus
returns, the serious dialectic begins. He is described as 'very
pugnacious,' and we are thus prepared for the part which a mere youth
takes in a difficult argument. But Plato has not forgotten dramatic
propriety, and Socrates proposes at last to refer the question to some
older person.


SOME QUESTIONS RELATING TO FRIENDSHIP.

The subject of friendship has a lower place in the modern than in the
ancient world, partly because a higher place is assigned by us to love
and marriage. The very meaning of the word has become slighter and more
superficial; it seems almost to be borrowed from the ancients, and has
nearly disappeared in modern treatises on Moral Philosophy. The received
examples of friendship are to be found chiefly among the Greeks and
Romans. Hence the casuistical or other questions which arise out of the
relations of friends have not often been considered seriously in modern
times. Many of them will be found to be the same which are discussed
in the Lysis. We may ask with Socrates, 1) whether friendship is 'of
similars or dissimilars,' or of both; 2) whether such a tie exists
between the good only and for the sake of the good; or 3) whether there
may not be some peculiar attraction, which draws together 'the neither
good nor evil' for the sake of the good and because of the evil; 4)
whether friendship is always mutual,--may there not be a one-sided and
unrequited friendship? This question, which, like many others, is only
one of a laxer or stricter use of words, seems to have greatly exercised
the minds both of Aristotle and Plato.

5) Can we expect friendship to be permanent, or must we acknowledge
with Cicero, 'Nihil difficilius quam amicitiam usque ad extremum vitae
permanere'? Is not friendship, even more than love, liable to be swayed
by the caprices of fancy? The person who pleased us most at first sight
or upon a slight acquaintance, when we have seen him again, and under
different circumstances, may make a much less favourable impression
on our minds. Young people swear 'eternal friendships,' but at these
innocent perjuries their elders laugh. No one forms a friendship with
the intention of renouncing it; yet in the course of a varied life it
is practically certain that many changes will occur of feeling, opinion,
locality, occupation, fortune, which will divide us from some persons
and unite us to others. 6) There is an ancient saying, Qui amicos amicum
non habet. But is not some less exclusive form of friendship better
suited to the condition and nature of man? And in those especially who
have no family ties, may not the feeling pass beyond one or a few,
and embrace all with whom we come into contact, and, perhaps in a few
passionate and exalted natures, all men everywhere? 7) The ancients
had their three kinds of friendship, 'for the sake of the pleasant, the
useful, and the good:' is the last to be resolved into the two first; or
are the two first to be included in the last? The subject was puzzling
to them: they could not say that friendship was only a quality, or a
relation, or a virtue, or a kind of virtue; and they had not in the age
of Plato reached the point of regarding it, like justice, as a form or
attribute of virtue. They had another perplexity: 8) How could one
of the noblest feelings of human nature be so near to one of the most
detestable corruptions of it? (Compare Symposium; Laws).

Leaving the Greek or ancient point of view, we may regard the question
in a more general way. Friendship is the union of two persons in mutual
affection and remembrance of one another. The friend can do for his
friend what he cannot do for himself. He can give him counsel in time of
difficulty; he can teach him 'to see himself as others see him'; he can
stand by him, when all the world are against him; he can gladden and
enlighten him by his presence; he 'can divide his sorrows,' he can
'double his joys;' he can anticipate his wants. He will discover ways
of helping him without creating a sense of his own superiority; he will
find out his mental trials, but only that he may minister to them. Among
true friends jealousy has no place: they do not complain of one another
for making new friends, or for not revealing some secret of their lives;
(in friendship too there must be reserves;) they do not intrude upon one
another, and they mutually rejoice in any good which happens to either
of them, though it may be to the loss of the other. They may live apart
and have little intercourse, but when they meet, the old tie is as
strong as ever--according to the common saying, they find one
another always the same. The greatest good of friendship is not daily
intercourse, for circumstances rarely admit of this; but on the great
occasions of life, when the advice of a friend is needed, then the word
spoken in season about conduct, about health, about marriage, about
business,--the letter written from a distance by a disinterested person
who sees with clearer eyes may be of inestimable value. When the heart
is failing and despair is setting in, then to hear the voice or grasp
the hand of a friend, in a shipwreck, in a defeat, in some other failure
or misfortune, may restore the necessary courage and composure to the
paralysed and disordered mind, and convert the feeble person into a
hero; (compare Symposium).

It is true that friendships are apt to be disappointing: either we
expect too much from them; or we are indolent and do not 'keep them in
repair;' or being admitted to intimacy with another, we see his faults
too clearly and lose our respect for him; and he loses his affection for
us. Friendships may be too violent; and they may be too sensitive. The
egotism of one of the parties may be too much for the other. The word of
counsel or sympathy has been uttered too obtrusively, at the wrong time,
or in the wrong manner; or the need of it has not been perceived until
too late. 'Oh if he had only told me' has been the silent thought of
many a troubled soul. And some things have to be indicated rather than
spoken, because the very mention of them tends to disturb the equability
of friendship. The alienation of friends, like many other human evils,
is commonly due to a want of tact and insight. There is not enough
of the Scimus et hanc veniam petimusque damusque vicissim. The sweet
draught of sympathy is not inexhaustible; and it tends to weaken the
person who too freely partakes of it. Thus we see that there are many
causes which impair the happiness of friends.

We may expect a friendship almost divine, such as philosophers
have sometimes dreamed of: we find what is human. The good of it is
necessarily limited; it does not take the place of marriage; it affords
rather a solace than an arm of support. It had better not be based on
pecuniary obligations; these more often mar than make a friendship.
It is most likely to be permanent when the two friends are equal and
independent, or when they are engaged together in some common work or
have some public interest in common. It exists among the bad or inferior
sort of men almost as much as among the good; the bad and good, and
'the neither bad nor good,' are drawn together in a strange manner by
personal attachment. The essence of it is loyalty, without which it
would cease to be friendship.

Another question 9) may be raised, whether friendship can safely exist
between young persons of different sexes, not connected by ties of
relationship, and without the thought of love or marriage; whether,
again, a wife or a husband should have any intimate friend, besides his
or her partner in marriage. The answer to this latter question is rather
perplexing, and would probably be different in different countries
(compare Sympos.). While we do not deny that great good may result
from such attachments, for the mind may be drawn out and the character
enlarged by them; yet we feel also that they are attended with many
dangers, and that this Romance of Heavenly Love requires a strength, a
freedom from passion, a self-control, which, in youth especially, are
rarely to be found. The propriety of such friendships must be estimated
a good deal by the manner in which public opinion regards them; they
must be reconciled with the ordinary duties of life; and they must be
justified by the result.

Yet another question, 10). Admitting that friendships cannot be always
permanent, we may ask when and upon what conditions should they be
dissolved. It would be futile to retain the name when the reality has
ceased to be. That two friends should part company whenever the relation
between them begins to drag may be better for both of them. But then
arises the consideration, how should these friends in youth or friends
of the past regard or be regarded by one another? They are parted, but
there still remain duties mutually owing by them. They will not
admit the world to share in their difference any more than in their
friendship; the memory of an old attachment, like the memory of the
dead, has a kind of sacredness for them on which they will not allow
others to intrude. Neither, if they were ever worthy to bear the name
of friends, will either of them entertain any enmity or dislike of the
other who was once so much to him. Neither will he by 'shadowed hint
reveal' the secrets great or small which an unfortunate mistake has
placed within his reach. He who is of a noble mind will dwell upon his
own faults rather than those of another, and will be ready to take upon
himself the blame of their separation. He will feel pain at the loss of
a friend; and he will remember with gratitude his ancient kindness.
But he will not lightly renew a tie which has not been lightly
broken...These are a few of the Problems of Friendship, some of them
suggested by the Lysis, others by modern life, which he who wishes to
make or keep a friend may profitably study. (Compare Bacon, Essay on
Friendship; Cic. de Amicitia.)




LYSIS, OR FRIENDSHIP




PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE:

Socrates, who is the narrator, Menexenus, Hippothales, Lysis, Ctesippus.

SCENE: A newly-erected Palaestra outside the walls of Athens.


I was going from the Academy straight to the Lyceum, intending to
take the outer road, which is close under the wall. When I came to the
postern gate of the city, which is by the fountain of Panops, I fell in
with Hippothales, the son of Hieronymus, and Ctesippus the Paeanian, and
a company of young men who were standing with them. Hippothales, seeing
me approach, asked whence I came and whither I was going.

I am going, I replied, from the Academy straight to the Lyceum.

Then come straight to us, he said, and put in here; you may as well.

Who are you, I said; and where am I to come?

He showed me an enclosed space and an open door over against the wall.
And there, he said, is the building at which we all meet: and a goodly
company we are.

And what is this building, I asked; and what sort of entertainment have
you?

The building, he replied, is a newly erected Palaestra; and the
entertainment is generally conversation, to which you are welcome.

Thank you, I said; and is there any teacher there?

Yes, he said, your old friend and admirer, Miccus.

Indeed, I replied; he is a very eminent professor.

Are you disposed, he said, to go with me and see them?

Yes, I said; but I should like to know first, what is expected of me,
and who is the favourite among you?

Some persons have one favourite, Socrates, and some another, he said.

And who is yours? I asked: tell me that, Hippothales.

At this he blushed; and I said to him, O Hippothales, thou son of
Hieronymus! do not say that you are, or that you are not, in love; the
confession is too late; for I see that you are not only in love, but are
already far gone in your love. Simple and foolish as I am, the Gods have
given me the power of understanding affections of this kind.

Whereupon he blushed more and more.

Ctesippus said: I like to see you blushing, Hippothales, and hesitating
to tell Socrates the name; when, if he were with you but for a very
short time, you would have plagued him to death by talking about nothing
else. Indeed, Socrates, he has literally deafened us, and stopped our
ears with the praises of Lysis; and if he is a little intoxicated, there
is every likelihood that we may have our sleep murdered with a cry of
Lysis. His performances in prose are bad enough, but nothing at all in
comparison with his verse; and when he drenches us with his poems and
other compositions, it is really too bad; and worse still is his manner
of singing them to his love; he has a voice which is truly appalling,
and we cannot help hearing him: and now having a question put to him by
you, behold he is blushing.

Who is Lysis? I said: I suppose that he must be young; for the name does
not recall any one to me.

Why, he said, his father being a very well-known man, he retains his
patronymic, and is not as yet commonly called by his own name; but,
although you do not know his name, I am sure that you must know his
face, for that is quite enough to distinguish him.

But tell me whose son he is, I said.

He is the eldest son of Democrates, of the deme of Aexone.

Ah, Hippothales, I said; what a noble and really perfect love you have
found! I wish that you would favour me with the exhibition which you
have been making to the rest of the company, and then I shall be able to
judge whether you know what a lover ought to say about his love, either
to the youth himself, or to others.

Nay, Socrates, he said; you surely do not attach any importance to what
he is saying.

Do you mean, I said, that you disown the love of the person whom he says
that you love?

No; but I deny that I make verses or address compositions to him.

He is not in his right mind, said Ctesippus; he is talking nonsense, and
is stark mad.

O Hippothales, I said, if you have ever made any verses or songs in
honour of your favourite, I do not want to hear them; but I want to
know the purport of them, that I may be able to judge of your mode of
approaching your fair one.

Ctesippus will be able to tell you, he said; for if, as he avers, the
sound of my words is always dinning in his ears, he must have a very
accurate knowledge and recollection of them.

Yes, indeed, said Ctesippus; I know only too well; and very ridiculous
the tale is: for although he is a lover, and very devotedly in love, he
has nothing particular to talk about to his beloved which a child might
not say. Now is not that ridiculous? He can only speak of the wealth of
Democrates, which the whole city celebrates, and grandfather Lysis, and
the other ancestors of the youth, and their stud of horses, and their
victory at the Pythian games, and at the Isthmus, and at Nemea with
four horses and single horses--these are the tales which he composes
and repeats. And there is greater twaddle still. Only the day before
yesterday he made a poem in which he described the entertainment of
Heracles, who was a connexion of the family, setting forth how in virtue
of this relationship he was hospitably received by an ancestor of
Lysis; this ancestor was himself begotten of Zeus by the daughter of the
founder of the deme. And these are the sort of old wives' tales which he
sings and recites to us, and we are obliged to listen to him.

When I heard this, I said: O ridiculous Hippothales! how can you be
making and singing hymns in honour of yourself before you have won?

But my songs and verses, he said, are not in honour of myself, Socrates.

You think not? I said.

Nay, but what do you think? he replied.

Most assuredly, I said, those songs are all in your own honour; for if
you win your beautiful love, your discourses and songs will be a glory
to you, and may be truly regarded as hymns of praise composed in honour
of you who have conquered and won such a love; but if he slips away from
you, the more you have praised him, the more ridiculous you will look at
having lost this fairest and best of blessings; and therefore the wise
lover does not praise his beloved until he has won him, because he is
afraid of accidents. There is also another danger; the fair, when any
one praises or magnifies them, are filled with the spirit of pride and
vain-glory. Do you not agree with me?

Yes, he said.

And the more vain-glorious they are, the more difficult is the capture
of them?

I believe you.

What should you say of a hunter who frightened away his prey, and made
the capture of the animals which he is hunting more difficult?

He would be a bad hunter, undoubtedly.

Yes; and if, instead of soothing them, he were to infuriate them with
words and songs, that would show a great want of wit: do you not agree.

Yes.

And now reflect, Hippothales, and see whether you are not guilty of all
these errors in writing poetry. For I can hardly suppose that you will
affirm a man to be a good poet who injures himself by his poetry.

Assuredly not, he said; such a poet would be a fool. And this is the
reason why I take you into my counsels, Socrates, and I shall be glad of
any further advice which you may have to offer. Will you tell me by what
words or actions I may become endeared to my love?

That is not easy to determine, I said; but if you will bring your love
to me, and will let me talk with him, I may perhaps be able to show you
how to converse with him, instead of singing and reciting in the fashion
of which you are accused.

There will be no difficulty in bringing him, he replied; if you will
only go with Ctesippus into the Palaestra, and sit down and talk,
I believe that he will come of his own accord; for he is fond of
listening, Socrates. And as this is the festival of the Hermaea, the
young men and boys are all together, and there is no separation between
them. He will be sure to come: but if he does not, Ctesippus with whom
he is familiar, and whose relation Menexenus is his great friend, shall
call him.

That will be the way, I said. Thereupon I led Ctesippus into the
Palaestra, and the rest followed.

Upon entering we found that the boys had just been sacrificing; and this
part of the festival was nearly at an end. They were all in their white
array, and games at dice were going on among them. Most of them were
in the outer court amusing themselves; but some were in a corner of the
Apodyterium playing at odd and even with a number of dice, which
they took out of little wicker baskets. There was also a circle of
lookers-on; among them was Lysis. He was standing with the other boys
and youths, having a crown upon his head, like a fair vision, and not
less worthy of praise for his goodness than for his beauty. We left
them, and went over to the opposite side of the room, where, finding
a quiet place, we sat down; and then we began to talk. This attracted
Lysis, who was constantly turning round to look at us--he was evidently
wanting to come to us. For a time he hesitated and had not the courage
to come alone; but first of all, his friend Menexenus, leaving his play,
entered the Palaestra from the court, and when he saw Ctesippus and
myself, was going to take a seat by us; and then Lysis, seeing him,
followed, and sat down by his side; and the other boys joined. I should
observe that Hippothales, when he saw the crowd, got behind them, where
he thought that he would be out of sight of Lysis, lest he should anger
him; and there he stood and listened.

I turned to Menexenus, and said: Son of Demophon, which of you two
youths is the elder?

That is a matter of dispute between us, he said.

And which is the nobler? Is that also a matter of dispute?

Yes, certainly.

And another disputed point is, which is the fairer?

The two boys laughed.

I shall not ask which is the richer of the two, I said; for you are
friends, are you not?

Certainly, they replied.

And friends have all things in common, so that one of you can be no
richer than the other, if you say truly that you are friends.

They assented. I was about to ask which was the juster of the two, and
which was the wiser of the two; but at this moment Menexenus was called
away by some one who came and said that the gymnastic-master wanted him.
I supposed that he had to offer sacrifice. So he went away, and I asked
Lysis some more questions. I dare say, Lysis, I said, that your father
and mother love you very much.

Certainly, he said.

And they would wish you to be perfectly happy.

Yes.

But do you think that any one is happy who is in the condition of a
slave, and who cannot do what he likes?

I should think not indeed, he said.

And if your father and mother love you, and desire that you should
be happy, no one can doubt that they are very ready to promote your
happiness.

Certainly, he replied.

And do they then permit you to do what you like, and never rebuke you or
hinder you from doing what you desire?

Yes, indeed, Socrates; there are a great many things which they hinder
me from doing.

What do you mean? I said. Do they want you to be happy, and yet hinder
you from doing what you like? for example, if you want to mount one
of your father's chariots, and take the reins at a race, they will not
allow you to do so--they will prevent you?

Certainly, he said, they will not allow me to do so.

Whom then will they allow?

There is a charioteer, whom my father pays for driving.

And do they trust a hireling more than you? and may he do what he likes
with the horses? and do they pay him for this?

They do.

But I dare say that you may take the whip and guide the mule-cart if you
like;--they will permit that?

Permit me! indeed they will not.

Then, I said, may no one use the whip to the mules?

Yes, he said, the muleteer.

And is he a slave or a free man?

A slave, he said.

And do they esteem a slave of more value than you who are their son? And
do they entrust their property to him rather than to you? and allow him
to do what he likes, when they prohibit you? Answer me now: Are you your
own master, or do they not even allow that?

Nay, he said; of course they do not allow it.

Then you have a master?

Yes, my tutor; there he is.

And is he a slave?

To be sure; he is our slave, he replied.

Surely, I said, this is a strange thing, that a free man should be
governed by a slave. And what does he do with you?

He takes me to my teachers.

You do not mean to say that your teachers also rule over you?

Of course they do.

Then I must say that your father is pleased to inflict many lords and
masters on you. But at any rate when you go home to your mother,
she will let you have your own way, and will not interfere with your
happiness; her wool, or the piece of cloth which she is weaving, are
at your disposal: I am sure that there is nothing to hinder you from
touching her wooden spathe, or her comb, or any other of her spinning
implements.

Nay, Socrates, he replied, laughing; not only does she hinder me, but I
should be beaten if I were to touch one of them.

Well, I said, this is amazing. And did you ever behave ill to your
father or your mother?

No, indeed, he replied.

But why then are they so terribly anxious to prevent you from being
happy, and doing as you like?--keeping you all day long in subjection
to another, and, in a word, doing nothing which you desire; so that you
have no good, as would appear, out of their great possessions, which are
under the control of anybody rather than of you, and have no use of your
own fair person, which is tended and taken care of by another; while
you, Lysis, are master of nobody, and can do nothing?

Why, he said, Socrates, the reason is that I am not of age.

I doubt whether that is the real reason, I said; for I should imagine
that your father Democrates, and your mother, do permit you to do many
things already, and do not wait until you are of age: for example, if
they want anything read or written, you, I presume, would be the first
person in the house who is summoned by them.

Very true.

And you would be allowed to write or read the letters in any order which
you please, or to take up the lyre and tune the notes, and play with the
fingers, or strike with the plectrum, exactly as you please, and neither
father nor mother would interfere with you.

That is true, he said.

Then what can be the reason, Lysis, I said, why they allow you to do the
one and not the other?

I suppose, he said, because I understand the one, and not the other.

Yes, my dear youth, I said, the reason is not any deficiency of years,
but a deficiency of knowledge; and whenever your father thinks that
you are wiser than he is, he will instantly commit himself and his
possessions to you.

I think so.

Aye, I said; and about your neighbour, too, does not the same rule
hold as about your father? If he is satisfied that you know more of
housekeeping than he does, will he continue to administer his affairs
himself, or will he commit them to you?

I think that he will commit them to me.

Will not the Athenian people, too, entrust their affairs to you when
they see that you have wisdom enough to manage them?

Yes.

And oh! let me put another case, I said: There is the great king, and he
has an eldest son, who is the Prince of Asia;--suppose that you and I go
to him and establish to his satisfaction that we are better cooks than
his son, will he not entrust to us the prerogative of making soup, and
putting in anything that we like while the pot is boiling, rather than
to the Prince of Asia, who is his son?

To us, clearly.

And we shall be allowed to throw in salt by handfuls, whereas the son
will not be allowed to put in as much as he can take up between his
fingers?

Of course.

Or suppose again that the son has bad eyes, will he allow him, or will
he not allow him, to touch his own eyes if he thinks that he has no
knowledge of medicine?

He will not allow him.

Whereas, if he supposes us to have a knowledge of medicine, he will
allow us to do what we like with him--even to open the eyes wide and
sprinkle ashes upon them, because he supposes that we know what is best?

That is true.

And everything in which we appear to him to be wiser than himself or his
son he will commit to us?

That is very true, Socrates, he replied.

Then now, my dear Lysis, I said, you perceive that in things which
we know every one will trust us,--Hellenes and barbarians, men and
women,--and we may do as we please about them, and no one will like to
interfere with us; we shall be free, and masters of others; and these
things will be really ours, for we shall be benefited by them. But in
things of which we have no understanding, no one will trust us to do as
seems good to us--they will hinder us as far as they can; and not only
strangers, but father and mother, and the friend, if there be one, who
is dearer still, will also hinder us; and we shall be subject to others;
and these things will not be ours, for we shall not be benefited by
them. Do you agree?

He assented.

And shall we be friends to others, and will any others love us, in as
far as we are useless to them?

Certainly not.

Neither can your father or mother love you, nor can anybody love anybody
else, in so far as they are useless to them?

No.

And therefore, my boy, if you are wise, all men will be your friends
and kindred, for you will be useful and good; but if you are not wise,
neither father, nor mother, nor kindred, nor any one else, will be your
friends. And in matters of which you have as yet no knowledge, can you
have any conceit of knowledge?

That is impossible, he replied.

And you, Lysis, if you require a teacher, have not yet attained to
wisdom.

True.

And therefore you are not conceited, having nothing of which to be
conceited.

Indeed, Socrates, I think not.

When I heard him say this, I turned to Hippothales, and was very nearly
making a blunder, for I was going to say to him: That is the way,
Hippothales, in which you should talk to your beloved, humbling and
lowering him, and not as you do, puffing him up and spoiling him. But I
saw that he was in great excitement and confusion at what had been said,
and I remembered that, although he was in the neighbourhood, he did not
want to be seen by Lysis; so upon second thoughts I refrained.

In the meantime Menexenus came back and sat down in his place by Lysis;
and Lysis, in a childish and affectionate manner, whispered privately in
my ear, so that Menexenus should not hear: Do, Socrates, tell Menexenus
what you have been telling me.

Suppose that you tell him yourself, Lysis, I replied; for I am sure that
you were attending.

Certainly, he replied.

Try, then, to remember the words, and be as exact as you can in
repeating them to him, and if you have forgotten anything, ask me again
the next time that you see me.

I will be sure to do so, Socrates; but go on telling him something new,
and let me hear, as long as I am allowed to stay.

I certainly cannot refuse, I said, since you ask me; but then, as you
know, Menexenus is very pugnacious, and therefore you must come to the
rescue if he attempts to upset me.

Yes, indeed, he said; he is very pugnacious, and that is the reason why
I want you to argue with him.

That I may make a fool of myself?

No, indeed, he said; but I want you to put him down.

That is no easy matter, I replied; for he is a terrible fellow--a pupil
of Ctesippus. And there is Ctesippus himself: do you see him?

Never mind, Socrates, you shall argue with him.

Well, I suppose that I must, I replied.

Hereupon Ctesippus complained that we were talking in secret, and
keeping the feast to ourselves.

I shall be happy, I said, to let you have a share. Here is Lysis, who
does not understand something that I was saying, and wants me to ask
Menexenus, who, as he thinks, is likely to know.

And why do you not ask him? he said.

Very well, I said, I will; and do you, Menexenus, answer. But first I
must tell you that I am one who from my childhood upward have set my
heart upon a certain thing. All people have their fancies; some desire
horses, and others dogs; and some are fond of gold, and others of
honour. Now, I have no violent desire of any of these things; but I have
a passion for friends; and I would rather have a good friend than the
best cock or quail in the world: I would even go further, and say the
best horse or dog. Yea, by the dog of Egypt, I should greatly prefer a
real friend to all the gold of Darius, or even to Darius himself: I am
such a lover of friends as that. And when I see you and Lysis, at your
early age, so easily possessed of this treasure, and so soon, he of
you, and you of him, I am amazed and delighted, seeing that I myself,
although I am now advanced in years, am so far from having made a
similar acquisition, that I do not even know in what way a friend is
acquired. But I want to ask you a question about this, for you have
experience: tell me then, when one loves another, is the lover or the
beloved the friend; or may either be the friend?

Either may, I should think, be the friend of either.

Do you mean, I said, that if only one of them loves the other, they are
mutual friends?

Yes, he said; that is my meaning.

But what if the lover is not loved in return? which is a very possible
case.

Yes.

Or is, perhaps, even hated? which is a fancy which sometimes is
entertained by lovers respecting their beloved. Nothing can exceed their
love; and yet they imagine either that they are not loved in return, or
that they are hated. Is not that true?

Yes, he said, quite true.

In that case, the one loves, and the other is loved?

Yes.

Then which is the friend of which? Is the lover the friend of the
beloved, whether he be loved in return, or hated; or is the beloved the
friend; or is there no friendship at all on either side, unless they
both love one another?

There would seem to be none at all.

Then this notion is not in accordance with our previous one. We were
saying that both were friends, if one only loved; but now, unless they
both love, neither is a friend.

That appears to be true.

Then nothing which does not love in return is beloved by a lover?

I think not.

Then they are not lovers of horses, whom the horses do not love in
return; nor lovers of quails, nor of dogs, nor of wine, nor of gymnastic
exercises, who have no return of love; no, nor of wisdom, unless wisdom
loves them in return. Or shall we say that they do love them, although
they are not beloved by them; and that the poet was wrong who sings--

'Happy the man to whom his children are dear, and steeds having single
hoofs, and dogs of chase, and the stranger of another land'?

I do not think that he was wrong.

You think that he is right?

Yes.

Then, Menexenus, the conclusion is, that what is beloved, whether loving
or hating, may be dear to the lover of it: for example, very young
children, too young to love, or even hating their father or mother when
they are punished by them, are never dearer to them than at the time
when they are being hated by them.

I think that what you say is true.

And, if so, not the lover, but the beloved, is the friend or dear one?

Yes.

And the hated one, and not the hater, is the enemy?

Clearly.

Then many men are loved by their enemies, and hated by their friends,
and are the friends of their enemies, and the enemies of their friends.
Yet how absurd, my dear friend, or indeed impossible is this paradox of
a man being an enemy to his friend or a friend to his enemy.

I quite agree, Socrates, in what you say.

But if this cannot be, the lover will be the friend of that which is
loved?

True.

And the hater will be the enemy of that which is hated?

Certainly.

Yet we must acknowledge in this, as in the preceding instance, that a
man may be the friend of one who is not his friend, or who may be his
enemy, when he loves that which does not love him or which even hates
him. And he may be the enemy of one who is not his enemy, and is even
his friend: for example, when he hates that which does not hate him, or
which even loves him.

That appears to be true.

But if the lover is not a friend, nor the beloved a friend, nor both
together, what are we to say? Whom are we to call friends to one
another? Do any remain?

Indeed, Socrates, I cannot find any.

But, O Menexenus! I said, may we not have been altogether wrong in our
conclusions?

I am sure that we have been wrong, Socrates, said Lysis. And he blushed
as he spoke, the words seeming to come from his lips involuntarily,
because his whole mind was taken up with the argument; there was no
mistaking his attentive look while he was listening.

I was pleased at the interest which was shown by Lysis, and I wanted to
give Menexenus a rest, so I turned to him and said, I think, Lysis, that
what you say is true, and that, if we had been right, we should never
have gone so far wrong; let us proceed no further in this direction (for
the road seems to be getting troublesome), but take the other path into
which we turned, and see what the poets have to say; for they are to us
in a manner the fathers and authors of wisdom, and they speak of friends
in no light or trivial manner, but God himself, as they say, makes
them and draws them to one another; and this they express, if I am not
mistaken, in the following words:--

'God is ever drawing like towards like, and making them acquainted.'

I dare say that you have heard those words.

Yes, he said; I have.

And have you not also met with the treatises of philosophers who say
that like must love like? they are the people who argue and write about
nature and the universe.

Very true, he replied.

And are they right in saying this?

They may be.

Perhaps, I said, about half, or possibly, altogether, right, if their
meaning were rightly apprehended by us. For the more a bad man has to do
with a bad man, and the more nearly he is brought into contact with him,
the more he will be likely to hate him, for he injures him; and injurer
and injured cannot be friends. Is not that true?

Yes, he said.

Then one half of the saying is untrue, if the wicked are like one
another?

That is true.

But the real meaning of the saying, as I imagine, is, that the good are
like one another, and friends to one another; and that the bad, as
is often said of them, are never at unity with one another or with
themselves; for they are passionate and restless, and anything which
is at variance and enmity with itself is not likely to be in union or
harmony with any other thing. Do you not agree?

Yes, I do.

Then, my friend, those who say that the like is friendly to the like
mean to intimate, if I rightly apprehend them, that the good only is the
friend of the good, and of him only; but that the evil never attains to
any real friendship, either with good or evil. Do you agree?

He nodded assent.

Then now we know how to answer the question 'Who are friends?' for the
argument declares 'That the good are friends.'

Yes, he said, that is true.

Yes, I replied; and yet I am not quite satisfied with this answer. By
heaven, and shall I tell you what I suspect? I will. Assuming that like,
inasmuch as he is like, is the friend of like, and useful to him--or
rather let me try another way of putting the matter: Can like do
any good or harm to like which he could not do to himself, or suffer
anything from his like which he would not suffer from himself? And if
neither can be of any use to the other, how can they be loved by one
another? Can they now?

They cannot.

And can he who is not loved be a friend?

Certainly not.

But say that the like is not the friend of the like in so far as he is
like; still the good may be the friend of the good in so far as he is
good?

True.

But then again, will not the good, in so far as he is good, be
sufficient for himself? Certainly he will. And he who is sufficient
wants nothing--that is implied in the word sufficient.

Of course not.

And he who wants nothing will desire nothing?

He will not.

Neither can he love that which he does not desire?

He cannot.

And he who loves not is not a lover or friend?

Clearly not.

What place then is there for friendship, if, when absent, good men have
no need of one another (for even when alone they are sufficient for
themselves), and when present have no use of one another? How can such
persons ever be induced to value one another?

They cannot.

And friends they cannot be, unless they value one another?

Very true.

But see now, Lysis, whether we are not being deceived in all this--are
we not indeed entirely wrong?

How so? he replied.

Have I not heard some one say, as I just now recollect, that the like
is the greatest enemy of the like, the good of the good?--Yes, and he
quoted the authority of Hesiod, who says:

'Potter quarrels with potter, bard with bard, Beggar with beggar;'

and of all other things he affirmed, in like manner, 'That of necessity
the most like are most full of envy, strife, and hatred of one another,
and the most unlike, of friendship. For the poor man is compelled to be
the friend of the rich, and the weak requires the aid of the strong,
and the sick man of the physician; and every one who is ignorant, has
to love and court him who knows.' And indeed he went on to say in
grandiloquent language, that the idea of friendship existing between
similars is not the truth, but the very reverse of the truth, and that
the most opposed are the most friendly; for that everything desires not
like but that which is most unlike: for example, the dry desires the
moist, the cold the hot, the bitter the sweet, the sharp the blunt, the
void the full, the full the void, and so of all other things; for the
opposite is the food of the opposite, whereas like receives nothing from
like. And I thought that he who said this was a charming man, and that
he spoke well. What do the rest of you say?

I should say, at first hearing, that he is right, said Menexenus.

Then we are to say that the greatest friendship is of opposites?

Exactly.

Yes, Menexenus; but will not that be a monstrous answer? and will
not the all-wise eristics be down upon us in triumph, and ask, fairly
enough, whether love is not the very opposite of hate; and what answer
shall we make to them--must we not admit that they speak the truth?

We must.

They will then proceed to ask whether the enemy is the friend of the
friend, or the friend the friend of the enemy?

Neither, he replied.

Well, but is a just man the friend of the unjust, or the temperate of
the intemperate, or the good of the bad?

I do not see how that is possible.

And yet, I said, if friendship goes by contraries, the contraries must
be friends.

They must.

Then neither like and like nor unlike and unlike are friends.

I suppose not.

And yet there is a further consideration: may not all these notions of
friendship be erroneous? but may not that which is neither good nor evil
still in some cases be the friend of the good?

How do you mean? he said.

Why really, I said, the truth is that I do not know; but my head
is dizzy with thinking of the argument, and therefore I hazard the
conjecture, that 'the beautiful is the friend,' as the old proverb says.
Beauty is certainly a soft, smooth, slippery thing, and therefore of a
nature which easily slips in and permeates our souls. For I affirm that
the good is the beautiful. You will agree to that?

Yes.

This I say from a sort of notion that what is neither good nor evil is
the friend of the beautiful and the good, and I will tell you why I
am inclined to think so: I assume that there are three principles--the
good, the bad, and that which is neither good nor bad. You would
agree--would you not?

I agree.

And neither is the good the friend of the good, nor the evil of the
evil, nor the good of the evil;--these alternatives are excluded by the
previous argument; and therefore, if there be such a thing as friendship
or love at all, we must infer that what is neither good nor evil must
be the friend, either of the good, or of that which is neither good nor
evil, for nothing can be the friend of the bad.

True.

But neither can like be the friend of like, as we were just now saying.

True.

And if so, that which is neither good nor evil can have no friend which
is neither good nor evil.

Clearly not.

Then the good alone is the friend of that only which is neither good nor
evil.

That may be assumed to be certain.

And does not this seem to put us in the right way? Just remark, that the
body which is in health requires neither medical nor any other aid,
but is well enough; and the healthy man has no love of the physician,
because he is in health.

He has none.

But the sick loves him, because he is sick?

Certainly.

And sickness is an evil, and the art of medicine a good and useful
thing?

Yes.

But the human body, regarded as a body, is neither good nor evil?

True.

And the body is compelled by reason of disease to court and make friends
of the art of medicine?

Yes.

Then that which is neither good nor evil becomes the friend of good, by
reason of the presence of evil?

So we may infer.

And clearly this must have happened before that which was neither good
nor evil had become altogether corrupted with the element of evil--if
itself had become evil it would not still desire and love the good; for,
as we were saying, the evil cannot be the friend of the good.

Impossible.

Further, I must observe that some substances are assimilated when others
are present with them; and there are some which are not assimilated:
take, for example, the case of an ointment or colour which is put on
another substance.

Very good.

In such a case, is the substance which is anointed the same as the
colour or ointment?

What do you mean? he said.

This is what I mean: Suppose that I were to cover your auburn locks with
white lead, would they be really white, or would they only appear to be
white?

They would only appear to be white, he replied.

And yet whiteness would be present in them?

True.

But that would not make them at all the more white, notwithstanding the
presence of white in them--they would not be white any more than black?

No.

But when old age infuses whiteness into them, then they become
assimilated, and are white by the presence of white.

Certainly.

Now I want to know whether in all cases a substance is assimilated
by the presence of another substance; or must the presence be after a
peculiar sort?

The latter, he said.

Then that which is neither good nor evil may be in the presence of evil,
but not as yet evil, and that has happened before now?

Yes.

And when anything is in the presence of evil, not being as yet evil,
the presence of good arouses the desire of good in that thing; but the
presence of evil, which makes a thing evil, takes away the desire and
friendship of the good; for that which was once both good and evil has
now become evil only, and the good was supposed to have no friendship
with the evil?

None.

And therefore we say that those who are already wise, whether Gods or
men, are no longer lovers of wisdom; nor can they be lovers of wisdom
who are ignorant to the extent of being evil, for no evil or ignorant
person is a lover of wisdom. There remain those who have the misfortune
to be ignorant, but are not yet hardened in their ignorance, or void of
understanding, and do not as yet fancy that they know what they do
not know: and therefore those who are the lovers of wisdom are as yet
neither good nor bad. But the bad do not love wisdom any more than the
good; for, as we have already seen, neither is unlike the friend of
unlike, nor like of like. You remember that?

Yes, they both said.

And so, Lysis and Menexenus, we have discovered the nature of
friendship--there can be no doubt of it: Friendship is the love which
by reason of the presence of evil the neither good nor evil has of the
good, either in the soul, or in the body, or anywhere.

They both agreed and entirely assented, and for a moment I rejoiced and
was satisfied like a huntsman just holding fast his prey. But then
a most unaccountable suspicion came across me, and I felt that
the conclusion was untrue. I was pained, and said, Alas! Lysis and
Menexenus, I am afraid that we have been grasping at a shadow only.

Why do you say so? said Menexenus.

I am afraid, I said, that the argument about friendship is false:
arguments, like men, are often pretenders.

How do you mean? he asked.

Well, I said; look at the matter in this way: a friend is the friend of
some one; is he not?

Certainly he is.

And has he a motive and object in being a friend, or has he no motive
and object?

He has a motive and object.

And is the object which makes him a friend, dear to him, or neither dear
nor hateful to him?

I do not quite follow you, he said.

I do not wonder at that, I said. But perhaps, if I put the matter in
another way, you will be able to follow me, and my own meaning will be
clearer to myself. The sick man, as I was just now saying, is the friend
of the physician--is he not?

Yes.

And he is the friend of the physician because of disease, and for the
sake of health?

Yes.

And disease is an evil?

Certainly.

And what of health? I said. Is that good or evil, or neither?

Good, he replied.

And we were saying, I believe, that the body being neither good nor
evil, because of disease, that is to say because of evil, is the friend
of medicine, and medicine is a good: and medicine has entered into this
friendship for the sake of health, and health is a good.

True.

And is health a friend, or not a friend?

A friend.

And disease is an enemy?

Yes.

Then that which is neither good nor evil is the friend of the good
because of the evil and hateful, and for the sake of the good and the
friend?

Clearly.

Then the friend is a friend for the sake of the friend, and because of
the enemy?

That is to be inferred.

Then at this point, my boys, let us take heed, and be on our guard
against deceptions. I will not again repeat that the friend is the
friend of the friend, and the like of the like, which has been declared
by us to be an impossibility; but, in order that this new statement may
not delude us, let us attentively examine another point, which I will
proceed to explain: Medicine, as we were saying, is a friend, or dear to
us for the sake of health?

Yes.

And health is also dear?

Certainly.

And if dear, then dear for the sake of something?

Yes.

And surely this object must also be dear, as is implied in our previous
admissions?

Yes.

And that something dear involves something else dear?

Yes.

But then, proceeding in this way, shall we not arrive at some first
principle of friendship or dearness which is not capable of being
referred to any other, for the sake of which, as we maintain, all other
things are dear, and, having there arrived, we shall stop?

True.

My fear is that all those other things, which, as we say, are dear for
the sake of another, are illusions and deceptions only, but where that
first principle is, there is the true ideal of friendship. Let me put
the matter thus: Suppose the case of a great treasure (this may be a
son, who is more precious to his father than all his other treasures);
would not the father, who values his son above all things, value other
things also for the sake of his son? I mean, for instance, if he knew
that his son had drunk hemlock, and the father thought that wine would
save him, he would value the wine?

He would.

And also the vessel which contains the wine?

Certainly.

But does he therefore value the three measures of wine, or the earthen
vessel which contains them, equally with his son? Is not this rather
the true state of the case? All his anxiety has regard not to the means
which are provided for the sake of an object, but to the object for the
sake of which they are provided. And although we may often say that gold
and silver are highly valued by us, that is not the truth; for there is
a further object, whatever it may be, which we value most of all, and
for the sake of which gold and all our other possessions are acquired by
us. Am I not right?

Yes, certainly.

And may not the same be said of the friend? That which is only dear to
us for the sake of something else is improperly said to be dear, but
the truly dear is that in which all these so-called dear friendships
terminate.

That, he said, appears to be true.

And the truly dear or ultimate principle of friendship is not for the
sake of any other or further dear.

True.

Then we have done with the notion that friendship has any further
object. May we then infer that the good is the friend?

I think so.

And the good is loved for the sake of the evil? Let me put the case in
this way: Suppose that of the three principles, good, evil, and that
which is neither good nor evil, there remained only the good and the
neutral, and that evil went far away, and in no way affected soul or
body, nor ever at all that class of things which, as we say, are neither
good nor evil in themselves;--would the good be of any use, or other
than useless to us? For if there were nothing to hurt us any longer,
we should have no need of anything that would do us good. Then would
be clearly seen that we did but love and desire the good because of the
evil, and as the remedy of the evil, which was the disease; but if there
had been no disease, there would have been no need of a remedy. Is not
this the nature of the good--to be loved by us who are placed between
the two, because of the evil? but there is no use in the good for its
own sake.

I suppose not.

Then the final principle of friendship, in which all other friendships
terminated, those, I mean, which are relatively dear and for the sake of
something else, is of another and a different nature from them. For they
are called dear because of another dear or friend. But with the true
friend or dear, the case is quite the reverse; for that is proved to
be dear because of the hated, and if the hated were away it would be no
longer dear.

Very true, he replied: at any rate not if our present view holds good.

But, oh! will you tell me, I said, whether if evil were to perish, we
should hunger any more, or thirst any more, or have any similar desire?
Or may we suppose that hunger will remain while men and animals remain,
but not so as to be hurtful? And the same of thirst and the other
desires,--that they will remain, but will not be evil because evil has
perished? Or rather shall I say, that to ask what either will be then or
will not be is ridiculous, for who knows? This we do know, that in our
present condition hunger may injure us, and may also benefit us:--Is not
that true?

Yes.

And in like manner thirst or any similar desire may sometimes be a good
and sometimes an evil to us, and sometimes neither one nor the other?

To be sure.

But is there any reason why, because evil perishes, that which is not
evil should perish with it?

None.

Then, even if evil perishes, the desires which are neither good nor evil
will remain?

Clearly they will.

And must not a man love that which he desires and affects?

He must.

Then, even if evil perishes, there may still remain some elements of
love or friendship?

Yes.

But not if evil is the cause of friendship: for in that case nothing
will be the friend of any other thing after the destruction of evil; for
the effect cannot remain when the cause is destroyed.

True.

And have we not admitted already that the friend loves something for a
reason? and at the time of making the admission we were of opinion that
the neither good nor evil loves the good because of the evil?

Very true.

But now our view is changed, and we conceive that there must be some
other cause of friendship?

I suppose so.

May not the truth be rather, as we were saying just now, that desire is
the cause of friendship; for that which desires is dear to that which
is desired at the time of desiring it? and may not the other theory have
been only a long story about nothing?

Likely enough.

But surely, I said, he who desires, desires that of which he is in want?

Yes.

And that of which he is in want is dear to him?

True.

And he is in want of that of which he is deprived?

Certainly.

Then love, and desire, and friendship would appear to be of the natural
or congenial. Such, Lysis and Menexenus, is the inference.

They assented.

Then if you are friends, you must have natures which are congenial to
one another?

Certainly, they both said.

And I say, my boys, that no one who loves or desires another would ever
have loved or desired or affected him, if he had not been in some way
congenial to him, either in his soul, or in his character, or in his
manners, or in his form.

Yes, yes, said Menexenus. But Lysis was silent.

Then, I said, the conclusion is, that what is of a congenial nature must
be loved.

It follows, he said.

Then the lover, who is true and no counterfeit, must of necessity be
loved by his love.

Lysis and Menexenus gave a faint assent to this; and Hippothales changed
into all manner of colours with delight.

Here, intending to revise the argument, I said: Can we point out any
difference between the congenial and the like? For if that is possible,
then I think, Lysis and Menexenus, there may be some sense in our
argument about friendship. But if the congenial is only the like, how
will you get rid of the other argument, of the uselessness of like to
like in as far as they are like; for to say that what is useless is
dear, would be absurd? Suppose, then, that we agree to distinguish
between the congenial and the like--in the intoxication of argument,
that may perhaps be allowed.

Very true.

And shall we further say that the good is congenial, and the evil
uncongenial to every one? Or again that the evil is congenial to the
evil, and the good to the good; and that which is neither good nor evil
to that which is neither good nor evil?

They agreed to the latter alternative.

Then, my boys, we have again fallen into the old discarded error; for
the unjust will be the friend of the unjust, and the bad of the bad, as
well as the good of the good.

That appears to be the result.

But again, if we say that the congenial is the same as the good, in that
case the good and he only will be the friend of the good.

True.

But that too was a position of ours which, as you will remember, has
been already refuted by ourselves.

We remember.

Then what is to be done? Or rather is there anything to be done? I can
only, like the wise men who argue in courts, sum up the arguments:--If
neither the beloved, nor the lover, nor the like, nor the unlike, nor
the good, nor the congenial, nor any other of whom we spoke--for there
were such a number of them that I cannot remember all--if none of these
are friends, I know not what remains to be said.

Here I was going to invite the opinion of some older person, when
suddenly we were interrupted by the tutors of Lysis and Menexenus, who
came upon us like an evil apparition with their brothers, and bade them
go home, as it was getting late. At first, we and the by-standers drove
them off; but afterwards, as they would not mind, and only went on
shouting in their barbarous dialect, and got angry, and kept calling the
boys--they appeared to us to have been drinking rather too much at the
Hermaea, which made them difficult to manage--we fairly gave way and
broke up the company.

I said, however, a few words to the boys at parting: O Menexenus and
Lysis, how ridiculous that you two boys, and I, an old boy, who would
fain be one of you, should imagine ourselves to be friends--this is what
the by-standers will go away and say--and as yet we have not been able
to discover what is a friend!


Produced by Sue Asscher





LACHES

OR COURAGE

By Plato

Translated by Benjamin Jowett




INTRODUCTION.

Lysimachus, the son of Aristides the Just, and Melesias, the son of
the elder Thucydides, two aged men who live together, are desirous of
educating their sons in the best manner. Their own education, as often
happens with the sons of great men, has been neglected; and they are
resolved that their children shall have more care taken of them, than
they received themselves at the hands of their fathers.

At their request, Nicias and Laches have accompanied them to see a man
named Stesilaus fighting in heavy armour. The two fathers ask the two
generals what they think of this exhibition, and whether they would
advise that their sons should acquire the accomplishment. Nicias and
Laches are quite willing to give their opinion; but they suggest that
Socrates should be invited to take part in the consultation. He is a
stranger to Lysimachus, but is afterwards recognised as the son of his
old friend Sophroniscus, with whom he never had a difference to the
hour of his death. Socrates is also known to Nicias, to whom he had
introduced the excellent Damon, musician and sophist, as a tutor for his
son, and to Laches, who had witnessed his heroic behaviour at the battle
of Delium (compare Symp.).

Socrates, as he is younger than either Nicias or Laches, prefers to
wait until they have delivered their opinions, which they give in a
characteristic manner. Nicias, the tactician, is very much in favour of
the new art, which he describes as the gymnastics of war--useful when
the ranks are formed, and still more useful when they are broken;
creating a general interest in military studies, and greatly adding to
the appearance of the soldier in the field. Laches, the blunt warrior,
is of opinion that such an art is not knowledge, and cannot be of any
value, because the Lacedaemonians, those great masters of arms, neglect
it. His own experience in actual service has taught him that these
pretenders are useless and ridiculous. This man Stesilaus has been seen
by him on board ship making a very sorry exhibition of himself. The
possession of the art will make the coward rash, and subject the
courageous, if he chance to make a slip, to invidious remarks. And now
let Socrates be taken into counsel. As they differ he must decide.

Socrates would rather not decide the question by a plurality of votes:
in such a serious matter as the education of a friend's children, he
would consult the one skilled person who has had masters, and has works
to show as evidences of his skill. This is not himself; for he has never
been able to pay the sophists for instructing him, and has never had
the wit to do or discover anything. But Nicias and Laches are older
and richer than he is: they have had teachers, and perhaps have made
discoveries; and he would have trusted them entirely, if they had not
been diametrically opposed.

Lysimachus here proposes to resign the argument into the hands of the
younger part of the company, as he is old, and has a bad memory. He
earnestly requests Socrates to remain;--in this showing, as Nicias says,
how little he knows the man, who will certainly not go away until he
has cross-examined the company about their past lives. Nicias has often
submitted to this process; and Laches is quite willing to learn from
Socrates, because his actions, in the true Dorian mode, correspond to
his words.

Socrates proceeds: We might ask who are our teachers? But a better and
more thorough way of examining the question will be to ask, 'What is
Virtue?'--or rather, to restrict the enquiry to that part of virtue
which is concerned with the use of weapons--'What is Courage?' Laches
thinks that he knows this: (1) 'He is courageous who remains at his
post.' But some nations fight flying, after the manner of Aeneas in
Homer; or as the heavy-armed Spartans also did at the battle of Plataea.
(2) Socrates wants a more general definition, not only of military
courage, but of courage of all sorts, tried both amid pleasures and
pains. Laches replies that this universal courage is endurance.
But courage is a good thing, and mere endurance may be hurtful and
injurious. Therefore (3) the element of intelligence must be added. But
then again unintelligent endurance may often be more courageous than
the intelligent, the bad than the good. How is this contradiction to be
solved? Socrates and Laches are not set 'to the Dorian mode' of words
and actions; for their words are all confusion, although their actions
are courageous. Still they must 'endure' in an argument about endurance.
Laches is very willing, and is quite sure that he knows what courage is,
if he could only tell.

Nicias is now appealed to; and in reply he offers a definition which
he has heard from Socrates himself, to the effect that (1) 'Courage is
intelligence.' Laches derides this; and Socrates enquires, 'What sort
of intelligence?' to which Nicias replies, 'Intelligence of things
terrible.' 'But every man knows the things to be dreaded in his own
art.' 'No they do not. They may predict results, but cannot tell whether
they are really terrible; only the courageous man can tell that.' Laches
draws the inference that the courageous man is either a soothsayer or a
god.

Again, (2) in Nicias' way of speaking, the term 'courageous' must be
denied to animals or children, because they do not know the danger.
Against this inversion of the ordinary use of language Laches reclaims,
but is in some degree mollified by a compliment to his own courage.
Still, he does not like to see an Athenian statesman and general
descending to sophistries of this sort. Socrates resumes the argument.
Courage has been defined to be intelligence or knowledge of the
terrible; and courage is not all virtue, but only one of the virtues.
The terrible is in the future, and therefore the knowledge of the
terrible is a knowledge of the future. But there can be no knowledge of
future good or evil separated from a knowledge of the good and evil
of the past or present; that is to say, of all good and evil. Courage,
therefore, is the knowledge of good and evil generally. But he who has
the knowledge of good and evil generally, must not only have courage,
but also temperance, justice, and every other virtue. Thus, a single
virtue would be the same as all virtues (compare Protagoras). And after
all the two generals, and Socrates, the hero of Delium, are still in
ignorance of the nature of courage. They must go to school again, boys,
old men and all.

Some points of resemblance, and some points of difference, appear in
the Laches when compared with the Charmides and Lysis. There is less
of poetical and simple beauty, and more of dramatic interest and power.
They are richer in the externals of the scene; the Laches has more play
and development of character. In the Lysis and Charmides the youths are
the central figures, and frequent allusions are made to the place of
meeting, which is a palaestra. Here the place of meeting, which is also
a palaestra, is quite forgotten, and the boys play a subordinate part.
The seance is of old and elder men, of whom Socrates is the youngest.

First is the aged Lysimachus, who may be compared with Cephalus in the
Republic, and, like him, withdraws from the argument. Melesias, who is
only his shadow, also subsides into silence. Both of them, by their
own confession, have been ill-educated, as is further shown by the
circumstance that Lysimachus, the friend of Sophroniscus, has never
heard of the fame of Socrates, his son; they belong to different
circles. In the Meno their want of education in all but the arts of
riding and wrestling is adduced as a proof that virtue cannot be taught.
The recognition of Socrates by Lysimachus is extremely graceful; and his
military exploits naturally connect him with the two generals, of
whom one has witnessed them. The characters of Nicias and Laches are
indicated by their opinions on the exhibition of the man fighting in
heavy armour. The more enlightened Nicias is quite ready to accept the
new art, which Laches treats with ridicule, seeming to think that this,
or any other military question, may be settled by asking, 'What do the
Lacedaemonians say?' The one is the thoughtful general, willing to avail
himself of any discovery in the art of war (Aristoph. Aves); the other
is the practical man, who relies on his own experience, and is the
enemy of innovation; he can act but cannot speak, and is apt to lose his
temper. It is to be noted that one of them is supposed to be a hearer of
Socrates; the other is only acquainted with his actions. Laches is the
admirer of the Dorian mode; and into his mouth the remark is put that
there are some persons who, having never been taught, are better than
those who have. Like a novice in the art of disputation, he is delighted
with the hits of Socrates; and is disposed to be angry with the
refinements of Nicias.

In the discussion of the main thesis of the Dialogue--'What is Courage?'
the antagonism of the two characters is still more clearly brought out;
and in this, as in the preliminary question, the truth is parted between
them. Gradually, and not without difficulty, Laches is made to pass on
from the more popular to the more philosophical; it has never occurred
to him that there was any other courage than that of the soldier; and
only by an effort of the mind can he frame a general notion at all. No
sooner has this general notion been formed than it evanesces before the
dialectic of Socrates; and Nicias appears from the other side with the
Socratic doctrine, that courage is knowledge. This is explained to mean
knowledge of things terrible in the future. But Socrates denies that the
knowledge of the future is separable from that of the past and present;
in other words, true knowledge is not that of the soothsayer but of the
philosopher. And all knowledge will thus be equivalent to all virtue--a
position which elsewhere Socrates is not unwilling to admit, but which
will not assist us in distinguishing the nature of courage. In this part
of the Dialogue the contrast between the mode of cross-examination which
is practised by Laches and by Socrates, and also the manner in which
the definition of Laches is made to approximate to that of Nicias, are
worthy of attention.

Thus, with some intimation of the connexion and unity of virtue and
knowledge, we arrive at no distinct result. The two aspects of courage
are never harmonized. The knowledge which in the Protagoras is explained
as the faculty of estimating pleasures and pains is here lost in an
unmeaning and transcendental conception. Yet several true intimations of
the nature of courage are allowed to appear: (1) That courage is
moral as well as physical: (2) That true courage is inseparable from
knowledge, and yet (3) is based on a natural instinct. Laches exhibits
one aspect of courage; Nicias the other. The perfect image and harmony
of both is only realized in Socrates himself.

The Dialogue offers one among many examples of the freedom with which
Plato treats facts. For the scene must be supposed to have occurred
between B.C. 424, the year of the battle of Delium, and B.C. 418, the
year of the battle of Mantinea, at which Laches fell. But if Socrates
was more than seventy years of age at his trial in 399 (see Apology), he
could not have been a young man at any time after the battle of Delium.




LACHES, OR COURAGE.




PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE:

     Lysimachus, son of Aristides.
     Melesias, son of Thucydides.
     Their sons.
     Nicias, Laches, Socrates.


LYSIMACHUS: You have seen the exhibition of the man fighting in armour,
Nicias and Laches, but we did not tell you at the time the reason why my
friend Melesias and I asked you to go with us and see him. I think that
we may as well confess what this was, for we certainly ought not to have
any reserve with you. The reason was, that we were intending to ask your
advice. Some laugh at the very notion of advising others, and when they
are asked will not say what they think. They guess at the wishes of the
person who asks them, and answer according to his, and not according to
their own, opinion. But as we know that you are good judges, and will
say exactly what you think, we have taken you into our counsels. The
matter about which I am making all this preface is as follows: Melesias
and I have two sons; that is his son, and he is named Thucydides,
after his grandfather; and this is mine, who is also called after his
grandfather, Aristides. Now, we are resolved to take the greatest care
of the youths, and not to let them run about as they like, which is too
often the way with the young, when they are no longer children, but to
begin at once and do the utmost that we can for them. And knowing you
to have sons of your own, we thought that you were most likely to have
attended to their training and improvement, and, if perchance you have
not attended to them, we may remind you that you ought to have done so,
and would invite you to assist us in the fulfilment of a common duty. I
will tell you, Nicias and Laches, even at the risk of being tedious,
how we came to think of this. Melesias and I live together, and our sons
live with us; and now, as I was saying at first, we are going to confess
to you. Both of us often talk to the lads about the many noble deeds
which our own fathers did in war and peace--in the management of the
allies, and in the administration of the city; but neither of us has any
deeds of his own which he can show. The truth is that we are ashamed of
this contrast being seen by them, and we blame our fathers for letting
us be spoiled in the days of our youth, while they were occupied with
the concerns of others; and we urge all this upon the lads, pointing out
to them that they will not grow up to honour if they are rebellious and
take no pains about themselves; but that if they take pains they may,
perhaps, become worthy of the names which they bear. They, on their
part, promise to comply with our wishes; and our care is to discover
what studies or pursuits are likely to be most improving to them. Some
one commended to us the art of fighting in armour, which he thought an
excellent accomplishment for a young man to learn; and he praised the
man whose exhibition you have seen, and told us to go and see him. And
we determined that we would go, and get you to accompany us; and we were
intending at the same time, if you did not object, to take counsel with
you about the education of our sons. That is the matter which we wanted
to talk over with you; and we hope that you will give us your opinion
about this art of fighting in armour, and about any other studies or
pursuits which may or may not be desirable for a young man to learn.
Please to say whether you agree to our proposal.

NICIAS: As far as I am concerned, Lysimachus and Melesias, I applaud
your purpose, and will gladly assist you; and I believe that you,
Laches, will be equally glad.

LACHES: Certainly, Nicias; and I quite approve of the remark which
Lysimachus made about his own father and the father of Melesias, and
which is applicable, not only to them, but to us, and to every one who
is occupied with public affairs. As he says, such persons are too apt
to be negligent and careless of their own children and their private
concerns. There is much truth in that remark of yours, Lysimachus. But
why, instead of consulting us, do you not consult our friend Socrates
about the education of the youths? He is of the same deme with you,
and is always passing his time in places where the youth have any noble
study or pursuit, such as you are enquiring after.

LYSIMACHUS: Why, Laches, has Socrates ever attended to matters of this
sort?

LACHES: Certainly, Lysimachus.

NICIAS: That I have the means of knowing as well as Laches; for quite
lately he supplied me with a teacher of music for my sons,--Damon, the
disciple of Agathocles, who is a most accomplished man in every way, as
well as a musician, and a companion of inestimable value for young men
at their age.

LYSIMACHUS: Those who have reached my time of life, Socrates and Nicias
and Laches, fall out of acquaintance with the young, because they are
generally detained at home by old age; but you, O son of Sophroniscus,
should let your fellow demesman have the benefit of any advice which you
are able to give. Moreover I have a claim upon you as an old friend of
your father; for I and he were always companions and friends, and to the
hour of his death there never was a difference between us; and now it
comes back to me, at the mention of your name, that I have heard these
lads talking to one another at home, and often speaking of Socrates
in terms of the highest praise; but I have never thought to ask them
whether the son of Sophroniscus was the person whom they meant. Tell me,
my boys, whether this is the Socrates of whom you have often spoken?

SON: Certainly, father, this is he.

LYSIMACHUS: I am delighted to hear, Socrates, that you maintain the name
of your father, who was a most excellent man; and I further rejoice at
the prospect of our family ties being renewed.

LACHES: Indeed, Lysimachus, you ought not to give him up; for I can
assure you that I have seen him maintaining, not only his father's, but
also his country's name. He was my companion in the retreat from Delium,
and I can tell you that if others had only been like him, the honour
of our country would have been upheld, and the great defeat would never
have occurred.

LYSIMACHUS: That is very high praise which is accorded to you, Socrates,
by faithful witnesses and for actions like those which they praise. Let
me tell you the pleasure which I feel in hearing of your fame; and I
hope that you will regard me as one of your warmest friends. You ought
to have visited us long ago, and made yourself at home with us; but now,
from this day forward, as we have at last found one another out, do as I
say--come and make acquaintance with me, and with these young men, that
I may continue your friend, as I was your father's. I shall expect you
to do so, and shall venture at some future time to remind you of your
duty. But what say you of the matter of which we were beginning to
speak--the art of fighting in armour? Is that a practice in which the
lads may be advantageously instructed?

SOCRATES: I will endeavour to advise you, Lysimachus, as far as I can in
this matter, and also in every way will comply with your wishes; but as
I am younger and not so experienced, I think that I ought certainly to
hear first what my elders have to say, and to learn of them, and if I
have anything to add, then I may venture to give my opinion to them as
well as to you. Suppose, Nicias, that one or other of you begin.

NICIAS: I have no objection, Socrates; and my opinion is that the
acquirement of this art is in many ways useful to young men. It is an
advantage to them that among the favourite amusements of their leisure
hours they should have one which tends to improve and not to injure
their bodily health. No gymnastics could be better or harder exercise;
and this, and the art of riding, are of all arts most befitting to a
freeman; for they only who are thus trained in the use of arms are
the athletes of our military profession, trained in that on which the
conflict turns. Moreover in actual battle, when you have to fight in a
line with a number of others, such an acquirement will be of some use,
and will be of the greatest whenever the ranks are broken and you have
to fight singly, either in pursuit, when you are attacking some one who
is defending himself, or in flight, when you have to defend yourself
against an assailant. Certainly he who possessed the art could not meet
with any harm at the hands of a single person, or perhaps of several;
and in any case he would have a great advantage. Further, this sort of
skill inclines a man to the love of other noble lessons; for every man
who has learned how to fight in armour will desire to learn the proper
arrangement of an army, which is the sequel of the lesson: and when he
has learned this, and his ambition is once fired, he will go on to learn
the complete art of the general. There is no difficulty in seeing that
the knowledge and practice of other military arts will be honourable and
valuable to a man; and this lesson may be the beginning of them. Let me
add a further advantage, which is by no means a slight one,--that this
science will make any man a great deal more valiant and self-possessed
in the field. And I will not disdain to mention, what by some may be
thought to be a small matter;--he will make a better appearance at the
right time; that is to say, at the time when his appearance will strike
terror into his enemies. My opinion then, Lysimachus, is, as I say, that
the youths should be instructed in this art, and for the reasons which
I have given. But Laches may take a different view; and I shall be very
glad to hear what he has to say.

LACHES: I should not like to maintain, Nicias, that any kind of
knowledge is not to be learned; for all knowledge appears to be a good:
and if, as Nicias and as the teachers of the art affirm, this use of
arms is really a species of knowledge, then it ought to be learned; but
if not, and if those who profess to teach it are deceivers only; or if
it be knowledge, but not of a valuable sort, then what is the use of
learning it? I say this, because I think that if it had been really
valuable, the Lacedaemonians, whose whole life is passed in finding out
and practising the arts which give them an advantage over other nations
in war, would have discovered this one. And even if they had not, still
these professors of the art would certainly not have failed to discover
that of all the Hellenes the Lacedaemonians have the greatest interest
in such matters, and that a master of the art who was honoured among
them would be sure to make his fortune among other nations, just as a
tragic poet would who is honoured among ourselves; which is the reason
why he who fancies that he can write a tragedy does not go about
itinerating in the neighbouring states, but rushes hither straight, and
exhibits at Athens; and this is natural. Whereas I perceive that these
fighters in armour regard Lacedaemon as a sacred inviolable territory,
which they do not touch with the point of their foot; but they make
a circuit of the neighbouring states, and would rather exhibit to
any others than to the Spartans; and particularly to those who would
themselves acknowledge that they are by no means first-rate in the arts
of war. Further, Lysimachus, I have encountered a good many of these
gentlemen in actual service, and have taken their measure, which I can
give you at once; for none of these masters of fence have ever been
distinguished in war,--there has been a sort of fatality about them;
while in all other arts the men of note have been always those who have
practised the art, they appear to be a most unfortunate exception.
For example, this very Stesilaus, whom you and I have just witnessed
exhibiting in all that crowd and making such great professions of
his powers, I have seen at another time making, in sober truth, an
involuntary exhibition of himself, which was a far better spectacle. He
was a marine on board a ship which struck a transport vessel, and was
armed with a weapon, half spear, half scythe; the singularity of this
weapon was worthy of the singularity of the man. To make a long story
short, I will only tell you what happened to this notable invention
of the scythe spear. He was fighting, and the scythe was caught in the
rigging of the other ship, and stuck fast; and he tugged, but was unable
to get his weapon free. The two ships were passing one another. He first
ran along his own ship holding on to the spear; but as the other ship
passed by and drew him after as he was holding on, he let the spear
slip through his hand until he retained only the end of the handle.
The people in the transport clapped their hands, and laughed at his
ridiculous figure; and when some one threw a stone, which fell on the
deck at his feet, and he quitted his hold of the scythe-spear, the crew
of his own trireme also burst out laughing; they could not refrain when
they beheld the weapon waving in the air, suspended from the transport.
Now I do not deny that there may be something in such an art, as Nicias
asserts, but I tell you my experience; and, as I said at first, whether
this be an art of which the advantage is so slight, or not an art at
all, but only an imposition, in either case such an acquirement is not
worth having. For my opinion is, that if the professor of this art be a
coward, he will be likely to become rash, and his character will be only
more notorious; or if he be brave, and fail ever so little, other men
will be on the watch, and he will be greatly traduced; for there is a
jealousy of such pretenders; and unless a man be pre-eminent in valour,
he cannot help being ridiculous, if he says that he has this sort of
skill. Such is my judgment, Lysimachus, of the desirableness of this
art; but, as I said at first, ask Socrates, and do not let him go until
he has given you his opinion of the matter.

LYSIMACHUS: I am going to ask this favour of you, Socrates; as is the
more necessary because the two councillors disagree, and some one is in
a manner still needed who will decide between them. Had they agreed, no
arbiter would have been required. But as Laches has voted one way and
Nicias another, I should like to hear with which of our two friends you
agree.

SOCRATES: What, Lysimachus, are you going to accept the opinion of the
majority?

LYSIMACHUS: Why, yes, Socrates; what else am I to do?

SOCRATES: And would you do so too, Melesias? If you were deliberating
about the gymnastic training of your son, would you follow the advice of
the majority of us, or the opinion of the one who had been trained and
exercised under a skilful master?

MELESIAS: The latter, Socrates; as would surely be reasonable.

SOCRATES: His one vote would be worth more than the vote of all us four?

MELESIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And for this reason, as I imagine,--because a good decision is
based on knowledge and not on numbers?

MELESIAS: To be sure.

SOCRATES: Must we not then first of all ask, whether there is any one of
us who has knowledge of that about which we are deliberating? If there
is, let us take his advice, though he be one only, and not mind the
rest; if there is not, let us seek further counsel. Is this a slight
matter about which you and Lysimachus are deliberating? Are you not
risking the greatest of your possessions? For children are your riches;
and upon their turning out well or ill depends the whole order of their
father's house.

MELESIAS: That is true.

SOCRATES: Great care, then, is required in this matter?

MELESIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Suppose, as I was just now saying, that we were considering,
or wanting to consider, who was the best trainer. Should we not select
him who knew and had practised the art, and had the best teachers?

MELESIAS: I think that we should.

SOCRATES: But would there not arise a prior question about the nature of
the art of which we want to find the masters?

MELESIAS: I do not understand.

SOCRATES: Let me try to make my meaning plainer then. I do not think
that we have as yet decided what that is about which we are consulting,
when we ask which of us is or is not skilled in the art, and has or has
not had a teacher of the art.

NICIAS: Why, Socrates, is not the question whether young men ought or
ought not to learn the art of fighting in armour?

SOCRATES: Yes, Nicias; but there is also a prior question, which I
may illustrate in this way: When a person considers about applying a
medicine to the eyes, would you say that he is consulting about the
medicine or about the eyes?

NICIAS: About the eyes.

SOCRATES: And when he considers whether he shall set a bridle on a horse
and at what time, he is thinking of the horse and not of the bridle?

NICIAS: True.

SOCRATES: And in a word, when he considers anything for the sake of
another thing, he thinks of the end and not of the means?

NICIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And when you call in an adviser, you should see whether he too
is skilful in the accomplishment of the end which you have in view?

NICIAS: Most true.

SOCRATES: And at present we have in view some knowledge, of which the
end is the soul of youth?

NICIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And we are enquiring, Which of us is skilful or successful in
the treatment of the soul, and which of us has had good teachers?

LACHES: Well but, Socrates; did you never observe that some persons,
who have had no teachers, are more skilful than those who have, in some
things?

SOCRATES: Yes, Laches, I have observed that; but you would not be very
willing to trust them if they only professed to be masters of their art,
unless they could show some proof of their skill or excellence in one or
more works.

LACHES: That is true.

SOCRATES: And therefore, Laches and Nicias, as Lysimachus and Melesias,
in their anxiety to improve the minds of their sons, have asked our
advice about them, we too should tell them who our teachers were, if we
say that we have had any, and prove them to be in the first place men
of merit and experienced trainers of the minds of youth and also to have
been really our teachers. Or if any of us says that he has no teacher,
but that he has works of his own to show; then he should point out
to them what Athenians or strangers, bond or free, he is generally
acknowledged to have improved. But if he can show neither teachers nor
works, then he should tell them to look out for others; and not run the
risk of spoiling the children of friends, and thereby incurring the
most formidable accusation which can be brought against any one by those
nearest to him. As for myself, Lysimachus and Melesias, I am the
first to confess that I have never had a teacher of the art of virtue;
although I have always from my earliest youth desired to have one. But
I am too poor to give money to the Sophists, who are the only professors
of moral improvement; and to this day I have never been able to discover
the art myself, though I should not be surprised if Nicias or Laches may
have discovered or learned it; for they are far wealthier than I am,
and may therefore have learnt of others. And they are older too; so that
they have had more time to make the discovery. And I really believe that
they are able to educate a man; for unless they had been confident in
their own knowledge, they would never have spoken thus decidedly of
the pursuits which are advantageous or hurtful to a young man. I repose
confidence in both of them; but I am surprised to find that they differ
from one another. And therefore, Lysimachus, as Laches suggested that
you should detain me, and not let me go until I answered, I in turn
earnestly beseech and advise you to detain Laches and Nicias, and
question them. I would have you say to them: Socrates avers that he has
no knowledge of the matter--he is unable to decide which of you speaks
truly; neither discoverer nor student is he of anything of the kind.
But you, Laches and Nicias, should each of you tell us who is the most
skilful educator whom you have ever known; and whether you invented the
art yourselves, or learned of another; and if you learned, who were your
respective teachers, and who were their brothers in the art; and then,
if you are too much occupied in politics to teach us yourselves, let us
go to them, and present them with gifts, or make interest with them,
or both, in the hope that they may be induced to take charge of our
children and of yours; and then they will not grow up inferior, and
disgrace their ancestors. But if you are yourselves original discoverers
in that field, give us some proof of your skill. Who are they who,
having been inferior persons, have become under your care good and
noble? For if this is your first attempt at education, there is a danger
that you may be trying the experiment, not on the 'vile corpus' of a
Carian slave, but on your own sons, or the sons of your friend, and,
as the proverb says, 'break the large vessel in learning to make pots.'
Tell us then, what qualities you claim or do not claim. Make them tell
you that, Lysimachus, and do not let them off.

LYSIMACHUS: I very much approve of the words of Socrates, my friends;
but you, Nicias and Laches, must determine whether you will be
questioned, and give an explanation about matters of this sort.
Assuredly, I and Melesias would be greatly pleased to hear you answer
the questions which Socrates asks, if you will: for I began by saying
that we took you into our counsels because we thought that you would
have attended to the subject, especially as you have children who, like
our own, are nearly of an age to be educated. Well, then, if you have no
objection, suppose that you take Socrates into partnership; and do you
and he ask and answer one another's questions: for, as he has well said,
we are deliberating about the most important of our concerns. I hope
that you will see fit to comply with our request.

NICIAS: I see very clearly, Lysimachus, that you have only known
Socrates' father, and have no acquaintance with Socrates himself: at
least, you can only have known him when he was a child, and may have
met him among his fellow-wardsmen, in company with his father, at a
sacrifice, or at some other gathering. You clearly show that you have
never known him since he arrived at manhood.

LYSIMACHUS: Why do you say that, Nicias?

NICIAS: Because you seem not to be aware that any one who has an
intellectual affinity to Socrates and enters into conversation with
him is liable to be drawn into an argument; and whatever subject he may
start, he will be continually carried round and round by him, until at
last he finds that he has to give an account both of his present and
past life; and when he is once entangled, Socrates will not let him go
until he has completely and thoroughly sifted him. Now I am used to his
ways; and I know that he will certainly do as I say, and also that
I myself shall be the sufferer; for I am fond of his conversation,
Lysimachus. And I think that there is no harm in being reminded of any
wrong thing which we are, or have been, doing: he who does not fly from
reproof will be sure to take more heed of his after-life; as Solon says,
he will wish and desire to be learning so long as he lives, and will not
think that old age of itself brings wisdom. To me, to be cross-examined
by Socrates is neither unusual nor unpleasant; indeed, I knew all along
that where Socrates was, the argument would soon pass from our sons to
ourselves; and therefore, I say that for my part, I am quite willing to
discourse with Socrates in his own manner; but you had better ask our
friend Laches what his feeling may be.

LACHES: I have but one feeling, Nicias, or (shall I say?) two feelings,
about discussions. Some would think that I am a lover, and to others I
may seem to be a hater of discourse; for when I hear a man discoursing
of virtue, or of any sort of wisdom, who is a true man and worthy of
his theme, I am delighted beyond measure: and I compare the man and his
words, and note the harmony and correspondence of them. And such an one
I deem to be the true musician, attuned to a fairer harmony than that of
the lyre, or any pleasant instrument of music; for truly he has in his
own life a harmony of words and deeds arranged, not in the Ionian, or in
the Phrygian mode, nor yet in the Lydian, but in the true Hellenic mode,
which is the Dorian, and no other. Such an one makes me merry with the
sound of his voice; and when I hear him I am thought to be a lover
of discourse; so eager am I in drinking in his words. But a man whose
actions do not agree with his words is an annoyance to me; and the
better he speaks the more I hate him, and then I seem to be a hater of
discourse. As to Socrates, I have no knowledge of his words, but of old,
as would seem, I have had experience of his deeds; and his deeds show
that free and noble sentiments are natural to him. And if his words
accord, then I am of one mind with him, and shall be delighted to be
interrogated by a man such as he is, and shall not be annoyed at having
to learn of him: for I too agree with Solon, 'that I would fain grow
old, learning many things.' But I must be allowed to add 'of the good
only.' Socrates must be willing to allow that he is a good teacher, or I
shall be a dull and uncongenial pupil: but that the teacher is younger,
or not as yet in repute--anything of that sort is of no account with
me. And therefore, Socrates, I give you notice that you may teach and
confute me as much as ever you like, and also learn of me anything which
I know. So high is the opinion which I have entertained of you ever
since the day on which you were my companion in danger, and gave a proof
of your valour such as only the man of merit can give. Therefore, say
whatever you like, and do not mind about the difference of our ages.

SOCRATES: I cannot say that either of you show any reluctance to take
counsel and advise with me.

LYSIMACHUS: But this is our proper business; and yours as well as ours,
for I reckon you as one of us. Please then to take my place, and find
out from Nicias and Laches what we want to know, for the sake of the
youths, and talk and consult with them: for I am old, and my memory is
bad; and I do not remember the questions which I am going to ask, or
the answers to them; and if there is any interruption I am quite lost.
I will therefore beg of you to carry on the proposed discussion by
your selves; and I will listen, and Melesias and I will act upon your
conclusions.

SOCRATES: Let us, Nicias and Laches, comply with the request of
Lysimachus and Melesias. There will be no harm in asking ourselves
the question which was first proposed to us: 'Who have been our own
instructors in this sort of training, and whom have we made better?' But
the other mode of carrying on the enquiry will bring us equally to the
same point, and will be more like proceeding from first principles.
For if we knew that the addition of something would improve some other
thing, and were able to make the addition, then, clearly, we must
know how that about which we are advising may be best and most easily
attained. Perhaps you do not understand what I mean. Then let me make my
meaning plainer in this way. Suppose we knew that the addition of sight
makes better the eyes which possess this gift, and also were able to
impart sight to the eyes, then, clearly, we should know the nature of
sight, and should be able to advise how this gift of sight may be best
and most easily attained; but if we knew neither what sight is, nor what
hearing is, we should not be very good medical advisers about the eyes
or the ears, or about the best mode of giving sight and hearing to them.

LACHES: That is true, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And are not our two friends, Laches, at this very moment
inviting us to consider in what way the gift of virtue may be imparted
to their sons for the improvement of their minds?

LACHES: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then must we not first know the nature of virtue? For how can
we advise any one about the best mode of attaining something of which we
are wholly ignorant?

LACHES: I do not think that we can, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then, Laches, we may presume that we know the nature of
virtue?

LACHES: Yes.

SOCRATES: And that which we know we must surely be able to tell?

LACHES: Certainly.

SOCRATES: I would not have us begin, my friend, with enquiring about
the whole of virtue; for that may be more than we can accomplish; let
us first consider whether we have a sufficient knowledge of a part; the
enquiry will thus probably be made easier to us.

LACHES: Let us do as you say, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then which of the parts of virtue shall we select? Must we
not select that to which the art of fighting in armour is supposed to
conduce? And is not that generally thought to be courage?

LACHES: Yes, certainly.

SOCRATES: Then, Laches, suppose that we first set about determining the
nature of courage, and in the second place proceed to enquire how the
young men may attain this quality by the help of studies and pursuits.
Tell me, if you can, what is courage.

LACHES: Indeed, Socrates, I see no difficulty in answering; he is a man
of courage who does not run away, but remains at his post and fights
against the enemy; there can be no mistake about that.

SOCRATES: Very good, Laches; and yet I fear that I did not express
myself clearly; and therefore you have answered not the question which I
intended to ask, but another.

LACHES: What do you mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: I will endeavour to explain; you would call a man courageous
who remains at his post, and fights with the enemy?

LACHES: Certainly I should.

SOCRATES: And so should I; but what would you say of another man, who
fights flying, instead of remaining?

LACHES: How flying?

SOCRATES: Why, as the Scythians are said to fight, flying as well as
pursuing; and as Homer says in praise of the horses of Aeneas, that they
knew 'how to pursue, and fly quickly hither and thither'; and he passes
an encomium on Aeneas himself, as having a knowledge of fear or flight,
and calls him 'an author of fear or flight.'

LACHES: Yes, Socrates, and there Homer is right: for he was speaking of
chariots, as you were speaking of the Scythian cavalry, who have that
way of fighting; but the heavy-armed Greek fights, as I say, remaining
in his rank.

SOCRATES: And yet, Laches, you must except the Lacedaemonians at
Plataea, who, when they came upon the light shields of the Persians, are
said not to have been willing to stand and fight, and to have fled; but
when the ranks of the Persians were broken, they turned upon them like
cavalry, and won the battle of Plataea.

LACHES: That is true.

SOCRATES: That was my meaning when I said that I was to blame in having
put my question badly, and that this was the reason of your answering
badly. For I meant to ask you not only about the courage of heavy-armed
soldiers, but about the courage of cavalry and every other style of
soldier; and not only who are courageous in war, but who are courageous
in perils by sea, and who in disease, or in poverty, or again in
politics, are courageous; and not only who are courageous against pain
or fear, but mighty to contend against desires and pleasures, either
fixed in their rank or turning upon their enemy. There is this sort of
courage--is there not, Laches?

LACHES: Certainly, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And all these are courageous, but some have courage in
pleasures, and some in pains: some in desires, and some in fears, and
some are cowards under the same conditions, as I should imagine.

LACHES: Very true.

SOCRATES: Now I was asking about courage and cowardice in general. And I
will begin with courage, and once more ask, What is that common quality,
which is the same in all these cases, and which is called courage? Do
you now understand what I mean?

LACHES: Not over well.

SOCRATES: I mean this: As I might ask what is that quality which is
called quickness, and which is found in running, in playing the lyre,
in speaking, in learning, and in many other similar actions, or rather
which we possess in nearly every action that is worth mentioning of
arms, legs, mouth, voice, mind;--would you not apply the term quickness
to all of them?

LACHES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: And suppose I were to be asked by some one: What is that
common quality, Socrates, which, in all these uses of the word, you call
quickness? I should say the quality which accomplishes much in a little
time--whether in running, speaking, or in any other sort of action.

LACHES: You would be quite correct.

SOCRATES: And now, Laches, do you try and tell me in like manner, What
is that common quality which is called courage, and which includes all
the various uses of the term when applied both to pleasure and pain, and
in all the cases to which I was just now referring?

LACHES: I should say that courage is a sort of endurance of the soul, if
I am to speak of the universal nature which pervades them all.

SOCRATES: But that is what we must do if we are to answer the question.
And yet I cannot say that every kind of endurance is, in my opinion,
to be deemed courage. Hear my reason: I am sure, Laches, that you would
consider courage to be a very noble quality.

LACHES: Most noble, certainly.

SOCRATES: And you would say that a wise endurance is also good and
noble?

LACHES: Very noble.

SOCRATES: But what would you say of a foolish endurance? Is not that, on
the other hand, to be regarded as evil and hurtful?

LACHES: True.

SOCRATES: And is anything noble which is evil and hurtful?

LACHES: I ought not to say that, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Then you would not admit that sort of endurance to be
courage--for it is not noble, but courage is noble?

LACHES: You are right.

SOCRATES: Then, according to you, only the wise endurance is courage?

LACHES: True.

SOCRATES: But as to the epithet 'wise,'--wise in what? In all things
small as well as great? For example, if a man shows the quality of
endurance in spending his money wisely, knowing that by spending he will
acquire more in the end, do you call him courageous?

LACHES: Assuredly not.

SOCRATES: Or, for example, if a man is a physician, and his son, or some
patient of his, has inflammation of the lungs, and begs that he may be
allowed to eat or drink something, and the other is firm and refuses; is
that courage?

LACHES: No; that is not courage at all, any more than the last.

SOCRATES: Again, take the case of one who endures in war, and is willing
to fight, and wisely calculates and knows that others will help him,
and that there will be fewer and inferior men against him than there are
with him; and suppose that he has also advantages of position; would you
say of such a one who endures with all this wisdom and preparation,
that he, or some man in the opposing army who is in the opposite
circumstances to these and yet endures and remains at his post, is the
braver?

LACHES: I should say that the latter, Socrates, was the braver.

SOCRATES: But, surely, this is a foolish endurance in comparison with
the other?

LACHES: That is true.

SOCRATES: Then you would say that he who in an engagement of cavalry
endures, having the knowledge of horsemanship, is not so courageous as
he who endures, having no such knowledge?

LACHES: So I should say.

SOCRATES: And he who endures, having a knowledge of the use of the
sling, or the bow, or of any other art, is not so courageous as he who
endures, not having such a knowledge?

LACHES: True.

SOCRATES: And he who descends into a well, and dives, and holds out in
this or any similar action, having no knowledge of diving, or the
like, is, as you would say, more courageous than those who have this
knowledge?

LACHES: Why, Socrates, what else can a man say?

SOCRATES: Nothing, if that be what he thinks.

LACHES: But that is what I do think.

SOCRATES: And yet men who thus run risks and endure are foolish, Laches,
in comparison of those who do the same things, having the skill to do
them.

LACHES: That is true.

SOCRATES: But foolish boldness and endurance appeared before to be base
and hurtful to us.

LACHES: Quite true.

SOCRATES: Whereas courage was acknowledged to be a noble quality.

LACHES: True.

SOCRATES: And now on the contrary we are saying that the foolish
endurance, which was before held in dishonour, is courage.

LACHES: Very true.

SOCRATES: And are we right in saying so?

LACHES: Indeed, Socrates, I am sure that we are not right.

SOCRATES: Then according to your statement, you and I, Laches, are not
attuned to the Dorian mode, which is a harmony of words and deeds; for
our deeds are not in accordance with our words. Any one would say that
we had courage who saw us in action, but not, I imagine, he who heard us
talking about courage just now.

LACHES: That is most true.

SOCRATES: And is this condition of ours satisfactory?

LACHES: Quite the reverse.

SOCRATES: Suppose, however, that we admit the principle of which we are
speaking to a certain extent.

LACHES: To what extent and what principle do you mean?

SOCRATES: The principle of endurance. We too must endure and persevere
in the enquiry, and then courage will not laugh at our faint-heartedness
in searching for courage; which after all may, very likely, be
endurance.

LACHES: I am ready to go on, Socrates; and yet I am unused to
investigations of this sort. But the spirit of controversy has been
aroused in me by what has been said; and I am really grieved at being
thus unable to express my meaning. For I fancy that I do know the nature
of courage; but, somehow or other, she has slipped away from me, and I
cannot get hold of her and tell her nature.

SOCRATES: But, my dear friend, should not the good sportsman follow the
track, and not be lazy?

LACHES: Certainly, he should.

SOCRATES: And shall we invite Nicias to join us? he may be better at the
sport than we are. What do you say?

LACHES: I should like that.

SOCRATES: Come then, Nicias, and do what you can to help your friends,
who are tossing on the waves of argument, and at the last gasp: you see
our extremity, and may save us and also settle your own opinion, if you
will tell us what you think about courage.

NICIAS: I have been thinking, Socrates, that you and Laches are not
defining courage in the right way; for you have forgotten an excellent
saying which I have heard from your own lips.

SOCRATES: What is it, Nicias?

NICIAS: I have often heard you say that 'Every man is good in that in
which he is wise, and bad in that in which he is unwise.'

SOCRATES: That is certainly true, Nicias.

NICIAS: And therefore if the brave man is good, he is also wise.

SOCRATES: Do you hear him, Laches?

LACHES: Yes, I hear him, but I do not very well understand him.

SOCRATES: I think that I understand him; and he appears to me to mean
that courage is a sort of wisdom.

LACHES: What can he possibly mean, Socrates?

SOCRATES: That is a question which you must ask of himself.

LACHES: Yes.

SOCRATES: Tell him then, Nicias, what you mean by this wisdom; for you
surely do not mean the wisdom which plays the flute?

NICIAS: Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Nor the wisdom which plays the lyre?

NICIAS: No.

SOCRATES: But what is this knowledge then, and of what?

LACHES: I think that you put the question to him very well, Socrates;
and I would like him to say what is the nature of this knowledge or
wisdom.

NICIAS: I mean to say, Laches, that courage is the knowledge of that
which inspires fear or confidence in war, or in anything.

LACHES: How strangely he is talking, Socrates.

SOCRATES: Why do you say so, Laches?

LACHES: Why, surely courage is one thing, and wisdom another.

SOCRATES: That is just what Nicias denies.

LACHES: Yes, that is what he denies; but he is so silly.

SOCRATES: Suppose that we instruct instead of abusing him?

NICIAS: Laches does not want to instruct me, Socrates; but having been
proved to be talking nonsense himself, he wants to prove that I have
been doing the same.

LACHES: Very true, Nicias; and you are talking nonsense, as I shall
endeavour to show. Let me ask you a question: Do not physicians know
the dangers of disease? or do the courageous know them? or are the
physicians the same as the courageous?

NICIAS: Not at all.

LACHES: No more than the husbandmen who know the dangers of husbandry,
or than other craftsmen, who have a knowledge of that which inspires
them with fear or confidence in their own arts, and yet they are not
courageous a whit the more for that.

SOCRATES: What is Laches saying, Nicias? He appears to be saying
something of importance.

NICIAS: Yes, he is saying something, but it is not true.

SOCRATES: How so?

NICIAS: Why, because he does not see that the physician's knowledge only
extends to the nature of health and disease: he can tell the sick man no
more than this. Do you imagine, Laches, that the physician knows whether
health or disease is the more terrible to a man? Had not many a man
better never get up from a sick bed? I should like to know whether you
think that life is always better than death. May not death often be the
better of the two?

LACHES: Yes certainly so in my opinion.

NICIAS: And do you think that the same things are terrible to those who
had better die, and to those who had better live?

LACHES: Certainly not.

NICIAS: And do you suppose that the physician or any other artist knows
this, or any one indeed, except he who is skilled in the grounds of fear
and hope? And him I call the courageous.

SOCRATES: Do you understand his meaning, Laches?

LACHES: Yes; I suppose that, in his way of speaking, the soothsayers are
courageous. For who but one of them can know to whom to die or to live
is better? And yet Nicias, would you allow that you are yourself a
soothsayer, or are you neither a soothsayer nor courageous?

NICIAS: What! do you mean to say that the soothsayer ought to know the
grounds of hope or fear?

LACHES: Indeed I do: who but he?

NICIAS: Much rather I should say he of whom I speak; for the soothsayer
ought to know only the signs of things that are about to come to pass,
whether death or disease, or loss of property, or victory, or defeat
in war, or in any sort of contest; but to whom the suffering or not
suffering of these things will be for the best, can no more be decided
by the soothsayer than by one who is no soothsayer.

LACHES: I cannot understand what Nicias would be at, Socrates; for he
represents the courageous man as neither a soothsayer, nor a physician,
nor in any other character, unless he means to say that he is a god. My
opinion is that he does not like honestly to confess that he is talking
nonsense, but that he shuffles up and down in order to conceal the
difficulty into which he has got himself. You and I, Socrates, might
have practised a similar shuffle just now, if we had only wanted to
avoid the appearance of inconsistency. And if we had been arguing in a
court of law there might have been reason in so doing; but why should
a man deck himself out with vain words at a meeting of friends such as
this?

SOCRATES: I quite agree with you, Laches, that he should not. But
perhaps Nicias is serious, and not merely talking for the sake of
talking. Let us ask him just to explain what he means, and if he has
reason on his side we will agree with him; if not, we will instruct him.

LACHES: Do you, Socrates, if you like, ask him: I think that I have
asked enough.

SOCRATES: I do not see why I should not; and my question will do for
both of us.

LACHES: Very good.

SOCRATES: Then tell me, Nicias, or rather tell us, for Laches and I
are partners in the argument: Do you mean to affirm that courage is the
knowledge of the grounds of hope and fear?

NICIAS: I do.

SOCRATES: And not every man has this knowledge; the physician and the
soothsayer have it not; and they will not be courageous unless they
acquire it--that is what you were saying?

NICIAS: I was.

SOCRATES: Then this is certainly not a thing which every pig would know,
as the proverb says, and therefore he could not be courageous.

NICIAS: I think not.

SOCRATES: Clearly not, Nicias; not even such a big pig as the
Crommyonian sow would be called by you courageous. And this I say not as
a joke, but because I think that he who assents to your doctrine, that
courage is the knowledge of the grounds of fear and hope, cannot allow
that any wild beast is courageous, unless he admits that a lion, or a
leopard, or perhaps a boar, or any other animal, has such a degree of
wisdom that he knows things which but a few human beings ever know
by reason of their difficulty. He who takes your view of courage must
affirm that a lion, and a stag, and a bull, and a monkey, have equally
little pretensions to courage.

LACHES: Capital, Socrates; by the gods, that is truly good. And I hope,
Nicias, that you will tell us whether these animals, which we all admit
to be courageous, are really wiser than mankind; or whether you will
have the boldness, in the face of universal opinion, to deny their
courage.

NICIAS: Why, Laches, I do not call animals or any other things which
have no fear of dangers, because they are ignorant of them, courageous,
but only fearless and senseless. Do you imagine that I should call
little children courageous, which fear no dangers because they know
none? There is a difference, to my way of thinking, between fearlessness
and courage. I am of opinion that thoughtful courage is a quality
possessed by very few, but that rashness and boldness, and fearlessness,
which has no forethought, are very common qualities possessed by many
men, many women, many children, many animals. And you, and men in
general, call by the term 'courageous' actions which I call rash;--my
courageous actions are wise actions.

LACHES: Behold, Socrates, how admirably, as he thinks, he dresses
himself out in words, while seeking to deprive of the honour of courage
those whom all the world acknowledges to be courageous.

NICIAS: Not so, Laches, but do not be alarmed; for I am quite willing to
say of you and also of Lamachus, and of many other Athenians, that you
are courageous and therefore wise.

LACHES: I could answer that; but I would not have you cast in my teeth
that I am a haughty Aexonian.

SOCRATES: Do not answer him, Laches; I rather fancy that you are not
aware of the source from which his wisdom is derived. He has got all
this from my friend Damon, and Damon is always with Prodicus, who, of
all the Sophists, is considered to be the best puller to pieces of words
of this sort.

LACHES: Yes, Socrates; and the examination of such niceties is a much
more suitable employment for a Sophist than for a great statesman whom
the city chooses to preside over her.

SOCRATES: Yes, my sweet friend, but a great statesman is likely to have
a great intelligence. And I think that the view which is implied in
Nicias' definition of courage is worthy of examination.

LACHES: Then examine for yourself, Socrates.

SOCRATES: That is what I am going to do, my dear friend. Do not,
however, suppose I shall let you out of the partnership; for I shall
expect you to apply your mind, and join with me in the consideration of
the question.

LACHES: I will if you think that I ought.

SOCRATES: Yes, I do; but I must beg of you, Nicias, to begin again. You
remember that we originally considered courage to be a part of virtue.

NICIAS: Very true.

SOCRATES: And you yourself said that it was a part; and there were many
other parts, all of which taken together are called virtue.

NICIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Do you agree with me about the parts? For I say that justice,
temperance, and the like, are all of them parts of virtue as well as
courage. Would you not say the same?

NICIAS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: Well then, so far we are agreed. And now let us proceed a
step, and try to arrive at a similar agreement about the fearful and the
hopeful: I do not want you to be thinking one thing and myself another.
Let me then tell you my own opinion, and if I am wrong you shall set me
right: in my opinion the terrible and the hopeful are the things which
do or do not create fear, and fear is not of the present, nor of the
past, but is of future and expected evil. Do you not agree to that,
Laches?

LACHES: Yes, Socrates, entirely.

SOCRATES: That is my view, Nicias; the terrible things, as I should say,
are the evils which are future; and the hopeful are the good or not evil
things which are future. Do you or do you not agree with me?

NICIAS: I agree.

SOCRATES: And the knowledge of these things you call courage?

NICIAS: Precisely.

SOCRATES: And now let me see whether you agree with Laches and myself as
to a third point.

NICIAS: What is that?

SOCRATES: I will tell you. He and I have a notion that there is not one
knowledge or science of the past, another of the present, a third of
what is likely to be best and what will be best in the future; but
that of all three there is one science only: for example, there is one
science of medicine which is concerned with the inspection of health
equally in all times, present, past, and future; and one science of
husbandry in like manner, which is concerned with the productions of the
earth in all times. As to the art of the general, you yourselves will be
my witnesses that he has an excellent foreknowledge of the future, and
that he claims to be the master and not the servant of the soothsayer,
because he knows better what is happening or is likely to happen in war:
and accordingly the law places the soothsayer under the general, and not
the general under the soothsayer. Am I not correct in saying so, Laches?

LACHES: Quite correct.

SOCRATES: And do you, Nicias, also acknowledge that the same science has
understanding of the same things, whether future, present, or past?

NICIAS: Yes, indeed Socrates; that is my opinion.

SOCRATES: And courage, my friend, is, as you say, a knowledge of the
fearful and of the hopeful?

NICIAS: Yes.

SOCRATES: And the fearful, and the hopeful, are admitted to be future
goods and future evils?

NICIAS: True.

SOCRATES: And the same science has to do with the same things in the
future or at any time?

NICIAS: That is true.

SOCRATES: Then courage is not the science which is concerned with the
fearful and hopeful, for they are future only; courage, like the other
sciences, is concerned not only with good and evil of the future, but of
the present and past, and of any time?

NICIAS: That, as I suppose, is true.

SOCRATES: Then the answer which you have given, Nicias, includes only a
third part of courage; but our question extended to the whole nature of
courage: and according to your view, that is, according to your present
view, courage is not only the knowledge of the hopeful and the fearful,
but seems to include nearly every good and evil without reference to
time. What do you say to that alteration in your statement?

NICIAS: I agree, Socrates.

SOCRATES: But then, my dear friend, if a man knew all good and evil,
and how they are, and have been, and will be produced, would he not be
perfect, and wanting in no virtue, whether justice, or temperance,
or holiness? He would possess them all, and he would know which were
dangers and which were not, and guard against them whether they were
supernatural or natural; and he would provide the good, as he would know
how to deal both with gods or men.

NICIAS: I think, Socrates, that there is a great deal of truth in what
you say.

SOCRATES: But then, Nicias, courage, according to this new definition of
yours, instead of being a part of virtue only, will be all virtue?

NICIAS: It would seem so.

SOCRATES: But we were saying that courage is one of the parts of virtue?

NICIAS: Yes, that was what we were saying.

SOCRATES: And that is in contradiction with our present view?

NICIAS: That appears to be the case.

SOCRATES: Then, Nicias, we have not discovered what courage is.

NICIAS: We have not.

LACHES: And yet, friend Nicias, I imagined that you would have made the
discovery, when you were so contemptuous of the answers which I made to
Socrates. I had very great hopes that you would have been enlightened by
the wisdom of Damon.

NICIAS: I perceive, Laches, that you think nothing of having displayed
your ignorance of the nature of courage, but you look only to see
whether I have not made a similar display; and if we are both equally
ignorant of the things which a man who is good for anything should know,
that, I suppose, will be of no consequence. You certainly appear to me
very like the rest of the world, looking at your neighbour and not at
yourself. I am of opinion that enough has been said on the subject which
we have been discussing; and if anything has been imperfectly said, that
may be hereafter corrected by the help of Damon, whom you think to laugh
down, although you have never seen him, and with the help of others. And
when I am satisfied myself, I will freely impart my satisfaction to you,
for I think that you are very much in want of knowledge.

LACHES: You are a philosopher, Nicias; of that I am aware: nevertheless
I would recommend Lysimachus and Melesias not to take you and me as
advisers about the education of their children; but, as I said at first,
they should ask Socrates and not let him off; if my own sons were old
enough, I would have asked him myself.

NICIAS: To that I quite agree, if Socrates is willing to take them
under his charge. I should not wish for any one else to be the tutor
of Niceratus. But I observe that when I mention the matter to him he
recommends to me some other tutor and refuses himself. Perhaps he may be
more ready to listen to you, Lysimachus.

LYSIMACHUS: He ought, Nicias: for certainly I would do things for him
which I would not do for many others. What do you say, Socrates--will
you comply? And are you ready to give assistance in the improvement of
the youths?

SOCRATES: Indeed, Lysimachus, I should be very wrong in refusing to aid
in the improvement of anybody. And if I had shown in this conversation
that I had a knowledge which Nicias and Laches have not, then I admit
that you would be right in inviting me to perform this duty; but as we
are all in the same perplexity, why should one of us be preferred
to another? I certainly think that no one should; and under these
circumstances, let me offer you a piece of advice (and this need not go
further than ourselves). I maintain, my friends, that every one of us
should seek out the best teacher whom he can find, first for ourselves,
who are greatly in need of one, and then for the youth, regardless of
expense or anything. But I cannot advise that we remain as we are. And
if any one laughs at us for going to school at our age, I would quote to
them the authority of Homer, who says, that

'Modesty is not good for a needy man.'

Let us then, regardless of what may be said of us, make the education of
the youths our own education.

LYSIMACHUS: I like your proposal, Socrates; and as I am the oldest, I am
also the most eager to go to school with the boys. Let me beg a favour
of you: Come to my house to-morrow at dawn, and we will advise about
these matters. For the present, let us make an end of the conversation.

SOCRATES: I will come to you to-morrow, Lysimachus, as you propose, God
willing.